Calamity and Other Stories (12 page)

Calamity

They had been in the air for less than an hour when Rhea heard a popping sound. It seemed to come from outside, maybe from one of the wings, and though it wasn’t anything Rhea had ever heard before, she knew instinctively that it was a bad sound.

“Did you hear that?” said the woman in the next seat.

Rhea said no.

“You didn’t hear that?”

“No.”

Rhea said no partly because she found denial a perfectly acceptable way of preventing panic, and partly because she did not like—again, instinctively—this woman, who, as a standby passenger, had claimed seat 36B at the very last minute, just when Rhea had confidently placed her bag there and arranged along both tray tables the folder full of student papers she suspected she would not read, the magazine she knew she would, and the little leather journal in which she recorded tersely phrased personal insights. Then came this big woman, too much of her for her seat, with coarse dark hair and a broad shock of white on top, like a skunk. She looked to be a good forty years older than Rhea, seventy or so, and wore enormous eyeglasses that wove in gold across the bridge of her nose. The air immediately filled with the too-sweet smell of imitation perfume—probably, Rhea thought to herself, something in misspelled French. The glasses were real, Christian Dior— printed on the outer part of the left temple, another horizontal gold braid.

It was at that point, after gathering back her belongings, that Rhea had written in her little notebook, “I am living proof that it does not take money to be a snob.”

From the way the woman wedged herself into her seat with an unrestrained wheeze, her long flowered skirt catching on the armrest, Rhea knew that she was one of those people who had no trouble falling asleep in public places, drooling even, sprawling out on bus seats and in movie theaters. And, true to form, the woman had even snored a little, while Rhea skimmed an article entitled “Turn Him On—with Minimal Makeup!”

“There, did you hear that?” the woman asked again.

“Hear what?”

But it was no good lying anymore, because just then the plane took a sudden dip and, just as quickly, righted itself.

Around them, people murmured nervously.

“Oh my God,” said the woman. “You can’t say you didn’t feel that.”

“Fine, you’re right.” Rhea blamed the woman for forcing her to admit it. “Happy now?”

The woman turned to stare at Rhea, enormous glasses magnifying her dark eyes. Rhea too was shocked at her outburst. She attributed it to fear—of the plane’s odd behavior, and of the coming weekend in Massachusetts, yet another event she preferred not to think about. She wished she had taken advantage of the airport bar before boarding. There had certainly been time enough, two hours of delay due to technical problems with the plane, which Rhea now considered mentioning to the standby woman, who had conveniently missed that whole chapter of the experience.

The captain’s voice, a lazy-sounding one, came at them:

“Folks. It appears we’re having some problems with our right hydraulic system. What that means is that, rather than continue on to Logan, we’re going to have to land at the closest run-way, which is in Baltimore. I’ve just spoken with the folks at BWI, and it looks like they can clear us for landing in about twenty minutes. So, if you’ll bear with us. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience?” said the standby woman. She sounded like she might be from New Jersey. “Landing without a right hydraulic system.” She shook her head. “Well, I’m sure he’ll do a fine job. Even without the right hydraulic system. I’m sure he’s a fine pilot.”

Rhea said, “It doesn’t matter if he’s fine or not.” She hadn’t mean to snap. But the plane was veering a little to the right, now back to the left, and now made another sudden, brief plunge.

The woman took a short, frightened breath. Her perfume seemed momentarily stronger.

“He’s probably testing the plane,” Rhea told the standby woman, wishing it were true. “Seeing which functions are still working.”

“It’s my fault,” said the standby woman.

“What’s your fault?”

“I’m bad luck. Nothing ever goes smoothly when I’m involved. If I’m in a car, there’s a flat tire. Or a traffic jam. If I go to a movie, there’s some black thing flickering on the screen. If you invite me to a wedding, it rains.”

Rhea thought for a moment and said, “That’s incredibly egotistical.”

The standby woman did not seem to have heard her. “I’m a jinx.”

“Everyone thinks that about themselves,” said Rhea.

“But with me it’s true,” said the standby woman.

“Believe me. It isn’t. I know for certain. None of this is your fault.”

“How do you know?”

Rhea knew because it was
her
fault. This fact had become suddenly clear to her. For months she had been dreading Callie and Mack’s wedding, regretted ever having agreed to be Maid of Honor. Never mind the inconvenience of it, with the semester barely started and Rhea only a month into her new job. Never mind that the flight from Virginia, where she had accepted a professorship at a small private college, had cost enough to make her regret ever having moved there in the first place. That wasn’t the half of it—and yet Rhea had said yes. After all, Callie was her oldest childhood friend, and had asked her without—

Rhea could not even allow herself to continue the thought. Each day that the wedding drew closer, Rhea had waited for some emergency to present itself, something that might prevent her from attending. If only a problem arose that was completely out of her control, then she would have an excuse.

The plane tilted oddly back, as if stretching its head to yawn.

Around them, people were making panicky sounds.

“You see?” said the standby woman. “I’m bad luck.”

“Fine!” Rhea said. “Blame it on her, everyone. She’s the cause of all this.” It came out more loudly than Rhea had intended.

The woman turned toward her, gigantic lenses for eyes, looking stunned. The plane tilted forward, and then more forward. Rhea gripped her armrests. More general panic was expressed before the structure found its balance.

The woman’s eyes had welled with tears. She sniffed into the little square napkin that had come with her complimentary beverage, and reached behind the enormous gold frames to dab at her eyes.

“See that?” said Rhea. “You thought things were bad, and now you see that it wasn’t so bad after all. So what if the right hydraulic system failed. Maybe it’s worse to have your neighbor saying mean things to you, making a spectacle of the both of us.”

“I’m glad you’re able to see that.”

“Look at the bright side. We’re heading to the airport, and the plane’s still, miraculously, in the air. Be thankful. Be glad.”

“Okay, I will,” said the woman.

“Because I’ll tell you something,” Rhea continued. “No matter how bad it gets, it can always get worse.”

As if to confirm this, the captain came on the intercom and said, “Well, folks. It looks like we’re having some trouble with our front wing flaps.”

Nervous groans came from all around, the intonation of whiny question marks.

“What this means,” the pilot went on, “is that our landing is going to be more difficult than anticipated. We do still have full brake control, but we are going to have to instruct you in the proper emergency landing procedure. So I’d like you to please give your full attention to Irene and Nat, who in a few minutes will provide detailed instructions.”

“See that?” said Rhea.

“Oh God,” said the woman.

“And you know what?” Rhea went on, unsure of what exactly propelled her. “Even now, it could still get worse.”

“What, do you want it to?” The woman gave a huff.

“I’m just trying to put it in perspective. This is not at all as bad as all kinds of terrible things. You know what I read in the paper the other day? I read about a guy, some young father here in the good old U.S. of A., who went out with a buddy of his and left his baby daughter in the car, windows rolled up, on a sunny ninety-degree day. Just left her there while he and his friend went fishing or something.”

“That’s horrible,” said the standby woman, and added, tentatively, “Did she die?”

“Of course,” Rhea told her. “But that wasn’t the worst part. When they came back to the car, the baby had been so hot and miserable, she had torn her hair out of her head.”

“Oh my God.”

“A little baby with fists full of her own hair.” Rhea took a breath. “So you see, we don’t have it so bad.”

The woman said, “I can’t believe you just told me that.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhea said. “Talking makes me feel better. I like to put things in perspective.”

Actually, Rhea suspected that her habit of putting things in perspective was the very problem with the way she lived her life. To be so aware, constantly aware, of the many horrors in the world made it hard to take your own problems seriously. And yet it was no help, Rhea knew, to belittle her own existence. That hadn’t made it any less painful when her fiancé left her, or when she didn’t get the Tufts job, or when a journal rejected a paper of hers. If only she could shake that greater pessimism—that resigned acceptance of life’s constant abominations—that she so often let guide her decisions. She had given so many things up that way, and betrayed Callie with the same reasoning. That persistent reminder, the threat of calamity, had allowed her to justify all kinds of actions she now regretted.

Rhea opened up her little leather-bound notebook and wrote neatly, “Hypothetical life is always better.”

The captain asked them to please give their attention to Nat and Irene.

Rhea thought for a moment and said aloud, “Don’t women ever get to be captains?”

The standby woman took only a moment before saying, “No, no, I don’t think so.”

Rhea nodded, mystery solved. That was what Rhea liked about older women. You could count on them for the truth, because they had lived it. Young people pretended that the world was better than it had once been, because that was what should be true. Older women could state the actual reality—the limitations and injustices that prevailed—because they had grown up in a world where these things were said outright.

Rhea opened her little notebook again and wrote, “Old women are good for the facts.”

Nat and Irene had begun their performance. On a broad screen glowed a detailed accompanying video. Rhea focused her attention on Irene, who stood closest and, with hair in a stiff ponytail, told her audience that they would need to remove all jewelry, eyewear, headwear, hair clips, and false teeth.

Even though Rhea knew that what she was being told might save her life, the old student in her had dredged up from her school days a natural resistance to instruction, so that she found it impossible, even now, to give Irene her full, respectful concentration. Instead, she found herself wondering who would pick her up at Logan. “Don’t worry, someone will come get you,” Callie had said in her easy way. But what if it were Mack? Would Rhea be able to keep from telling him? Would she be able to not cry? And then Rhea remembered that she might not make it to the airport.

Irene was now demonstrating how to crouch in the proper position, head between knees, hands grasped behind the neck. She asked the passengers to please practice this position, and Rhea bent forward. The position was not comfortable. She sat up, as others had.

Irene instructed them to please practice this position again.

She’s just saying that to kill time, thought Rhea. But, like an obedient child, she bent over again.

The standby woman was too big to do this properly. Giving up, she said to Rhea, “I used to be thin, like you. On my wedding day I weighed ninety-nine pounds.”

Is that some sort of threat? Rhea wanted to ask. No, she thought, just another musing on loss, now that tragedy seemed imminent.

The captain spoke. “Folks. We have not yet been cleared for landing.” There was the pause of the intercom clicking off, then on again. “It looks like we’re going to have to circle for about ten more minutes. Thank you for your patience.”

The flight attendants were making their way down the aisles, checking that everyone was following the proper procedure.

“I suppose I should introduce myself,” the woman said. “I’m Gaylord.”

Rhea thought to herself how many times this poor woman had said that name and watched people act like it was perfectly acceptable. Except for when she was in elementary school, thought Rhea. I bet she was teased a lot.

“My name’s Rhea.”

In elementary school they had called her Dia Rhea.

Gaylord said, “I’m going to visit my son. He has two boys. I haven’t seen them in a few months. Not since my husband’s funeral. I’m a new widow.”

She said “new widow,” Rhea thought, the way one might say “recent graduate” or “nouveau riche.” Well, maybe she was newly rich, buying whatever she could off of her husband’s insurance policy. That, come to think of it, might explain the showy eyeglasses.

Some rows ahead of them, a woman was refusing to remove her jewelry. A stewardess could be heard insisting in reasonable, businesslike inflections.

“This was my grandmother’s necklace, and I will not take it off.”

“Good for her,” said Gaylord, carefully folding her glasses into a case of purple leather, which she now clicked shut.

Amazing, thought Rhea, seeing Gaylord’s face exposed, puffy pockets of darkened skin under her eyes, little lines all over, her expression sad and overwhelmed, as if she had been suddenly asked to shave her head or walk naked in public. Without her glasses, she no longer looked at all appalling. She did still look a little skunky. Rhea watched as she took from her purse, also purple leather, a gold makeup compact, which she sprung open and peered into with a sigh. With a tiny brush, she applied pale green powder to her eyelids. Then she dabbed a different little brush into some red gel, which she swiped back and forth over her lips.

Primping for death, thought Rhea. Gaylord peeked at herself in the mirror one more time and said, “I look dreadful.”