Hunters and Gatherers (13 page)

“I’ve tried,” said Eleanor. “You have no idea how I’ve tried. To overlook your…attitude and your total…contempt. Your acting from the very first day as if you’re too good for this job. Do you think I don’t see you smirking when I ask you to check things that legally must be followed up?”

“Legally?” said Martha. “There you go again,” Eleanor said. “I’m sorry,” said Martha.

“I’m sorry, too,” Eleanor said. “I am. Needless to say, you can feel free to use me as a reference.”

“S
TATISTICALLY,” SAID TITANIA, “DRIVING
to the airport is the most dangerous part.”

“Psychically or physically?” asked Bernie.

“Both, obviously,” answered Starling.

The women were stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway. For half an hour they’d inched forward at an exasperating pace that they’d come to appreciate now that they had stopped moving entirely. Joy slumped down in the driver’s seat and propped her cast against the door. She slid in a tape, and country music blared until Diana turned it down.

“In-
sane
!” said Hegwitha.

“Starling, dear, how much time do we have?” Isis had asked this same question every few minutes.

“Hours and hours,” Starling replied. “For which you can thank me.”

“The reason driving’s more dangerous,” Joy said, “is that on the road your life is in the hands of a million assholes but when you’re finally up in the air you’re just at the mercy of one.”

“That’s if you just count the pilot and not the million assholes who built the plane,” said Titania.

Joy said, “Or if you count the lightning or solar flares that can hit it.” She turned the music up again.

Diana jabbed the button that lowered the volume, then said, “Fuck you, Joy. Just fuck you.”

Isis said, “We have to make an effort not to let ourselves get sucked into the negativity of being stuck in traffic.”

Bernie said, “I think we all know that Diana’s anger is not about the traffic.”

Earlier, as each woman entered the van, Joy had announced that she and Diana had broken up last night but had both decided to come on the trip because they hadn’t yet figured out who they were in their separate lives.

Now Joy said, “I think we can handle this if we stay upfront and center about it.”

Isis said, “With the help of the Goddess.”

“Of course,” Diana said.

Martha had learned to ignore the sounds of Joy and Diana bickering, the way children screen out their parents’ front-seat quarrels when they are stuck in traffic, or lost. But their sniping wasn’t what Martha wanted to hear now, during what might prove to be her last few hours on earth.

Though Martha hadn’t traveled much, she considered herself a confident flier, meaning she didn’t dig in her heels and refuse to get on the plane. But at some point during every trip to the airport, she knew she was going to die. Were the others thinking this, too? It would have seemed hostile to ask. Instead she tried to calm herself with Titania’s statistic: if she survived this car trip, the riskiest part was behind her. But how could any sensible person believe that sitting still in traffic was as perilous as flying thirty thousand feet up in the air?

Martha said, “Do you think they mean that driving in general is more hazardous than flying, or do they mean driving to the airport in particular? Is driving to the airport more dangerous than normal driving?”

“I hope to hell it isn’t,” said Hegwitha, who along with Martha, was riding on the floor in back, hunkered down with the luggage. It was the only way that all of them and their possessions could fit into Joy’s van. Freya and Sonoma had elected to meet them at the airport.

“Me, too,” said Martha. “Or we’re dead meat. This has got to be the most unsafe place in the van.”

“We’re lucky to be here,” Hegwitha reminded her. “We should be thanking the Goddess that we were invited along.”

After that Martha was unable to think of anything to say.

It was weirdly intimate, riding with the luggage. Just seeing the women’s baggage had seemed deeply revealing, rather like the first time one sees a friend in a bathing suit, exposing so much more than flesh. The choice of a suit—or a suitcase—hinted at a secret life involving matters like self-image, money, and shopping decisions. Each woman had had to decide how she wanted to carry her clothes. And what a range there was, from Joy’s sturdy all-terrain camping gear to Titania’s elegant satchels! Even stalled in traffic, Martha found this touching, and through a haze of goodwill she heard Isis clap her hands.

“Let’s chant,” Isis said, “and direct our Goddess energy toward getting this traffic moving.”

The women closed their eyes, and a soft “ma ma ma” began, a whirring that turned into cheers when Joy hit the gas. Soon they started seeing signs with heartening pictographs of airplanes. They had crossed a subtle divide beyond which their anxiety about flying was less severe than their fear of missing the exit. In unison they read the lists matching airlines with terminals and at last called out triumphantly, “Terminal number 3!”

“Lucky number,” said Hegwitha.

As they pulled onto the ramp leading to the departure area, Titania said, “I’m glad they no longer have curbside check-in. That’s one thing for which we can thank Saddam Hussein. You felt silly for not surrendering your baggage. But you knew there wasn’t a chance of your stuff making it onto the plane.”

Starling said, “No one’s luggage is going to get lost.” She herself had surprisingly good bags—handsome, burnished brown leather, masculine and expensive. Starling was full of surprises today. It was impressive to witness the crisp precision with which she directed Joy up to the curb and supervised the unloading of the van.

From the start it was understood that Starling would not only make the travel arrangements but carry—and be responsible for—everyone’s tickets. She liked to say she had been raised for this; she was a military brat. And her competence let Isis, normally so in control, slip into the role of a dreamy child on a family vacation.

Now Commander Starling steered them through the gantlet of distracted travelers and up to the ticket counter, with its long lines of nervous wrecks and dispirited foot-draggers.

“Relax,” she said. “We have to wait for Joy to park the car.”

“How much time do we have?” asked Isis.

“Hours and hours,” said Starling. “We’ve got it made. Where are Freya and Sonoma?”

At last they reached the counter, and Starling surrendered their tickets while they placed their luggage on the scale. A woman with owlish spectacles typed something into the computer, waited, frowned at the monitor, typed more, frowned again.

Starling said, “Is there a problem?”

“Not really,” said the woman, furiously typing. When the screen scrolled up, she said, “Damn,” and then, “Excuse me a minute.” Clasping their tickets against her chest, she vanished through a door. A man behind them in line said loudly, “Jesus Christ, can you believe this?”

“Move it, jerk,” Joy said, pushing through to join them.

“You made it!” said Bernie. “Wonderful!”

“Blessed be,” said the women.

“Now all we need is Freya and Sonoma,” Starling said.

“And our tickets back,” said Isis.

Just then, the ticket agent reappeared, clearly relieved but feeling that it would be unprofessional to show it. “It’s all straightened out. Your flight leaves from Terminal 4.”

“Terminal 4?” said Starling. “This is Terminal 3.”

“I’m aware of that,” said the woman. “It’s just one terminal over. You can hop the shuttle bus that runs every ten minutes.”

Diana moaned. “I didn’t see a Terminal 4 when we came into the airport.”

Joy said, “They wouldn’t be sending us to Terminal 4 if there wasn’t a Terminal 4.”

Bernie said, “Couldn’t the plane just stop by here on its way out and pick us up?”

“This is outrageous!” said Starling.

“It’s a charter flight,” the woman explained. Was there disdain in her voice? It was so hard to distinguish contempt from ordinary business manners.

“I’m exhausted,” said Diana, “and the trip hasn’t even begun.”

“It’s begun,” said Bernie. “Be with us here now.”

“Maybe if you’d eaten breakfast, Diana,” said Joy, “you wouldn’t be so wiped out.”

“You’re not my mother,” Diana said. “You’re not even my lover.”

“Would you stop saying that?” said Joy.

“Excuse me,” said the ticket clerk. “Other people are waiting.” Starling moved the group to one side, where they stood, looking worriedly for the exit.

“Do you think this would be happening if we were a group of men?” demanded Hegwitha. “Do you think for one minute that they would be treating men like this?”

“Oh, dear,” said Isis. “This doesn’t give me a good feeling about the trip.”

As they shuffled toward the door, Joy said, “There’s not a chance in hell that Freya and Sonoma will find us.”

Titania said, “If Freya can direct the transportation of a major installation from Long Island City to Helsinki, she can get her daughter and a suitcase to the right terminal at La Guardia.”

The shuttle bus stopped and picked them up. None of the women sat down.

“Terminal 4!” said the driver, as he let them off in front of what appeared to be a construction site.

“Is this a
passenger
terminal?” said Bernie.

“I knew it,” said Starling. “That bastard travel agent booked us on a cargo plane.”

“UPS,” Hegwitha said giddily. “We’re flying UPS!”

“In fucking puppy carriers,” said Joy.

It did seem to be a passenger terminal of a stripped-down, no-frills sort: no carpet, no banks of phones, no dim bar full of shady characters—nor the cheering distraction of newsstands and souvenir shops.

“Where do we buy
magazines
?” cried Titania. “I can’t fly without magazines!”

“There’ll be magazines on the plane,” Starling said uncertainly.

“The Sears Roebuck catalogue,” said Joy. “On a string in the crapper.”

Hand-written signs directed them through labyrinthine half-finished corridors, snowy with Sheetrock dust. For once, Hegwitha left Martha’s side to walk up ahead with Diana. As they crossed a rubble-strewn lobby, Martha found herself beside Titania.

“Observe,” Titania said. “None of the men give us a second glance. A group of women traveling together is not of interest, except, I suppose, a group of hookers or movie stars or models. A twelve-thousand-dollar face-lift for nothing—oh, it’s so unfair!”

But, in fact, men were looking at them and immediately looking away, which was arguably worse than not being noticed at all. Was it the fact that they were a group, or was it the kind of group they were: instantly recognizable mental-case feminist man-haters? Martha felt a sheepish desire to distance herself from these women—not that she drew such lustful stares when she was on her own.

Titania said, “Luckily, you are still too young to know how gruesome it is. I don’t understand women who aren’t feminists. Only a cretin would fail to notice the raw deal we get from brain-dead males who assume we’re stupid because if we had any brains at all we’d figure out how to have a penis. Unless we rub our tits in their face and then they decide we’re brighter than they’d thought. I know women aren’t perfect. But compared with what men do to women, the worst things we do to each other don’t amount to a hill of beans.”

Intent on what she was saying, Titania had stopped walking and, from politeness, so had Martha. Now they had to hurry to catch up, and as they neared the gate, they found the others involved in some sort of fracas at the check-in counter.

“What do you
mean
you put us in the smoking section?” Starling was demanding of a young man with a clipped reddish mustache. “We made reservations
years
ago for nonsmoking seats.”

“Smoking and nonsmoking,” said the man, “cannot be reserved in advance.”

“On what planet is that?” Starling’s voice shot up an octave, partly to compete with a broken light buzzing behind a crumbling ceiling panel dribbling crumbs of asbestos.

The clerk said, “There is legislation pending that will, make all domestic flights nonsmoking. But for now the last eight rows are still reserved for smokers.”

“The last eight rows!” Isis paled visibly. “Oh, I get awfully airsick.”

Hegwitha said, “Smoking won’t be so bad…And it’s safer, sitting in the back…”

Starling regarded Hegwitha first with incomprehension, then horror, then flung one arm around her shoulders and dragged her up to the counter.

“We have sick people with us,” Starling said. “This young woman has a critical illness. Several of us have asthma and could have potentially fatal reactions to cigarette smoke.”

“Do they have medical clearance to fly?” the young man asked threateningly.

“Of course not!” said Starling. “It’s not like that at all!”

“What is that frightful noise?” said Titania.

“Broken light, ma’am,” said the clerk. “Sorry. We’re working on it.”

“Ma’am,” Titania mimicked, but the clerk gave no sign of hearing as he counted the women in the group.

“I have ten tickets here,” he said. “Are there two more traveling with you?”

“They’ll be here any second,” said Starling.

“I hope so,” he said. “We’ll be boarding in about twenty minutes. As soon as you board, tell one of the flight attendants that there’s a problem, and whoever has time will try and switch you with a passenger in nonsmoking.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Joy. “Someone is really going to volunteer to get lung cancer so we can ride together up front.”

The young man shrugged. Turning, they followed his transfixed gaze and saw Freya and Sonoma running toward them.

“Blessed be,” said Bernie.

“Blessed be,” said Diana and Hegwitha.

“What the heck are they
wearing
?” said Joy.

Freya had on a safari suit in a flowing buff-colored silk. Sonoma was decked out in Western boots, a fringed vest, and an Australian bushmen’s hat, and was trussed into her white satin miniskirt and gleaming cowboy shirt.

“Check this out,” whispered Joy. “Ernest Hemingway and Buffalo Bill.”

“Please,” said Titania. “Isak Dinesen and Annie Oakley.”