Other Plans (20 page)

Lunch was baked chicken or soup-and-sandwich.

“Take the chicken,” the woman whispered. “I happen to know the soup's left over from yesterday, and it wasn't so hot even then.” She laughed merrily, exposing perfect teeth. He had trouble with nicotine stains and admired people with perfect teeth. He thought of complimenting her on her teeth, and decided against it.

Presently, when the
NO SMOKING
and
FASTEN SEAT BELTS
signs went off, the woman unstrapped herself and went down the aisle on her stiletto heels, greeting the attendants by name. He watched her go, watched her fulsome rear. It was very enticing and doubtless would have commanded respect in certain parts of South America, where well-developed behinds were held in high esteem, he'd read someplace. He liked watching women walk. No matter in what country.

They had both decided on the chicken. The stewardess delivering their trays said, “Gorgeous!” eyeing the fingernails. “How on earth do you get them that way?”

“Oh, they're not real.” The plump woman laughed. “They're phonies. I take them off at night.”

Did she mean the fingernails or the jewels?

They ate their chicken and limp broccoli. “You got children?” she asked, emptying the little packet of sugar into her coffee.

“Two,” he said. “And you?”

“Same. A boy and a girl. The girl's giving me heat about getting her driver's license. My husband says let her. I say not until she shapes up. Although, God knows, she's shaping up sooner'n I'd like.” She made a face and he pictured the daughter, flat stomach, tilting breasts, the works.

“That kid of mine thinks she knows it all,” the woman said.

“That seems to be symptomatic of that age. My son's sixteen, too.” It was a bond between them.

“He on anything?” The woman stirred her coffee vigorously.

“On anything?”

“You know. Like marijuana or coke.” She lifted her cup to her mouth, little finger extended. She was very dainty in her habits, he could see.

“Not that I know of,” he said. “John's all right; a little flaky, but he's basically sound, doesn't give us much trouble. Doesn't seem to know what he's going to do with himself, where he's going. My daughter's nineteen, a sophomore in college.”

“She living with anyone?”

“She's got a roommate in college.”

“Male or female?” Her teeth weren't as perfect as he'd thought. Perhaps she took them out at night, too.

He laughed. “Leslie's been in and out of love so often I figure when it's for real, it'll be a relief.”

“Well,” the woman shrugged, “sounds like you got it made. My boy's fourteen, already been picked up for B and E. Possession of illegal drugs, too. My husband says throw him out, he doesn't toe the line. Give him a curfew, he breaks it, out he goes. I say no. He's my boy. I love him. I lay awake at night and figure out ways to keep him safe. Then I tell myself there's no way to keep him safe. No way.” He looked into her swimming eyes and put his hand into his pocket in search of his handkerchief. She dove into her handbag and came up with Kleenex. He was embarrassed, feeling responsible for these sudden tears.

The stewardess took away their trays. He closed his eyes and settled back in his seat. Better not to talk to strangers.

The pilot's voice came over the loudspeaker. “This is Captain Schultz. Passengers please fasten their seat belts. Flight attendants be seated, please. We're headed into a little turbulence.”

“Oh, boy,” the woman said.

Once, years ago, he'd been in a terrible electric storm, lightning and thunder bouncing off the plane, having their way with it. Terrified, he'd prepared himself for death. He hated electric storms, on land or in the air. He was ashamed of this unmasculine weakness and had never told anyone about it, not even Ceil.

The plane dropped. He put his hand over his mouth to keep himself from crying out. He was sure they'd been hit by lightning. He waited for the smell of burning plastic to fill the plane's cabin. Behind him, a baby cried.

They were flying at about 32,000 feet. One time he'd figured how long it would take a plane to hit the ground at that altitude, but now, when it mattered, he couldn't remember. The first few moments would be the worst. Those moments when you realized you were going down, that nothing could stop you. Airline inspectors, doing their job after a crash, were frequently quoted as saying, “Those on board never knew what hit them.” How did they know what passengers knew? That seemed presumptuous to him.

Look at the bright side. No long illness, no hospital bed, no evil smells. Disagreeable odors were always mentioned in stories of terminal illness. He hated the thought of being surrounded by his own stench. A plane crash, at least, would be quick. Clean. And Ceil could collect from the airline for loss of his services.

Relax. His hands gripped the arms of his seat. If he had a deck of cards, he would ask his seatmate to play gin. His father had always played gin on planes. His father knew no fear, had told him with relish of flying over the Alleghenies in a single-engine plane, dodging mountains, caught in downdrafts. On a flight to California, he and his father had orbited San Francisco for hours, waiting for clearance, playing cards, his father chuckling and declaring “Gin!” in the same resounding voice he used when he was safe in front of the fire.

Last month he'd read of a particularly bad plane crash in which more than 200 people had died. Newspaper stories of the aftermath of a crash always seemed distressingly graphic to him, and this one certainly was. Two arms, buried in the wreckage, the hands clasped, were found by rescue workers. The hands and the arms of a man and a woman. No bodies, only arms. He found it impossible to get the image of those two arms out of his head. Now, out of the corner of his eye, he stole a glance at the woman beside him in her billowy blouse. She looked calm. The storm's intensity grew until it seemed unbearable, yet the crying baby had fallen quiet. He imagined the plane suddenly swooping toward earth, a gigantic, flaming bird. Would he and the woman hold hands, gaining comfort and strength from each other as they plunged toward the ground? Would they, perhaps, make some pledge of endearment, as that other pair might have done? Had those arms belonged to husband and wife, sister and brother? Lovers? Or total strangers? It was something to contemplate in the night's small hours.

Apprehension kept its grip on him as the plane careened through the atmosphere. Soon. This must end soon.

“If we had some cards,” the plump woman's mouth was almost touching his ear, “we could play Hearts.” She was a sweetheart, after all, reading his thoughts as if they'd shared years together. Unable to speak, he nodded, and leaned back in his seat, exhausted by the effort of staying alive. His stomach felt sour. He should never have had that drink. He swallowed a couple of times, forcing the bile back to where it belonged.

The woman was still speaking.

“My mother was past forty when she had me,” she said. “She thought I was a tumor.”

Something was required of him.

“Is that so?” he said, absently.

“So you see.” The woman's hand touched his with tenderness. He started, almost pulled away, controlled himself.

“I'm all she has.” The woman's face lengthened, grew dolorous. “I'm an only child.”

“Yes,” he said. “Well, I'm sure you're doing a good job.”

“My mother's seventy-seven.” Her voice would not cease. “She has diabetes and the doctor said they might have to amputate her feet.” For some reason, she smiled as she said this.

“Well, seventy-seven isn't old these days,” he babbled. “I'd never have known you were that old.”

The smile slid off her face. She sat up very straight, holding up her head so her chins melted into her collar.

“I have a very young face,” the woman said, staring straight ahead.

The loudspeaker crackled. He held his breath, waiting for bad news. The voice of Captain Schultz told them the worst was over and they were making their approach and should be landing at Dallas–Fort Worth in approximately twenty minutes. Until the plane came to a stop, all passengers would please observe the no smoking signs and keep their seat belts fastened. Thank you for flying with us.

He roused himself, studying the other passengers. Their faces looked untroubled as they arranged their clothing, tucked their magazines into the little seat pockets. He was proud of them, of himself. Only the baby had lost its cool. If the plane's brakes failed now, if a tire blew or a vital pin fell off the plane's undercarriage, he would have no strength left to fight. What will be will be. He found it easy to be philosophical with the ground so close. He felt the change of altitude in his ears. The plane touched down delicately, taxied bumpily, came to a stop.

“Nice talking to you,” he said, turning to his little fat companion. She, however, wanted no part of him, was up and away, moving down the aisle like a broken field runner.

She thought I was a tumor. He wished Ceil had been with him to share that. She thought I was a tumor. The skin at the corner of his eyes felt tight. His whole face felt as if its skin had shrunk and was now too small to fit over his bones.

He shouldered his bag and walked toward the gate, trying to keep the woman in his sights, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was meeting her. But by the time he reached the main terminal, she'd disappeared, a figment of his imagination.

“Henry!” he heard someone call. “Over here!”

He wasn't expecting to be met; he had told Ben he'd take a cab. A large blonde woman wearing an orange T-shirt and blue leather running shoes, one hand clutching her denim wraparound skirt, came toward him, out of breath. It was Ann Nilson, Ben's wife. When last he'd seen her, she'd been a brunette.

“Hello, Ann,” he said, glad to see she hadn't succumbed to Dallas chic.

“Ben asked me to meet you and I got caught in the most awful traffic jam. I was afraid you'd get away without my finding you. He'd never forgive me.” She hugged his arm. “Henry, how nice to see you. Have you got everything? Your baggage, everything?”

He held up his small bag. “This is it,” he said.

She led him out into the glaring sunlight to where her car was parked. “Don't worry, once we get inside it's air-conditioned. Everything's air-conditioned out here.” The car smelled new, its dashboard a Byzantine complexity.

“Now you just sit tight.” Ann was off, driving like someone out to win the Grand Prix. He averted his eyes from the oncoming traffic. He wondered if he could outwit death twice in one day. Ann had never been much of a talker, but now she was chattering away like a nervous squirrel, pretending this was a social visit, to see old friends in their new setting, to examine their house, their swimming pool. To exclaim at how their children had grown.

He was tired, talked out. Ann was doing her best. He started to tell her about the woman on the plane. About halfway through his tale, his voice gave out. The car's air-conditioning was too cold.

They were surrounded by glass skyscrapers in various stages of construction. “This place must be an architect's heaven,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Isn't it extraordinary.” Ann drove more sedately now, in deference, perhaps, to his pale face and agitated hands.

“A friend of mine, a native of Dallas,” Ann went on, “told me she couldn't imagine what they were thinking of, putting up all these glass buildings. She said, ‘What will we do when a tornado comes through?'”

They stopped at a red light. Ann's skirt parted, revealing a long white thigh bisected by a mauve vein as frail as a spider's web.

“Would you mind turning down the air-conditioning?” he said. “It's awfully cold.”

“Of course.” In silence they rode the rest of the way, turning at last into a flower-bordered drive that led to a gleaming bronze door set into an expanse of dark brown glass.

“The bluebird of happiness must lie on the other side,” he said.

Ann smiled and checked her watch. “We're right on time,” she said. “Ben will be waiting for you.” He opened the car door, leaned back in to kiss her cheek. It tasted salty. Then, holding his bag in front of himself like a shield, he got out, slammed the door, and went into the hospital.

17

Ben was there, waiting for him.

“It's been a long time, Henry,” he said. None of the usual amenities friends observe when they haven't seen one another for some time applied here. “Did you have a comfortable flight?” Ben led him through the waiting room, which was empty. A nurse seated behind the desk rose, smiling welcome.

“This is Henry Hollander, Nancy. An old friend from Connecticut,” Ben said by way of introduction. “Henry, this is my right-hand man, Nancy Adams.” They shook hands. “If it's possible, Nancy, we'd like a few minutes alone. See if you can arrange that, would you?”

“I appreciate your fitting me in, Ben,” he said as they went into Ben's office. “I know you have a very busy schedule.”

“Never too busy for you, Henry.” Ben waited, his eyes listening for what Henry would tell him.

“As I said over the phone, I wanted another opinion.” He found that if he crushed the fingers of his left hand by squeezing them hard with his right, it helped him to maintain his composure. “The doctor, Dr. Hall, the one who took over your practice, said it would be a good idea. I don't know why I didn't think of it myself, but I'm getting somewhat addled in my declining years.” He tried for a smile and didn't make it.

“He said I shouldn't waste any time. Time is of the essence, I believe. So, of course, I thought of you. I shouldn't have wasted any time with him in the first place, should have come straight out here to see you. But, you see, it all came as a shock. I was only feeling tired, you see. Not quite myself, but nothing really serious, nothing really wrong, I thought. I thought it might be my gallbladder. My brother, Ed, had just had his taken out and I thought … well, anyway, I had a complete physical last year. Remember? Everything was okay then. Clean bill of health, for what that's worth. Now it seems I have some sort of mass in my stomach. The X-rays showed it. And he seems to feel my liver is damaged. That hepatitis thing, I suppose, although that was a long time ago. Ten years, maybe more.” He stopped, exhausted.