The Art of Crash Landing (10 page)

Queeg is quiet, and then I hear a rumbling sound and I know he's holding the phone against his chest while he coughs. When he speaks again he's a little out of breath.

“I don't know what that means, Matt, but I do know that your mother did her best.”

I consider that for a few seconds. “No. She left her best here,” I say. “We just got what was left.”

He sighs, and then he says, “It was enough.”

“No it wasn't.”

There's another painful silence, and I picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to think of something to say that will make me feel better. Or make him feel better.

“Queeg?”

“Hmmm?”

“I'm gonna let you down. You know that, don't you? Just like she did.”

“I haven't given up on you yet, kiddo.”

There's such tenderness in his voice that I can't bring myself to say what needs to be said: that he's making a mistake; that he should have given up on me a long time ago. I did.

The silence sits there between us for too long. Finally he says,
“I don't know what's going on with you, sweetheart, but it scares me.”

It scares me, too, but that's not what he needs to hear. So I tell him not to worry, that I'm just tired. When we say our good-byes, he tells me that everything is going to be all right. He's wrong, but I don't argue.

I walk through the dark, quiet house, looking for the dogs. I find them asleep on the floor in my grandmother's room. On the dresser there's a ratty gray quilt that looks like something that's been used by dogs, so I fold it into a rectangle and lay it on the floor near where they're resting. Immediately they stand and move to the blanket, circle a few times, then snuggle together on the quilt. The dogs have the right idea. I look at my grandmother's bed, but it looks uninviting, hastily made up; besides, I'm too spooked by the idea that she might have died in it to sleep here. I consider the couch downstairs, but then remind myself that I'm a grown woman and I'm being ridiculous. There's another perfectly good bed in this house.

It's a clear night, and there's plenty of moonlight so I leave the lights off while I exchange my clothes for an old tank top. I reach to pull the thin curtain closed. I pause. There was something, for just a second in the darkness outside. I see it again: a flash of red and then it's gone. I stand motionless, my heart speeding up, and watch the same spot. There, again, a brief red glow. Someone is outside smoking a cigarette. JJ, it has to be, standing in his yard, smoking, facing this house. Somehow I know he's looking up at this window, and I can't help but wonder if he knows that I'm looking down at him.

T
he sheets on my mother's bed smell stale, but I'm too tired to look for a fresh set. Instead, I lie on top of the bedding and wrap
the comforter around me, the back of my head resting on my dead mother's pillow. This is hard. Nights are always hard, but tonight is harder than most. There's not enough light for me to see the details of the photos tacked to the wall above my head, but I can feel them there, the pictures of my mother. In them she's laughing, happy. Whole.

I take that girl in the pictures, the same one Gordon Penny at the bank knew, and hold her up against the brittle, damaged woman I remember, and my heart breaks. Because something happened to change that girl into the woman she became. And the terrible truth is that the one thing I
know
happened to her was me—her unplanned-for, unwanted, child. For five long years I've struggled to stay afloat under the weight of my mother's death, and now I wonder if the blame for her unhappy life rests with me as well. It's possible. It's unbearable.

And yet . . .

Mr. Penny's account of how abruptly and completely my mother severed all ties to her past gives me hope. If she really abandoned her life in this town five years before my birth, maybe I didn't start my mother's downward spiral. Maybe I was just along for the ride.

Queeg has warned me more than once, that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and here I am lying in my mother's bed, my head resting on her pillow. I am pregnant with an unwanted child just as she once was with me. Like her, I am bitter, lonely, broke. Broken? Perhaps.

I reach over to the nightstand and lift the conch shell, holding it to my ear, knowing as I do that my mother once cupped it just so. After all, she's the one who taught me to listen for the ocean's secrets. I don't believe in ghosts, but I want to. I want to hear my mother's voice whispering to me, telling me what happened to her and why and when. I want to know. I think I need to know.

Either the shell is warming or my skin is cooling, because I can no longer feel its chill on my cheek. I'm still listening but the shell holds no comfort for me. There are no answers here, only echoes of my own childhood—the sigh of the surf, the wind stirring the sea grass on the dunes, and the gulls. They're always there, of course.

A
thin curtain over an east-facing window pretty well guarantees some early-to-rise crap happening. I'm awake at six thirty, by seven I've fed the dogs their kibble, scrounged in the pantry, and am sitting at the table feeling sad and lonely. Sad, because dry, stale Cheerios and a glass of tap water are a decidedly noncheery breakfast. Stupid Cheerios. Stupid water. Lonely because my usual breakfast companions, coffee and cigarettes, are no longer my friends. I thought about trying some coffee this morning—there's a coffeemaker and some Folgers—but just smelling the can almost made me puke. Stupid coffee. Stupid pregnancy.

I hear excited yaps from the backyard and look out the window to see Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber race across the yard. JJ is squatting on his side of the fence, one hand reaching fingers through the chain links to pet the dogs, the other holding a fucking cup of coffee and a cigarette. Stupid dogs. Stupid JJ.

I open the door and step outside. “Good morning,” I call out to him. “Can I ask you a question?”

He stands and takes a sip out of his mug, watching as I approach the fence. This time I carefully avoid the viney weeds.

“There are some plants inside the house.”

“That's not a question,” he replies.

I ignore him and continue. “The soil is a little damp.”

“Okay.”

“My grandmother died a month ago.”

“Is there a question coming?”

God, this man is a dick. “Do you have a key? Have you been watering the plants?”

He looks away and takes a drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke drift out of his nose. He holds the cigarette between his thumb and first finger, cupped in his hand like a tough guy in the movies.

“Nope,” he finally replies.

“No you don't have a key, or no you didn't water the plants?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? So does that mean you did or—”

“So then,
no
. Whatever. I don't have a key and I didn't do jack.”

I'd feel better if he'd look at me; it's hard to read a lie in profile. “Okay,” I tell him. “Well . . . thanks.”

“Anytime.” And with that he walks away. At the door, he glances back at me and then his gaze moves upward and for an instant he focuses on something above my head. When he disappears inside, I turn to see what he was looking at. It's the window of the room I slept in last night.

M
y grandmother's bathroom is clean but cramped, the showerhead over the tub so low I have to crouch to get my head wet. There's a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of conditioner, both formulated for thinning gray hair. Great.

I'm sitting on my mother's bed, toweling dry my presumably thicker and less gray hair when my phone rings. It's not a number I recognize, but I like to think that I've learned something about the foolishness of ignoring calls, so I pick it up and say, “Hello?”

“Good morning.” It's Luke; I recognize the voice. “It's Luke,” he adds unnecessarily.

“Howdy,” I reply.

There's a pause during which I think he's trying to decide if I'm giving him a cowboy-flavored hello, or if I'm back to the name-calling. In the end he lets it slide.

“I've got good news,” he tells me, pausing for effect.

And just like that, I realize I have no idea what
good news
means to me now. Sitting in Luke's office yesterday morning, good news would have meant a big fat check, but that's not true anymore. I feel an echo of last night's longing, and I look over at the photos pinned on the wall, all those smiling faces, every single one a stranger. Even my mother. I can't leave yet.

“I've found you a job,” Luke tells me.

I take a deep breath. I still don't completely understand my feeling of relief, but it's genuine.

“It's at the library.” He's pleased with himself; I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Uh . . .” is all I say. I'm trying to picture me working in a library.

“I hope that's okay,” he adds.

“I don't have much experience with libraries.” This is an understatement.

“You can read, can't you?”

“Of course I can read. I can also drive a car, but that doesn't mean that I should work in a garage.”

“You'll do fine,” he announces. “You start this morning. Need a ride?”

The answer to that is
yes
, but what I actually say is “Gosh, I hate to cause you more trouble . . .” I am so coy.

“The library is just a couple blocks from my office. No big deal.”

Excellent. I'll be within walking distance of my lunch date with Father Barnes. I thank Luke profusely and take him up on his offer for a ride.

I
slap on a little makeup and finish scrunching my wild mop of hair into the closest thing to a hairstyle I can achieve without hair gel or a blow dryer, neither of which I have. The fact is, getting ready by eight forty-five sounded like plenty of time until I remembered that I only have one sixth of my belongings with me, and that small fraction is still wadded up in a trash bag.

Last night I hauled the bag upstairs and shoved it in a corner of my grandmother's room. Unfortunately, even as I stand here surveying the lump of black plastic, I know that I could dig through it all day and still not find anything remotely librariany. Even the bags still in my car don't have what I need. I'm a low-rent photographer, for Christ's sake, I don't own anything except old jeans, tight black pants, funky T-shirts, skimpy club-wear, and one tatty old skirt for situations that absolutely require one. Nary a tweed to be found.

In my grandmother's closet, however, I find an ocean of wooly tweed. Perfect. The trousers won't work, they're way too short, but the skirts fit pretty well, although I suspect a fair amount shorter and tighter than Granny wore them. And a white blouse, the too-short sleeves rolled up, looks fine. It pulls a little across the chest, but I'm not in skank territory.

Her shoes are too small, so I tear through the bag of my stuff until I find a pair of pumps. In the full-length mirror, I analyze
the finished product. Kicking aside the pile of clothing and plastic with my four-inch black patent stilettos, I cock a hip, and open another button on the blouse. Not bad. I've managed to achieve a reasonably arresting librarian-on-the-skids look.

J
ust as I step outside and lock the door, Luke pulls up. He grins appreciatively when I sashay down the walk, but is too much of a gentleman to stare as I climb into the car, struggling to keep my too-tight, too-short skirt from showing him the goodies.

Once I get settled and belted he turns to me and says, “You look nice.”

“Thank you.”

“Your hair looks good. What did you do to it?”

“I washed it,” I say.

“Ah . . .” He frowns and chews his lower lip, his face turning an impressive shade of pink. I turn away to hide my smile.

When we get to the T-intersection at the base of the hill, I say, “Help me get my bearings.” I point to the direction I took yesterday to get to the pawnshop. “To the right is toward downtown?”

“Correct.”

“And to the left?”

“To a four-lane loop that goes around this side of Gandy. It's usually faster than driving through town, but it's all strip malls and car dealerships. I like to drive through town where you can see stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Normal stuff.”

At the intersection stop sign Luke comes to a complete stop and then looks both ways. Unexceptional behavior, I know, but after the ride with JJ yesterday, I vow to never take it for granted again.

I point at the copse of trees straight ahead where I think I can see part of a paved trail. “And that?”

“The park.”

We turn right, toward downtown. He continues, “It's wooded on this end, but further along it opens up. There are trails that go under a couple of streets. The whole thing winds along the creek almost all the way downtown.”

“I bet it's a great place to walk.”

“You're probably right,” he replies, accelerating with his hand control.

Shit. Now it's my turn to blush.

“So . . .” I change the subject. “How did you manage to get me a job?”

“The head librarian is sort of my aunt.”

“Sort of?”

“Well, I call her Aunt Fritter, but she's not my aunt. She and my mom have the same great-great-great-grandparents. What would that make her?”

“I have no idea.”

He slows and waits for a man walking his dog to cross the street. “Anyway, she was a friend of your grandmother's, so I called and explained your situation. She was . . . um . . . happy to help.”

I take note of the pause in the middle of that last sentence, but I don't ask for any details. I'll meet Aunt Fritter soon enough.

We ride in silence for a while, and I notice that Luke is right, coming this way I do see
stuff
. A lady in a jogging suit pushes a stroller, an elderly man leans over to pick up his newspaper, a rope swing hangs from the limb of a huge tree. It's all nice stuff, but it's not
normal
stuff. I don't see any cars on blocks, or old ladies walking to the store, dragging a saggy-diapered grandchild behind them. There are no tough kids in hoodies, hands deep in their pockets, eyes narrowed, watching for someone's carelessness to exploit.

“Hey, I was wondering . . . who has keys to my grandmother's house?”

He frowns and shakes his head. “I'm not sure. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” I reply. “There are a couple plants inside that look pretty healthy. Somebody has been watering them.”

“I'll ask when I get to the office.”

“Thanks.”

I don't much like the idea of keys floating around, but I'm careful to keep my tone casual. I'm probably not the only person who's noticed that most overly suspicious people are themselves untrustworthy, and I don't want Luke reconsidering his decision to let me stay at the house.

Eventually the residential area gives way to businesses, and as we approach a stately redbrick building with the words
Public Library
engraved in a pseudo-Latin script above the door, Luke slows the car. We're here.

“Before you go in . . .” He puts the car in park and turns to face me. “Fritter is pretty scrappy, but she's getting old. She overestimates her stamina.”

I'm not sure where he's going with this. I hadn't planned to challenge the woman to a foot race.

“She's got a niece staying with her, or actually I think probably a great-niece. Anyway a niece—”

“Sort of.”

He grins. “Exactly. Anyway, every summer Fritter tries to rehabilitate one of the family's teenagers. Her
summer project
, we all call it. I don't know if she watched
Boy's Town
one too many times or what, but she seems to think she can cure what ails today's youth.”

“Tall order.”

“You have no idea,” he says, but he's wrong. Queeg tried the same thing with me—still trying, come to think of it.

“Anyway,” Luke continues, “from the looks of this year's project, I'm afraid she may be more than Fritter can handle. I was hoping you could maybe help her out with that.”

“You don't think the niece will be more than I can handle?”

He laughs softly. “I get the feeling that you can handle just about anything.”

Hmmm. While I appreciate his vote of confidence, nothing could be further from the truth. I look up at the white columns and take a deep breath. I'm actually feeling pretty nervous about this gig.

“Well . . .” He sneaks a glance at his watch.

I take the hint and climb out of the car only slightly more gracefully than I got in. “Thanks again,” I say.

He must sense my worry, because when I reach in to get my purse, he grabs my hand and says. “Mattie, everything's going to be okay.”

“Dewey Decimal isn't going to know what hit him,” I reply.

He laughs. “That's my girl.”

I shut the car door and walk up the wide, shallow steps. Before I open the door I glance back and lift a hand to wave, but Luke is already gone. Oh well. I'm sure Howdy is a nice enough guy, but he doesn't know a thing about me. I'm nobody's girl. And it's much too late for everything to be okay.