The Art of Crash Landing (26 page)

A
s far as I can tell it's always windy here, but today it's blowing like crazy. One tug at the big brass handle, and the wind grabs the door out of my hand and slams it open, the loud
boom
reverberating through the library. The occupants of the computer area, our usual little island of misfit toys, turn their heads in unison to stare in my direction. Sheets of paper on the circulation desk come to life, with Fritter, stationed behind the desk, struggling to hold everything down until I get the door closed.

I walk to the desk. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Again,” Fritter replies, glaring at me, as usual. We're like an old married couple now. I notice that she's got a couple of spooky hairs growing out of a mole on her chin that I briefly—very briefly—consider pointing out.

“Remember, I will be gone this afternoon,” she tells me, “so you and Tawny need to prepare the chairs—”

“You're going to a nursing home, right?”

She frowns, irritated by the interruption. “That is correct.”

“Visiting your brother?”

Tawny had mentioned Fritter's brother in the nursing home, but it's only now that it occurs to me that he might know as much about my mother as Fritter does.

“I read to a group of the residents, but yes my brother Jonah lives there, so I also visit him.”

I stand there as Fritter keeps talking about setting up chairs for the children's story time, but I'm not listening. I'm torn. I'm pretty sure that there's no point in trying to finagle my way into meeting that old man, but at the same time now that I know he's around, I feel like I
need
to talk to him. He is an itchy scab, and Tawny is right. I'm a picker.

“Are you listening?” Fritter asks.

With effort I pull my focus back to the crabby old woman standing in front of me. “Not really.”

She makes an exasperated face and sighs. “I was trying to explain that you must move the small tables to—”

“Can I come with you?” I blurt out, surprising both of us.

“What?”

“To the nursing home. Can I come? I'll help. I could read, or I could—”

“Don't be ridiculous. You will stay here and help Tawny—”

“Oh come on, Tawny doesn't need my help.” I can't honestly even say why I want to go, but now that I've started I can't resist continuing to push. “And it will give us a chance to get to know each other.”

“Well, I'm not—”

“You did say I should associate with a higher class of people.”

While Fritter and I have been speaking, an elderly woman has approached the desk.

“Good morning,” the lady chirps, setting a book on the counter.

Fritter smiles and returns the greeting.

I pick up the book. “This looks great,” I say. “Maybe we should read this one at the nursing home this afternoon.”

I see Fritter stiffen. Sensing that I have the advantage, I continue. “Miss Jackson is taking me with her this afternoon to read at the nursing home. She wants to show me how important it is to give back to the community.”

The woman beams at us. “Why isn't that nice. Fritter, I'm so glad you're passing along your passion for service.”

“When you come back next week,” I tell the woman, “I'll let you know how it went.”

“That would be lovely,” she replies.

Fritter pointedly does not look in my direction while entering information into the computer. She and the lady exchange a few words of small talk. When the woman walks off, Fritter turns to me, frowning. “I don't know what you're up to, but there's no way that I'm taking you with me.”

“Well then, maybe I'll just cut out a little early this afternoon. Yesterday I found some old negatives hidden away that I'm dying to print.”

She narrows her eyes, perhaps trying to decide whether I'm telling the truth or dropping a hint that I know of her involvement in Tawny's break-in. We stare at each other for an uncomfortable few seconds, each measuring the other's resolve. Fritter is the first to look away.

T
he rest of the morning passes quickly. When lunchtime rolls around, I cage another apple from the refrigerator in the back room and search the cabinets until I find a package of only slightly expired peanut-butter crackers. I'm staying in for lunch so I can keep an eye on Fritter. I'm half expecting her to find some excuse to go without me.

When the time to leave arrives, I start looking for Fritter. From behind the circulation desk, Tawny gives me the stink eye. “I can't believe you're ditching me.”

“Believe it.”

“You want to hear something interesting? I get to take a long lunch. Fritter called in a volunteer to cover for me,” Tawny says with a sly smile. “I've been assigned a special errand to run as soon as the two of you leave for the nursing home, a certain job Fritter wants me to finish.”

I try to hide my surprise. So, Fritter hadn't found what she was looking for in the first batch of stolen negatives. Maybe the ones I still have aren't quite as innocuous as they seem.

I hear Fritter's footsteps on the stairs.

“Good luck with that.” I pat my purse where the negatives are safely stashed.

“I wasn't going to do it anyway,” she says quietly. “We're still on for tomorrow, right? No rain checks.”

Fritter reaches the base of the stairs and walks toward us. I answer Tawny with a nod.

“What are you two talking about?” Fritter asks.

“The weather,” I reply.

Tawny grins. Fritter does not.

The old woman gives Tawny a look, fraught with meaning. “You know your duties for this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Satisfied, the old woman shifts her sturdy brown handbag from one forearm to the other and then without one glance in my direction walks to the back of the library, through the door and into the parking lot. I follow close behind.

Once we're in her car, Fritter spends a few minutes fixing her hair, tucking up some of the pieces that the high wind has freed from their confinement. It occurs to me that this is it; if I want
to apply some pressure to this old woman, right now is the time I could tell her what I know about the break-in. I wouldn't call the cops on her and Tawny, but she doesn't know that. Maybe the threat would be enough to make her tell me what the hell is going on. Or maybe it wouldn't be enough, and I would've played the only card in my hand. Sensing my gaze, she looks over at me, expectantly, as if she knows exactly what I'm thinking and is itching to call my bluff.

I run my fingers through my tangled curls and pretend the challenge in her eyes is about my hair. “Sorry. It's this crazy wind.”

She stares at me for another heartbeat before she turns away to fasten her seat belt. “There's a storm coming,” she says. “Can't you feel it?”

I do a quick inventory of my feelings: queasy, bloated, and . . . hmmm. Underneath, maybe I do feel something else. Tension, a straining spring, a fraying rope. In my mouth, the salty, metallic taste is back. I wonder if it's fear.

“I don't feel a thing,” I reply.

O
n the outside, Reunion Plaza looks like a resort. On the inside it smells exactly like I expected a nursing home to smell, like disinfectant and burnt onions and pee. For a tiny woman, Fritter walks impressively fast down the hallway, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the waxed linoleum tile. I follow with my own sneaker squeak and try to time my steps with hers. When she stops suddenly, I come within inches of slamming into her back.

“What are you doing?”

“Following you.”

“Well, stop tailgating,” she says, continuing down the hall. I drop back a bit, leaving a couple Fritter-lengths between us.

We stop in front of a half-open door. The old woman steps
into the doorway, blocking my path, but it's easy enough to peer over her shoulder. Inside, the curtains are closed, and a lamp illuminates a white-haired man in a recliner. He's holding a book, but from the way it's resting on his lap it looks like he's been doing more napping than reading.

He looks up. “Who's there?”

She hesitates for a second, then replies, “It's me, Jonah.”

I open my mouth to remind Fritter of my existence, but before I can get a sound out, she turns and shoos me away from the door. “Strangers upset him. Why don't you go introduce yourself to the director and tell her you'll start the reading.”

I linger nearby, but can't make out words in the murmur of voices within, so, reluctantly, I go find the director. When we get to the activities lounge, there are already several seniors waiting, so I walk through the rows of chairs and wheelchairs to get to the seat in the front that's facing everyone else.

The book I've been handed,
Anna Karenina
, happens to be one that I've read a time or two. It's bookmarked on page 106, well into the story, but before I begin I can't resist turning to the first page and looking at the novel's famous opening line:
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
I can still remember how strange I found that sentence when I first saw it as a teenager. I had limited experience with happy families, but even then I understood that unhappy families are less unique than Tolstoy believed. You peek behind the curtains of any household headed by an underemployed single mother with an escalating alcohol problem, and you're going to see a lot of the same sad, angry shit going on.

I've been reading to the group for twenty minutes when I see Fritter slip into the back of the room and take a seat by the door. Her brother is not with her. I clear my throat a few times, and then put on what I think is a pretty convincing coughing fit.
As I anticipated, Fritter stands and threads her way through the wheelchairs to my side. She has one brow raised in a what-are-you-up-to expression, so I work hard to maintain a who-me-up-to-something? look on my face. She's not buying it, but she takes the book and sits in my spot, while I work my way through the napping crowd and out of the room.

I'm guessing from the look on Fritter's face that I won't have long before she comes to find me, so I hurry. When I reach Jonah's room, an aide is just leaving. Her coffee-colored skin is smooth, only the strands of gray along her hairline hint at her age. She looks tired and has a yellow stain across her midriff that I hope for her sake isn't what it looks like. She acknowledges my presence with a smile. “Are you here to see Mr. Jackson?”

I nod, and she holds the door open for me to enter. “He loves visitors,” she whispers.

“Why doesn't he go down and listen to his sister reading?”

“He doesn't care for her current book selection. Every time she comes now, he starts in about the evils of communism.”

“Tolstoy was a communist?”

The woman laughs softly. “I have no idea. But I'd avoid the subject if I were you.”

“Not a problem,” I tell her, and it's true. Russian politics are the last thing I came here to talk about.

His lamp is off, and the room is in twilight, illuminated only by the edges of the curtains and the television. Fritter's brother is in bed now, propped up on pillows, the hospital-bed back raised to almost ninety degrees. On the television, a plump chef chops a zucchini.

The old man blinks at me as I enter from the bright hallway. “Back already from reading your manifesto?”

“Hello.” I walk to his bedside, extending my hand. “We haven't met but I'm—”

“You came!” His eyes are wide, as he takes my hand in both of his.

“Um . . . yeah. I did.” I'm a little taken aback by his reaction, but that aide did say that he loves visitors. I continue with, “I was in the hall earlier with your sister—”

“I thought you'd never come.” He's much too excited to see me. He's shaking, his eyes tearing up. He grasps my hand hard with his knobby fingers. “I thought I'd never have a chance to apologize.”

I feel a little out of breath in the overheated room. “I . . . uh . . . I think maybe there's been a mistake,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm the one who's sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “I am so sorry. I promise that I never knew. Never. Not until I saw her—”

“What are you doing in here?”

Mr. Jackson and I both startle at this. I twist around and see Fritter standing in the doorway. She's angry. Very angry. I try to step away from the bed, but the old man tightens his grip on my hand.

“Say you forgive me,” he pleads. “I have to hear it.”

“But—”

“Please. I'm so, so sorry.”

I glance at Fritter for help, but she's not looking at me, she's watching her brother, shaking her head slowly. I look down at the old man's trembling hands, nothing but blue veins and bones. I don't know what's going on in his crazy head, but I do know what it feels like to be
so, so sorry
. I step closer and set my free hand on top of his. “I forgive you, Jonah,” I say. “Everything is going to be okay.”

At this, Fritter steps up and takes her brother's hand from mine. “Enough of this nonsense. It's time for us to go.” She turns to her brother, and her voice softens. “I'll come Sunday. I'll bring fudge.” She then takes me by the elbow and begins marching me
to the door. I have to press my lips together to suppress a whimper as she pinches my skin between her bony knuckles. This little old lady has a mean streak and pretty impressive hand strength to go with it. I make a decision to never challenge her to a thumb war.

We're almost to the door when I notice that the vice grip she's got me locked into has our path lined up with a leg of a portable potty by the door. If she keeps glaring up at me, she's going to walk right into the rolling toilet. As tempting as it would be to let her fall, I'm a little worried she'll take me down with her. Besides, even a mean old lady doesn't deserve a broken hip.