The Art of Crash Landing (34 page)

A
s I suspected Luke and I appear to be the last to arrive at the reception. Trip's driveway is full of cars and there are several up and down the street. I hop out of the limo and start up the walk, but Luke is stuck, waiting for the driver to reassemble the wheelchair. The poor driver's face is flushed, his meaty hands shaking as he tries to match up the parts. I feel like I ought to stay and help, but Luke gestures for me to go on. He's nice that way.

I smell Tawny before I see her. The undeniable odor of marijuana gets stronger as I approach the door. Tawny is seated cross-legged, leaning up against the house.

“Seriously? On the front porch?”

“Fritter's in the kitchen,” Tawny croaks.

This makes sense to me only because I know that the layout of Trip's house is almost identical to my grandmother's, with the kitchen windows opening directly onto the back patio.

I squat down next to the girl and hold out my hand, and she instinctively passes the joint to me. Rather than take a hit, which
is obviously what she expected me to do, I snub it out and hand it back, saying, “You have a job to do, remember?”

When Fritter asked me to take some photos at the reception, my first question was whether Tawny would be coming back for the funeral. When it was determined that she and her mother would be in attendance, I immediately recruited the girl to assist me. It would have been easier to just do it all myself with my digital camera, but film photography is a dying art, and Tawny is going to forget everything I taught her this summer if she doesn't get more practice.

The girl tucks the joint into her pocket. “You know what you are?”

“I have a feeling you're going to tell me,” I say.

“You're a
fun-sucker
. You go through life just sucking all the fun out of everything.”

“I've been called worse—by you, mostly. Now get in there and get some candid shots.”

T
awny heads straight to the food platters on the dining room table, but I keep walking. I see Gordon Penny talking to a group of men, and I quickly avert my gaze and do my best not to capture his attention. I know if he sees me he'll come talk to me about next week's closing, and I don't want to deal with his gloaty smugness today.

To say that I'm less than thrilled about him buying my grandmother's house would be an understatement. But his offer was more than fair—the best I was going to get, according to Charlie Franklin—so after a sleepless night or two, I finally just said
fuck it
and signed the contract. The fact is, my mother is long gone from that house and so is Tilda. They've moved on and now it's
my turn, albeit to a somewhat less final destination. I found a garage apartment a couple blocks from here that suits me fine. And I must confess, there's a small part of me that finds some real pleasure imagining Gordon Penny's surprise the first time he tries to shower in that house, struggling to squanch his massive body under my grandmother's miniature showerhead.

I weave through the crowd until I reach the kitchen. Fritter is in here alone, her back turned to me. She's rinsing out a glass pitcher, and the light from the window over the sink casts her sturdy shape in a dark silhouette, yet turns her hair into a glowing silver corona.

Hearing the snap of my camera, she glances over her shoulder and sees me standing in the doorway.

“What on earth are you wearing?” she says.

“The circus is in town. I'm the tent.”

That elicits a tiny snort of laughter from the old woman before she reverts back to her naturally crabby state.

“Don't lurk in the doorway. Come here and make yourself useful.”

“Okay, Aunt Fritter.”

She winces at the word
aunt
. I smile. I never bother to call Trip
uncle
, but I can't resist tweaking
Great Aunt
Fritter when nobody else is listening. I might never get tired of reminding her that she's related to a low-class, tent-wearing, no-goodnik like me. I join her at the sink, but I don't make myself useful. I just lean against the counter next to where she's working.

She glances at the camera hanging around my neck and says, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I reply, and it's the truth. I'll never have my mother's love of photography or her talent for it, but the camera feels good in my hands. Familiar.

“I'm sorry about your brother,” I say.

She nods. “It was his time, but it's never easy.”

“I know,” I say, because I
do
know.

“And for what it's worth . . .” She pauses to clear her throat. “I am grateful that the two of you spoke. I think believing he'd apologized to Tilda gave poor Jonah some measure of peace.”

“You didn't seem all that grateful at the time.”

“Well, that might not have been my finest moment.” She opens cabinets until she locates a canister marked
Sugar
. “But in my defense you were being very sneaky.”

“True,” I admit.

“And nosey.”

“You're right.”

“And annoying. And pushy.”

“You can stop anytime now.”

“Well,” she tells me, “all I can say is, the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. You may resemble Tilda, but you are Genie all over again.”

My first instinct is, as always, to argue with that statement, but this time I just smile.

“I can only imagine how much trouble a child of yours is going to be,” Fritter adds, but her stern tone is tempered by the hand she tentatively reaches out to place on my belly. I set my hand over hers, positioning her palm on the spot where I've felt recent movement. When the little person-to-be inside of me bumps and shifts under our touch, Fritter and I share a smile.

“I'm putting her up for adoption,” I say.

“Her?”

I shrug. “According to the doctor.”

Fritter gives my belly a gentle little pat and then resumes her kitchen duties, crossing to the refrigerator to pull out a large paper bag. “Adoption sounds like a good idea. Although, I suspect you're too hardheaded to do anything that sensible.”

“I can't be a mother,” I say. “I'd screw it up.”

The old woman laughs softly. “Doesn't everybody?”

Before I can reply, Trip pops his head into the kitchen. “Luke is here. I think that's everyone. It's time for the toast, and then we'll take pictures.”

“Give us ten minutes,” Fritter says.

“What are you two doing?” he asks.

“It's bad luck to toast with water,” she explains. “And not everyone drinks alcohol.” She looks at me meaningfully, and I nod. I'm not puking anymore, but I'm not smoking or drinking either. Considering her ancestors, this poor kid is probably already destined to be a fuckup. I don't need to make her life any harder than it has to be.

Fritter pushes the paper sack in my direction and hands me a knife. I turn and look at what she has assembled on the counter—a bowl, a pitcher, a sugar canister, a paper sack of . . . I pull the bag closer and look inside, knowing what I'll find. Leaning in close I take a deep breath, expecting a scent as sharp as the yellow fruit's flesh, but I'm pleasantly surprised. The lemons smell good. Sweet, even.

P
icture an awards show, and a young woman (who's never eaten a doughnut in her life), standing breathless at the podium, an award clutched to her sequined chest, desperately listing names as the shut-up-already music swells. Now take away the stage, cameras, music, award, podium, sequins, youth, and doughnutless body. What you have left is what she and I have in common: amazed happiness, a long list of people to whom we owe a debt of gratitude, and the panicked realization that we'll never be able to name them all.

I'm betting there are people who should be on this list but aren't, and if you're one of them please accept my sincere apology. Also, please understand that I'm exceptional at guilt. I've almost certainly discovered the omission and feel even worse about it than you'd want me to. (Admit it: that does make you feel a little better, doesn't it?)

So here it goes:

Thank you, Jillian Verrillo, editor extraordinaire, for loving
my book enough to take it on, for your astute editorial suggestions, and your perpetual good humor. I could not have asked for someone more fun to work with. I'd also like to thank everyone else at HarperCollins and Harper Paperbacks. Cal Morgan, editorial director, and Amy Baker, associate publisher: thank you for believing in this book and working so hard to make it happen. Thanks to design manager Jamie Lynn Kerner for the beautiful interior design, copyeditor Jane Herman for your adroit fact-checking and ninja comma skills, proofreader Audrey Sussman for your keen eye, and production editor Sherry Wasserman for your management expertise and attention to detail. To cover designer Joanne O'Neill, thank you for your creative energy and collaborative spirit; to managing editor Dori Carlson, thanks for keeping it all moving smoothly; and to publicist Leigh Raynor and the marketing team, Kathryn Radcliff-Lee and Mary Sasso, I'm grateful for your resourcefulness and your tireless efforts on this book's behalf.

Jeff Kleinman, agent
ne plus ultra,
thanks so much for your wisdom, patience and steadfast advocacy. You were and still are the agent of my dreams. And to the rest of the Folio Literary Management team and Jita Fumich—thank you for your help.

I'm grateful for the time taken and suggestions given by the readers of the early drafts: Sandy Ebner, Hallye Terrell, and Lisa Love, plus Carrie Bedford, Maryvonne Fent, Michael Jacobs, Ed Markel, Camille Cira, and the other members of the Ongoing Workshop. Thank you, Sue Garzon, for the book's title, and instructors: Shelley Singer, Dennis Foley, Dana Adams, and Michael Murphy, for your advice and encouragement. Thanks to photographers Judy Bankhead and Tom Hargrove for the darkroom advice; any mistakes remaining are my own.

To the friends who've enriched my life, and the friends who've helped save it, a thank you hardly seems like enough. I'm not
naming names here for fear of leaving someone out, but I don't have to, right? You know who you are.

Thanks to my children, who are now delightful adults. You have given my life great meaning, and my head gray hairs. Mike, Stephen, Katherine, and Corey, I love you all. (That's what she said.) Oh, and a special tip of the hat to Katherine for all the inventive profanity. (How often does a mother get to say that to her daughter?)

And finally I'm grateful to Leonard, my husband and best friend. We've been together our entire adult lives, yet amazingly you're still putting up with me (even after the cat fence) and for that I am blessed. Truly, miracles abound.

About the author

Meet Melissa DeCarlo

About the book

Inspirations, Explanations & Extrapolations
A Short Quiz

Read on

Have You Read?
Melissa DeCarlo's Favorite Books

MELISSA DECARLO
was born and raised in Oklahoma City. Growing up she wanted to be a writer, an artist, an actress, and one of those people wearing bright yellow helmets who get to climb telephone poles. Then one day she looked around and discovered that she was all grown-up with a degree in computer science and working in an office where she had to wear panty hose every day.

But sometimes in life, as in the best stories, do-overs are possible. Melissa now lives in East Texas with her husband and a motley crew of rescue animals. She learned how to paint and sculpt and has worked as a freelance writer, grant writer, and graphic designer. She's even done a little acting in community theater. But after she managed to break her foot climbing a flight of stairs, she decided that climbing telephone poles was probably a bad idea. She no longer even owns a pair of panty hose.

Some of Melissa's favorite things are reading, writing, making art, hanging out with her husband and their awesome grown-up kids, and watching that YouTube video of the goat that sings like Usher.
The Art of Crash Landing
is her first novel, but some of her short fiction and essays have appeared in online and print literary magazines. You'll find links to a few of these and who knows what else at www.melissadecarlo.com.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

Inspirations, Explanations & Extrapolations
A Short Quiz

Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers.
—Voltaire

Circle the correct answer:

  
1.
   
Mattie's stepfather, Queeg, was inspired
by:

       
(a)
    
The author's grandfather who probably wore sock garters at some point but, by the time the author knew him, was a gentle, confused man who called her
sugar lumpkin
and once set fire to the curtains with his pipe.

       
(b)
    
The author's father who didn't wear sock garters but who was a fan of pithy sayings, garage sales, and naps in his La-Z-Boy during golf tournaments.

       
(c)
    
The old guy who works at the tire store (sock-garter status unknown) who, upon seeing the author reading in the waiting room, remarked that he had “just finished readin' a darn good little book” and then went on to explain that the darn good little book he'd just finished readin' was
Anna Karenina.
Needless to say, the author did her best to hide both her surprise and the cover of the extremely pulpy sci-fi novel in her lap.

       
(d)
    
All of the above (plus all the other gentle, funny, and surprising old men she has known).

  
2.
    
Buttercup, the class guinea pig, was inspired by:

       
(a)
    
The guinea pig that the author promised her parents would be no trouble at all, but that was, as it turned out, pregnant, which taught the author (and her parents) that three guinea pigs really are a fair amount of trouble.

       
(b)
    
Some other rodent, although probably not a pregnant one.

       
(c)
    
Why am I even giving you a third choice? I'm pretty sure you've got this one figured out.

  
3.
    
In addition to dyeing poodles and taunting Gordon Penny, in which of the following shenanigans might Genie and Karleen have been involved?

       
(a)
    
The petroleum jelly–coated toilet seats in the bathrooms closest to the teachers' lounge.

       
(b)
    
The weekly dose of dish soap in the fountain in front of the Gandy Municipal Building.

       
(c)
    
The two dozen crickets purchased for the science lab's iguana that were somehow released up in the ceiling tiles rather than the lizard's terrarium.

       
(d)
    
The boring sign in front of Earle's Self-Storage that had read EXTRA SPACE 4 LEASE HERE! that was livened up late one Saturday night to read SEE ALPACA SEX HERE!

       
(e)
    
And then the next weekend to HERES A SEX TRAP!

       
(f)
    
Then PLEASE CHEER 4 SEX!

       
(g)
    
All of the above (and more).

  
4.
    
Mattie seems a little clumsy at times. The author just might be prone to falling:

       
(a)
    
From balconies

       
(b)
    
Off bicycles

       
(c)
    
Up stairs

       
(d)
    
Off horses

       
(e)
    
Down mountains

       
(f)
    
All of the above except for the one about balconies, although now that the author is looking at the frankly quite impressive list of non-balcony things she has managed to hurt herself on, she's decided that staying off balconies is probably a very good idea.

  
5.
    
Why were both of Tilda's dogs named Winston?

       
(a)
    
She really, really liked the name Winston.

       
(b)
    
They weren't, but her eyesight was bad and she had trouble telling them apart, so she called them both Winston.

       
(c)
    
It's complicated.

  
6.
    
Photography is:

       
(a)
    
One of the author's skills.

       
(b)
    
Not one of the author's skills, but she's pretty sure it could be if she wanted it to be.

       
(c)
    
I mean honestly, how hard can it be?

       
(d)
    
The author's family and friends would like to mention that the author has an alarming tendency to say “How hard can it be?” before discovering exactly how hard something can be, but after having dragged aforementioned family and/or friends into some ridiculous project. It's best to never mention the words “cat fence” to the author's husband. Seriously.

       
(e)
    
b and c and oh, okay, d. But in her defense, the cat fence sounded like a great idea, and besides, how was she to know that although it would do a terrific job trapping squirrels in the yard (which certainly made the dogs happy), the cat would learn how to climb up the side of the house and over the roof within a week of the fence's installation?

  
7.
    
When it comes to beach vacations the author:

       
(a)
    
Is intimately familiar with weedy trailer parks.

       
(b)
    
Has driven past a few on the way to the nice hotel/condo/house rental.

       
(c)
    
a and then b because although the author's parents did place a very high value on frugality (especially when it came to family vacations), the author and her husband were not that frugal (especially when it came to family vacations). The author's children have yet to thank her for that. A card would be nice. Or candy. Or chocolates.

  
8.
    
Will Mattie end up settling down in Gandy with Luke? Might she keep the baby?

       
(a)
    
Yes.

       
(b)
    
No.

       
(c)
    
You tell me.

  
9.
    
Poor Mattie's life was a nomadic, chaotic mess. The author's life is/was:

       
(a)
    
Similarly chaotic.

       
(b)
    
Mostly normal.

       
(c)
    
Completely normal.

       
(d)
    
Is there even such a thing as normal?

Answers:

  
1.
    
Mattie's stepfather, Queeg, was inspired by:

       
(d)
    
All of the above. Although my dad was probably the primary inspiration, he
wasn't Queeg. My dad was his own man, a builder and an attorney; a watcher of
Hee-Haw
and an expert maker of French toast; a stubborn man who tenderly cared for my mother as she sickened and ultimately died from emphysema. He died in 1999 of urothelial carcinoma of the kidney, which, like emphysema is directly related to smoking. I wish they hadn't smoked. I miss them both every day.

  
2.
    
Buttercup, the class guinea pig, was inspired by:

       
(a)
    
The guinea pig that the author promised her parents would be no trouble at all . . . My guinea pig was named Tabitha and lived with us for many years, making her little
oooeek
noises and happily eating her atlfalfa pellets and the carrots I'd feed her while she sat in my lap and watched television with me. (Yes, we found homes for her two babies.)

  
3.
    
In addition to dyeing poodles and taunting Gordon Penny, in which of the following shenanigans might Genie and Karleen have been involved?

       
(g)
    
All of the above (duh!). In all fairness, the city fountain had never been cleaner, the
crickets singing overhead added a pleasing, albeit temporary, outdoorsy ambience to every lab assignment (the Bunsen burners seemed like tiny campfires), and the new covered sign Earle finally bought was much nicer than the old one. If Genie and Karleen had been asked about any of these events, surely they would have replied, “You're welcome!”

  
4.
    
Mattie seems a little clumsy at times. The author just might be prone to falling:

       
(f)
    
All of the above except for the one about balconies, although . . .
Okay, ready? Bicycles: Long story, but I somehow didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was in my early twenties, and so, although technically, I
can
ride a bike I'm much better off not doing so. Stairs: I once broke my foot running up a flight of stairs (
prancing
up the stairs, according to my husband, but we disagree on this point). Horses: Seven stitches in my scalp. Mountains: I have skied and snowboarded and have, after a few trips to the orthopedist, come to the conclusion that some people are simply not meant to go fast down icy slopes.

  
5.
    
Why were both of Tilda's dogs named Winston?

       
(c)
    
It's complicated.
Tilda did, indeed, name a dog Winston (the larger, less farty dog) after the music store she missed so badly. Every week at the senior center's afternoon dance, Tilda discussed Winston with her regular dance partner, George. One Saturday George told Tilda he had bought a French bulldog of his own, although Tilda couldn't help but note, from a less reputable breeder.

                   
When a massive stroke felled George, no one in his family wanted the dog. It was only after Tilda's offer to take the animal was accepted that she learned George had also named his dog Winston. She wondered at the time whether this hinted at some poignant, unexpressed affection for her on George's part, or merely an appalling deficit of originality. Publicly, Tilda bemoaned her late dance partner's lack of imagination, but her secret heart couldn't stop remembering the warmth in George's eyes, and how they were exactly the same color blue as her favorite cardigan. She never changed the dog's name.

  
6.
    
Photography is:

                   
Yeah, well. Okay, probably the less said about all that, the better.

  
7.
    
When it comes to beach vacations the author:

       
(c)
    
a and then b because . . .
When I was a child and we went on family vacations to the beach we always stayed in a mobile home park. At the time I thought it was fun, although I suspect my mom was less than thrilled to have KP duty even on vacation. Once after we'd all gone crabbing, my dad made the mistake of leaving all the crabs we'd caught alive in a bucket out behind the trailer long enough for me to name them all. Then I cried about their fate until my dad finally drove me, and the crabs, to the pier so I could dump them all back in the ocean. Yes, even as a small child I was a pain in the ass.

  
8.
    
Will Mattie end up settling down in Gandy with Luke? Might she keep the baby?

       
(c)
    
You tell me.
I'm serious. I don't know what happens next, because these characters aren't mine anymore. They're yours. They're ours.

                   
Some days I like the idea of
Mattie raising that little girl with help from Luke and all of their family and friends in Gandy. But then sometimes I prefer the thought of Mattie getting in her car and taking that trip to California that her mother and Karleen never made. Maybe it would be a mistake to settle down before she's figured out what she really wants from life. I do know that Mattie no longer feels an urge to self-destruct, but beyond that? I don't have a clue. Do you? I'd love to hear it! Contact me on Facebook or via my website, and give me your best guess.

  
9.
    
Poor Mattie's life was a nomadic, chaotic mess. The author's life is/was:

       
(d)
    
Is there even such a thing as normal?
I grew up with married parents in an average house in a middle-class neighborhood in Oklahoma City. I lived in the same house from four years old until I went to college. My parents drank, yes, but they weren't alcoholics. In our house there was not too much shouting, I'd say an average amount of laughter, and a lot of love. But, this was real life and not a television series. Things
weren't perfect. I was the youngest of three children, the middle sister was disabled and my brother, the eldest, went to Vietnam when I was nine and came home a heroin addict who spent the rest of his life battling addiction.