Dancing Naked in Dixie (22 page)

The flight back to JFK is noisy and bumpy. There’s a toddler kicking my chair, his baby brother wailing every time the plane hits turbulence.

Because of storms along the east coast, we’re belted in, tethered to our chairs until the jet touches down in New York. I’m a veteran of trans-Atlantic flights, and am comfortable at thirty-five thousand feet, but this may be the longest two hours of my entire life. Even the flight attendants look nervous.

My normal routine is to whip out my iPod, insert earplugs, and zone out for the duration. Sometimes I sleep, other times I pretend to nap. This flight, however, I can’t ignore the passenger next to me.

My seatmate, a woman in her mid-forties, is sweating and clutching the armrests for dear life. Her upper lip is beaded with moisture.

She’s been talking non-stop since takeoff. I’ve learned about her job (chef and restaurant owner), her boyfriend (taxidermist), her parents (now deceased), and her recent escapades (being searched) at every airport security checkpoint. After listening for an hour and forty-five minutes, I’m starting to agree that Homeland Security has it out for her.

When she pauses for oxygen and a sip of water, I realize she has the drawl of a person born and raised in the South. And decide to try some intervention.

“Where are you from?” I ask, making direct eye contact. “Is Georgia home?”

The woman nods. “Dahlonega. North of Atlanta.” She attempts a small smile, which I consider a major breakthrough, until the body of the plane drops into an air pocket. Everyone around me screeches or yelps. The baby is crying harder now, with loud, wet gulps. My neighbor begins sobbing.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, keeping my voice soft and even, then I reach out and pat her hand. To my surprise, she grips it with the strength of a welterweight boxer. “Really. We’ll be landing soon.”

The aircraft is shaking like the lead car of a wooden rollercoaster. If my seatbelt was any tighter, it would cut off the circulation in my legs like a tourniquet. Any moment, I expect to see the oxygen masks dropping from the plastic ceiling panels.

As we descend through the clouds, slamming and careening like the aircraft is hitting invisible bumper cars, my seatmate starts hyperventilating. The flight attendant call lights go off like little red fireworks around us.

I snatch an airsickness bag from the seat pocket in front of me. “Breathe,” I instruct her, snapping open the paper sack and pressing it around her mouth.

With wide eyes and a pink face, she blows into the bag. It expands, then contracts with her inhalation. “Good,” I smile encouragement. “Very good,” I repeat, noticing that she is still gripped onto my arm like a bird of prey.

I scoot forward as best I can, closer to the aisle, on my seat cushion-floatation device. “All right. So, tell me about Dahlonega. Is it pretty? Lots of trees? Some mountains?”

Nothing moves but her chin, and that is barely perceptible.

“How about lakes?” I attempt to conjure up a picture of North Georgia. Everything in my brain is programmed to Eufaula. It can’t be terribly different, I decide. “Did you swim a lot or go fishing, growing up?”

Another slight nod. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“I just visited the most wonderful little town,” I tell her, pressing a hand to my chest for emphasis. “Have you ever been to Eufaula? For the Pilgrimage?”

The woman’s face lights up. Behind the airsickness bag, her cheeks lift, the slightest hint of a smile. Her knuckles aren’t white anymore, and I notice that the woman’s grip is no longer pinching my hand.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” she murmurs after the sack drops from her mouth. Her fingertips rub the edges. “It’s been years.”

I explain that I’m a travel writer for
Getaways
magazine, sent to preview the Pilgrimage. In full detail, down to collapsing in the front yard of Fendall Hall, I recount my bee attack, the subsequent trip to the ER, and my shoe snafu at the Christmas Tour dinner. By the time I finish, my seatmate is laughing, almost unaware of the occasional rough patch of air.

“So, you’re heading home?” she asks, settling back against her seat. The peaches and cream color has returned to her face and I’m no longer fearful she’ll stop breathing.

I consider the question. The answer, of course, is an obvious one. “Yes, I have a small apartment there, not far from the magazine office.” It’s my turn to shift in my seat. I glance out the window at the silver-grey of the cloud cover. “The City is my home base, but I live like a nomad. Pets are out of the question, I can’t keep a plant alive, and I’m sure my building manager thinks I’m a ghost. He always jumps when he sees me.”

This also makes her giggle. Then, her eyes fall on my left hand. “So, what about a fiancé? Or is there a special guy in your life?”

“Also tough to manage,” I try to flash a grin. “Andrew—that’s my boyfriend—he’s pretty neglected. We’re supposed to go to dinner tomorrow night. I promised I’d call when we land,” I turn my wrist to check the time. We’ve been descending for ten minutes.

My new friend looks me up and down. “That’s not much enthusiasm,” she observes with an arched brow.

“He’s great,” I rush to say, sounding a little bit ridiculous, since I’m about to break off our relationship. Or put it on hold. Indefinitely. I clear my throat. “Um, Andrew’s really the best. He’s sweet and nice and thoughtful…”

“But, maybe for someone else?” she fills in. She says the words in a gentle way, treading as if my boyfriend—or spies from his family—might be lurking a few rows up.

Tears fill my eyes and they drip down my cheeks before I can wipe them away. My throat closes as I try to swallow, making it impossible to do anything but choke. The woman hands me her airsickness bag.

“Thanks, no.” I wave it away, coughing again into the crook of my arm.

“So,” my seatmate taps her fingers on the seat rests. “You’re coming home, you’re not in love with him, and you’ve been dating Andrew for how many years?”

“Two,” I answer as the aircraft breaks through the dark ceiling of cloud cover. A bell dings twice, signaling we’ve reached ten thousand feet. The flight attendants, somber and exhausted from the bumpy flight, walk through the aisles with open plastic bags, pausing to nudge a seat forward or collect a water cup.

The crackle of the intercom sounds, and the pilot announces we’ll be landing at JFK in a few minutes. He thanks us for flying his airline and wishes us a happy holiday season. The intercom scratches again and clicks off.

“Thank you, Jesus,” someone squawks in a thick Jersey accent from a few rows back. There are murmurs of agreement, and a single sneeze. “Bless you,” the voice speaks again. Then, for a few moments, everything is still except for the sound of the wind rushing against the body of our silver jet.

I keep my eyes trained out the window, checking my seatbelt to make sure it’s tight. The pilot lowers the flaps, and the change in airspeed registers in my head and stomach.

New York sprawls before us in thousands of towers and buildings, the blocks divided with intersecting strips of blacktop. Taxicabs and cars, five rows deep, inch along, snaking around corners, splitting off in twos where the roads divide. Everything below, every square mile, is in motion.

As we hover over the runway, my seatmate leans closer. “By the way, I’m Dean Alice Waters,” she introduces herself.

“Julia Sullivan,” I reply with a smile. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.” I glance at her travel bag and try to read the tag. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

“A little of both, I hope,” she presses her fingertips together and shrugs. “I think I mentioned that I’m in the restaurant business. I’m here for a food show. Many of the top chefs will be there—Cat Cora, Bobby Flay, Rachel Ray, Emeril Lagaisse—”

“How fun! Sounds like you’ll be eating well.”

Dean Alice rolls her eyes. “You have no idea. The food never ends. Last year, I gained five pounds in two days. Don’t tell anyone, but I brought my super-secret elastic waist pants just for grazing the dessert tables.” She sighs. “I’m addicted to sugar. Carbs, too. Anything with butter, flour, and sugar.”

We’re jolted in our seats as the wheels touch down on the runway. The sound of air rushing against the wings is almost deafening and I close my eyes. My stomach grumbles at the thought of food and I remember tucking a few of PD’s treats into my carry on.

As we taxi to the gate, I unzip my bag and reach inside, and I offer one of the golden marshmallow puffs to Dean Alice. “If you love sweets, you have to try these,” I gush. “My friend made them.”

Dean Alice takes one of the small pillows of flaky crust, examines it on all sides, sniffs the edge like a wine expert sampling a vintage Cabernet, and takes a dainty bite. I, on the other hand, pop an entire treat into my mouth. As I chew, the marshmallow, Nutella, and sugar dissolve on my tongue like cotton candy. The plane comes to a final stop as I swallow and brush the crumbs from my hands.

“What do you call these?” Dean Alice blinks in amazement, powering on her phone as she’s talking. It begins to bleat immediately. “Fifteen text messages,” she exclaims, scanning each one. She taps the touch screen and puts the phone to her ear. “And ten voicemails.”

The flight attendant in the front of the aircraft announces we’re free to go, and everyone jumps to their feet, eager to escape the confines of the jet. The baby behind us begins wailing again. It’s mass chaos as passengers flood the aisle, jostling for position, reaching into overhead bins for luggage and laptops.

Somehow, Dean Alice wiggles her frame into the fray and joins the other bodies, pressed together, shuffling along the narrow, carpeted path to the front of the plane. As an afterthought, black cell phone still pressed to her head, she turns and offers a wave.

“Thank you,” she mouths and winks, then disappears into the first-class cabin.

With a grin, I wiggle my fingers at her, saying good-bye. I know she’ll be relieved to put both feet on solid ground.

The cabin continues to empty, but I remain standing, resting my elbows on the seat in front of me. My legs seem locked in place. For once, I’m not in a hurry. At all.

Behind me, a few passengers are still wrestling bags from under seats, looking around for keys, and locating ticket stubs. A couple is conversing in Chinese as they brush by me, and the sound of their heated exchange slices through the stale air, thick and guttural.

At last, I am alone. More than two hundred seats—all of them empty—surround me.

“Ma’am?” One of the flight attendants strides back toward my row, hesitates, and touches me on the arm. “Is everything all right? Are you missing your carry-on?” She glances down at my feet. “Or can I help you with gate change information?”

“No,” I shake my head.

“Rough flight?” she asks, her expression sympathetic. “Try getting a ginger ale on the way out. It always helps when I’m feeling queasy. There’s a shop that sells it on the way to baggage claim.”

I want to explain that it’s not the turbulence or any amount of rough air. I want to tell her that my anxiety has nothing to do with her, the pilots, the landing, or the weather. I want to reassure her that it’s not my stomach that’s bothering me.

If I don’t get off the jet, I won’t have to face Andrew.

If I stay on the plane, in my seat, I won’t have to see my father, David.

If I can stop time, I won’t have to face my empty apartment and my equally empty life.

No, ginger ale won’t help at all. And what’s hurting can’t be fixed.

It’s my heart.

Chapter 25

Buoyed by a solid eight hours of sleep, my looming deadline, and thoughts of a hot Starbucks latte, I manage to wake up before my alarm, shower, and wrestle myself into warm winter clothes before seven in the morning. As I pull on my favorite pair of brown leather boots, I glance at the meteorologist on my small flat-screen.

The volume’s down, but the weatherman isn’t smiling when he points to the map of the east coast. From the looks of it, there’s a stubborn cold front clinging to New England. When the five-day forecast pops up, I am sure of it. Neither the highs nor the lows stray far from zero. With a shudder, I pull on my wool coat, throw a knit scarf around my neck, and grab for my gloves. They’re next to Shug’s Auburn hat, which I have to return to him at some point. I run a finger along the brim and smile.

Almost as an afterthought, I snatch up a few postcards from Eufaula and stuff them in my purse. Inspiration for the story, I decide. Then, I grab the bag of treats PD packed for me. Something sweet to offer David—a way to soothe the savage beast, perhaps. I’ll warm them up when I get to work.

It’s so early that I am the only person in my building riding the elevator. When the double doors heave open on the ground floor, the sound echoes off the floor and pressed tin ceiling tiles. I step outside, and a gust of cold air stings my face, stealing my breath. The sky is mottled with gray cloud cover—not a pinprick of blue anywhere. After I pull the scarf over my mouth and hunch my shoulders against the wind, I prod myself forward.

A deceptively clear coat of ice covers the sidewalk, the tricky sort that causes tourists and elderly women to wipe out. I shuffle, one foot, then the next. It’s not attractive, but at least I won’t need a hip replacement.

The corner Starbucks is jammed, every table full of hands, coffee cups, and laptops. At the counter, there’s a line nine-people long, and I take my place as number ten. As I bask in the warmth of the building, I feel a stab of pain. It’s an elbow, jabbed by mistake—I think—into the tender part of my ribcage. When I turn to look, expecting an apology, the owner of the offending arm has moved on without a backward glance.

It’s all right
, I remind myself, just as someone’s heel comes down hard and crushes my toes. “Ouch!” I muffle a shriek, as an Amazon-like woman in a powder blue ski jacket wobbles in front of me, her other massive snow boot threatening to land on my uninjured foot.

I jump back, out of the way, jostling into the people behind me. With a murmured ‘
I’m sorry
’ for invading everyone’s personal space, I turn back toward the counter. The line has moved about three inches.