Flight #116 Is Down (4 page)

If Burke calls me Horse and Mrs. Camp calls me Honeybunch, thought Heidi, Tally probably calls me Second Best.

Saturday: 5:37
P.M.

The airport lounge was done in two colors: light gray and dark gray. Chairs were bolted to the floor as if passengers on their way to Dallas or Tokyo might otherwise take one along. The chairs were collected in groups of six. Chrome arms prevented children from lying on their parents’ laps or exhausted travelers from snoozing in a prone position. Cylinders of driveway gravel stood at the end of each row, ready to accept cigarette butts and trash.

A small, thin man in a dark red, ill-fitting suit continuously plied the floors with a dustpan on wheels and a long-handled broom.

Two men and two women in airline uniform continually talked on their telephones, their voices nicely modulated.

Many people never sat but circulated among the chairs and video screens. Some read newspapers, some magazines; some stared blankly into space.

Waiting induces coma.

Time expands.

Minutes are years.

The soft gray carpeting ran right up the walls, so that the crowds of people waiting to meet arriving planes were wrapped on all sides in carpet, like presents in a gift box.

Few talked. They seemed to have finished their talk in the car, driving to the airport, or to be reserving their talk for when the passengers landed.

They were suspended until the plane chose to arrive, until weather cooperated, until luggage was delivered. Then their personalities and chatter could reemerge. They would rise up like otters breaking through the cool surface of a pond.

Teddie’s father considered his filming strategy. He loved filming his daughter. They had had their only child late in life, when the excitement of careers and travel and furnishing a fine home had palled, and Teddie was the most important thing that had ever happened to them. It was impossible to imagine why they had waited so long to have a child. And this child! Having Teddie was like winning the lottery: she was sweet, beautiful, funny, and smart.

Every evening, Teddie’s father could hardly wait to come home from work. Even though she was five now, Teddie still charged through the house, flung herself down the stairs, and hurled herself onto his body, shrieking, “Daddy!” in a voice of total joy.

She would not run like that here at the airport. In public Teddie insisted on being “grown-up.” Besides, she would probably come out holding the stewardess’s hand. But if Teddie did let go of the escorting hand and race toward him, which would he rather have: the first hug in two weeks or a really good film of her running forward?

She might run to hug her mother first, although Teddie’s relationship with her mother was much calmer; they were more apt to kiss than to smother. In that case, he could get a really great shot of Affection at the Airport. He laughed to himself. Years ago, he’d have been embarrassed by his own adoration of his own kid; now he reveled in it; couldn’t wait to do it again. He loved designing video programs of Teddie: her name on the screen, a title for the activity. He had a whole library of Teddie.

Teddie’s father glanced upward at the screen that listed all planes landing; Teddie’s was still
ON TIME
. The plane wasn’t even due for nearly forty minutes. His wife, as worried as Teddie was about hitting traffic, or getting a flat tire, or finding a parking space, had made him leave home far too early.

He shifted the burden of the camcorder. He smiled at his wife. She had bought a magazine especially to read at the airport, but she was simply turning pages. She was afraid of planes. He knew her stomach was in knots, worrying. He patted her hand, and she smiled at him, the taut, nervous smile of a mother whose child is not yet home.

Saturday: 5:38
P.M.

It was a curiously ugly night.

Snow left from the last storm made a grim patchwork on the hillside below Dove House. The rolling lawn seemed filled by black holes ready to suck up unwary trespassers. The trees clanked when they swayed. The ice on each twig sounded more like stainless steel than tinkling bells. The rose garden, breathtaking in bloom, was nothing more than bare ground with sharp, jabbing stems.

The moon was not a graceful orb but a misshapen circle. No stars were visible. It spooked Heidi that the moon was so clear and the stars so missing. Even as she looked out, the sky around the moon darkened threateningly. It did not seem cold enough for snow. They would have one of those grim, depressing, icy rains that seemed to be a Dove House winter specialty.

Heidi had once read an article on weather (one reading surely was enough for the subject) and learned that out West, say Minnesota, once it got cold, it stayed cold. You didn’t have thaws, variety, and unknowns in your winter temperature. The Northeast should be so lucky. Snow never stayed on the ground because within a day or two it was bound to warm up and melt off. Snow could fall ten miles north of Heidi and be rain at Dove House.

Heidi always started thinking of supper when the sky darkened, even though supper was hours away. She did a thorough inspection of refrigerator, pantry, and freezer, food being a top priority for Heidi. Her boarding school friends Karen and Jacqueline had hardly ever eaten anything. Heidi adored calories.

Perhaps with Mrs. Camp asleep at the far end of the house and her parents away, she would have Chocolate Dinner. Chocolate sauce on ice cream for a main course, chocolate pudding with whipped cream for a vegetable, chocolate cookies and chocolate cake with chocolate icing and chocolate jimmies for dessert.

I’d have to call the ambulance, she thought. Bet they’ve never had a Chocolate Overdose call before.

The dogs whined.

She didn’t mind Fang and Tally-Ho whining; they were adult about it, just mentioning that they needed to go outside. Winnie and Clemmie, however, moaned and sobbed. Worthless excuses for dogs. When Fang, Winnie, and Clemmie finished up, Heidi stuck them back in the house while she and Tally went out into the early evening.

The temperature was dropping and the moon glared.

The wind came in gusts, separate ribbons that attacked her legs, then ripped through her hair. It seemed to blow all ways at once, as if fighting itself.

Tally stayed close, as if
she
had to protect
him.

Saturday: 5:39
P.M.

Daniel and Tuck’s father had not brought Linda. He’d wanted to. It would help his sons realize that now another family was starting up, with Linda the new fourth member.

But Linda said that was ridiculous; Daniel and Tuck did not want a new fourth member; Daniel and Tuck were hoping for a slick spot on the road that would send Linda into bloody orbit.

“Now, now,” said Mr. MacArthur. “The boys are very civilized.”

Linda looked at her future husband. “There is no such thing,” said Linda, “as a civilized boy. That’s what a boy is—something uncivilized.”

So Tuck and Daniel’s father was at the airport alone.

He was working out a strategy.

If Daniel decided to be rotten, the boy could be seriously, strongly rotten. Rotten was definitely one of Daniel’s subspecialties.

So in what order should they do things to sort of taper off Daniel’s rage? Should they first go into the airport restaurant for ice cream? Sit there in neutral territory and talk about nothing much until they were relaxed with each other? Or should they do the little airport chores—get luggage, retrieve car, etc? That would give them something to talk about: where is the luggage, where is the short-term parking exit? And then drive for half an hour, find a McDonald’s, and
then
relax?

Of course, he had no idea what they were going to talk about once they were relaxed. (“Well, the wedding plans are in great shape, boys.” “Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll ruin them.”)

His ex-wife had called to say the boys’ plane had taken off safely. She was courteous and correct. They should appoint her ambassador to someplace tricky. He had said, “Thank you, June. I’m setting off for the airport now.”

“The boys promised to be pleasant.”

This was difficult to believe. But he said. “That’s wonderful, June. It’s very nice of you to encourage the boys to have a good attitude.”

“I did not encourage them to have a good attitude,” said his ex-wife, in a voice like a razor blade. “I encouraged them to swear less.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you want me to call when they’ve landed?”

“Daniel will call,” she said.

“Great. That’s settled, then. Great.” He was sweating buckets.

But now, at the airport, he was not thinking of his ex-wife or his future wife. He was thinking of his sons: they would be teenagers three thousand miles away, without him, and that was his choice. He would see them only a few weeks and a few weekends for the rest of their childhood, and that was his choice. He had put Linda ahead of them. They knew it.

How much had they grown since he’d seen them last? What were the newest words in their extensive swear vocabulary?

Tuck had been sweet and gentle in elementary school, but he emerged into seventh grade like a stock car going into the final lap: roaring, screaming, leaving patches.

As for Daniel, Daniel had been difficult every day of his life; there was no argument he could not offer ten times more than his parents could stand to hear. There was no weekend when Daniel could not ruin the nicest outing. There was no bedtime when Daniel could not spring the worst possible news on his parents, to keep them from sleeping well yet again.

And yet Daniel captivated his father. Daniel seemed to him to be a man trapped in a kid’s body; a huge balloon of a personality caught in the confines of schoolrooms. A laughing delight imprisoned by homework and sports.

Someday Daniel would emerge and be the shining star of his father’s world.

Unless he hates me, thought Mr. MacArthur.

He thought that they should get the luggage first, find the car, and then stop for a hamburger, when the abrasive edge of actually meeting was worn down a little.

Saturday: 5:40
P.M.

Shirl had not driven into the airport; urban traffic was far too terrifying for a seventeen-year-old. She had taken the limousine, which was actually a large bus, and she and Carly would take it back again to the suburbs. Shirl navigated the immense airport, stumbling around, trying to locate the gate where her twin’s flight would come in. She found it at last. She walked through it, making herself comfortable with its outlines, identifying the door out of which her sister would come. Then she walked back a few hundred yards down the airport leg and got herself a ginger ale. The little bubbles tickled her throat.

I’m not mad anymore, thought Shirl.

It was like being set free from prison.

For a whole year, rage had percolated through Shirl like an endless pot of coffee. Sometimes she could feel the acid of fury right in her veins. She was taking chemistry and she thought if they analyzed her blood, the samples would be different from anybody else’s. Pure rage would burst her blood cells, pack her arteries.

Whenever she had thought of Carly—and how could you not think of your own twin all the time?—she would get hot and violent inside her skin.

But then came Thanksgiving.

Carly did not communicate.

Then came Christmas.

Carly did not so much as send a postcard.

How terrifying it was to have holidays without love.

Holidays without family.

Mom and Dad and Shirl struggled to Give Thanks and to be Christmassy without Carly, but it had not worked. To celebrate, you needed to be whole. You did not have to have everybody there in person, but in spirit, oh, yes! They all had to be present in their hearts.

At first Shirl held Carly wholly responsible, but as January passed and cold, bleak, ugly February began, Shirl lost interest in who deserved blame. Who even cared?

Let’s just be a family again, Shirl thought.

They were twins, but they had not followed even slightly the same path. While Shirl got good grades and volunteered at the hospital and was tremendously proud of her position on the first-ever volleyball team at the high school, Carly got into parties.

Parties where kids trashed houses, stole money, and did drugs.

Parties where the police were called.

Parties where nobody, Carly especially, seemed to be having fun; they were having violence.

Carly quit high school, stopped living at home, stole money from her own family, and finally, with some of her scary sick friends, headed for California.

At sixteen.

Shirl at sixteen did not feel equipped to make breakfast yet.

Here was Shirl, an ordinary suburban kid who loved her family and her friends and her little school-ish routines—and here was her twin, living on the street somewhere across the world. Here was Shirl, yearning for different posters on her walls, hoping for lacier sheets for her bed, and there was her twin, homeless by choice.

And then came the letter.

The first word from Carly in ten months.

The letter was a love song—to California and to her family. The letter said, “I went to a counseling service they have here for runaways. Everybody has been so nice to me. Nobody has been mad at me. Californians are like their weather; sunshine every day, no matter how stormy I am. I want to come home. They say it’s time for me to go back home, and they are right. Will you take me back? I want to start over. Please don’t be mad. Love, Carly.”

The letter.

Shirl’s mother wept. Her father, trying not to get his hopes up, having been slapped so often and so hard by Carly, said cynically, “She just needs money.”

The letter. Her grandparents read a thousand messages into it. They were all for going to California, hugging those wonderful sunshine people, getting Carly themselves.

Shirl put her foot down. “She’s my twin,” said Shirl, “and I’m the one who is going to meet her at the airport.”

“We’re all going,” said her parents and grandparents.

“No. I’m bringing her home. I want to do that. We’re twins. I have to be the one.”