Landing (14 page)

Jude groaned, but Síle and Rizla were raucous with mirth.

She breathed in and thought,
forty-six smokeless hours down, only a lifetime to go.
Her lover was Síle O'Shaughnessy. Her head was a shaken kaleidoscope. Anything was possible.

But coming back from the washroom (where, as happened every couple of months, some stranger had given Jude's hair a startled look as if to say, "This is the Ladies!"), she got the impression that the atmosphere had cooled.

"Another quick one?" said Rizla.

"I don't think so," said Síle, covering a yawn.

On the street outside, he gave them both crushing hugs, and strolled off in the direction of his trailer. The night was clear and starry. "You have a good time?" asked Jude.

No answer. Síle was looking down at Rachel Turner's boots as they squeaked on the flattened snow. "Rizla thinks you must be really into me, to give up smoking."

"You know I am," said Jude warily.

"He said, and I quote, 'She's a closet romantic, is my wife.'"

Bastard,
thought Jude. Had he been planning this masterstroke the whole evening? All that broke the Silence was the creak of their footsteps.

"Is that just his little nickname for you?
Wife?
"

"Well," said Jude, her chest tight, "I mean, it's technically true—"

"
Technically?
" Síle pulled up short, and almost slipped on the ice.

Jude put a hand out to steady her, but Síle shook it off. "We split nearly seven years ago."

"But you're telling me you two were actually married?"

"For less than a year." Her voice was uneven.

"Why didn't I hear about this before?"

Jude shrugged. "There's a lot of details you and I haven't got around to swapping yet."

"
Details?
"

"Getting married at eighteen was a dumb mistake; I hadn't even reached the legal drinking age. I prefer to forget it."

"Still, you could have told me. My jaw fell into my lap, back there; I felt like a complete feckin' eejit."

"I'm sorry."

Síle started walking again, slapping her gloves together to warm her hands, and Jude thought maybe the conversation was over, which was fine by her.

"Sure I know loads of Irishwomen who got married before they knew better," said Síle, her tone softening into exasperation. "So you got divorced, what, when you were nineteen?"

"Well, that's when I moved out." Jude made herself add, "We haven't actually got around to finalizing the paperwork yet, because Rizla's broke, and I wasn't going to pay for it all myself."

Síle turned, her tawny eyes hawklike in the streetlight.
Cheapskate,
Jude thought;
I should have borrowed from the bank.
"You didn't ask much about him," she said, going on the offensive; "you don't seem to count guys."

A tense pause. "Well, it's true that's my blind spot."

"C'mon home before we freeze," she said, tucking her arm into Síle's and heading down Main Street.

After a minute, Síle said "Okay, sorry to harp on, but just to clarify—you're still legally married, but you haven't been involved in over six years."

Jude tried to swallow.
Involved,
what did that mean? One cigarette, that's all she needed. "Right, we haven't been a couple."

But of course Síle heard the equivocation, and her eyes turned on Jude like a searchlight. "The last time you slept with him," she said, spelling it out as if to a child, "it was more than six years ago?"

Messy, messy.
"Well, no," said Jude, letting out a long plume of steam.

Síle had dropped her arm. "When was it?"

"Beginning of March."

"Which March?"

"This one just gone."

"Last month?" Síle stood and stared up at the cavernous sky, breathing in and out like a horse. "Then what the fuck am I doing here?"

She was one of those women who looked superb when angry, Jude thought; her hair stood out like a crackling halo. Jude was waiting for the right words to turn up in her mouth, but—

"What exactly was the point of this mad trip to the frozen arse-hole of the world?" asked Síle, breaking away to the other side of the street. "I thought you were a dyke. So you're still bi, is that what you're telling me?"

"Those are your words," said Jude thickly.

"Well go ahead, pick one you like." Síle waited. "You certainly let me believe you were single."

"Because I am. Was, till now, I mean," she corrected herself miserably. "You don't get it."

"Get what? The erotic appeal of a not-quite-ex-husband with oil under his nails? Who
are
you people?"

Jude caught her by the sleeve. "Shut up for a second."

"Oh, now you want to do the talking," Síle almost screamed. "Go ahead, delight me with some more little
details.
Next you'll be telling me there's a kid! I can't believe I left Kathleen for you."

Now, that was low. "It was your decision."

"Decision?" Síle repeated, sardonic. "It was a leap in the fucking dark!"

Jude took a breath. "Why are you doing this, Síle?"

"What? What am I doing?"

"Making some big old volcano out of a molehill," said Jude. "There's no kid. There's no sinister conspiracy. So I wound up in bed with my ex once in a while; haven't you ever done that?"

"I've never been that desperate," said Síle with scorn.

"We weren't desperate," insisted Jude. "It only happened a couple of times a year. It was about ... company. Comfort." She had a hunch all these words were getting her nowhere. Her newfound happiness was teetering like an icicle in a thaw. She took a step nearer to Síle. "So the last time it happened to happen was at the beginning of March, and I told Riz that was it, over and done with, because it felt wrong, because all I could think about was you."

Síle blew into her gloved hands. "You're the one who doesn't get it," she said, gravely. "This isn't about sex. I don't care who you slept with last month, though from this weekend on I care a lot. What I can't stand is being fooled."

"I—"

"This was a big fat lie of omission! You should have told me what I was walking into and you know it. I'm a stranger in this peculiar little world of yours." A ragged breath. "I've gutted my whole life like a fish because you said you loved me."

"I do," Jude groaned.

"I don't just want to fuck you, I want to know you."

"I was always going to tell you the whole story of me and Riz," Jude said weakly. "There's things that are hard to explain in writing or over the phone. Sometimes it's better to wait for the right moment."

"What, like this one?" asked Síle, waving at the deserted street, the black speckled sky.

If I was a blackbird,
I'd whistle and sing,
And I'd follow the ship
that my true love sails in,

—ANON
If I Was a Blackbird

Síle, Marcus, and Jael were eating overpriced sushi in a Temple Bar restaurant made entirely of hard, noisy surfaces. "It's like lunching in a xylophone," Marcus complained at the top of his voice.

"This is what burying yourself in the sticks does," Jael told him, "you've lost all your urban armour already and it's only been two months."

"I'm growing lettuce, parsnips, leeks, and kale, and building a solarium," he remarked.

"Yeah, and I'm growing sick of smug, back-to-nature gits. And what's that on your head?"

"Tweed has made a comeback," Síle put in, nibbling a bit of pickled ginger.

"Not in the form of an aul-fella's cap."

"The shaved head seemed a bit much, in Leitrim," said Marcus sheepishly, adjusting his cap. "I suspect the neighbours think I'm having chemo."

"And as for you—" Jael threatened Síle with a chopstick. "I thought this Canadian thing was meant to be casual?"

Síle was caught off guard. "No,
you
said it sounded fun so long as it stayed casual." She was failing to hide her smile.

"I hope you realize she could keep succumbing to the hairy charms of the Neanderthal around the corner?"

"Mm," Marcus chipped in, "hubby in the caravan does sound like a bit of an obstacle."

"He is neither hairy nor an obstacle," said Síle, her voice rising. She almost wished she hadn't told them the full story. "It only happened in a very occasional, low-key way; it wasn't like they were in love."

"No, just married," said Jael with a snigger.

"Divorced, bar the paperwork," she snapped.

"Okay, but even if she's mad about you, long-distance relationships are sinkholes for time and energy," Jael warned her.

"Sure, anything more than lying on the sofa takes energy," she protested. "Anton's busy, but he finds time for tae kwon do, doesn't he?"

"Don't talk to me about tae bloody kwon do! It's just an excuse to get away from me and Ys on Saturday afternoons. No, but remember when I was wooing that ex-nun in Portugal?" asked Jael. "What a load of faffing about, waiting for the post to arrive!"

"That was pre–e-mail, Granny," Marcus put in. "Between the Internet and cheap fares, it's never been a better time to fall for someone far away."

Síle grinned at him. "Anyway, it's happened, so it's not as if I have a choice."

"Of course you do. Dykes and their tortured romanticism!" Jael bolted her saki. "If you must keep it up, keep it light. What about phone sex? I tried it a few times with that policewoman in Australia."

"Why only a few?" asked Marcus.

"Did it make you feel lonely?" asked Síle. "I've often thought it might be sad—you know, the unbridgeable gap between word and flesh."

"No, it was just too expensive," said Jael. "It took her so long to come, it cost about thirty quid a go."

They howled. "I suppose you could have got the Aussie to warm herself up beforehand," said Síle, "then ring you for the big climax."

"Oh, and once with Anton," Jael added, "when he was overnighting in Belfast and he'd had too much coffee to fall asleep."

"Was he easier?" Marcus asked.

"Two minutes, max! I kept
Six Feet Under
on mute; I barely missed any of it."

"I can never tell whether you make things up to sound outrageous," said Síle, "or live outrageously so you'll have things to tell your friends."

"Live outrageously? I wish! To think that I used to be truly wild," Jael lamented through a mouthful of rice. "Promiscuous, peripatetic, breaking hearts hither and yon. And now I'm a suburban mammy with an easy-maintenance haircut."

"You've still got a pierced tongue," Marcus comforted her.

"No, it's grown over," she said thickly, sticking it out.

Síle let out a cry of disappointment.

"You know what the worst of it is? We send Yseult down to Kildare on the train, and Mummy and Dad take her to Sunday school."

"No!"

"She better not grow up to be some scary homophobe," said Marcus.

"Trust me for that much," Jael told him. "To be honest, it gets her out of our hair for a few hours so we can have a shag."

"I used to prefer chat rooms to phones," said Marcus, "because there's pictures."

"Used to?" Jael repeated.

"Does this mean your libido's been sublimated into gardening?" Síle wanted to know.

"Actually..." He took a bashful sip of saki.

Jael leapt in. "Don't say you've found some action in the badlands of the Northwest?"

"No, the badlands of Temple Bar," he said, jerking his head. "He lives above Vintage Vinyl. I've spent the whole weekend there."

"So that's why you've been ignoring my texts," said Síle accusingly.

"You whore!" Jael congratulated him, loud enough to startle the occupants of the next table.

"Name and serial number!" Síle felt an absurd pang: She should have been the first to know, but she'd been so preoccupied with Jude recently...

"Pedro Valdez. He knows you, Síle."

"Pedro from Barcelona? Jaysus, small world! He did the photos for that Pride Exhibition I ran back in, what, '93?"

"So you could have introduced us all those years ago?"

"How was I to know you two would like each other, out of all the nellies of my acquaintance?"

"Of course we do," said Marcus. "He's gorgeous, he's hilarious, he's a brilliant designer—"

"I'd have thought Pedro might be a bit quiet for you," she said.

"Not at all! He's self-contained, that's all."

Jael shrugged. "There's no predicting these things."

"I'm so glad," Síle told Marcus, her arm around his shoulder.

"Bet you wish you'd stayed in Dublin now," remarked Jael.

He stuck out his tongue at her.

"The last bit of matchmaking I did was such a disaster," said Síle, "I've sworn off it."

"Which was that?"

"My sister, Orla. I set her up with William—he was my trainer on a management skills course—but over the years he's gone creepily ultra-Catholic. But listen," she said to Marcus, "how come you and Pedro never ran into each other before?"

"We think we must have, once, at some fetish night on the Quays round about '98—"

"He's using 'we' already, do you notice?" said Jael grimly.

"—but he was wearing a rubber mask, so I don't remember his face."

The women snorted with laughter.

"So, Jude Lavinia!" Síle was lying by the fire in her purple velvet dressing gown, spreading her hair over an embroidered silk cushion to dry.

"Shut up," said Jude. "I wish you hadn't wormed my second name out of me."

"
You veell tell me ayvrysing,
" drawled Síle in a Transylvanian accent.

"It must be pretty late, your end."

"I'm just waiting up for
The Sopranos.
"

"A choir?"

"Jude! Sometimes your ignorance of TV makes you sound like a Martian."

"Ah."

"So has spring come to Ontario yet?" Síle asked.

"Oh, it's practically summer. The lilac in the backyard started blooming on Mother's Day, which I took as one of Mom's rare jokes."

"Sweetheart," said Síle, sorrowful. A Silence. "Our Mother's Day is in March, not May; it must be a matter of when the flowers come out." She pictured Jude wiping her eyes with her cuff. Which shirt? The black cotton one? "I wish you were here; you could cry into my very absorbent hair."

A wobbly laugh. "I remember it well."

"By the way, Jael and Marcus think it's a bit suspect, your falling for an older woman just after losing your mother."

There was a distinct pause before Jude said, "Wow. That hadn't occurred to me."

"You're joking."

"The two things aren't connected."

"Everything's connected, sweetie," said Síle.

"Well, call me naïve—"

Síle wished she hadn't started this. "I didn't mean—"

"But I think your friends are too quick to jump to conclusions."

"Well, that goes without saying," she hurried to agree. "We Dubs, we talk faster than we think."

"Rizla's your age; maybe I just don't find young people that interesting. And if you'd ever met Mom—well, let's just say you and she have absolutely nothing in common," said Jude briskly.

Síle wriggled to get more comfortable on the sheepskin rug. "I wish we were having this conversation in bed."

"Mm," said Jude, a long drawn-out sound. "The thing about you older women is, you really know what you're doing."

"Why, thank you! But I'm not vastly experienced. Jael's got this concept called sexual density," said Síle, "it's the number of people you've had a
genital encounter
with, divided by the years you've been sexually active. She says anyone whose density's under one has ripped up the invitation to life's party."

"What's Jael's density, then?"

"It was up around five when I first knew her, but since she married Anton it's been slipping badly."

"What about yours?"

"Let's see—counting you," Síle decided, "that would be six over, what is it, twenty years ... that's only about nought point three women per year."

"One leg," suggested Jude, "or an arm and a few ribs."

Síle laughed.

"I can't believe there've been only five lucky winners before me."

"What, leathery whore of the stratosphere that I am?"

"It's just that ... you've traveled so much, you know? You've swum in enough oceans to be able to draw comparisons. You like so many different kinds of food, music, movies..."

"Why hasn't my love life been equally eclectic? I don't know," Síle told her. "Maybe I've been too busy traveling and eating and going to the cinema."

"Just dialing your number makes me wet."

Síle sat up, and her hair fell in damp veils around her. Neither of them said anything for a minute. Odd, she thought, how much people would pay in peak-time charges to listen to each other's Silence.

"Síle? Are you there?"

"Yeah. Just speechless."

"Now that's a first."

With the shuttle beeping outside at dawn, and the blackbirds screeching, Síle pulled on a new pair of black tights while signing off on an e-mail to Jude.

The thought of you's a constant shock to me, like
the smell of a cut lemon. All yours, S.

"Nuala and Tara, you've got Spanish, yeah? Any Japanese, anyone?"

"A tad," said Justin.

She examined his lapel. "Great, but where's your pin?"

"I don't know how it happened, Síle—"

"Not left on the hotel table again? Next time this'll have to go in your file," she warned him.

"Yes, Mammy," under his breath.

She grinned back at him. "Now I'll be in the main cabin tonight, with you, you, you, you, you, and you," she said, pointing. The other five would be in premier, which was lighter work than economy but more servile, she always thought. "Captain says there's a bit of chop expected over Greenland and his is grapefruit juice. Clamato for the first officer."

"What's the passenger load?" asked Coral, adjusting her jade neck-scarf. She looked hungover; more than once, this year, Síle had caught her taking a restorative suck on the on-board oxygen supply.

"Ninety-six percent," Síle told her. Grimaces all around: In her early days it had been more like 50 or 60 percent, with whole stretches of empty seats.

"I heard that Russian airlines let passengers stand up, to pack more of them in," volunteered Lorraine.

"Old aviation myth," said Justin a little snottily.

Scanning the manifest, Síle noted a minor TV celeb, a passenger who'd been turned back for lack of medical clearance for a broken leg, and three who hadn't shown (which meant, in her experience, they were still in the bar). As she went forward to help fold up the baby buggies, a waft of cold air stiffened her smile. Síle thought about her friend Dolores, who'd fallen asleep with her face against a train window and had a paralyzed cheek for months.

"Is this your first time flying, aren't you a great lad? Sir, I don't think that's going to fit ... Well, sure, try it the other way round, but if not I'll be happy to check it for you. Yeah, this is 12E, there's no 12F. I know, it's not logical, there's no I or J either."

She noticed one red-faced woman who looked well over thirty-two weeks along, now that her coat was off, but if she'd made it past the gate agent Síle wasn't going to give her any grief. Up the length of the plane, pressing bins shut, Silently counting heads. A man plucked at Síle's sleeve wanting to know if they served Drambuie, so now she'd have to start her count all over again.

"We thank you very much for choosing to travel with us," Síle concluded over the PA, "and we wish you a very pleasant flight.
A chairde, tá fáilte romhaibh inniu,
" she began from the start in practiced Irish.

A Cork woman defended her daughter's electronic bear. "You're not seriously telling me that a Talking Teddy's going to banjax the navigation system? What kind of tin can are we flying in?"

"Please turn it off now," said Síle. Iron voice in a velvet smile. "Sir, would you like an aspirin for takeoff? The pressure can build up inside a cast."

The moment of liftoff brought her the usual surge of pleasure, as she sat strapped into the jump seat. She wondered whether Jude would ever learn to like it: Were passions contagious? Síle couldn't remember when, at three or four, she'd first become aware of the magic trick of hopping between countries, continents even. But what she'd loved from the start was the way that houses became boxes, cars insects, humans specks of dust, in a miniature play world. And the abstract patterns: plough tracks looped across rectangular fields, rivers like gigantic lazy worms, mountains mere folds and wrinkles in a quilt. That sense of strangeness, of possibility. You felt you were gliding slowly when in fact you were going faster than anything. And as the plane angled up through cloud, the dull fog gave way, and you found yourself hovering above the infinite, dazzling reaches of the snowfields.