The stewardess asked him if he wanted another drink, and he said: ‘Why not?’
He glanced at Milly, opened his mouth to make a comment on the chilly temperature of the cabin, just some small talk, but she was still pretending to be asleep. Damn her innocent face! What to think about, then? The stewardess’s cleavage? He was sick to death of women and his own responses to their body parts. He should make a start on his novel. He could draft the outline right now. He’d write about Lizbeth. Back to innocence. Lizbeth at eighteen. He closed his eyes and summoned his muse up, instantly feeling calmer. She was sitting under that tree on campus, a eucalyptus tree. She was wearing that red mohair sweater, and her breasts were practically shouting to his hands – Come on! What are you waiting for?
Yes, this was where Jack felt most like his real self. The world always felt right when he was not Milly’s husband. Not anybody’s husband. He farted long and loud, enjoyably. Airplanes were great places to fart, by God.
He was snoring, and Milly opened her eyes and turned to look at him. The second before she turned, she was still filled with righteousness. It had been simmering since Rachel’s phone call, and the car accident had just underscored it. He had forfeited the right to be angry with her. Didn’t he know anything? His marital crime brought months of clemency for her side. Her indignation was tended to with old remembered grievances. The time the washing machine flooded, the time they missed that play. All her fault, according to Jack. Why was every wrong thing always her fault?
But the second she turned and saw him, saw his open mouth and the way his head was flopped against the seat, all her anger turned to steam. Boiling water – that’s what her anger was, and now it dissipated into the air. His snoring was ludicrously loud, even over the engine noise. She kissed him immediately, hard till it hurt and he said: ‘Ow.’
She bit his lip.
‘What? What’d you do that for?’
‘I’m starving.’
Eight hours later they rode into the arrivals area on an electric cart driven by a man called Jose. This was an old person thing to do and embarrassed them both. Milly was concerned about Jack’s grey face, and the fact that although the signs were bilingual, the English words were ambiguous and foreign feeling.
‘How are you, honey?’
‘Fine,’ snapped Jack.
They scanned the crowd for their son’s face. Oh, was his face ever as lovable as on these occasions, when it felt like he was rescuing them? There were a dozen men, all short, holding signs with Spanish names. Families in ragged clumps, and lovers and spouses and friends, all looking through Jack and Milly.
‘Do you see him?’
Silence.
‘Jack, are you deaf? I said, do you see him?’
‘No, Milly.’ Big sigh. ‘I do not see him.’
‘No need to be cranky. I only asked. I bet he was here earlier and gave up. We should have phoned him from San Francisco to say we’d missed the flight.’
‘We did. He didn’t answer.’
Jose helped them out of the cart, and they slowly made their way to a McDonald’s. Fished out their traveller’s checks, bought two cheeseburgers.
‘You going to eat that?’
‘No, guess not. Thought I was hungry, but. You have it.’
‘Thanks.’ Jack wolfed down his second burger.
‘Do you want his phone number again?’ asked Milly.
‘No. He’ll be here any minute. We’ll see him from here.’
A very long thirty minutes passed, then a quicker hour, then a long hour. Hours seemed to be taking turns being slow and fast. Milly felt light-headed and Jack felt constipated.
‘I’ll try phoning him,’ said Jack.
‘Good idea. You’re a genius.’
Milly’s heart squeezed, remembering how Sam’s voice always sounded on the phone in her San Miguel kitchen. Tinny and disembodied. An ocean away was too far. Every time they took him to the airport, it felt like she’d never see him again. A sense of dying that happened over and over. But they were about to see him today. Incredibly.
Jack spent fifteen minutes trying to understand the Spanish pay phone, while Milly guarded their luggage at McDonald’s. When he finally heard the ringtone and a voice answered, he lacked the correct change to insert. Or thought he did. He crammed some coins in, which did not trickle back down as refund. He hung up in a temper.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Santa Margarita. Sam’s town.’
‘But, Jack—’
‘It’s all right, Milly. I have his address.’
From a large timetable on a screen, they figured out which bus was theirs and what time it left. After several false starts, they figured out where to catch the bus. It was hot outside, but after the cloying air of the plane and the airport, the heat felt energising. And despite little sleep the night before, they both began to feel recharged. At first they waited alone, sitting on their suitcases, then a line formed behind them and they stood, to not lose their place. By the time their bus rolled in and they climbed on, they’d stopped looking for Sam. They forgot they hated each other. Milly felt un-crippled, as if finding their own way in a foreign country had blessed her in some pilgrimage way. Jack glanced at his face reflected in the bus window. Thought: handsome bastard.
They were surrounded by Spaniards and tourists. A boy sat across the aisle from them, pulled off his shirt and began talking in German to his seatmate, who turned away and ignored him. A large Nigerian woman with her three small daughters spread across the seats behind them. An attractive young English woman two rows ahead climbed onto her boyfriend’s lap, giggled softly and whispered to him. The driver started the engine, and as soon as the bus began to move, Milly and Jack fell into a trance. Nowhere near sleep, but not exactly awake. They felt young; calm and excited at the same time. Like children who had evaded their sensible elders. Out in the world, free! No one knew where they were right now. In the whole world, not a soul. Like their wedding day, driving away from the church and all their friends and families with their moist farewells, and heading north on Highway One.
Jack stared out the window, and Milly found herself staring at the young couple. She could only see the tops of their heads now. First the girl’s head was higher, then the boy’s head. As if they were taking turns leading a dance. Outside, cars and trucks and other buses flowed past. And beyond that, half-constructed hotels with iron girders pointing to the sky like parched plants reaching for the sun, or maybe the rain. On the horizon, strange mountains shimmered. Jack’s hand squeezed her knee, just a quick squeeze, but it was like a thunder bolt on a humid day.
MEATLOAF IN MARIN
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Tuesday October 17th 1989
San Francisco and San Miguel 5:04pm
Walking down Market, at first he thought something was happening to his equilibrium again. He’d had a terrible ear infection in the summer that had lasted till September, and the vertigo and nausea from that had been terrifying. Reduced him to a kitten. It had been a hellish day at work today, and that last meeting had been a killer. What was wrong with Mark friggin Fiordinski? Mark had ceased speaking to Jack the minute his deadline was mentioned. His bottom lip had protruded in a classic pout, his cheeks flushed, then his face had creased up and Jack had turned away, convinced he was about to sneeze. But it turned into a hiccupy wail full of tears. Like a baby.
