Airplane Rides (14 page)

“There were always papers to sign,” she said, forcing a smile
and begging me with her eyes not to judge her.

“It went on for years. First things like insurance policies and
medical plans, always things for my benefit.  I thought he was taking such good
care of me, the way William would have.  Somewhere in the pile, I had turned
control of everything over to him. The house, most of the money William had
left…” she trailed off.

Looking in her eyes I knew that her sadness was not a result of
economic loss.

“And then he left you?” I asked gently.

“Oh no!” she replied with a self-deprecating laugh.  “That
would have been too kind.”

She took a breath and then smiled, as if seeking to remind
herself that it was over and she was on her way to a safe place with friends.

“These are not the kinds of things a young man like you should
know about,” she said reaching across her chest with her right hand and giving
my bicep a rub, the airplane equivalent of a small hug.  I wondered if the
statement was an attempt to shield me from the ugliness of life, or a polite
attempt to avoid discussing it further.  I gave her credit for both.

Across the armrest, I reached for her hand and held it in mine.
I intertwined our fingers and held the position, letting her know that it would
be there for the duration of her story.

“How precious and ironic your concern for me,” I said softly.

“How so?”

I thought for a moment, weighing how much should be said.

“I have ridden through these skies and witnessed a full
spectrum of humanity, and I cannot remember the last time someone was concerned
for my innocence,” I replied holding her hand a touch more firmly.

“Now finish your story,” I said, assuring her with my eyes that
she could find the courage to translate the difficult memories into words.

Voron continued to go about his business, leaving home for a
few days at a time, tending to business in London or elsewhere.  He also
involved himself in town affairs, showing up like the town lord at community
meetings in his fine city clothes, making donations and buying top shelf brandy
at the hamlet’s only pub.   In return, the townspeople welcomed him like a
long-lost benefactor from a more civilized time.

His attention to Lillian began to wane, however, and his
business trips grew more frequent.  Without the restoration to occupy her,
Lillian wandered the halls of another home prepared to host a love that never
arrived. Voron’s adoration that had only years before liberated her from her
sorrow had evaporated like the mist on a sunny country morning, yielding
similar miles of clarity.

Lillian decided it was time to reconnect, to drive to London
and visit friends for a few days.  Voron resisted the idea. In the past, he had
passively but effectively discouraged such outings, always offering good
reason. This time he gave no explanation.  For the first time in their
marriage, an argument ensued, ending with a strike to Lillian’s face that left
her dazed, bruised and embarrassed.  She canceled the trip and was left tending
to her wounds and self-esteem, too embarrassed to be seen.

She tried to put it from her mind, blame it on the brandy that
Voron had consumed, anything she could do to avoid facing the horrible
possibility of the mistake she had made.  It happened again only weeks later,
when she approached Voron about her funds. It was then she learned of the
changes that had been made, that she had lost control; that she was completely
at his mercy.  As the words came from Voron’s mouth, Lillian’s mind began to
spin and nausea overtook her. She ran into a bathroom where she was violently
ill. Voron came in behind her and she tried to push him away, leaving a long
fingernail scratch on his fair-skinned cheek.  Restraining her with a powerful
grip wound in the locks of her hair, he slammed her face into the toilet seat,
cracking her lip and left her in a mess of vomit, blood and tears.

Early the next morning, she attempted to leave, but Voron was
waiting for her.  He beat her again and locked her in a guest room.  In that
room she stayed for three weeks.  The very home she had so meticulously
restored to beauty had become her prison.  In it she was captive, humiliated
and taken for all she had by a very patient con man.  In those three weeks, her
mind burned while her body deteriorated.  She sobbed uncontrollably and was
crippled by the thought of William’s disappointment in her.   She thought back
to how blind despair had made her.  There was a time she would have seen Voron
coming 1.6 kilometers away, with his fine clothes and gentle words.  He had
read her sadness like a book and set his trap.

A month after the second beating, Voron permitted Lillian to
leave.   Without a word, he went off on business for a few days, leaving her
alone and free to roam the manor house.  Her jewelry was gone, as were her
credit cards and identification.  Her Land Rover was missing from the garage
and the phones were out of order.  All Lillian could find was a neat pile of
cash on the bureau in her dressing room, conveniently sufficient to pay train
passage back to London.  She gathered a few of her items into a carrying bag,
clothes, toiletries and an extra pair of shoes, and walked the three kilometers
to the town’s train station.  She was offered no help along the way, and she
spoke to no one. She simply waited alone on the station’s single wooden bench,
boarded the train and escaped to the home of William’s sister in London.  Over
the month that followed, she regained her health.  She filed for new
certificates of identification as well as divorce.  Fortunately, part of
William’s estate had been maintained in trust, and from it Lillian was able to
receive adequate income off of which to live.  It did not seem likely, however,
that there would be any more manor homes in her future.   At the divorce
hearing, English law not particularly sympathetic to beaten wives, and
countryside judges even less so, Voron prevailed. Lillian was positioned to
have abandoned the marriage.  Several people from the town spoke to Voron’s
fine character and generosity as a finishing touch.  In the end, she lost the
manor home, its contents and the rest of her possessions.

I listened as tears welled in her blue eyes, running down her
cheeks from time to time.   Still she smiled through it; smiles of
embarrassment for her being so naïve, smiles at me for listening and never
letting go of her hand.

“Quite the fool, I think,” she said, referring to herself.

“Just confused,” I replied.

“Not much to be confused about other than the fact that I was
an idiot,” she said, letting go of my hand to reach across and open the window
shade.

She gazed out with an expression that suggested she was envying
the purity of the clouds.  An understanding smile came to my lips and again I
took her hand.

“Searching for happiness or hoping for love is never foolish,”
I stated with a calm certainty.

She looked into my eyes searching for any hint of insincerity,
and I looked back with all that I had learned from the individuals who had
spoken to me.  A tear fell from her eye and hung on her cheek long enough for
me to catch it with the tip of my thumb and push her hair back away from her
eyes in a single motion.

We sat quietly as the airplane landed a short while later. 
Outside the jetway, Eddie, the driver from my previous trip, was waiting.  His
six-foot-four-inch frame looked a full two inches taller in his black suit and
mirrored sunglasses. He took my carry-on and together we walked Lillian to
baggage claim.  We waited for her to point out her suitcase, which the quiet
driver quickly retrieved and carried to the exit. He walked ahead, leading us
to a glossy black sedan that was waiting in the parking structure across from
the terminal.   For the length of the ride to Santa Monica, Lillian continued
to hold my hand.  A flamenco guitarist played his song softly through the radio
as Eddie located the address that Lillian had handed him on a piece of
rose-colored paper pulled from her straw tote bag.  When we arrived, Lillian
pulled me close and put her arms around me.

“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear, her warm soft lips
touching my ear as she did so.  The sweet smell of her hair sent a stirring to
my fingertips. For that moment, she was as beautiful as any woman I had ever
known.  I responded with only a kiss to the side of her forehead.  Eddie opened
her door and followed behind as she made her way up the flower-lined walkway. 
The scent of jasmine filled the air and white ballet dahlias bowed inward,
creating an ethereal passage to the mission-style door that centered the sand
colored Mediterranean home.  The large door opened before she arrived, and a
woman of similar age and beauty in a white sundress emerged smiling.  With her
arms extended, she called Lillian’s name in delight.   Lillian rushed to the
arms of the woman and they held on like two friends finding each other after a
long and difficult search.  Eddie delivered the suitcase to her side and
returned to the car.  Lillian released her friend and turned back to the sedan,
gave a last wave back at the tinted glass and then disappeared into the safety
inside.

Annalisa had spent four of the last seven nights sleeping at my
apartment.  That morning I had taken her to brunch at Park Avalon to celebrate
a small part in a big film that she had landed.  I couldn’t remember the last
time I was this hungry at 10:00am as I feasted on eggs scrambled with cream
cheese and chives, fresh squeezed orange juice and hot coffee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat this much,” she said from
behind a croissant that she was tearing apart and dipping into a small bowl of
raspberry jam.

“I’m trying to make up for lost eggs,” I replied, taking the
last of my bites and pushing the plate slightly forward.

“You’re full of surprises these days,” replied Annalisa,
reaching across the table and placing her hand on top of mine.

“I’ve always been full of surprises.  You just happen to like
them lately.”

“Agreed.”

The sunshine was streaming between the buildings on Park
Avenue, finding its way through the giant window that separated us from the
Sunday morning foot traffic.  I took her in, like I had so many times in the
past few weeks.  I had known her for years, wandered in an out of her life a
handful of times and only now, unencumbered by altitude, had I really noticed
her.

“You’re doing it again.”

“I’m sorry, but I would think you would be used to people
staring at you by now.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” I conceded, reaching for her croissant and
moving it out of my line of sight.

“You can stop hiding.”

“What should we do today?” Annalisa asked.

“You decide.  It’s your day.”

“Something New Yorkish.”

“As long as it’s outside.”

“How about a drive out east, maybe stay at one of those East
Hampton inns tonight?”

“Fine by me.  I’m enjoying this no work thing.”

I signaled for the check, rang my doorman on my cell phone and
asked him to have my car brought up.  We headed out into the sunshine, walked
the six blocks to my building and went upstairs to piece together an overnight.
When we came back down the car was waiting for us.  With the top down and our
sunglasses on, we held hands in between gearshifts, and raced minimal Sunday
traffic over the 59th Street Bridge.  The music in my head had been replaced by
the radio version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” and Annalisa was
singing along and looking out over the New York City skyline.

“I still can’t believe it,” she yelled across the automobile’s
tiny cockpit.

“Believe what?”

“Everything.  The city, the film, you and me. I would never
have guessed.”

I smiled at her, lifted her hand and kissed the back to
apologize for the day I had left her stranded at the restaurant on Ocean
Avenue.

“Believe it angel. We’re a long way from Fred Segal.”