Rain Song (18 page)
The shiny red Electra Glide Ultra scares me so much that at first I don’t know how to move my legs to actually get on it. Salvador turns the engine off and says I can practice a bit, get used to it without the electrifying noise. After a few minutes, I feel foolish seated on the back of a silent motorcycle, like a child pretending to drive in a parked car. I hope my neighbors aren’t peering out their windows, observing me in my driveway.
Salvador holds a black helmet in his hand and asks, “Are you ready?”
Are you ready to see the big wide world?
I take the helmet from him, reluctantly strap it on under my chin, finally buckle it after three tries, and swallow. “I will be,” I say. “I will.” Sweat forms on my forehead, trickling down my scar. All I can think of is that it’s going to be a long, hot, petrifying ride to the Raleigh-Durham airport. Perhaps I should take my first Dramamine now.
Salvador isn’t bothered. He hums as he secures my duffle bag, purse, and overnight kit in the compartment behind the seat.
“You will be fine,” he reassures me. “Kristine was scared the first time she rode. In a minute, you will be smiling.”
Kristine is not me, I think. She holds no fear. She’s dated ex-cons.
Salvador hops onto the motorcycle and starts the engine.
I close my eyes as tightly as they can shut and swing my shaky arms around his waist. He guns the engine, we begin to move, and I stop breathing for at least ten minutes, I’m sure.
Then we are sailing down Carved Oak Place, or I think that’s what we are doing—my eyes are still closed. I feel wind in my face and on my back, cooling my perspiring body. When Salvador turns a corner, I am sure my helmet is going to slip off and bounce onto the pavement. But that doesn’t happen.
At a stoplight, Salvador tilts his head back to ask, “How is it going?”
“Great,” I say, certain the fear I’m trying to mask is evident. Then, to show just how comfortable I’ve become, I open my eyes and release one arm from my grip around him to brush strands of hair from my mouth. But when the light changes to green, both arms are once more plastered to him. Cautiously, I open my eyes to watch houses, trees, and people drift past. I still haven’t smiled, and I most likely won’t. I pray none of my students see me. Let this be the day they are out of Mount Olive, at Grandma’s in Brevard or Charlotte.
When Salvador speeds toward the highway, I feel my stomach rise to my throat.
Ducee always says to think of something peaceful when faced with the unpleasant. I recall an autumn trip to the mountains of Brevard with Ducee and Grandpa Luke back when I was ten. We stopped at a farm that belonged to someone Grandpa knew, and picked Scuppernong grapes. I thought we owned the world then—to be able to pick grapes for free on a cool autumn day. None of my classmates had ever done this. I remember how tart the green grapes tasted, not at all sweet like red or purple grapes. But the jelly Ducee later made at her house from those Scuppernongs was delicious. Ducee said it was almost as good as pineapple chutney. And for Ducee to admit that must mean she really enjoyed it.
———
Salvador stops the motorcycle at the curb by the Delta terminal and says, “You made it, Nicole.”
I let go of his waist, slowly peeling my curled fingers from him. Taxis, cars, buses, and all sorts of busy-looking people surround me. My throat feels as stiff as my fingers.
“Have a good trip. Email Kristine when you get there,” Salvador tells me as he unfastens from the chrome tapered luggage rack Hilda’s duffle bag, my purse, and overnight kit. As he places them on the curb, I wonder what in the world I’m doing at the airport when I hate to fly.
I stand; my knees don’t seem to want to bend to walk.
He takes my helmet off of my head because I’m too dumbfounded to do so. Squeezing my arm, he says, “You rode to the airport on a motorcycle. Flying will be easy now.” He gives me a broad smile, one I wish I could return. But my mouth feels like I’ve eaten packing peanuts, and the wind from the ride has caused my muscles to stiffen.
“Thank you,” I say as I take small steps toward my belongings.
In an instant, Salvador hops back on his Electra Glide Ultra, and before I can say “Mount Olive Pickle Company,” he is off with a slight sputter and then a fierce roar.
Well, well, I think as I watch him sail down the road, weaving around traffic, and then out of sight, I guess there is no turning back now.
I breathe in and out, raspy breaths, sounding like Iva. The sun glares at me, and I suddenly feel sticky in this heat.
The airport terminal is huge, and I know it must have grown since the last time I was here picking up relatives from the West for a family reunion. On TV it never looks this big.
After I enter through the sliding glass door—no flames, thank goodness—I find an unoccupied place by a window and just stand. My duffle bag is slung over one shoulder and the other shoulder holds my purse and overnight bag. I feel like a coat rack, immobile. Smiling families in T-shirts and shorts headed for vacations, and businessmen and women talking on cell phones stand before me in lines to check in.
I continue to stand like a statue and wonder if there’s anyone going on a trip like I’m about to embark on. Is anyone as nervous? Is anyone going to a place they vowed never to return to ever again? And one more question, is there anyone who would be willing to give me some sips of cold water when I get sick on the plane?
I feel a bit better knowing Sazae is stuffed inside my duffle bag. It’s tempting to take her out and hold her for comfort. That might cause some people to suddenly pay attention to me. Instead, I decide to pretend. I pretend that Sazae has to get to Japan. I envision a doctor—perhaps the one with the white mustache—writing out a prescription for Sazae Michelin. “It is imperative that you get your doll to Japan as soon as possible. One trip to Japan for her health. To be taken immediately. Without water.” Which is good, because Sazae has never had any water in her cotton life.
Panic consumes me when I think that perhaps I’ve stood here daydreaming too long and missed my flight. Quickly, I edge my way to the Delta ticket counter line with one hand gripped to the handle of the duffle bag and the other clutching my purse and overnight kit. I’m in line along with everyone else who is sharing this day of travel with me. Strangers—all kinds of faces, all sorts of eyes, all with pasts, and destinations.
———
After I reluctantly check my duffle bag onto the plane, hoping that Sazae and I will be reunited in Osaka and that she won’t be rerouted to Madrid, I purchase a Sprite at a kiosk. Once I spend five minutes making sure I’m at the correct gate, I find a seat in the lobby and take a sip of my drink. I heard Sprite is good for an upset stomach. I pray it’ll calm my nerves, but even after three sips, I’m still too jittery to read my
Redbook
.
Salvador said the plane ride shouldn’t be as scary since I’ve been on his motorcycle. But Salvador doesn’t know me. Of course, I wonder if I know myself anymore. How did I just ride ninety miles to the airport on the back of a motorcycle?
Inhaling and exhaling, I listen to the conversations of others as they discuss people and cities I’ve never heard of. One girl, looking to be no more than sixteen, keeps talking about how she can’t wait to get to Alice Springs. I wonder where that is—is it in America, or in another country, or just the name of a spa with a Jacuzzi? I have never been fond of geography.
Then a young man in his twenties, wearing khakis and a splashy Hawaiian shirt, bends toward me from his seat, asking if I know the time.
“I don’t have a watch. Well, I mean I do, but it’s at home.”
He doesn’t seem to care. He tells me he’s from Mebane and is on his way to Argentina. At least I know that Mebane is just down the road from Greensboro, where I went to college, and that Argentina is somewhere in South America. His girlfriend is in Buenos Aires. She owns a salon and makes “good money” cutting the hair of tourists who have “lots of money to burn.” He visited her at Christmas and is now making another trip. “This time,” he says as his eyes shine as bright as his shirt, “I’m giving her a ring.”
He continues on, even as my mind wanders to Ducee. When he pauses to take a breath, I ask if he knows where a pay phone is.
“You need to call someone?”
Well, I think, that is usually the reason people want to know where a phone is.
“I need to call Mount Olive.”
And even though we are at an airport in North Carolina, and he claims he’s from Mebane, he has no idea where Mount Olive is. “Israel?”
His geography is worse than mine. “No, no,” I tell him without sounding like a teacher. “North Carolina.”
“Oh, sure.” He hands over his Motorola cell phone and then shows me how to use it.
I dial the number from memory and listen as the phone rings once, twice, three times.
“Hello?”
“Iva.” Have I ever been this grateful to hear my aunt’s raspy voice? “Is Ducee there?”
“Not for much longer,” Iva says, clearing her throat.
“What?” Anxiety grips me.
“She is being discharged.”
“Really? Really?” And that is when I start to laugh. Discharged! How did she finagle that? Last I heard, Ducee was to be in the hospital under observation for at least two more days.
“Yes, she’s telling me to hurry up. I’ll call you later.” Aunt Iva coughs and hangs up.
I give the cell phone back to the young man and laugh.
“Must have been funny,” he says.
The thought of Ducee in her white tennis shoes with the green laces, heading out the door of her hospital room, Iva lagging behind and calling, “Wait up! Don’t you want to take these flowers home with you?” causes me to continue laughing. I imagine my grandmother running to get out of there, to get back home to her ginger tea brewing in her bone china teapot, to her beloved Maggie McCormick, to her maroon-covered Bible and her chair where she can fall asleep with ease during episodes of
Columbo
.
Funny. “Yeah, yeah, it is,” I reply, trying to absorb the impact the conversation with Iva has had on me. I produce a smile for the young man. “Thanks for letting me use your phone.”
Settling against the black chair in the airport terminal, I take a moment to let relief filter over me. Yes, yes, Ducee might live to see the year 2000, after all. Unless, of course, Iva’s computer blowup fear comes true.
A twinge of loneliness surfaces as I realize that I won’t receive any phone calls from Aunt Iva for a full two weeks. Upon my return, Iva will just have to call every hour to catch me up on all the Mount Olive gossip I’ve missed. And I am sure she will.
From the large window across the room, I watch a plane land. How do those tiny wheels keep it steady? It seems airplanes, like people, should have feet in proportion to their size.
Someone—it sounds like a child—says, “That’s our plane!”
Nausea wells up in me and I know I need a Dramamine so that by the time the flight takes off, I will be relaxed. From my purse, I take out a pill and down it with the last of my Sprite.
Right at that moment, a woman announces that the flight to Atlanta will be delayed. Passengers groan, as though on cue.
The young man from Mebane turns to me and continues where he left off. “The last time I was in Argentina I rode a bull.” There is pride in his voice. “I stayed on for about three seconds and then was knocked off. That bull started rushing toward my head and I don’t know how, but someone picked me up and got me out of there.”
I really don’t know what to say. I chew a nail as my nervous stomach rumbles.
When he leaves to find a restroom, I’m relieved. Closing my eyes, I take Ducee’s advice again and think of one of the most pleasant aspects of my life—my fish. I picture them swimming joyfully in their salty water. I wonder if Monet has fed them yet today. Last night after Kristine and Salvador left my house, Grable called. She apologized for the late hour of her call and said she’d decided that after the reunion she and Monet were going on a trip.
“Costa Rica?” I guessed and she said, yes, that was where they were going.
“The travel brochure looks nice,” she told me. “I hear the weather is great there in January.”
I wanted to say, “See, Grable, your life isn’t over yet. You’re going to get your dream of going somewhere. You’ll see the palm trees you’ve been eyeing in the brochure. Dennis just won’t be accompanying you.”
But, strangely, I felt sadness mixed in with the joy for her. Both emotions were wrapped up like a giant burrito and yet the sorrow was seeping through the flour tortilla, sorrow that couldn’t be contained.
“Monet will enjoy it,” she told me.
And, I let myself think, Costa Rica will never be the same after a visit from the wild one.
When she said that Monet wanted to come visit my fish, I asked, “How would she like to come every day for two weeks?”
Grable was all for the plan. I told her I’d leave a key to the house with Hilda. I could tell my cousin was distraught over Dennis, though. You don’t get over an unfaithful spouse in one afternoon. The trip to Costa Rica would do her good, but she still had a lot to deal with.
Quickly, before asking to speak with Monet, I added, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m on my way to Japan. Only Ducee knows.”
She said that even though her mother and grandmother were unable to keep secrets, she could.
Soon Monet took over the receiver—she only dropped it once—and I chatted with the wild child.
“Nicccc houuussss?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Nicccc fissssszz!” Monet shouted so loudly I had to keep the phone at a distance.
“Yes, but feed them only a little. Okay?”
“Okaaaaa!” Then she screamed, “Dolll!”
“You like your new doll?”
“Yeessss.” I heard her laughing. “Thannn yooooo.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Nicccc.” She breathed heavily into my ear. “My doooolll izzzz Nicccc!” Then she squealed, dropped the phone, and I listened as she asked her mother for a hooot dooo.