Takeoffs and Landings (9 page)

“Mom, sophomores don't go to the prom,” Lori said. She looked at Chuck, like she expected him to back her up.

Chuck probably wouldn't ever go to prom.

“I know,” Mom said, fingering another dress. “I just thought, if an older boy asked you . . .”

“You trying to marry me off young or something?” Lori asked. “Get rid of me?”

Her tone was joking, but the edge was still there. Her voice made Chuck think of sheep being sheared: a sharp razor hidden in soft wool.

“No, I don't want you to marry young,” Mom said steadily. “I don't think marrying young is a good idea at all.” She wasn't looking at dresses anymore but straight at Lori, with a very serious expression on her face.

“You were only eighteen when you and Dad got married,” Lori said, sneering. “So you regret marrying him?”

Chuck froze, and even Lori had the grace to look ashamed. Her look of scorn slid into one of uncertainty, like she hadn't known what she was going to say and was stunned herself that she'd said it.

Chuck sneaked a look at Mom, and her expression was frozen, too. It was like the pictures in Chuck's world history book of the people caught by the lava, centuries ago. Stuck for all time.

Then, “No, of course I don't regret marrying your father,” Mom said in a careful tone. “But sometimes I wish . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was staring past the mannequins. Then she looked back at Lori. “Well, you can always wish lots of things, can't you? It's like Pop says, ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.'”

Chuck never had understood that saying.

They left Marshall Field's without buying any dresses.

They went to another store.

Chuck liked the open middle section of the mall, but being in the stores themselves made him feel strange, like he wasn't getting enough air to breathe. Didn't these people ever long to see even a blade of grass? Something real?

Lori and Mom were fighting about something else now.

“I just want to know, why'd you have to go and name me Lori?” Lori asked. “It sounds like somebody's mother. Why not Courtney or Brittany or Brandi? Something like the other kids?”

“Your father liked the name Lori,” Mom said softly, and that shut Lori up.

“Why did you name me Chuck?” Chuck said, before he could stop himself.

Mom and Lori both turned to look at him, like they'd forgotten he was along.

“You were named for Pop,” Mom said. “Charles Frederick.”

“Oh,” Chuck said, retreating. He
knew
he was named for Pop. Didn't Pop remind him of that all the time? “Don't know how someone named for me could forget to grind feed. . . . Don't know how my own namesake could forget to do night work.” What Chuck had really meant to say was,
Why Chuck? Why not Charles or Charlie or even
—Chuck had heard this nickname once on TV—
Chas?
Chuck imagined he would somehow have been a different person, if only he'd gotten a different name. As a name, Chuck was pale and pasty and flabby—a fat boy without
a spine. Buckteeth and a burr haircut. Chuck. A Chas or a Charlie would be popular, everybody's pal. A Charles would be dignified somehow. A true Charles would be somebody.

Chuck couldn't possibly be a Charles.

But then, neither could Pop. He'd gone by his middle name since he was born.

“Do you mind all this shopping, Chuck?” Mom asked. “You've got to be bored silly. Are there any stores you want to look at? Any clothes you need?”

“No,” Chuck said, looking at the floor. “But would you mind if—?” The racks of clothing pressed in around him. Was Mom offering him a chance to escape? “Would it be okay if I went off by myself for a little bit? I could meet you wherever you want me to be by lunchtime.”

“Well . . .” Mom hesitated. Chuck could tell she was thinking about Lori disappearing the night before. He hoped she was thinking,
But that was Lori, and this is Chuck. And Chuck's a boy. It's not so dangerous for him.

It was strange for Chuck to even hope that people would see him as more responsible than Lori.

“Okay,” Mom decided. “Meet us, um, back at this fountain at twelve thirty.”

Lori gave Chuck a look like she wished she were the one splitting off. Chuck felt triumphant.
I got something and Lori didn't!
Now, that was a first.

He walked out of the mall into the fresh air. Actually, the air wasn't all that fresh, and there still wasn't a blade
of grass in sight. But Chuck could see the sky now.

The sidewalk was crowded, but nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to Chuck. Chuck liked that. Everyone ignored him at school, too, but that was a different kind of ignoring—it was like they were all just pretending to ignore him, so they could jump all over him and make fun of him as soon as he did something dumb.

Chuck decided he didn't want to think about school right now.

He watched the faces of the people coming toward him. Nobody smiled and said,
Hi,
like they always did in town back home, but most people looked pleasant enough. Gram had warned him about big cities: “Your mom doesn't think a thing about it, but they've got muggers who will rob you blind, right in broad daylight, and no one will even stop to call the police.” Chuck patted his front pocket, where he'd tucked a twenty-dollar bill. But his jeans were so tight, it would take some real doing to get that money away from him. He wasn't going to worry.

Chuck wandered carelessly for a while, crossing the street when he had the light, turning the corner when he didn't. He didn't have a destination in mind. He was just glad to be away from home, away from Mom and Lori's strange fight. He didn't dare hope for anything else.

But then he walked under an elevated train track, and a building appeared in front of him. It was like a miracle or a mirage or magic. He read the words carved in stone
three times, because he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

He had walked right up to the Art Institute of Chicago. An art museum.

If anyone had asked him if he'd wanted to go there, he would have said no. If he'd even known it existed, he would have veered in the other direction. But being there was enough of an invitation.

Breathing fast, Chuck began climbing the stone steps.

Another airplane.

Lori marveled at how familiar everything seemed: the pull-down table, the tiny window with its miniature shade, the button that lowered the seat back, the flight attendant demonstrating how to use the oxygen mask. This was only her second flight, but already she felt like an old pro at flying.

She was seated on the aisle this time. She looked up and down the other rows, and everyone else seemed comfortable with flying, too. It was weird to think that all Lori's life, when she'd been going about her usual routine—doing algebra homework, watering the 4-H hogs, washing the dishes for Gram—there had been all these people in the air above her. It was another world.

Mom's world.

Lori never really thought much about where Mom was
when she away—she was either home or she wasn't. And when she wasn't home, she didn't exist.

But that wasn't how Lori had always thought of things. She could remember years and years and years ago, the first few trips Mom took. Then, Lori had asked Gram every five minutes, “Where's Mommy now? What's Mommy doing now?” She could almost see herself, maybe seven years old, sitting on the kitchen floor playing with her Barbies while Gram pulled loaves of bread out of the oven. Her hair stuck out in two ponytails on either side of her head, and she was asking Gram, “Is Mom cooking supper right now, too? What's she going to have for supper?”

And every night after Gram tucked her into bed, she'd lay in the dark, vowing, “I'm not going to sleep until Mommy comes home. If I stay awake, she'll come home now.” When Mom was away, it was like there was always some part of Lori tensed and waiting, even when she was at school, when she wouldn't have seen Mom anyway.

She'd been at school when Daddy died.

But Gram promised that Mom was coming home. Gram said Mommy was just taking a short trip, and then she'd be back, and she'd probably never go away again.

Only, Mom kept going away. Her one night a month turned into a couple days every other week. And that turned into a week away for every week at home. Now it seemed weird when Mom was home for a whole week at a time.

Not that Lori really paid attention.

Lori remembered the exact moment she'd stopped
caring. It was a night years and years ago, when Mom got home late, after bedtime. Lori was still awake, and Mom came in to give her a good-night kiss. Lori should have thrown her arms around Mom's neck and whispered,
I missed you. I love you. I'm so glad you're home.
But Lori squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.

She'd already gotten a good-night kiss from Gram. She didn't need another one.

Now Lori sneaked a glance over at Mom, in the middle seat. Mom had her head back and her eyes closed, and Lori wondered if she might have even fallen asleep. Every few seconds she winced, as if she had a headache or bad dreams.

Lori figured she was responsible for any headache Mom had. And probably the bad dreams, too.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
Lori thought to herself, but it was Gram's voice she heard in her head:
I didn't raise you to be rude.
If it really had been Gram talking, she would have thrown in a Bible verse, too—about disobedient children getting what they deserve.

I wasn't disobedient,
Lori thought.
I was just . . . curious. I was just asking questions.

But she knew how she'd sounded, all day long. Even Chuck had been giving her strange looks. Lori went to school with some kids who believed in demon possession—
really
believed in it, brought it up every time there was any in-class discussion—and Lori briefly wondered if she could blame that. She thought about touching Mom
on the arm and apologizing:
I don't know why I was such a brat today. I'm sorry. Maybe I was possessed by demons.

Maybe she would have apologized—not with the excuse, just flat out—if Mom had really answered any of her questions. But she hadn't. She'd changed the subject, she'd evaded, she'd given those one-sentence half replies: “No, I don't want you to marry young.” “No, I don't regret marrying your dad.” “Your father liked the name Lori.” They were answers that pushed Lori away. They built walls, not windows.

They made Lori angrier than ever.

The plane was taking off now. Mom opened her eyes and leaned away from Lori, pointing out sights on the ground to Chuck. Their heads totally blocked the view for Lori, but she didn't care. She hated Chicago. She'd been terrible there. Her face burned just thinking about it.

She thought about what her friends would ask her when she got home:
Was the shopping great? Were the guys cute? Did you have fun?
And she'd give the same kind of nonanswers Mom had given her.

Suddenly Lori wished fervently that she was back home with her friends, right now. She could be on the phone gossiping about Jackie Stires's pool party, figuring out whose parents could drive them to the movies on Saturday night. Everything at home seemed so simple suddenly. There were rules there. You cleaned up after yourself. You didn't flirt with other girls' boyfriends. You ignored Mike and Joey's roughhousing unless it looked like
they were going to break something. You kept your eyes on your own paper when you were taking tests at school. You said, “Please” and “Thank you,” and you didn't tell anyone what you were really thinking.

Why had Lori suddenly felt there were no rules in Chicago?

She winced as the plane turned sharply, knocking her against the arm of her seat. Then the plane leveled off, following a straight path.

They were on their way to Atlanta now. Maybe Atlanta would be better.