“Just get us on the ground,” she answered the captain.
“That’s right,” the man in the seat in front of her said.
The fields below were empty: it looked safe to land there. She thought about what a story this was going to make. Uncle Sal had the scariest airplane story in the family: landing in Las Vegas, his jet’s tires blew out and it had skidded off the runway a few hundred feet. There was lots of excitement in his account: sliding down emergency chutes, fire trucks, TV crews interviewing them later, their choice of a free flight home or a free night in a hotel, compliments of the airline. But if you paid attention you realized most of the danger was in Uncle Sal’s mind.
And that’s what this is going to be: just a good scary story to tell.
But Carla’s plane rolled down…dropping without any hint of a brake…and then swooped up violently.
They all gasped. Bubble’s tears stopped, shut off totally, as if he were a toy. Someone shouted, “Oh God!” That was all there was to it: a sudden ride on a roller coaster, a fast dip down and a quick climb up. It was nothing compared to what had happened before, only it seemed to mean there was something still broken, that their troubles were far from over.
A pilot passed her, heading for the back, where the problem must be. Maybe he could fix it, she hoped, although she knew better. After all, he had no tools and how could he reach whatever was broken?
But with each shiver of fear, the scolding voice in her head told her it was ridiculous to believe that they were in serious trouble: When planes crash they go down right away. This was the big outside world where people weren’t hysterical or stupid like some of her relatives. That pilot who had just gone by looked like a hero; with his sandy blond hair and sharp chin he would figure out how to get them down okay.
“Mommy.” Bubble’s voice was alert. He had straightened in her arms, his heels kicking down, poking her in the stomach.
She was heartened by the clarity and strength in his voice. She was impatient with his crankiness after naps; this was the Leo she adored. “Yes, baby,” she said and squeezed the tall length of his body. Bubble stood on her lap, pressing his tiny sneakers into her, trying to peer over the seats.
“I want a drink,” he said, enunciating so clearly he could have been twenty years old.
“I got some juice. How about that?”
“No!” He disciplined her with the word, like someone instructing a disobedient dog. She recognized that tone as the way she spoke when trying to stop Leo from doing something either dangerous or very destructive.
“Hey! Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Don’t want juice.” He whined this a little.
“Baby, I can’t get you anything else right now. I got some juice in the bag. You want it?”
Bubble didn’t answer. The mess of the plane had gotten his attention. He cocked his head to study the passengers retrieving scattered bags, clothes, blankets, pillows. “I smell poop,” he said.
It happened again. Another roller coaster ride. Her stomach flipped and Bubble flopped back: his stumpy legs kicked out, his head crashed into the seat. Carla exclaimed and grabbed him. As the ride came up from the valley she tasted her breakfast at the back of her throat. Get me the fuck out of here, she begged.
“Bubble,” she called to his little face. His eyes were shut tight. “Bubble,” she said and gathered him.
He laughed. From his belly. The way he did when she tickled his feet, a laugh of his whole body. “Funny!” he called out between his hissing laughter.
“Come on,” she lifted him and swung him around so that he would be secure in her lap.
“Do that again,” he said.
“No, no. We got to sit still.”
“Do that again!”
“You want your juice?”
Bubble butted his head back. Carla wasn’t sure if he meant to whack her in the nose (which he did) or if it was simply his willfulness pulling against her lead. For a moment, while her sinuses tingled and her head buzzed she couldn’t talk.
That pilot passed again, heading back up to the front.
“Excuse me,” the man in front of her called to the pilot. “What’s going on?”
But the pilot rushed past, in a nervous hurry.
“Play! Play!” Bubble bucked in her lap. She had to dodge his head, which threatened her with more blows.
“Cut it out!” She hugged him close, crossing her arms in front of his chest. She buried her face in Bubble’s black hair. He needed a cut; it was curling up the back of his neck. He had her hair, or her hair when she was young: so black and shiny your eyes couldn’t accept the color and they would see velvet or glints of amber, but it was only rich black hair, dark and straight. Made Carla think of an Indian in Bubble’s case; her poppa used to say Carla was Cleopatra when she was little.
Who’s Cleopatra? she asked him.
The most beautiful woman who ever lived, he said.
She forgot the plane, didn’t see the humps of blue fabric, the cave-like ceiling, or the recessed lights glowing from its curves. The sun warmed her face and she smelled Bubble’s hair (she had shampooed it this morning so that her mother wouldn’t right away criticize) and remembered her father:
She saw Poppa’s coarse face, round and pockmarked; his nose was small and curved like a thumb, his tiny teeth were yellowed from the cigars he liked, his hair was all gone. He smiled at her, welcoming…
Carla gasped and shunted the image away. Her father was dead.
He’s calling to you.
“No,” she answered.
“I want it now!” Bubble told her; he thought she was answering one of his demands.
“Okay, baby,” she said dutifully, too scared to be amused by their misunderstanding.
Carla bent down to reach around her feet for her bag. She held Bubble in her lap while bending over, and the strain on her back made her groan. Luckily, the disposable juice carton was on top, bright yellow with slashing red letters, easy to spot and somehow exciting. All the new stuff for babies was great. Manny often complained enviously that when he was little toys were crummy compared to today. There was so much to buy, much more than they could afford, but she wanted to get all of it, not only so that Bubble wouldn’t be deprived, but because she liked the looks of the stuff, all the brilliant new gadgets; and she enjoyed the feeling, the excitement of giving him a new toy.
But she wasn’t thinking of consumerism then. With her head lowered she could better hear sounds from the plane’s injured structure. The noises it made were scary. The thin floor rumbled, the seats creaked, and the sides seemed to roar, as if there were tigers behind the panels. Was that normal? Had to be, she told herself.
“I want it,” Bubble said, grabbing for the juice container as soon as she brought it into view.
“Let me open it,” she yanked the carton away.
Poking the straw through the designated hole, she punctured the membrane of foil too hard and a jet of juice splashed her cheek. Fear and her baby made managing everything awkward. She had a squirming Bubble on her lap, her feet were unwilling to put their full weight on the floor for fear it would give way, and her squeezed legs were reluctant to rest against the sides because those roaring tigers might tear through any second. After she gave Bubble the carton, she glanced out the porthole window. They were low, close to the ground.
Good. You see? Everything’s going to be all right. No problem.
The flight attendants were suddenly on the move: wobbling in the aisles, talking and picking up…shoes? Lisa appeared a couple of seats ahead: