“Phillip, you still there, honey?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“You have to go?”
Gwen is on line with our luggage, not facing me, her head down. What is going through her mind? Will I stand next to her and board the plane or will I tell her this trip is a mistake.
“I have a few more minutes, Mom.”
“Hold on, your father wants to talk to you,” she hands the phone off to my father. As he begins to speak she snatches the phone back. “One more thing, Phillip.”
“Yes, Ma?”
“I am so sorry this happened to you. I raised you to be a good man—someone gentle, someone kind, but the world is not a kind place. Maybe I failed you when you were growing up. I should have prepared you for the cruel, selfish people you were bound to come across.”
My throat chokes up. “You did just fine by me, Mom. A son could not ask for better.”
“All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Phillip.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
“Take care,” her voice cracks and I hear what sounds like my father holding my mother and gently patting her back.
“Hey, Phillip.”
“Hey, Dad.”
Here it comes—the one, two punch. My parents have used this effective technique on me since infancy. First, my mother softens me up with her anguished emotionalism, and then my father wears me down with the blunt force of his irrefutable logic. My father is an accountant, spending his days crunching numbers, boiling down complex scenarios to quantifiable truths. For him two plus two will always equal four. Someone hits you, you hit back. If your wife sleeps with another man, you leave her. Sometimes I wish I were more like him. Life would be so much simpler.
“It would have been nice if you’d talked to me about this trip you are going on. I have to learn about it from your mother only after you’ve gone. Thanks, Son”
“If I mentioned it you would talk me out of it. You would use your accountant’s brain, add up all the facts, subtract the negatives from the positives and I would not be able to argue with you.”
“That’s your answer, right there. Your subconscious is letting you know this is not a wise decision. Why go on this trip? You never even sat down with a marital counselor. It seems to me that would be the logical thing to do.”
“You know we don’t have the money for counseling.”
“But you have the money to go on this trip. Your mother tells me this is a very ritzy resort.”
I exhale slowly. “We never had a real honeymoon. I had to go right to work after the wedding and it’s something we kept promising we would do someday, but we kept putting it off.”
“Son, the time for a honeymoon is not right after your wife cheats on you. You’re not making any sense.”
“I know, I know,” I reply with a sad nod of my head. “Nothing I do makes much sense nowadays.”
“Phillip, if you really think a vacation with Gwen could be just the thing your marriage needs why not some place closer to home? You don’t need to fly all the way to this Isla Terrafin or whatever the hell it’s called-”
“Isla Fin de la Tierra.”
“Well, la-dee-da,” he gripes. “You don’t need a trip to the middle of nowhere to see if you and Gwen have a future. Why not Myrtle Beach? It’s a hell of a lot cheaper, for one thing. Please tell me Gwen hasn’t twisted your arm into going to this fancy, shmantzy luxury resort.”
“No, Dad. This trip is my idea. When I was a kid, I read about this island in one of your National Geographics. Isla Fin de la Tierra. Island at the end of the earth. I’ve always dreamed about going; now seems as good a time as any. Believe me, if it was up to Gwen, we would stay local, like you suggest. Besides—think about it—no casinos, hardly any nightlife to speak of, nothing but sand, sea and one of the best reefs on the planet—you know this is way too sedate for Gwen. She only agreed to this trip to please me.”
“And you really think this week alone with Gwen will save your marriage?”
“It could. If my marriage has any chance I just may have to journey to the end of the earth to find it.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful.”
Pause. “I’m not.”
“Then why are you going?”
Long pause. “I don’t know.”
Gwen is near the check in counter. “Dad, it’s time for me to board. I have to get going.”
“Okay, son,” my father’s tone his heavy. “I hope you don’t think your mother and I are lecturing you.”
A poignant smile crosses my lips. “No, Dad. I don’t think that at all. I know you only want to protect me, and I love you for it, but this is one hole I’m going to have to climb out of on my own.”
“You got it, son. Well, no matter what happens with Gwen you make sure you catch a big fish on that world class reef you mentioned.”
“It’s at the top of my agenda.”
“And I want photographic proof when you do it. Don’t think I’m accepting your word.”
I laugh. “No problem, Dad.”
I join Gwen and hand the flight attendant my documentation. The phone call from my parents has me even more pensive than before—something Gwen clearly sees. She leans close to me and rubs my arm; her touch lacks the affectionate familiarity she once had. There is hesitancy when she touches me now, as if I am a wild creature who could bolt from her if she makes any sudden moves. I do not want to be this way, but how can I be otherwise? Maybe this trip will help me figure how.
We take our seats on the plane. “Phillip, thank you for coming with me,” she whispers, looking me square in the eye. God, she looks so sincere. “This means more to me than you can know. I am going to make you so happy.”
She cups my hand to her lips, kissing each fingertip, her eyes glossy with tears. I should reach forth, tilt her pretty chin upward, and kiss her. I know I should, but I do not move. The moment passes. With a melancholy nod, Gwen puts my hand down and settles into her seat.
A passenger from the previous flight left a newspaper behind. I pick it up and glance over the headlines. This country invaded that country. Emergency session of the United Nations. Ambassador recalled. Now here’s something you don’t see every day—Arab protesters burn an American flag in the streets. So much anger and tension in the world. I put the newspaper down. I have enough turmoil in my life—no need to borrow more.
There is something else on my mind—something I did not tell my parents. Gwen has one more secret, only it is not a secret anymore—at least not to me. The knowledge that I hide—discussing it with no one—prevents me from moving in any direction, away from Gwen or back to her.
Our plane taxis to the runway, the engine growing to a dull roar. The pilot informs us we are clear for take off. Within moments, we are racing down the runway.
Gwen gulps hard and grips the arm rail. “I’m scared, Phillip.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Her eyes are wide. “Can you hold my hand?”
It was not so long ago she would not have had to ask. Mechanically, I take her hand in my own and look out the window as the jet lifts off from the ground. I continue to look out the window even after we pass into the white nothingness of the clouds, and the land and life I know recede behind us.
Chapter Three
In Barbados, we transfer to a small propeller plane that will transport us for the rest of the journey to Isla Fin de la Tierra. Standing beside the plane on the tarmac are four other passengers: two pampered suburban princesses sporting belly shirts, limited edition handbags and tramp stamps, and a man and a woman approximately the same age as Gwen and myself. The man and woman appear to have stepped right off the cover of a magazine devoted to fine living and leisure. Broad shouldered and bronzed, with sunglasses perched atop his head to hold back his golden curls, the man is nearly a foot taller than I am. The woman with him—equally suntanned, with a lithe, dancer’s body, is nearly as tall as he is. She wears a loose linen dress, both simple and stylish, and different pieces of semi-precious stone jewelry. A turquoise clip holds her long, sleek chestnut hair in place. An enormous pair of Jackie O. style sunglasses completes her look.