Dear Edward(28)

The PA system buzzes overhead, and a voice says, “This is your captain speaking. We’ll be flying through a small rainstorm for the next twenty minutes, so there may be some light turbulence. We ask that passengers return to their seats until I turn off the fasten-seatbelt sign.”

Eddie crosses his arms and turns toward the window. Jane knows, without seeing, that his eyes are wet with sudden tears. This move has been stressful for all of them, and he would have preferred to sit with his mother during the flight.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she says, to his narrow shoulders. “I’ll come back and visit in a few minutes.”

“Dessert,” Jordan says. “When lunch comes, don’t forget to save your dessert.”

She and Jordan perform an elaborate handshake they’ve been working on; it takes five seconds to complete, and part of the routine is keeping a straight face. No smiling allowed. He nods at her, pleased, when it’s finished. She’s relieved, as she is every time it’s over; the handshake feels like a test that allows her to stay part of his inner circle. The problem is that she’s retested at regular intervals, and one misstep might leave her stranded by the side of the road.

On her way back to her seat, she passes the large woman with bells stitched into her skirt. They both have to walk sideways to fit past each other in the narrow aisle, and it’s impossible for them not to touch. For a second they are nose to nose, then their shoulders brush. The bells ring lightly below their waists.

“I like your skirt,” Jane says. She knows like is the wrong word, but she’s not sure what the right word is. She’s embarrassed to find herself blushing.

The woman looks Jane up and down, surveys her buttoned cardigan and jeans, her chin-length hair. “Thank you,” she says. “I saw you with your boys over there. They’re adorable.”

Jane smiles. “They used to be adorable. I don’t know what they are now.”

“Well, they look adorable to me.”

“Thanks so much.”

The conversation is clearly over, but Jane hesitates before walking away. In that moment of hesitation, she is about to say something more, but she can’t think of a suitable line. Even when she’s buckled back into her seat, she feels like she’s still standing on that strip of orange rug, searching for words. People pay me to write dialogue, she thinks. I’m a terrible fraud.

Benjamin watches the two women sway in the aisle. They’re about six feet ahead of him. He can’t hear their words, but he watches the mother’s cheeks turn pink. He had overheard her conversation with the white-haired dad and two boys across from him. Nuclear families like theirs—white ones with a mom and a dad and two kids—always look like museum exhibits to him. When they speak, it sounds staged, as if they’re reciting the script all happy families are handed at conception. He’d seen the youngest boy tear up when his mom walked away, and Benjamin hadn’t been able to stop himself from thinking: Are you for real? She’s just going back to her seat.

He knows the statistics, knows that these types of families exist, but he rarely saw them where he came from. And in the army, most of the soldiers came from circumstances that were less than ideal. No one talked about how happy their home life had been; Benjamin’s story wasn’t great, but he’d heard way worse. He had a sergeant once who liked to ask his men: Who put that gun in your hand? You or your daddy?

The two women separate, and the Filipino lady’s skirt jingles as she passes him. The dad across the aisle lays his hand on the older son’s arm, and the boy laughs. Benjamin tries to identify what he’s observing, and the word he comes up with is ease. They are at ease with each other. No one is on guard; there is no wariness or reserve. He can tell that the father has never beaten these boys. If violence is a stone thrown into a still pond, Benjamin has become adept at spotting the ripples, and there are none here.

Gavin grew up in a family like this one. That’s why he was so loose with his friendship and his knock-knock jokes. His father was a dentist, who probably had soft hands and a nervous smile. Benjamin pictures a nice mom, the kind who bakes cookies and buys the most expensive tires for her station wagon. He can’t help but think: I would have liked to meet them.

Florida watches the tired-looking mother walk away from her. She’d wanted to give her a hug, or at least a quick shoulder rub. The lady’s whole being screams out to be touched. She’s one of those people who live way too much in their heads and are too invested in their careful plans. Florida has seen her husband, the brainy Jewish guy, and she imagines they have semi-regular decent sex but don’t spend a lot of time cuddling or making out. It’s her belief that people sealed up that tight can often benefit from some medicinal loosening. They have no idea how to unzip their own boundaries; they need them removed on their behalf. If she had any mushrooms on her, she would have slipped them into the woman’s purse.

The plane gives a single judder as she lowers into her seat.

“What’s up, pussycat?” she says, at the same time reflecting that she wouldn’t offer this girl any drugs. Linda’s uptight too, but in a disheveled way. Her wires are crossed and split and her energy flow is a mess. Psychedelics would just loosen her death grip on normalcy, and seconds later she’d be screaming, naked, in the street.

Linda turns from the window and stares at Florida with wide eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she says. “But I don’t have anyone else to tell, and I have to say it out loud.”