The Ghostwriter(38)

By the time the small plane reaches Memphis, my heartbeats have slowed. He was right—the turbulence calms the higher we climb, and we skirt around the storm, the view almost magical from our place in the sky. By the time we descend, I am almost calm, Mark’s competence proven, the small cockpit roomy and comfortable. Mark reaches over and taps at my belt. “You can take that off now.” He cracks a window and cool air rushes in, the plane rolling forward, down a long runway and towards a set of buildings, WILSON AIR CENTER on a sign big enough to see from the sky. I unbuckle and stretch my legs, pushing my toes against the floor. Looking out of the window, a larger plane passes, the sun glinting off its back.

We pass a stretch of buildings, and end up in front of a hangar. I crawl out the door and hop off the wing, my backpack in hand. Mark motions me to the side and I drop my backpack on the ground and untwist the top of my bottle, chugging the lukewarm water. It is an interesting production, the gassing up of the plane, the roll of it into the hangar, and fifteen minutes pass before Mark stands before me, keys in hand.

“Ready?” he asks, and I nod, grabbing my backpack.

His vehicle—a vintage Bronco—is parked in the hangar, the top of it down, and I open the door carefully, admiring the polished wood accents and the pristine leather seats. They are two-toned, dark green and white, and I slide inside, admiring the showroom-ready finish. I think of him eating the taco, bits of lettuce fluttering to the floor of his rental truck. The floors of this truck are wood strips inlaid with rubber, and I can guarantee that he’s never eaten here. “How old is this?” I ask.

“1976.” He climbs into the truck and the frame of it shifts, his elbow bumping against me as he twists to get his belt. “I’ve had her six years now, did the restoration myself.” His voice flexes with pride, in a way I haven’t yet heard. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” I recognize the loving way he brushes his hand over the dash before reaching for the ignition. Simon loved cars in the way a rich woman loves shoes. He loved the purchasing of the item, being the first to drive it, a brief affair with a shiny new toy that he always grew tired of. I had married a conservative man, one who stressed over the price of a fancy cup of coffee. But I became the widow of a spoiled man, one who spent almost every dollar I made, our house and garage quickly filled with the best of everything. It’s another reason I threw it all away after he died. Every time I saw the jet skis in our garage, the line of expensive watches, or the framed sports memorabilia, I hated him a little more. I had enough things to hate Simon for. I didn’t need the extra negativity of his consumerism.

Mark glances at his watch, his push of the pedal more aggressive as he reaches for his phone. I watch as we move through the airport gates, employee hands raised in parting, familiar smiles given as we pass through the parking lot. There is the faint sound of a voice, and Mark speaks into the phone. “I’m in the truck. I’ll be there in twenty. How is she doing?”

I look out of the window, watching a large commercial plane take off, dust swirling behind it. From the one-sided conversation, I pick up that the cow is still in labor, and that there’s cause to be concerned. Mark hangs up, and I look over at him. “Will she be okay?”

“I’m not sure.” He puts on his signal, and the truck rocks a little as we pass a minivan, a smiley face drawn in the dust of the back window. I had a minivan. In the winter, Simon drove it, putting a reindeer nose on the front of it, his festive side a lot more enthusiastic than mine. “She’s thirteen. It’s a little old, for a cow. This will be her last baby.”

“How many has she had?” I turn away from the window.

His mouth twists and he uses one hand to rub at the back of his head. “Oh… seven, I think. One died during birth, a few years back.”

“What do you do with the babies?”

“I keep the heifers, sell off the males. I don’t need more than one bull, he keeps us busy enough as it is.”

“What’s wrong with her now? Is the baby going to make it?”

“Nothing’s wrong, necessarily. She’s just uncomfortable. Taking a little longer than usual.”

I hope his cow doesn’t die on me. My life story is chock full of sadness already. I don’t need to travel a thousand miles to get more of it. If I want grief, I can just open up a photo album, or visit the cemetery.

“I was thinking of having Maggie drive up, Friday night, for dinner.”

Maggie? It takes me a minute to remember. His daughter. The freshman. I picture her sunny smile, beaming out from that crinkled photo. I don’t say anything.

“She’s curious… I think. Me staying in Connecticut—”

“I didn’t ask you to stay.” A ghastly thought occurs to me, and I turn to look at him. “She doesn’t think we’re—” I can’t voice the words, and he grins in understanding.

“Nah. She’s just been asking a lot of questions. She’s a little protective of me, has been ever since her mom died.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t tell her you’re sick. I’d prefer her not to know.”

I make a face. “She’s an adult. She can handle—”

“I don’t think she can. And I don’t want her thinking about it. I’d just rather, if you don’t mind, her not know.”