The Wolf Border(116)
*
After takeoff, when the seatbelt sign has been extinguished, she unbuckles herself and Charlie and walks him down the aisle, past all the passengers he has offended with his yelling for the last fifteen minutes. He has stopped screaming and thrashing, his ears probably having equalised, but his cheeks are still flushed and damp. She tries not to feel impatient. It will be a long flight in a confined space, shortcutting over the polar cap, but still another nine hours to endure. She’ll need to keep him occupied as much as possible, or try to get him to sleep. The plane tilts as it banks west. He parades gamely on down the aisle, stopping to look at various passengers, a large man already snoring, head back, a girl with a brightly tattooed arm. Rachel steers him onward, thinking about the chalky little pills Binny used to give her when they were driving any great distance. To stop you being sick, her mother always said, though Rachel was never travel-sick. The thought does appeal now, of doping her son. Perhaps it’s cruel to subject a fourteen-month-old to such physical discomforts and tedium, she thinks, but the same might be said of the terms of existence.
A steward makes his way towards them and smiles as he passes by, shaking his head.
You were the one making all that noise, were you?
Charlie looks up at the man, all innocence and big dark eyes, and continues walking unsteadily towards the back of the plane.
We don’t care, do we? Rachel says. We’re doing our own thing.
If Binny taught her anything, it was exactly that. Don’t be cowed. Live singularly, and without regret. Not always the best creed, but maybe now Rachel can put it to good use. It’s going to be a very difficult, very strange visit. What will Kyle say when he sees her, and – more to the point – when he sees Charlie and learns who he is? Her phone call explained very little, just that she was coming with some friends to visit the Reservation and to say hi. He could be struck dumb. He may never forgive her. She would not blame him.
Well, he’s probably not going to stove your head in, Alexander had assured her at the airport when he dropped them off. He doesn’t sound the type.
I know. But still.
Hey, don’t worry. Men love children. The more the better, scattered all round the world.
Oh shut up, she’d said, pushing him gently.
He’d grinned and kissed her, then leant down and kissed Charlie.
Go on, then. You get to board on the plane first with this one, you know. See you in a week.
Don’t forget to do your visas online, she reminds him, and tell Chloe to bring some warm gear – it’ll get very cold. I’ll pick you up in Spokane. OK?
OK. Hey, Kyle might stove my head in. Men love that possessive stuff, too.
She’d laughed and wheeled her bag to the front of the security check, Charlie heavy on her hip.
Maybe.
She walks Charlie to the back of the plane, where he takes extreme interest in the handles of the cabin storage drawers, trying to open them one by one. She disengages him, wends him round the toilets, and down the other aisle. He stops to yank on the trailing wire of someone’s headphones, drawn to pull-able things with almost narcotic intensity.
Nope, she says, untangling his hands, and to the lady whose film has suddenly gone silent, says, Sorry about that, he’s a little monkey.
Oh, no, the woman says. He’s a little angel.
The great debate, Rachel thinks, I’ll go with monkey. Charlie steps forward. She is glad she’s travelling ahead of Alexander; she owes Kyle that much, the courtesy of private explanation and some time alone with his son. She will plan what to say on the flight. Or maybe she won’t. The subject is not going to be gentle on the palate: human beings are strong meat. Maybe she’ll arrive at the centre and present the baby as a given, a thing that simply is, a boon – which he is. Perhaps there won’t be too much shock. The world is used to reproduction, after all. Nothing seems to stop it – not war, not science, not humanity’s own incalculable stupidity.
Lawrence’s advice was just that – hold Charlie up, introduce him, and don’t worry about the rest. Her brother’s advice is usually simply put these days, often revolving around truth, exposing the root, squeezing out the poison. Fear of re-entering the labyrinth of self-deception, perhaps, and getting sick again. He did not want to come on the American trip, though she asked him several times, assured him there was no intrusion: he would be one of the gang.
No, no, you guys need to do this by yourselves, he’d said.
Meaning, perhaps, that he needs to do things by himself now, be confident of his borders again. He needs not to rely on her so much, not to call her drunk from the hillside above Kendal, crying, lamenting his past, his mistakes, all that has been lost: as far as she knows, his sole insobriety since he gave it all up. She did not mind the late-night call, was glad there was nothing worse happening; it was simply a boozy evening with work colleagues that had gone too far and knocked out a section of his carefully built scaffolding. At the end of the conversation, he’d told her that without her he would not have made it, would have given in.
Lawrence, she said, you’re forgetting who you are. What would we have done without you, you dope?
Poor choice of words, but he’d laughed. She has, she knows, come to rely on him more and more, for support, and for solidarity, which is not fraternal, not sororal, but the curiously unnamed relationship of brother and sister.
Go and enjoy each other, he’d said. Send me a postcard.