Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  At the airport, I exchange my ticket for the first available flight to New York at 6:30 a.m. I will call my parents once I land and hear the complaint that I didn’t say a proper goodbye. I am freezing from the air-conditioning blasting through the ceiling vents of the nearly barren terminal. But it is better than the inferno outside or in the lobby of the Betsy Ross Hotel. Sitting in a plastic bucket of a chair, I pull my knees to my chest and stretch my shirt over them for warmth. I close my eyes but dare not sleep. A hunchbacked janitor has been mopping the same piece of floor in front of me, over and over again, and the fumes of bleach begin to burn my eyes. Please go away, I want to say. What do you find so interesting in these tiles?

  Once in the air, I’m transfixed by the rivulets of hard rain streaking my window. I think of the girls, their laughter often mixed with cautious observation as we cruise through our neighborhood car wash. And how, when I took them there for the very first time, I had to climb over the back seat to calm Lana, whose sweet little mouth turned blue from her incessant screaming.

  The pilot gets on the loudspeaker to apologize for the slight delay. His cheerfulness evokes my suspicion, especially when he warns us to keep our seat belts buckled. He mentions there are severe thunderstorms reported along the entire eastern coast and considerable turbulence is anticipated. Fear pierces a hole in me, making me feel very small. “As small as Alice?” Becky would ask. I shrink back in my seat, pulling my body as far as possible from the burly man next to me. Though I pray for sleep, it’s an improbable option. I might as well be in the cockpit helping the pilot. Cockpit. How did it get that name, and have I lost my mind entirely?

  I keep glancing at my watch, counting the minutes until landing. Please, God, let me see my children again. I promise they’ll be no more cursing, much more patience, large sums allotted for charity. And all the while I play this game, I’m aware of a deep deception. The one deal I do not make. To return to the life I lived before.

  Bracing myself, I accept the rodeo landing as punishment. Give me all you’ve got, I telegraph the Lord, happy to be spared. My eyes open only when I hear the deafening rev of the plane’s engine and the rattling of luggage stored above my head.

  “What’s her name?” I ask the man alongside me who’s now cracking his hairy knuckles.

  “Pardon, ma’am?” he says in a spongy, southern drawl.

  “The plane, you know how National names their flights after women?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, guess you’re right about that. Well, I believe I heard the name Ida mentioned. Yes, it’s printed right on her wing. See? I-D-A.”

  “How can that be? Ida was my grandmother’s name,” I whisper to myself.

  I wince at the glare of brilliant sunlight, the kind that follows a hard September rain. I really can’t make out the letters. Maybe the man said Edna or Leda or maybe nothing at all. I fight back tears, thrilled to be on the ground and knowing that Becky and Lana are just a long taxi ride away.

  NINETEEN

  Forty-two minutes later, I pull up to the Pearls’ sprawling Brooklyn home. I’d expected Ben and Louise to be at the club, but their cars, like old lovers, are parked side by side in the driveway. I ask the cab driver to please wait for me; I won’t be that long. This way, I don’t have to ask for favors, or put anybody out. There’s some cash folded in my pocket, about twenty bucks, and T-shirt money stashed under the shag carpet at my house. It will be good to get home and immerse myself with everyday chores, the automatic ones—tasks that became my internal clock. Finally, school starts on Wednesday. Lana begins kindergarten, Becky, second grade. This is what to focus on.

  Walking through the breezeway that separates the garage from the house, I spot Lana’s flowered dolly stroller. It’s lying upside down, an assortment of naked dollies scattered on the blue slate. The screen door opens before I have a chance to knock. It’s Gussie balancing laundry which looks gloriously familiar: small pastel T-shirts. The girl’s shirts, ones I’d tie-dyed and painted. Gussie’s face is warm and welcoming, and I’m instantly relieved, aware of how badly I need a friend.

  “So, where are they?” I ask, pushing past her through the kitchen, deciding not to scold her for having scared me with her dramatic premonitions.

  “In the den watching some show on TV, magic something,” she says.

  “Magic Garden!” I shout, full of joy, running through the dining room, hearing the familiar clinking of the china, then through the living room that opens to the den. I see them in profile before they notice me. They are standing in front of the couch, enthralled with the program, swaying slightly to the strum of a guitar. Scrubbed clean, the girls are dressed in matching lavender floral shorts sets. Lana turns toward the doorway first, her fingers mashed in her busy gums. Gussie’s voice bellows behind us. “It poured like the dickens all morning. Oh, and you better call your folks. They called to see if you got home okay. They sounded real upset.” My parents must have called the hotel, or else Charlie might have gone searching for me upon awakening.

  Becky and Lana run to me, wordless, their arms out and up, thinner and lighter than I remember them. I scoop them up like handfuls of silky summer sand. My body trembles, when I squeeze them as tight as I can.

  “My sweeties, I missed you so much.”

  “Missed you, Mommy face,” Lana says, lifting her head, rubbing her little pug nose against the tip of mine. “Just like Eskimos.”

  Becky lifts a tear from my cheek. Her fingers feel sticky and sugary when I lick them.

  “Were you eating candy?” I ask, in the voice of the big, bad wolf.

  They widen their eyes, shaking their lying heads in unison. Good, I think, I’m happy they know that often revealing small truths can have consequences.

  Gussie watches us from the doorway, still balancing the tower of laundry.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask, afraid to take my eyes off Becky and Lana.

  “The folks are in their bedroom watching TV. Their golf game was cancelled because of the storms.”

  “Yeah, Mommy, there was lots of thunder and fire,” Lana chimes in.

  “That wasn’t fire—it was just light-ning,” Becky says.

  I squeeze them until they squirm away, glad they’re not clinging.

  “And Donny?”

  “Girl, I’ve known that boy since he didn’t have a hair nowhere, and still I can’t figure how his mind works.”

  “Well, if he calls, tell him I took his daughters home. I’ve got a cab waiting outside.”

  At the counter, Becky helps Lana pour apple juice from a half-gallon plastic bottle. She offers me a plate of cookies that look home-baked. Not one of them is whole. The phone rings and, forgetting momentarily that Ben and Louise are home, I pick up.

  “Oh, you’re back,” Donny says, his voice gravelly, as though fresh out of sleep.

  “Hello, hello,” Louise says, from her bedroom extension.

  “Yes, and I’m taking us home. There’s a lot to do. School begins this Wednesday.”

  “Did you just remember that? When were you planning to come back after leaving your children?”

  “Hey, I’m with my children. Whose children are you with?”

  I turn my back to the four frightened eyes staring at me, sucking up juice noisily through their straws. I muffle my voice, but my neck veins are popping.

  “How do I know you’re capable of caring for the girls in your state of exhaustion?” Donny asks. He sounds as if he’s putting on a little show.

  “Donny, please, not now,” Louise interjects, still on the extension. “The both of you must cut this out.”

  The cab driver, who’s been waiting outside, startles me when he taps on the kitchen window.

  “Goodbye … I’m going home.” I gently hang up the phone. Gussie hands over a shopping bag containing the girls’ things, and Becky’s Drowsy Doll’s head pops out from the top like she’s gasping for air. I look down and find Lana, beside me, performing her “sissy” dance—running circles in plac
e, signaling she has to use the potty. Now! I rush her down the hall to the bathroom, where I splash my face with cool water.

  “Come on, girls, time to say goodbye to Gram and Gramps. We’re leaving now, that nice man waiting outside is our driver.” As we walk toward the master bedroom, I hear the rapid clicking of Louise’s heels on the ceramic tile. She pauses in front of me, her expression grave. I figure she’s upset by what she’s just witnessed on the phone. Still, she gives me an obligatory peck, and, forcing cheer into her voice, ushers the girls in the kitchen for a “surprise.” Though anxious to get going, I allow this small indulgence.

  I lean against the doorframe of their bedroom to wave both hello and goodbye to Ben. He sits tensely at the edge of the bed, motioning me to come join him. But I am not in the mood for a chat now. He points to the TV. There’s something just on the news—some special report interrupting regular programming. My parched mouth gets instantly drier. I loathe all special reports. I’m always expecting the final payoff for all those duck-and-cover drills in school.

  “Listen to this,” Ben says, raising the volume with his remote. I stand awkwardly beside the bed. My legs turn to rubber. I have not been near that sprawling bed since I lost my virginity seven years ago.

  “What? What’s happened?” The “Special Report” graphic across the male newscaster’s face makes my adrenaline surge, while the skin on my scalp contracts. The newscaster is wearing a yellow rain slicker. One hand holds a microphone with the station’s call letters, some ABC affiliate, the other juggles an umbrella about to become airborne. I sense the words more than I actually hear them. Some picture begins to form, but still I resist and turn to Ben and ask, “So, did you all have a nice morning?” But my eyes never leave the screen.

  “Alex, shhh! There’s been a plane crash.”

  I stare at the reporter and recognize the familiar beehive dome in the background—the Capitol building. The words “Air Florida … Flight 91 … Miami … Washington, DC … thunderstorms … wind shear … Potomac River …” BB pellets assaulting my brain. A hand, my hand, clamps my mouth. I spit saliva when I say his name aloud. “Charlie, oh God, Charlie.” My hands tremble; I bite my knuckles to make them stop.

  The news anchor from New York, Bill Beutel, is firing questions to the field reporter, a young man he calls Tom.

  “Bill, all we know now is Flight 91 left Miami International at nine thirty this morning heading for Dulles. The flight was due to land at approximately eleven thirty. But severe thunderstorms along the entire East Coast caused the pilot to change his normal approach upon landing. Eyewitnesses have told us that the plane seemed to dip unusually low before turning, and on its final descent … missed the runway.”

  “Tom, I know you said there are emergency rescue crews at the scene, the Red Cross, the National Guard. Can you tell us what’s being done at this moment?”

  “Well, as you can imagine, it is total bedlam at the scene. The plane went down literally yards from the runway, on the banks of the Potomac. We’re cutting to Jane Meade, who’s on the scene where rescue attempts are now in progress.”

  I get up and stand in front of the bed blocking Ben’s view.

  “Charlie’s not on that plane, no.” I am talking to myself, jabbering really. “He was planning to leave earlier, sometime before eight. I know, because …”

  “Because you were together. We heard, Alex, first from your mother, then from Donny. Charlie called home before boarding to talk to Paula. She’s his wife, remember?” Ben motions for me to move away from the screen.

  “But he might have caught an earlier flight.” I start pacing the room, looking for my shoes, needing to be completely dressed, ready, ready to go, anywhere.

  “Alex, calm down and listen. He was already at the airport, waiting to board an Air Florida flight. There were delays due to heavy rain.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, my flight was delayed also.” I should call my parents, but I can’t move, can’t leave this disaster unfolding in front of me.

  Ben stands up and runs his hands through his silver hair. “Christ,” he says, over and over again, until I want to smother him with one of the super-king goose down pillows.

  Finally, Jane Meade appears on camera. “Bill, behind me there are some truly incredible scenes of team efforts to search for the survivors of Flight 91.” She holds a clipboard in her hands and says they will soon announce a hotline number that families can call for further information—information that will possibly ruin their lives.

  “Jane, how many have been pulled from the river?” Bill asks.

  “We can confirm there were fifty-two passengers on the plane, about a third of the aircraft’s capacity.” Jane Meade jiggles her earphone and pauses for a few seconds. Ben tosses me his neatly folded hanky. Tears stream down my face onto my chest.

  “Bill, this just in—” She smiles, and I cringe. How can she smile when a plane has crashed? “It has just been confirmed, there are 21 people who have been taken to Bethesda Hospital, most in critical condition. We are also told there are some who actually swam to shore. One unidentified man is said to have gone back three times to look for other passengers. Stand by, we’re cutting to tape.”

  Louise rushes in the room and hands me a glass of orange juice, but I want a chug of her numbing water—the liquid cascading between ice cubes. She mumbles something about paying the man waiting outside and then, “Oh, and your folks called again. I told them you were here and perfectly all right.”

  “Look, there are survivors,” I shout. “He’ll make it. Charlie will make it.”

  “Those poor children,” Louise says, taking a noisy gulp from her drink.

  Louise and I stare at each other hard, and although her expression does not necessarily chastise, I already sense a deepening chasm, like a fault on the earth’s surface. I can’t remember when I sat down on their bed, but now I’m here. My body detached from my head. We watch the newscast mute. They are showing cuts from a tape taken an hour or so earlier, minutes after the crash. I’m jolted by an image on the screen—contours of a familiar body and the swiftness of its movement. Through the haze of a rain-streaked camera lens, I see a grainy silhouette: two figures attached at the shoulders, flailing through choppy waters. Then they disappear.

  What’s evident is the standard lifesaving technique practiced here—something which might have been taught, decades ago, on the smooth sandy beaches of the Jersey Shore, experienced by a teenage boy, a champion swimmer, taught on his first summer job. Skills he’d perfected for the one chance disaster, which, years later, would mold that boy into a hero.

  I am at the sink, filling the tea kettle when Paula and Donny arrive, thirty minutes later, holding hands. I would hold their hands, too, if they reached for me. My eyes scan over Donny. He reeks from an unfamiliar spicy cologne and is wearing the shirt Paula bought for him in May—the same one I gave to Charlie when we were flirty, frivolous, but mostly selfish. No one knows where to place themselves. There is a whole lot of sighing, followed by a dreadful silence. Paula’s eyes appear swollen and another sharp pain of reality intrudes. I glance down at her belly where her shirt is pulled out, but it’s too soon for her to be showing.

  In her softest voice ever, Paula tells Louise that Ricki and Ross spent most of the weekend with her parents. Enlightening information: Donny and Paula playing house in Wheatley Heights, me, the youngest citizen ever registered at the Betsy Ross Hotel, and Charlie: thirty thousand miles up in the turbulent air, torn between the demands of love, marriage, and work, only to wind up in the icy waters of the Potomac.

  There is little validation for the aching concerns of a lover. No place to express how scared I am. Now, as Ben and Louise embrace Paula, lingering with loving touches, I slowly back away. Or maybe I don’t have to; I’ve already slipped through the cracks in the tile. Someone’s taken an eraser and wiped me from the board. I’m already residue—a hint of powdery dust.

  September’s golden dusk darkens the kitchen, m
aking me cold. I take Lana’s beaten-up blankie and toss it over my goose-bumped arms. As Gussie moves past me, her large hand rubs my shoulder and lingers. I’m overcome by a desperate need to be alone. I pour myself a mug of tea and slip out the side door, unnoticed into the final curtain call of daylight. The sky is smeared like a child’s finger painting: reds, purples, pinks. They were the colors of Nana’s smiling lips; perhaps why I always think of her somewhere in the sky. Silly, I know, to be an educated adult who believes things like this, but it soothes me to think of Nana floating miles above me, enjoying a spectacular view of those she once cherished. I’ve seen the headstone marking her gravesite and placed rosy pebbles on many of my visits, but it’s hard to believe there’s not more of her spread around the earth—molecules of her gentle soul suspended in the air. Closing my eyes, I mumble a fractured prayer.

  Only when someone turns the lamps on in the den do I realize I’ve been outside a very long time—sitting on the wooden swing Ben had affixed to an old maple and the exact same spot where Donny proposed. Through the slatted wooden shades, I make out the familiar figures: Donny and Ben standing in front of the TV, Louise and Paula leaning against a doorframe talking.