Exit Row

by Judi Culbertson

  “Sure.”

  “If I send a photo of Coral to your phone, could you swing by the house in Taos to see if she’s there? I’m sure she won’t be, but as long as you’ll be around there . . . You are going, aren’t you?”

  “I thought her mother had taken her to Mexico.”

  “Yeah, well, when I got home, there was this voice-mail message from Eve. She was calling Coral to see if she’d gotten home okay. Like she had put her on the plane. Now I don’t know what to think. I mean, I think it’s still a trick, but . . . ”

  “What do you want me to do if I see her?”

  “Don’t do anything! Just call me. I’ll take it from there.”

  What was this about? Why wouldn’t he want her to pick up Coral and bring her home?

  He gave her the address, and Fiona assured him she would do as he said.

  SHE SWALLOWED A Dramamine and shifted the tiny pillow under her head. All she wanted to do was sleep. But as soon as they were in the air, flight attendants were coming by with headsets and eye shades and pouring mimosas from glass pitchers. Mimosas! Fiona no longer expected any extras on domestic flights, but first class was evidently another world. And she hadn’t had her orange juice for the day.

  THE DENVER STOPOVER was chaotic. The connecting Day Star flight was in a far part of the airport, down an escalator to a ground-level area where passengers were waiting for the shuttle to take them out to the plane. No wonder Lee missed the flight, she thought crossly, then reminded herself that he had now had two days to find the gate.

  When they reached the plane in the middle of the tarmac, Fiona was shocked by how small it looked. Not as small as that flight to Key West once, when they’d asked the passengers how much they weighed and told them where to sit, but this plane could not have held more than twenty-five or thirty seats.

  “I thought it would at least be a jet,” Fiona said to the older woman sitting beside her on the aisle.

  A flight attendant making sure their seat belts were fastened overheard her. “Taos doesn’t have runways long enough for jets. And actual flight time is not much more than an hour.”

  “Were you on Sunday’s flight?”

  He touched a tiny mustache that made him look like a Mexican film hero. “Which one?”

  “The morning flight from Taos to Denver?”

  Why did his eyes widen? But then he smiled. “Sunday’s my day off.”

  “How many people does this plane hold?” she persisted. She looked around at the blue seats and yellow headrests.

  The attendant waited as if to see whether there was a point to her question. When she didn’t say anything else, he said, “These planes are really very safe. And today’s a beautiful day.”

  He moved past them awkwardly, as if in pain.

  The grandmotherly woman, pushing out the frontiers of a peach pantsuit, leaned toward her. “Feeling nervous, hon? Want some gum?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Opening a huge black purse, the woman offered her a selection. “Wrigley’s Spearmint, Dentyne, Doublemint, or Juicy Fruit. I think there’s some Bubble Yum I keep for kids.”

  Fiona laughed. “You’re a walking candy store.”

  The woman opened the mouth of the bag wider and turned it toward her. “Tums, Maalox, Dramamine, Kaopectate, Rolaids, aspirin, Lactaid, and breath mints. I don’t cross the street without my supplies.”

  “Wow. I don’t know, I’ll take Spearmint.”

  The woman rooted around and handed her a white pack. “Keep it. It’s not my favorite.” She smiled sympathetically. “This your first flight?”

  No, about my five hundredth. “It’s just, you hear so much about accidents with small planes like these.”

  “Well, like that nice boy said, it’s perfectly safe.” But then she cocked her head. “I understand there was some trouble a few years ago. I don’t know what happened.” She looked as if she wanted to settle in and chat, as if it was how she had planned to entertain herself during the flight, but Fiona felt too exhausted to go on talking. Besides, she needed to keep watch out the window. This was the same route the plane had flown Sunday. She doubted there would be anything to see, but if there were . . .

  Removing the silver foil from the piece of gum, she stared at the tarmac as the plane began to move.

  “Have you ever been out West before?” her seatmate asked, persistent.

  “California, of course. And to Santa Fe twice, but by way of Albuquerque. How about you?”

  “Oh, gracious, I live in Phoenix. But not in the summer—no thank you! I stay up in the Rockies. I’m visiting my daughter and grandkids in Chimayo for a few days.”

  Fiona nodded and then turned toward the window to watch the takeoff.

  When they were airborne, she waited until the surrounding buildings had faded away and then stared down at a wilderness. The plane passed over a slope with green growth that looked like the lion on a heraldic crest. The lion gave way to suede squares and tan rectangles, and then they were moving through skimpy cloud puffs.

  When the clouds spread out thickly like her aunt’s quilting batting, she turned away. Her seatmate had just been handed a napkin with a tiny muffin and a glass of orange juice. Fiona accepted the same and turned back to the window.

  Suddenly the terrain was visible again. This earth looked baked, crossed occasionally with lines that had to be roads. A few more patches of green appeared and stretched into the stick figures of a kindergarten drawing. Gleaming bits of metal winked at her, shocking her into alertness. But what might have been debris from a downed plane was only silo tops, set in the ground like studs in jeans.

  Now her seatmate was snoring softly, and Fiona felt her own eyes close. She gave her head a shake. It hurt her neck to keep looking down, but she wanted to see everything she could. A curving tan road divided into triangles looked like a variegated snake. The land was mostly empty. Flying over Long Island at this height, you would see miniature parking lots and the turquoise ovals of pools.

  When they were coming in low over the Sangre de Cristos, she caught sight of a smaller aircraft moving across the parched ground. It kept pace with them exactly—a ghost plane. Lee’s plane. Then they were descending to the ground and there was the usual rush of air, the flaps on the wings standing up to slow the momentum. As the two planes merged, she realized she had only been seeing their shadow.

  But the idea of a ghost plane haunted her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  LANDING IN TAOS was like entering a foreign country. Mountains crowded the tiny airport. Fiona moved across the landing strip, but she could see no public transportation. Most of the other passengers were still clustered around the back of the plane where their luggage was being unloaded, and her seatmate had been joined by a young woman in jeans and a plaid shirt, holding the leash of a golden retriever puppy.

  The terminal itself was no more than an afterthought, a building set in the middle of a dusty field. She made her way into a large room and looked around. A tropical fish tank, pressed against wood paneling, had nothing living inside. There was a row of several small offices: Payless Car Rental, Helicopter Mountain Trips, and Day Star Airlines.

  At least she could rent a car here. There was Dominick’s mission to carry out in Taos, and she had already decided to stop at the hospital, Holy Cross, to make sure Lee had not ended up there without identification. At the Payless cubicle, she rented a silver Sentra with front-wheel drive, refusing extra insurance and a GPS that cost nine dollars a day. Then, palming the car key, she went into the far cubicle that had “Day Star” painted on the window in yellow.

  Again she was blindsided by fury, remembering what the FAA rep had said about Day Star’s equipment. This hole-in-the-wall airline had no business risking people’s precious lives by putting them in jeopardy. Why weren’t there laws about companies like them?

  An Indian woman—or possibly Mexican—her hair in glossy braids, looked up.

  Fiona didn’t smile. “I’m lookin
g for information about a passenger. He was supposed to be on the Day Star flight between here and Denver last Sunday.”

  The woman, wearing a name tag that identified her as Beatriz Twelve Trees, stared back at her. Was it the same wariness verging on panic that she had seen in the flight attendant’s eyes? Maybe this woman did not speak English. Fiona paged back to her rudimentary Spanish. Hasta la vista, baby. “El avión. Cualquier problema?”

  The woman’s mouth turned down. “Sometimes the planes run late because of the rain. But these planes run fine.”

  Ah. “No problems on Sunday? I know the flight was late, that they had to stop and refuel or something. That’s what the cowpoke on the flight from Denver said.”

  “Cowpoke?”

  “Never mind. I was just wondering if anything else happened on the flight. If any of the passengers got sick or anything. If anything unusual happened.”

  “These planes run fine.” She said it firmly.

  Hola? For this she’d flown two thousand miles? “Well, gracias.”

  Obviously this young woman was not in the loop—if there was a loop. She thought about asking to speak to someone else, but then decided they would only tell her the same thing.

  AS SHE CROSSED the waiting area in the direction of the restrooms, Fiona thought about her FaceTime conversation with Lee on Saturday evening. She had turned on her phone and there he was, sun-bleached hair tousled, blue eyes welcoming.

  “I spent the day at Georgia O’Keefe’s Ghost Ranch. Interesting place. I’ll send you the shots I fancy.”

  “Did you take any inside the house?”

  “A few for myself.”

  “Those are the ones I want to see. I’ve never been inside Ghost Ranch. You needed an appointment a month in advance, and I never got around to that.”

  He laughed. “Patience isn’t your strong suit.”

  “Listen, I think I found the perfect apartment! It’s in a brownstone—someone from the magazine is moving out. It’s on the ground floor, and it’s even got a garden out back. Just for us!”

  “And how much is this Eden going to set us back?”

  He laughed when she told him.

  “We can do it,” she said insistently. “Where are you eating tonight?”

  “Anywhere close that doesn’t take too long or cost much. What about you, my sweet?”

  “A Lean Cuisine pizza,” she admitted. “But I’ll make up for it tomorrow night.”

  “You never told me where we were going. Can I guess?”

  “No! I want it to be a surprise. A welcome-home surprise.”

  It hadn’t been, of course. Something so simple as a celebratory dinner together hadn’t happened.

  She wondered drearily if it ever would again.

  THE RESTROOM WAS basic: plain white tile, but clean. The ache that hovered around her stomach signaled the arrival of her period later this week. Her face in the mirror over the sink looked tired. Wisps of dark hair were coming loose from her braid. Was this no more than a wild-goose chase?

  As Fiona crossed the room go out the back, she glanced at the Payless office and stopped dead. Standing at the counter, her back to Fiona, was Beatriz Twelve Trees. She was talking earnestly to the young woman who had handled Fiona’s car rental. Heads bent together, they were looking at something on the counter between them. Fiona didn’t think it was a take-out menu.

  What if she went over there and walked in to see what they were doing? She could say that she couldn’t find the car, couldn’t get the door open, anything. She had every right to be in there. As she started toward the cubicle, the blonde looked up and froze. A moment later, Beatriz whirled around and gave her a dark stare too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  FIONA APPROACHED THE row of rental cars, shaken. Overhead a large black bird, its feathers splashed with white, seemed to be circling her. A magpie? That was a bird of ill omen according to legend—but so were crows, ravens, buzzards, probably the whole darker half of the avian population. She wouldn’t take it as a sign, but maybe she should.

  It took a while to locate the lights, the windshield wipers, and the air-conditioning button, but she was finally ready to drive south into town. Switching on the ignition, she backed out and started down the road, passing under high wires strung with suspended orange balls. The line of single-engine planes she passed seemed tiny, dwarfed by the Sangre de Cristos. She wondered if any of the planes belonged to movie stars or other celebrities who owned second homes around here.

  But not right around here. As in cities around the world, the area surrounding the airport was desolate. She drove past a gravel pit, a trailer park, and a wealth of rusting farm machinery before she turned onto the larger road that led to town. Soon she was driving by a collection of weathered adobe buildings with turquoise window frames. Turquoise, she knew, was meant to keep the evil spirits away.

  She paused at a blinking light to look down at the car rental street map on her lap. If she were reading it right, she should be able to take Ranchitos to San Antonio to Valverde, south of the plaza. Finally she turned onto a residential street where the houses were narrow and crowded together. She slowed to look at house numbers and stopped in front of a bungalow whose deep blue-green trim had almost peeled away. The front yard was dirt except for two patches of red geraniums in pots beside the foundation. A string of chilies hung on the battered gold door.

  If it meant anything, there was no car parked in the primitive driveway.

  Fiona climbed the wooden steps that protested even her weight and knocked on the door, making the chili ristra bounce against the wood. On a visit to San Antonio, she had been charmed by the rubbery red peppers and brought a string home. They had quickly rotted in the Long Island humidity. Even here a pungent, chalky smell puffed out at her.

  When no one came to the door, she shielded her eyes and peered through the front window. Large paintings that reminded her of maps but done in fantastical pinks and oranges were standing around the floor. So Mrs. Basilea painted a little. There were two wooden chairs and a sagging couch, but no attempts at a decorating scheme.

  “Eve and Coral ain’t home.”

  She jumped at the voice. Turning, she saw a boy about ten, wearing only denim cutoffs.

  “You scared me!”

  “If you want Eve, she went away. We’re feeding Mr. Briggs.”

  “Who’s Mr. Briggs?”

  “Cat.”

  “Oh.” She had hoped, briefly, he was some kind of elderly relative who could give her information. “What’s your name?”

  “Joey.” He picked a large scab off his elbow and held it between thumb and finger before popping it into his mouth.

  Charming. “And Eve and Coral went to Mexico?”

  “Naw.” The boy watched her with knowing black eyes. “Eve went to Mexico. Coral went back to her dad.”

  Like a needle testing battery power, Fiona’s mind gave a quick jump. “They didn’t both go to Mexico? It’s okay if they did.” Better than okay.

  Joey had picked up some kind of long reed and was drawing in the dirt, writing the answer. “Naw,” he said finally when Fiona did not bend down to read it. “Eve went with Rafe. They didn’t want to take Coral too.”

  “Who’s Rafe?”

  The eyes looked wiser. “Her power mower.”

  Fiona had a wild image of Eve putt-putting south along the highway, hair flying, and then she laughed. “You mean her paramour?”

  “That’s what I said. That’s what she calls him.”

  Well. It put a different spin on the idea of a mother absconding across the border with her child. She wondered if Dominick knew about Rafe. Bored artistic wife off to New Mexico, where she meets the man of her dreams. Coral, a golden ball bouncing between them. Except . . .

  “Do you know when Coral went home?”

  He screwed up his narrow face. “Sunday. Because we went back to school Monday.”

  School started early out here. “How come you’re not in school to
day?”

  “I’m sick. Want to see my tongue?”

  Before she could look away, she saw that it was coated a repulsive white.

  “Bye, Joey. Feel better soon.”

  She retraced her way to the main road and considered her plan. A quick stop at Holy Cross Hospital, which showed up as a light blue rectangle on her map, then on to Santa Fe to find a place to stay. Once she found Route 68 going south, it would be less than two hours.

  THE HIGHWAY WOUND south beside a river that looked brown and shallow. Every minute or two she passed a new group of rafters, and closer to the road a stand selling pottery and painted kiva ladders. To her left the cluster of mountains arched toward the sky.

  Something that she first thought was a hawk descended slightly, and she saw it was a hang glider, a black silhouette against the blue. Ducking her head to see it better, she yearned to be up there herself, with nothing but the sun and wind currents on her mind. She missed those days of exploring new places, of following candlelit processions down darkened streets, of sitting in cafés to write her blog.

  Why had she assumed it would go on forever? Come to that, why had she assumed that Lee would always be there, that their life could only get better?

  Lee, send me a message—wherever you are.

  As she drove south, the mountains crept closer to the road, their red shape restrained by fences and a mesh covering. Even here there was the familiar sign, “Watch for Falling Rocks.” She wondered if falling rocks had anything to do with the wooden crosses on the edge of the road, wreathed by artificial flowers, and decided they probably marked car crashes the way they did at home. But then she saw two white crosses at the top of a cliff and wondered.

  As she turned onto the larger Route 84, the mountains took a step back again, replaced by brown hills tufted with small green bushes. The sides of the road were crowded now with businesses and signs for Santa Fe. She passed a neon-tubed outline of a huge cowboy in front of the Round-Up Motel and decided she could not face a room with a bolted-down TV and venetian blinds.