by Maddy Wells
Chapter 47
I know it sounds funny, but the cab to the Nashville airport was the first cab I ever took. We only had one cab in Milltown, called the Quikcab, which Mr. Dow said was the very definition of irony in case any of us wanted to know. The owner of Quikcab, Mr. Hefflefinger, was a little off, endlessly cruising the streets of Milltown after his soldier daughter was killed in Iraq, forgetting to pick passengers up and forgetting to let them off.
Anyway, the driver of the cab in Nashville had a beard with like a hair net over it and wore a giant white scarf wrapped around his head. I’d never seen that. When I tried to be sophisticated and make polite conversation and ask him where he was from, he got testy.
“I am a Sikh,” he said, and when I asked him what that was, he said, “Google it.”
But I didn’t let his bad mood get me down. Nothing could get me down.
The highway out of Nashville was empty, probably because it was only four in the morning. As we sped toward the airport I saw a highway information sign ahead of us that made me rub my fists into my eyes. I pressed the down button, stuck my head out the window, and looked up at the sign as we whizzed under it. The sign said in white letters like twenty feet high: JOHN C. TUNE AIRPORT, exit, 2 ½ miles, use right lane. A tune airport? It was obviously a sign.
Anyway, the back seat had no seat belts and the driver sped over every pothole—I think he aimed at them—and I wasn’t heavy enough to anchor myself to the seat so I kept bouncing up, almost to the roof of the cab and I was definitely getting carsick.
“Hey!” I said, and was going to complain when the driver pulled up at the entrance to US Airways without him even asking me where I was going. He glared at me in the rearview mirror and pointed to the meter which said forty dollars. I handed a hundred dollar bill to him.
“You don’t have anything smaller?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I have to get change,” he said, snatching it out of my hand and going into the terminal. He came back with five twenties which probably meant that I was supposed to give him a twenty dollar tip which I considered for about a millionth of a second before I jumped out of the cab, shouldered my backpack and guitar and walked through the terminal doors without looking back while he shouted at me in Sikheze.
According to the giant departure and arrival billboard US Airways flew to Houston. The terminal was quiet. A girl janitor was slopping water onto the floor. A bored looking attendant was manning the US Air counter. I wound my way to him through a belted maze like they have at movies on Saturday nights.
“Checking in?” he asked.
“I want to go to Houston,” I said.
“On which flight?”
“Whichever one is next.”
He looked at me for the first time.
I gave him a big smile.
“Do you have identification?”
“I have money,” I said, pulling out the hundreds.
“I need to see some identification.”
I pushed my driver’s permit across the counter and he examined it and me, then pulled out a clipboard and slid his finger down the page.
“I have a six o’five to Houston.”
“Great. Sign me up!”
“Are you traveling alone?”
”Yep.”
“What kind of credit card will you be using?”
“Money.”
I pushed my bills towards him and he looked at them like they were monopoly money. He picked up the hundreds, making a face. “We don’t take cash, miss. Just a minute, please.” He disappeared through a door and after what felt like a long time he came back with a security guard right behind him. The attendant handed the guard the clipboard, and after he read it the guard was talking into his cell phone and I was thinking that maybe Granny O’Reilly had put my name on a special deportation list.
The terminal was beginning to fill up and five or six people had appeared in line behind me. One of them pushed up next to me at the counter. He was tall and dressed like a businessman except for his thick gray hair which was tied back in a ponytail.
He gestured to my guitar and smiled at me. “You a musician?”
I nodded.
“You going to a gig?” he asked.
That was a good question. “Yes, I am.”
“It’s a tough life, being a musician. Your parents know what you’re up to?”
I thought about it for a minute, then laughed. “No. They have no idea practically.”
He laughed, too.
“You remind me of myself when I was a kid.”
The attendant was talking into his cell phone, conferring with the security guard and looking at me.
“Is there a problem with your credit card?” the man asked me.
“The problem is, I don’t have a credit card,” I said.
When the airline attendant came back, the man said to him, “Excuse me, this is my niece. I was supposed to meet her earlier.” He turned to me. “Hello, dear. Sorry I’m late. Put her ticket on my card.” He handed a credit card to the attendant who looked at the security guard who made some let-me-think-about-it grunting noises then nodded okay, and in a minute the attendant was handing me a ticket, a boarding pass, and my three hundred dollar bills. “Your flight departs from Gate 25, Miss O’Reilly,” he said. “Have a pleasant journey.”
“Let me help you with that,” my rescuer said, picking up my guitar which I’d been resting on my foot while all this was going on. As he walked me away from the counter, you can imagine, I didn’t know whether to kiss him or run. But since he had my guitar the second option was out. The mystified look on my face made him laugh and his laugh was nice so I laughed too.
“I’m Tom Borden, Miss O’Reilly.”
“Mercy,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Mercy,” he said and handed back my guitar. “I have to admit, I laughed when I saw the man at the airline counter giving you a hard time. Musicians are suspicious characters.”
He made a sinister face and I laughed.
“I’m going to Houston, to join my dad’s band. Although, actually, he doesn’t know it, yet.”
“And who is your dad?”
“The Griffin.”
“The Griffin? No kidding!”
“Do you know him?”
“I lived in Detroit for a while in the 1970s and I was friends with Fred Smith. You know him? Sonic Smith, MC5, Patti Smith’s husband?”
“Are you kidding? I have a poster of Patti Smith on my practice room wall! Although,” I could see it now, “That’s not the same as knowing someone personally. Did you play with him?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“Then why…” Why are you wearing that business suit? I wanted to ask.
“I didn’t want it badly enough,” he said.
“You mean you weren’t good enough?”
“No, I was plenty good. I just didn’t want it badly enough.”
I could only stare at him like an idiot and Mr. Borden laughed again. “So you’re going to be playing in your dad’s band?”
“Well, not exactly,” I managed. “I have a band of my own.”
“Very cool,” he said.
“But it’s complicated at the moment.”
“It always is.”
We had been walking the whole while he was talking and we’d arrived on auto pilot at the check-in to my parting gate. Mr. Borden looked at his watch. “Well, Miss O’Reilly,” he said. “This is where we part.” He pointed at the first class lounge.
“Hey, I owe you money,” I said. “For my ticket.”
“Right.” He looked at the bills I pulled out of my pocket, then looked at me.
“You know what? I don’t have change. Pay me back when you’re a famous rock and roll star.”
I was emboldened by his friendliness and blurted out, “Mr. Borden, do you really think I’m going to be a famous rock and roll star? Or did you just say that as a joke?” I needed to know what he saw when he looked at me
. Did he see that something special that says I’m going to make it as a rock and roll star or did he see someone who was kidding themselves? I mean, what if it was just some weird fantasy that I cooked up? I closed my eyes. “I mean, what do you think honestly?”
When I opened my eyes, Mr. Borden was staring at me, then he smiled. He touched his brow in a salute, said, “If you’re going to be a rock and roll star, Miss O’Reilly, I can’t stop you,” and turned to walk towards the first class security check.
“Miss, hello, Miss,” a security guy was tapping me on the shoulder. “Your boarding pass, please.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. I was watching Mr. Borden disappear.
The guard stamped my pass and handed it back to me and I joined a line of people who were taking off their shoes and emptying their pockets and putting their stuff in bins that looked like what busboys use to clear dishes in restaurants and pushing them onto a carousel that went into a tunnel of some kind so I did the same, pushing through my guitar and backpack and putting my cell phone and shoes in a bin.
A female guard signaled me to walk through an archway and when I walked through it an alarm sounded. “Step forward,” the guard said. She ran a wand up my legs and between my legs and around my torso and shoulders. “Do you have any metal in your body?” she asked.
“Just the metal plate in my head,” I said, thinking of Captain Kirby, then giggled.
“This isn’t a game, girlfriend,” the guard said. “You wanna miss your flight? It’s probably your belt buckle. Go back, take your belt off, put it in a bin, and walk to me again.” Which I did and no alarm went off this time. “Next,” the guard said.
I retrieved my backpack and guitar, my cell phone and belt, and put on my shoes and walked down a long busy corridor toward the Gate 25.
There are hassles on the yellow brick road I said to myself.
I stopped at a food stand and bought ham and eggs, toast and coffee, and took them to a table by a window which I looked out of as I ate them—they were awful and made me think of my perfect omelet at the mill—and I watched the faces in the windows of a plane that was taxiing by hoping that Mr. Borden’s would be one of them.
I opened my cell phone to call The Griffin, I knew this time he would answer, but before I could press his number my phone rang. The screen showed a Milltown exchange I didn’t recognize. I stared at it for a minute then I touched answer and gave a very quiet, “Hello?”
“Mercy O’Reilly?”
“Who’s asking?” I said, thinking I would hear Mrs. Valliere’s voice.
“This is Specialist Dutton from Lehigh County Prison. I have someone who wants to talk to you.”
Before it registered what was happening, a familiar voice came on the phone, “Mercedes? It’s me. It’s Jane.”
Chapter 48
“Jane!” I screamed. So much had happened since we got thrown out of the Mill, that how much I missed talking to her came rolling over me like a giant wave. “Are you okay? Where are you? Why didn’t you answer my calls? When can I see you? What are they doing to you?”
“I’m fine, honey,” Jane said. “Well, not really fine. I’m in jail.”
“Are you getting out?”
“They moved up my trial, I mean I’m not having a trial, I pleaded guilty so this stupid shit wouldn’t drag out. In a couple more weeks they’ll sentence me, probably to community service or something, it’s complicated.”
“Can I see you?”
“Dutton lent me her cell phone so I could call you. She’s a guard. They confiscated my cell phone. That’s why you couldn’t reach me. I’m not supposed to have contact with minors.”
“I’m not a minor, I’m your daughter,” I said.
“I know,” Jane said, “But you’re only fifteen.”
“Almost sixteen.”
“It doesn’t matter. They won’t let me see you right now but we’ll fix that after I get out.” She paused and I could hear her lighting up a cigarette.
“I thought you would quit smoking in jail.”
She laughed. “There’s nothing else to do here. I smoke more now than I ever did.”
“Isn’t there a gym or something where you could work out?”
“Mercedes, what’s all that noise? Where are you?”
I looked around at the people waiting to board. Cowboys and cowgirls in pastel skirted business suits—a Texas dress code Principal Thwaite would definitely approve of—were talking loudly to one another.
“I’m at the airport.”
“In Philly?”
“Nashville, actually.”
“Nashville? What are you doing in Nashville? Is my mother with you?”
“I’m going to Houston. To see The Griffin.”
“The Griffin? Honey, he’s probably getting ready for his tour. He’s not going to have time to see you.”
“If I show up, he’ll have to make time to see me.”
“Mercedes, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’ll be off in a minute, Dutton. Dutton needs me to get off the phone, Mercedes. The shift is changing. Mercedes, tell Granny O’Reilly to take you back to Milltown. What the hell is she thinking? Let me speak to her.”
“She went to the bathroom.”
“I’m almost finished, Dutton. Listen, Mercedes. I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks then we’ll go see The Griffin together. I promise. We’ll go see his show. I know you always wanted to do that. Tell Granny O’Reilly what I told you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Mercedes. Do you love me, Mercedes?”
“Yes I love you. You’re my mom. How could I not love you?”
“I’ve been doing some thinking in here. We’ll do things differently when I get out, okay?”
Whatever Jane was planning to do differently when she got out I wasn’t going to be there to do it with her.
“Okay,” I said.
She sighed. “At school? The teachers and stuff? What are they saying about me?”
The loudspeaker was announcing my flight.
“I gotta go, Jane.”
“You’re going home, Mercedes, right? Promise me.”
“I promise, Jane. I’m going home.”
Chapter 49
It was a crowded flight and I curled up to the window to see out. A yellow skirted cowgirl business woman stowed her suitcase in the overhead and plopped down in the seat next to me.
“Good morning,” she hollered. I think if I was sitting up she would have thumped me on the back she was so enthusiastic about meeting me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Is that your guitar up there?” she asked. “My daughter Vera plays guitar in a band. Do you play in a band?”
I nodded.
“Well, I told Vera I approved of her doing it on the side but not to make music her life. What kind of a life does a musician have? They never settle down. It’s degenerate.”
“Not always,” I said.
“Always,” she said. “I said she could join the lawyers’ orchestra. Houston has a quite good lawyer’s orchestra. So does Austin. Your mother isn’t letting you run wild with a band, is she?”
“Of course not.”
“And I hope you ate breakfast because they don’t give you anything to eat on this flight. Not even a bag of pretzels. It takes less than an hour but I mean, really.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine.”
I looked around. Thankfully nobody was listening. It was embarrassing that this woman thought I needed someone to mind me. I hugged the dinky little pillow the steward gave me and snuggled up closer to the window.
“You look like you’re freezing. Do you want my blanket? I’m not going to use it.”
It seemed easier to just accept the blanket than to say no thank you. I covered myself with it and closed my eyes so she’d get the picture that I wasn’t a big conversationalist.
Finally we took off and the cowgirl businesswoman buried her head in the airline magazine that sold junk like
matching saunas for your dog and cat, and I was left alone to look down at the clouds. The pilot announced we would be cruising at 34,000 feet. I quickly did the math in my head. We were more than six miles up. Mr. Dow had told us about how Neil Armstrong’s life had turned inside out when he looked out of his moon capsule and saw the earth shrunk to the size of a baseball below him. He became a poet, Mr. Dow said, because being up that high he was able to get a completely new perspective on everything. That’s what poets do, he told us. They see things that the rest of us can’t. We weren’t up high enough for the earth to look like a baseball, but you did get a completely new perspective than from when you were walking down Walnut Street. Everything seemed to fit together like an endless jigsaw—the houses were connected to backyards which were connected to driveways which were connected to streets which became roads which went out into the country where rivers and streams were the roads etcetera instead of everything being like a muddled mess when you were in the middle of it trying to punch your way out to something new. From up here I could see how putting things in boxes that I kept separate from each other might be all wrong. If the boxes didn’t connect, what was there to write songs about? Nothing. I thought about how Mr. Rajeet’s son didn’t seem to mind that two things could be possible at once. I would have loved to talk to him about that now because from up here it looked like twenty things or a hundred things were possible all at the same time—depending on how you connected them—so that even though you were north of something that didn’t necessarily mean you were in the north. It just meant you had a northern perspective and your perspective could change all the time. I was still in this mind loop when the captain announced that according to his perspective we were preparing to land.
My cowgirl businesswoman seatmate smiled at me.
“This is your first time in Texas, isn’t it?” she said.
“How did you know?”
“Texan girls love to fix up their hair.” She made a tsunami motion over her own hair which was poufy and blond and matched her yellow business suit.
“We don’t do that so much in Pennsylvania,” I told her. “There’s not enough sun.”