The Art of Crash Landing

by Melissa DeCarlo

  Something is up, and from the look on Luke’s face it’s not something that’s going to make me happy. But right now Luke smells like soap and aftershave, and his hand is warm on my back. And he’s looking at me as if he thinks I’m something special.

  “Can it wait until later?” I ask.

  He answers me with another kiss.

  I’m nervous. Although I’m certain that the awkward gropings of my first sexual experience will be nothing like what’s about to happen on these high-thread-count sheets, I’m feeling a similar flutter of fear. I’ve never slept with a handicapped guy, and I’m not sure I’ve ever slept with such a genuinely nice guy either. There’s no doubt in my mind that there are a million stupid things I could do to screw this up.

  Luke emerges from the bathroom wearing only a pair of blue boxers, and wheels himself to the bed. I was right in my estimation of his build, he looks like a body builder from the waist up, and even his legs, covered in fine red hair, are not as thin as I’d imagined them to be. In one fluid motion he puts his fists on the mattress and lifts himself out of his chair and onto the bed, taking a few seconds to arrange his legs under the covers.

  He opens his hand and reveals a condom package, which he tucks under his pillow.

  “I knew you were a Boy Scout,” I tell him.

  “Be prepared,” he replies, lifting the covers for a peek. When he sees that I’m naked, he grins and shimmies out of his underwear, tossing it on the seat of his wheelchair.

  “I’ve been hoping this would happen.”

  “Since when? It seems like all I do is annoy you.”

  He grins. “Since you handed me a piece of paper that said twat waffle.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m still waiting to hear what that was actually about,” he says.

  “Sorry. We women must maintain an air of mystery.”

  Luke chuckles, reaching out to cup the side of my face. “You are the most exasperating and ridiculous woman I’ve ever met.”

  “But in a really good way, right?”

  “The best way,” he replies, pulling me to him.

  At this most inopportune moment, his cell phone, lying on the bedside table, rings. Luke reaches out an arm and lifts it to his face for just long enough to turn it off, then he drops it back to the table and turns to me.

  “Nobody important?”

  “My mother.”

  “Wow. Her calling right now is a little . . .”

  “Oedipal?”

  “I was just going to say freaky, but let’s go with Oedipal. I should have said Oedipal.”

  “You did work in a library.”

  “Yeah, I should try to sound well read.”

  “That’s tough, huh?”

  “Hey, I was no English major.”

  “What was your major?”

  “Jack Daniel’s,” I tell him, and it’s almost the truth. I didn’t go to college, but that’s certainly what I concentrated on between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one.

  He runs a finger down my arm. He’s grinning, and I return his smile, but my misgivings must show on my face, because he reaches over and pulls me into his arms, my head resting on his shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I prop myself back up on an elbow and look down at his earnest expression. The light on the nightstand is behind me, my tangled, messy hair making a complicated shadow on the pillow beneath his head. “I’m a little nervous, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re not exactly my type.”

  A cloud passes over his expression, and even in the dim light I can see his green eyes darken. Anger? Hurt? I’m not sure. I don’t know him well enough yet to read the difference.

  “You’re nice,” I hurry to explain. “Dependable. Gainfully employed.”

  I’m relieved to see his expression clear and a small smile lift the corner of his lips.

  “So you only sleep with cruel, flakey losers?”

  “Yeah, I mostly date musicians.”

  “Ah . . .” Luke reaches up and tucks a few strands of my hair behind my ear. “I played the clarinet when I was a kid.”

  I trace the shape of his smile with a fingertip. “Close enough,” I tell him, and then lean over and press my smiling mouth against his.

  Luke has one hand steady on my back as the other moves down my neck to my swollen, pregnancy-tender breasts. I try not to flinch, but I must have, because without missing a beat he lightens the pressure until his touch is pleasure, not pain. When he nuzzles my neck and oh so gently rolls my nipple between his fingertips, I begin to suspect that this Boy Scout is going to have no trouble earning a merit badge this evening.

  As he pulls me closer for another kiss, letting his right hand engage in an extremely skillful investigation of my lady parts, I slide my hand down Luke’s muscled chest. He catches my wrist when I reach his happy-trail.

  “Just so you know,” he says, “the accident caused a spinal crush injury that damaged nerves, but left some reflexes in place. The nerves that control leg movement are in the same area as the nerves that control psychogenic erections.”

  “In other words . . .”

  “If nothing is going on down there yet, don’t think I’m not interested.” He pauses to run his hand up my arm, across my ribs. “I am interested,” he adds, his fingers tracing a slow path down my belly. “And capable. But usually only direct stimulation will—”

  “Like this?” I ask.

  He smiles.

  It doesn’t take long for me to discover that in addition to the agonizingly accurate knowledge of female anatomy he is demonstrating, Luke is abundantly blessed in other areas.

  “Good Lord,” I say. “Is this weapon registered?”

  He grins, pinking up nicely.

  I laugh. “Hung like a pony, but blushes like a little girl.”

  He laughs, too, but keeps his fingers moving.

  “You know . . .” My breathing is embarrassingly ragged. “I’m very ready for you to give me that condom.”

  With a grin, Luke tears open the package and hands it to me. While I’m doing the honors, he reaches back up under his pillow and pulls out a plastic strap, which he then fastens over the base of the condom.

  I laugh. “What is that, an adult toy?”

  He shakes his head and pulls me on top of him, saying, “Shhhhh.”

  Belly to belly we lie, his chest hair tickling my ribs. I’m moving slowly, tentatively. He grabs my hips but I resist his efforts to help. “Easy there, Howdy,” I whisper. “Don’t hurt me.”

  I feel his chest rise and fall in a chuckle, but to my relief he moves his hands up to my back. I know he thinks I’m joking, but honestly, this man is a Nick and a half. Besides which, I’m discovering that pregnancy has made more than just my breasts overly sensitive.

  I’ve heard it said that even if you’re used to driving a compact car, once you size up to an SUV it doesn’t take long to start enjoying yourself, and I can tell you that’s true. Only a couple of minutes pass before I feel the need to engage in some very unladylike panting and shouting. Luke is smiling, but is awfully quiet the whole time, although he looks extremely pleased with himself when I collapse on his chest.

  I feel stupid having to ask, but I do. “So . . . uh . . . are you . . . done?”

  His chest moves again in quiet laughter. “I’m finished if you are.”

  “I mean did you . . . do you want me to . . .” I prop myself up on my hands so I can see his face. He’s still smiling, but now he’s shaking his head.

  He lifts a curl of my hair and uses it to tickle my nose. “Sex is still great, don’t get me wrong, but things don’t really work like they did before the accident.”

  “That sucks.”

  He shrugs. “Not being able to walk sucks, too. But I’m lucky. I’m alive. I’m having a good time when the woman I’m with is enjoying herself.”

  “Then you must have just had an extremely good time,” I reply.

  H
e grins. “I really didn’t expect you to be a screamer.”

  “Shut up,” I say, laughing.

  “Oooh, now who’s blushing?” he teases, and he’s right.

  I duck my head against his chest, embarrassed. He laughs, and then he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me tight.

  CHAPTER 46

  It was still raining when I left my mother at the McLeod funeral, and though I hustled, I barely got home with enough time to take a shower and shave my legs before I headed out to Eddy’s place. Just as I’d hoped, the lunch date went into overtime. We rolled around on his filthy sheets for a while, drank some beer, ate a frozen pizza, and then finally showed up at the Rusty Nail to work the dinner shift.

  My mother called me three times that night—at around eight o’clock, at eight thirty, and then at ten. I didn’t answer any of the calls. I had plans with Eddy for later, and I was worried my mother was calling with some random errand that would interfere with that. I’d just seen her that morning, I remember thinking. She couldn’t have anything all that important to say.

  I followed Eddy back to his place after work and had every intention of staying the night, but I couldn’t fall asleep. The faucet in his bathroom dripped, his downstairs neighbors had their television on, and I discovered that sleeping on oily gray sheets was much more difficult than screwing on them. So I dressed quietly in the dark and slipped out of his apartment without waking him. It was late, or early depending on how you look at it. The streets were empty and the temperature had dropped enough that I regretted not bringing a jacket. The sky was finally clear and the moon near full. Steam rose from the gutters on either side of the street, shifting in the breeze, making me drive through misty ghost after ghost.

  As soon as I pulled into my apartment complex, I noticed the police cruiser, but I gave it little mind as I parked in my allotted covered spot and walked to my building. The cop car was running, but its lights were off; I could see two officers sitting inside. One turned toward me, watching while I walked past. I was almost to my apartment door when I heard car doors open and shut. I glanced back and saw both officers heading in my direction.

  “Shit,” I whispered under my breath. I looked back again. They were still coming right toward me. I turned slowly to face them. All I could think of was how sorry I was to have given that cop false information when he’d pulled me over that morning. Lying to a cop is not smart; why hadn’t I just told him the truth and taken the damn ticket? As the officers approached, I tried to get a grip. Maybe it’s something else, I thought. Maybe they’re finally here to investigate the wienie-waggler in the next building.

  The younger one wore his police hat and carried an aluminum clipboard case; the other held his hat in his hands. They stopped in front of me and nodded.

  “May I help you, Officers?” My voice sounded a little squeaky.

  The shorter one wearing his hat spoke. “Are you Matilda Wallace?”

  I debated how to answer that question. If this had anything to do with this morning’s ticket, it might be better to say no and continue to impersonate my mother. But if they already knew I’d lied, or if this wasn’t about that at all, and I lied now for no reason . . .

  “I’m Ms. Wallace,” I finally reply. Safe enough.

  “Are you related to Eugenia Louise Wallace?”

  Shit shit shit! I couldn’t believe it. This was about that stupid traffic stop. Who knew cops investigated stuff like this at three fucking a.m.?

  “Well . . .” I paused, struggling to think of how to answer this in such a way as to not dig my hole any deeper, while also not acknowledging that there was a hole. To their credit, the officers just waited for my answer. They seemed as interested to see what I would come up with as I was.

  Finally I just gave up and said, “She’s my mother.”

  “May we come in for a moment?” the tall one asked, giving his hat a little half spin in his hand.

  “Okay . . .” After a few shaky attempts I managed to unlock the door, trying to remember just how filthy the apartment was. When we stepped inside and turned on the light that question was quickly answered. Pretty filthy.

  I pushed the newspapers off the couch and waved my arm at the now empty cushions, and then sat across from them in our tatty club chair. I wasn’t sure why they wanted to have a chat before arresting me, but if it put those handcuffs off for a few minutes, I was game.

  “Ms. Wallace . . .” the shorter one said. “Matilda . . .”

  “Mattie,” I corrected him. Looking around the apartment I noticed that my roommate Paula had, once again, gathered all the empty beer cans and stacked them into a pyramid on top of the television. Obviously this took much more time and effort than just throwing them away. I suspected she was trying to tell me something.

  The cop nodded and then opened his mouth to begin again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, preparing to beg for leniency. But I stopped as soon as the words were out of my mouth, because the police officer had also started speaking, and his words had been identical to mine. “I’m sorry,” he had just said. For some reason we were both sorry.

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  I felt my original worry shift to a new one. What the hell was going on? “You first,” I said.

  The dark-haired cop glanced at the other one and then took a deep breath. “We regret to inform you that your mother was involved in a motor vehicle accident.”

  He paused, waiting perhaps for me to ask a question, but I stayed silent and shifted my gaze back to Paula’s can tower. I was pretty sure I knew what was coming next.

  “She died as a result of her injuries,” he continued. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  I counted fourteen cans—eleven Miller Lites and three Keystones, which was hardly fair for Paula to have included since it was her boyfriend, Greg, who drank Keystone.

  “What happened?” I asked, my voice only a whisper.

  “Her car struck a telephone pole. It was a single car accident,” the policeman said. “Luckily, no one else was injured.”

  “Yeah, lucky,” I replied.

  He flushed slightly and exchanged a look with the policeman sitting next to him. In retrospect, I think the younger man was seeking reassurance; it’s possible that this was his first time to do this sort of thing and he was checking with the other officer to see if it was going okay. But at the time I read that glance as some kind of judgment of my reaction, or lack thereof.

  I tried to think of something to say, but all I could come up with was, “It wasn’t her car.”

  The young officer said, “Excuse me?”

  “She was driving my jeep. She thought it would be easier to drive.”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid the vehicle is badly damaged.”

  “She was weak from chemo. She has cancer.” I paused and then corrected myself. “Had cancer.”

  “I’m very sorry,” the younger policeman said again. And he looked sorry; this was hard for him, I could see that. I wondered if his mother was still alive, if he were imagining having to be on my side of our conversation.

  “I shouldn’t have let her drive,” I said. “It was too soon. She probably got tired, and she couldn’t—”

  “Ms. Wallace,” the older cop interrupted me, clearing his throat. “The coroner will let us know for sure, but I believe that alcohol was involved in the accident.”

  “Alcohol?” I was confused.

  “We believe your mother was driving while intoxicated.”

  “But she hadn’t had a drink in months,” I said.

  “Until today,” he replied.

  I looked at the newspapers piled next to the policeman, the napkin with a half-eaten sandwich sitting on the end table. I glanced back over at the television. I remember thinking that I really wished Paula had just this once thrown the damn cans away.

  The policemen stood in unison and walked to the door. I followed.

  The officer who had done most of the talking turned back and handed
me a business card and told me the Community Services office opened at seven. He went on to say that if I wanted to see my mother’s body it would be available for viewing with an appointment.

  “Do I need to see her?” I asked.

  The tall one replied, somewhat cryptically I thought, “That’s up to you.”

  “No, I mean, to identify her.”

  “An ID was made from her driver’s license,” said the dark-haired one. He opened his aluminum report case and pulled out a pink slip of paper. “You’ll need this receipt to present to property management.”

  It all felt very businesslike. I glanced down at the paper covered with faded print about office hours and victim’s rights. At the bottom a five-digit number had been handwritten in blue pen. “So, how do I—”

  “Call the office at seven. They’ll answer any questions you have.”

  And with that they slipped out the door and walked through the dark parking lot to their car. I checked my phone for the time—three fifteen.

  My mother’s death, which had been visible on the horizon for so long, had now suddenly arrived. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that along with the shock, there was perhaps the smallest sense of relief, like an exhale of a breath held just a little too long. With the business card in one hand and the pink paper in the other, I first sat on the couch and then lay down. The cushions still held the warmth of the cops’ bodies.

  The worst has happened, I told myself. This is it. This is as bad as it’s going to get.

  CHAPTER 47

  While Luke and I were tangling his bedsheets, the storm that’d been brewing all day finally broke. We’re dressed now and in his darkened living room, standing—well, I’m standing next to Luke’s chair—in front of the window. The street glistens with water and the trees whip back and forth in the wind. He reaches up and takes my hand, and for a second I think he’s going to ask me to stay over.

  “When Charlie called this afternoon,” Luke says, “I started to explain your situation, but he already knew all about it. The first thing he told me was to advance you some money.”

  I’m glad Luke is looking out the window rather than at me. I’m not sure what he’d see on my face right now. “Great,” I reply.