by Aliyat Lecky
“Something for a headache, please.” Then after reading her nametag, she added, “And, Carla, would you please bring me another pillow?” The attendant retreated with a nod. Helen watched as the flight attendant made her way down the aisle, her hips a pendulum balancing the sway of her hourglass figure.
She was always amused by how attentive the flight attendants were in first class, and how plentiful. Nearly one for every two or three passengers. Not like in coach where they were lucky to get three attendants to serve roughly two hundred people. The flight attendants in first class all seemed so good-looking, too. She supposed they were just as pretty in coach, but there was something special about the flight attendants who served in the front of the plane. When Carla returned with the aspirin, Helen sized her up. She was fine as flight attendants go. Carla was handsome and poised, and not overtly sexy. The red hair she worked as a prop enhanced her appeal. Helen watched the woman in admiration as she attempted to make her more comfortable. She smelled beautiful. Helen was surprised that she was able to wear perfume, given that so many passengers were allergic or asthmatic.
Carla continued to check on patrons, and tossing her red tresses as she made her way back to her station to retrieve a pillow. Helen followed her progress with great interest. She was beautifully built, Helen could tell, despite the unflattering uniform. The one-button jacket cinched in at an optimum area of her waistline enhanced her upper torso. Helen shocked herself by trying to guess Carla’s cup size. A D cup, easily. Her legs hosed in sheer nylons were stunningly long. Helen leaned over her aisle armrest to examine more thoroughly their length. She did have nice legs.
Suddenly surprised by her own musings, Helen sat up straight in her seat. All women admired body parts of other women. She was only thinking she wished she had those legs. All women did that. Unlike men, women were simply wired that way. Women were able to look at aspects of another woman’s person to admire a body that they themselves did not possess. There was no cause for alarm, Helen told herself. Probably every woman on the flight envied the flight attendant’s flawless figure.
“Women do that, don’t we?”
“Pardon me?” Carla returned with the aspirin and pillow.
“Err, yes, thank you.” Helen’s voice was a little above a whisper. She propped the small pillow in place and settled back in the seat with scattered thoughts of red tresses and theatrical props.
***
THOSE MEMORIES WE recall without trying are often loosened, quite by surprise, from the sticky recesses where our unattended reminiscences hide. The trigger that brings them back from the muddled past to present mind is often quite insignificant, and goes unnoticed until we are shocked into attention by the forgotten remembrance.
Margaret, or “Maggie the Cat,” as she liked to be called, a name she claimed, taken from a beloved heroine of her favorite playwright, was the president of the Radcliffe Dramatic Society. Helen had felt immediately drawn to Maggie. She was an artist so completely opposite to what Helen was accustomed. Helen’s mother, Helena, for whom she was named, a dancer, was elegant and carried herself with an air of lissome aloofness, which made her appear as if her life was a dance, and her every moment part of an elaborate choreography. Her father was an artist as well, a sculptor, whose talent and renown outshined any other contemporary, and was known also for his style and intellect. Her parents were quiet, thoughtful artists, and nothing like Maggie.
Maggie, who likened herself to the southern female protagonist, envisioned herself as a tenacious, devouring femme fatal. She was brash, vocal, and her every utterance was politically charged or pregnant with sexual innuendo. Everything about her was intense. From her overly labored walk, to her fiery red locks, and her life spoke of drama. Maggie was, foremost, a performer. She invested all of herself in the slightest of gestures. A conversation with her was a theatrical event, an intense argument, and unbearable. As a wide-eyed freshman, Helen loved her the moment she saw her standing at the dorm’s entrance handing out leaflets for some silly performance to the school’s first years as they ambled shyly past to locate their new residences in the freshman dorms. Maggie and Helen only exchanged a brief glance, yet the moment that passed between them was stirring.
Two months would pass before Helen would notice her again. Helen was marching across the quad when she spotted Maggie standing by the library. Her red mane contrasted violently with the drabness of the building’s dulled brick and ivy exterior. She seemed oddly out of place standing there at midday, surrounded by admirers, both men and women, making each feel as though they were in her favor. Helen felt Maggie’s attention on her as she passed the group only seconds before she spoke to her.
“You. Tell me your name. You look like someone I know.”
Helen paused, unsure. “Helen. Helen Dahl.”
She was pleased to have an audience. “Do you dance?” Maggie trod out of the confines of her theatrical set, pushing aside any chance for Helen to escape. “Are you a performer?”
Helen received Maggie’s hand on her shoulder without tensing. She felt wholly intimidated. Her eyes were stunning. They were an intense sea green, and held on with a power pointed with promise. One would believe anything Maggie said. Maggie guided Helen down the path toward the library as she disbanded her entourage with a simple nod over her shoulder.
“No. My mother is a dancer. Father is an artist as well...”
“Helena Dahl?”
“Yes, I was named after her, but I don’t dance.” Maggie’s recognition of her mother gave Helen confidence. A little surer of herself, she added, “I write.”
Maggie became positively electric. She stepped directly in front of Helen, blocking the path, placed her mouth close to Helen’s, and breathed deeply. Helen did not know how to respond. She was afraid Maggie was going to kiss her and just as afraid that she would not. Instead, Maggie pulled her into a close embrace, and did the next best thing.
“Helen, I love you, can you feel it?”
Helen wasn’t sure she understood what Maggie meant, but from that moment on, and despite the age difference, Maggie being in her senior year, she and Maggie were inseparable. At Maggie’s urging, Helen joined the Dramatic Society. While she held no desire to perform on the stage, she was always a major contributor to the backstage effort, and committed hours to set design, make-up, and lighting, so that Maggie’s performances were flawless. When Maggie was not on stage, the two could be spotted, often sans Maggie’s adoring clique, all over campus and in the surrounding town, Maggie emoting about almost everything to her little shadow, while Helen was always happy to be present in the dramatic beauty that was Maggie the Cat.
***
A BUMP OF air turbulence jolted her out of the memory. She hadn’t thought of Maggie for such a long time, and the feelings evoked by memories of her first year washed over her in an unrelenting storm. Helen wasn’t sure why she had been thinking of a life so many years past. She had been thinking of Carla, the flight attendant, when Maggie’s charm swept through her thoughts like a spring storm. Helen shook herself loose from the emotional thoughts the memory had brought and pushed away the idea of Maggie altogether. Save being redheaded and having great legs, the attendant looked nothing like her.
Helen began to speculate about the direction of her thoughts. She wasn’t generally prone to reminiscing. Once she left a stage of her life behind, that was it. She didn’t dwell on her past. Particularly, she was not one to rummage around in a time where her life proved pointless and painful. Certainly, her first year in college yielded great fun, and was quite an adventure in spite of the fact that the year ended with great regret. A disappointment she did not care to relive. No, that time in her life, which featured Maggie, was long gone. Yet she knew intuitively that there was raison d’être behind the feeling she was experiencing. It was something deeper she would later be forced to excavate as she mined though her own thoughts to discard the foggy mental state set upon her by the reminiscences she would rather forget.
Sh
e had been thinking a great deal about her birthday, though not in the sense that she was putting another year of life behind her, but rather, she was thinking that this birthday ushered in a great deal of change. A new stage of life. The greatest change, and the most difficult to accept, was the fact that David, her youngest, was in the process of moving out. Helen and Richard would soon become empty nesters, though later in life than most. She didn’t have David until she was in her early forties. Even at her age, she was not looking forward to the day when both her children would be gone.
The day David announced he was moving out, Helen experienced a myriad of emotions. She vacillated between feeling an absolute sense of remorse to an awareness of great accomplishments, and wanting to celebrate her new freedom. David’s decision did not come without feelings of trepidation, however, her reservations were less about David’s leave-taking and more to do with what his absence would represent. After all, she had been wife, mother, mentor, caregiver, and writer for so long. Each part was so intricately entwined, that she no longer felt she knew how to be the rest without all the parts of who she had become. Moreover, the mother-share was the element of her, which seemed to seal the rest together so tightly.
David’s leave-taking affected Helen in ways she had yet to realize. Without David to focus on, Helen would have to begin focusing on herself, and that frightened her. She had already begun to sense that something was missing in her life. There were too many sacrifices she would now have time to acknowledge. Helen did not want to be one of those mothers who felt unfulfilled because her children moved away. The type who regretted her emancipation, or the type who invented problems or issues to deal with because the luxury of meddling in the readily available lives of her children was no longer an option. She did not want to think about this new stage of her life with a sense of dread or longing. Yet the feeling was there, staring back at her from her own reflection in the double-paned window.
TWO
AS HELEN STEPPED out into the humid day, the sodden air outside beat back the air-conditioned environment of the terminal. Before she had completely passed through the automatic doors, Helen felt the oppression of an unusually hot Minnesota spring day. The thickly saturated atmosphere caused her to catch her breath before venturing further to the sidewalk. The level of humidity was stifling and the heat was obnoxious, especially after three hours in the cool, controlled environment of the plane ride. Helen turned her face to meet the air she felt flowing around her. Despite the breeze, she found no comfort. Any light wind moving around her was simply replacing thick air. No cool breeze. No relief.
She stood back on the curb to avoid getting wet as she watched the cars complete the cycle of the airport in the curtain of rain just beyond the overhang. She removed her outer sweater while watching for her ride. The rain fell in heavy bog-water drops. She would never get used to the swampy rain of Minnesota. The precipitation in Seattle, where she spent most of her early youth, was light and refreshing, and the air, which carried the ever-present drizzle, cool and crisp. In New England, where she spent most of her young adult years, the rain mirrored the lifestyle—weighted with history. The rain in Massachusetts arrived in a heavy downpour, as if it couldn’t be bothered with distributing itself equitably throughout the course of the day. When the shower ended, it was over as suddenly as it began, and with the exception of wet pavement, it left no indication of its presence. The rain in Minnesota was just rain. No romance.
The instant she saw Angie’s cream Mercedes come to a stop opposite her, Helen remembered that Richard had phoned her at the hotel the evening before to say he would not be able to pick her up from the airport.
“I’ve just got so much on my schedule,” he had explained. “You know, meetings I have no way of getting out of.” He had paused. He was never a good liar, but was ever the politician. She knew he was waiting for opposition. “Why don’t you call Sydney?” Richard tried to voice the suggestion as a question. He didn’t want to appear too obvious, however, Helen knew by the certainty in his voice that it was a done deal. He had already contacted Sydney and arranged for her to retrieve her mother from the airport.
“No, Rich, I’m sure she has her hands full with the girls. Maybe I’ll just call Angie, or call for a car.” She saw no reason not to play along with his game. She knew full well the reason he was too busy. She smiled at her husband through the receiver. “You know, I’m actually a bit worn out by this trip. I’d like to just get home and spend the evening in bed,” she said in a tease.
“Anything wrong?”
Helen could just make out the panic in his voice. “No. Well, not really, dear. I’m just a bit tired. I think I may have let Marsha put too much in this trip. Too many stops. San Francisco was crazy, and today… hell, I couldn’t tell you how many books I signed today.” Richard was silent, but she could hear his wheels turning. “Besides, Richard, it would be nice to spend my birthday home alone with my favorite fellow.”
“Right. Well, look, honey, get some rest, and we’ll make plans for the evening when you arrive. Don’t worry about making any more calls tonight. I’ll call Sydney for you. Love you.”
“Right. Love you.” Helen waited exactly twenty minutes before calling Sydney to say she didn’t need a ride home.
Angie had not bothered to pull up to the curb. She opted instead to straddle the two inside lanes. Ignoring the honks and calls from other drivers, she sprang from her seat to help with the luggage. Her dressy attire was Helen’s first confirmation that she had assumed correctly about the surprise party that would be waiting for her when she arrived home.
“You pack way too much,” Angie said with a quick kiss on Helen’s cheek. “How was the trip? Marsha’s called twice just ecstatic about your numbers.”
Helen chose to ignore her best friend’s second-hand commentary. She opted instead for her own agenda. “Nice dress.” She eyed Angie’s ensemble with feigned suspicion. Angie was a real pill, and she loved her for it.
Angie laughed, throwing her head back, and her gear stick into second. She was wearing a new designer. Grey silk, low cut, and nearly absent back. She was pushing the back age-wise, but both knew she had the ass to pull it off.
“Thanks. I was planning to wear my new Michal Thomas, beige satin, but as I had to pick you up, I didn’t want the creases, and you’re wearing muted beige.” She smiled openly at Helen’s immediate reaction to her own candor. The smile held through Helen’s obvious curiosity.
“Well?” Considering Angie’s evident straightforwardness regarding the soiree that waited for her, Helen felt as though she may as well get the details.
“Formal. It’s absolutely stunning. Richard has excellent taste.”
“More.”
Angie sighed at her friend’s unwillingness to be teased. “Two piece, full-length skirt, tight around the hips and ass. That was my idea, of course, but he liked it. Charmeuse. You’ll love it. It’s divine. Very sexy. The top is Jersey with a loose charmeuse collar. Richard wanted long sleeves and to add charmeuse cuffs, but I put the kibosh on that. Three-quarter length sleeves. No cuffs. You may thank me later. You don’t get to show any boobies tonight, though I know you like to show the girls off.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Sounds nice. What else is new?” Helen relaxed into the suppleness of the leather seat. She closed her eyes in an effort to fend off a returning headache. She really did wish Richard had asked just this once if she wanted to have a birthday party. She was simply not up to it that evening. “Damn.”
Angie looked over briefly between swerving left to pass yet another speeder. “Helen?”
“Damn.” Helen had meant the first to be nonverbal. “Nothing. I’m just not sure I’m in the party mood. Slow down.”
“Can’t.” Ignoring Helen’s annoyance, Angie depressed the gas further, breaking the speed limit enough to assure arrest as well as a ticket.
“You know the highway patrol lives on this stretch of 35W.”
Angie shrugged away a
ny concern. “So? I’ve got a state senator’s wife in the car. I’ll get off.”
“Yes, but they’ll pull you over before they discover me. Besides, I am also an author—”
“Authoress.”
“Right. Won’t I get any points for that?”
“Depends. How many units do you think your next title will move?”
“Good question.” Helen nodded, thinking of her approaching deadline. “Angie, slow down.”
“Can’t. Orlando promised Richard I’d have you back by seven thirty. You arrive, mingle, and welcome for fifteen, then up to your room to dress. Sydney will go up with to make sure you don’t take more than thirty minutes, then back down to party. Buffet.” Angie winked at Helen. “You didn’t ask.” She looked again to her friend and mentor. “Really, are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m feeling a little off, I guess. I’ve got a headache coming on, you know?” Pause. “Forget it. Is Marsha there?” She scooted down in her seat to avoid further examination.
“Yes, of course. Has our agent ever missed a chance to network or get a free drink?” Angie looked again at her friend. “Helen?”
“Angie. Drive.”
“It’s just a party.” She paused for a moment. “Richard has outdone himself again.”
“It’s just a party.” The knot in Helen’s stomach slackened a little. Richard had outdone himself again. This news did not surprise her in the least. Richard was a successful businessman and politician. If he could do nothing else, he could entertain. Helen suddenly felt relieved that her husband was too involved to pick her up from the airport. She didn’t want to face him just yet. There was something she needed to talk to him about. She wasn’t sure what that something was, but she felt some urgency about it. The party would give her time to sort out whatever it was.
The two women sat in silence. Helen knew that while Angie appeared to be concentrating on the road, she was actually thinking of a way to persuade Helen to explain her “off” mood. They almost never sat together in silence. Even when there was nothing significant to talk about, one of them had something clever to say, especially Angie. She was certainly an extrovert. She liked to talk, but Angie also liked to listen.