Plunge

by Mark Rogers

  I caught up to her. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  I followed her to my Miata. “Give me the check.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Sally…”

  “I’m going.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re getting on a plane?”

  “You and your macho bullshit caused all of this. All the time, you have to push, push, push. Well, I’m going to get on that plane and I’m going to make sure you don’t fuck things up.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “You put our son in harm’s way,” said Sally. “And I’m going to make sure he comes home safe.”

  “You’re gonna have a meltdown at the airport.”

  “You bastard. You never helped me when we were married. I would have flown if I thought you’d be loving with me. You would have made things worse — making me feel guilty for being scared.”

  “That’s not true. You never had any interest in getting on a plane. You’d never give up that much control.”

  “I’m going.”

  Sally opened the door and got in the passenger side of the Miata.

  I sat down beside her and fired up the ignition, then said to my ex-wife, “Don’t slow me down.”

  Chapter 9

  Going into our former bedroom was out of the question. I stood outside the door, listening to Sally pack. Not exactly a well-honed skill of hers. In addition to a fear of planes, she also broke into a cold sweat when faced with a night away from home.

  I called out, “Bring comfortable shoes. The D.R. is super-hot this time of year so you’re better off with cotton clothes. Also, check the expiration date on your passport.”

  After a moment’s pause, I heard her say, “I have another eight months.”

  I’m not sure why she’d even bothered getting a passport, unless it was a status thing — a way to keep up pretenses with her circle of friends.

  I peered into the room and saw Sally standing still, staring at a pill bottle in her hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “My Xanax.”

  “You got enough?”

  “For five days.”

  “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s roll.”

  We got lucky and didn’t run into heavy traffic. We were cutting it close, but we’d kept it to carry-ons, so the two-hour deadline for check-in wouldn’t apply. Pulling into the lane for the Departure Terminal, a huge plane came in low overhead. I saw Sally look up and wince at the sight and sound of the huge passenger jet.

  I said, “Consider doubling up on your Xanax.”

  “Oh, thanks,” said Sally. “That’s your plan? That’s how you’re going to help me? Tell me it’s going to be so bad I’ll need an extra dose of pills? You’re a piece of work. I don’t know — ”

  A second plane roared overhead, even closer than the one before. Sally flinched and grabbed tight to the dashboard.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Just stop,” said Sally.

  Ticketing and security were no big deal. We pulled our rolling suitcases behind us, pushing hard not to miss our flight. When we made the gate, the plane was already boarding and the female gate attendant was leaning into a microphone, saying, “We’ll now board passengers in Group Number Three. Group Number Three can now board.”

  “Whew,” I said. “We made it.”

  I rolled toward the line and felt something was wrong. I looked behind me and there stood Sally, frozen in place, staring at the boarding passengers with a terrified look on her face.

  I waved her forward. “C’mon.”

  She didn’t move. The gate attendant glanced at Sally and then at me. The last of the passengers were boarding.

  The gate attendant asked, “Sir, is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to appear more confident than I felt. “My wife, she’s not a good flyer.”

  The attendant checked her watch. “We’ll be closing the gate in three minutes.”

  I turned back to Sally, got up close. “If you’re going to do it, do it now.”

  Sally shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Then give me the fucking check.”

  “How can I trust you to bring Dylan home? You’re the one who caused all this.”

  “Give me the check and go home.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. All of the other passengers had boarded. The attendant was standing at the gate, looking our way.

  “Time is running out,” I said. “We miss this plane and all kinds of shit could happen.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Go home. I’ll call you as soon as I land.”

  Sally reached out her hand to me. “Help me.”

  I hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. “You can do this. You’re a lot stronger than you think.”

  With her hand in mine, Sally took a step toward the gate.

  “Take deep even breaths,” I said. “Let it in. Let it out.”

  We made it to the gate. I took Sally’s boarding pass from her hand and gave it to the attendant.

  The attendant processed the pass and handed it back, giving me a practiced smile. “Have a nice flight.”

  Sally’s hand tightened in mine as we walked through the jet bridge. Her face wore a blank expression, like she was traveling through an interior dreamscape, as though she was in another world altogether.

  “I don’t want to sit by the window,” said Sally. “Please.”

  “Keep breathing.” I said. “Mr. Caribbean got us a free upgrade to Business Class. You’re only a few steps away from a glass of wine and an in-flight movie.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not going to open my eyes once I sit down.”

  We found our seats and I got Sally buckled in. Sally had her head back, eyes jammed shut. I stayed silent, letting her deal with things in her own way.

  Maybe ten minutes later, the flight attendant came down the aisle with a tray carrying glasses of champagne. I snagged two glasses. I downed mine in one gulp and held the second in my hand.

  I leaned over to Sally. “Can you drink with your eyes closed?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Without opening her eyes Sally lifted her hand. I carefully placed her fingers around the stem of the glass. Sally gulped it down with her eyes shut tight and handed the glass back to me.

  Sally asked, “When do we take off?”

  “I hate to break it to you, but we’ve been in the air five minutes.”

  Sally’s eyes popped open. I could see her staring wide-eyed at the clouds and blue sky through the window. Then her eyes jammed shut again.

  She reached out her hand to me. I looked down at her hand and then gently took it in mine. With my ex-wife’s eyes closed, I could gaze her way with the tenderness I felt but denied showing her.

  “It’s gonna be all right,” I said. “We’ll get Dylan back. All they want is money and we’ve got that.”

  “What if they want more?” said Sally, opening her eyes.

  “They’re not stupid. They know the more angles they play, the more chance they have of getting caught. They want a payday and we want our son.”

  Sally took her hand away from mine and folded both hands in her lap.

  “I hope you’re right,” she said, eyes closed again and chin tucked against her chest.

  An hour into the flight, Sally leaned close and whispered, “I have to pee.”

  “There’s a bathroom in the back of the plane.”

  Sally peered down the aisle. “All the way back there?”

  I felt a dip in the plane’s altitude, a subtle swoop. Sally felt it, too. “What was that?”

  “A little turbulence. It happens. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I can’t do it,” said Sally. “I can’t walk all the way back there by myself.”

  I thought of how ma
ny times in the past my wife didn’t need me. A year before I moved out, she had weaned herself of ever asking me for help.

  I said, “Do you want me to walk you back?”

  “Please.”

  There was the dip of turbulence again.

  I asked, “Can you hold it until we land?”

  She shook her head.

  Touching her on the arm, I said, “Let’s go before things get bumpy.”

  She got up and we walked down the aisle, with me behind her. I realised this was the first time she’d stood since the plane was in the air. No way was this going to be easy for her. I saw her shudder when she caught a glimpse of the aircraft’s wings.

  She paused halfway to the bathroom when the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. I laid my hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing fine.”

  Once she stumbled against a seated woman’s shoulder, which got her a nasty glare from the woman. Then we were there. Sally looked at the bathroom door in confusion. I got the door open for her and as she closed the door behind her I said, “I’ll wait for you right here.”

  It was only a few seconds later when a male voice came over the intercom. “Flight attendants and cabin crew, please be seated.”

  A female flight attendant said to me, “You’ll have to return to your seat until the captain turns off the seatbelt sign.”

  I gestured toward the bathroom door. “I’m waiting for my wife.”

  “I’ll make sure she gets back to her seat.”

  I was about to tap on the door and say, “Baby…” and stopped myself. Instead, I leaned close to the flight attendant and said in a whisper, “She’s a nervous flyer. She’ll need a little extra care.”

  The flight attendant nodded. “Leave it to me. I’m a professional. I’ve been there.”

  I walked back to my seat and buckled up. Moments later we hit real turbulence — not the worst I’d been in, but bad enough to make me hold onto the armrests of my seat.

  The same male voice came on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return to your seats and keep your seat belts fastened.”

  Looking back, I saw the flight attendant on the far side of the plane, helping an old lady with her seatbelt. That’s when Sally appeared, almost bouncing through the open bathroom door, her hand out to brace herself from falling. She didn’t even try to shut the bathroom door and instead started back toward our row, gripping the seatbacks one by one, and clutching at the shoulders and arms of passengers. No one complained — anyone seeing Sally’s face would realise she was a millimetre away from screaming. I got up and met her halfway. She wouldn’t look in my eyes — not until I got her in her seat as the plane dipped and buckled. If the flight was a carnival ride I’d demand my money back for the ride not providing enough thrills. High in the sky and vulnerable, there was plenty of legitimate fear to go around, even for a seasoned traveller like me.

  Every line in Sally’s face looked deeper cut and her lips were pressed together so hard they were white.

  When she did speak, it would be her final words to me during the flight.

  “You are useless.”

  Chapter 10

  A little less than four hours later we were making our descent into Santo Domingo. Sally flinched like she was getting hit with a strap as the plane’s wheels bounced on the tarmac and braked in a rough landing, throwing us forward against our seatbelts.

  The plane was still wobbling when Sally turned to me and asked in a tight voice, “Is this normal?”

  “Bumpier than usual. But hey, you did it.”

  Sally had been clutching her white barf bag the whole time. She tucked it in the seat pocket in front of her.

  I gave her a smile. “You didn’t need it after all.”

  Sally wasn’t smiling when she said, “Don’t jinx me.”

  In Punta Cana, the airport is all sea breezes and sunshine — the airport is famous for having a palapa roof. Almost everyone arriving is a tourist on vacation, getting into the holiday spirit as soon as they land, wearing shorts, shades, and Panama hats. They’re greeted by smiling musicians playing Dominican folk songs on acoustic instruments. The whole thing is a pleasant fantasy and why not? These people are on vacation.

  Santo Domingo couldn’t be more different. This is an airport serving an urban island capital, crowded with down-at-the-heels islanders mixed in with hustling businessmen sweating in their suits. The walls, the floors, the stairs — everything is worn and scuffed. As Sally and I headed toward the exit, I could already smell the gasoline in the air, and the assaultive reek of burnt cooking oil from a street vendor.

  A tout came up beside us. “Señor, do you need a taxi? I have one waiting, no problem.”

  A second tout cut through the crowd like a shark. “A taxi, señor? Where are you staying? Where are you going?”

  I took Sally’s arm. “Ignore them.”

  We made it through the exit door and I was brought up short by Sally, who stopped in her tracks. We were enveloped by the intense humid heat, the insistent beat of reggaetón music, and a crush of brown-skinned people jostling for cabs and crying out greetings to waiting friends and family.

  Sally glanced this way and that, overwhelmed. “What do we do?”

  “We wait. Someone out there is watching us right now.”

  As if on cue my cell phone buzzed.

  The familiar distorted voice said, “You have the money?”

  “A bank check. Let me talk to my son.”

  “You are to take a cab to Apasionados. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, in Santo Domingo. Right before the overpass at the edge of the city.”

  “Go there and wait.”

  End of call. Apasionados. Why did they pick a place like that?

  I put the phone back in my pocket.

  “What?” said Sally. “What do we do?”

  “You’re gonna love this.”

  Our taxi hurtled through the outskirts of Santo Domingo. At every red light, music would float through the air from a storefront or café. Knots of Dominicans mingled on street corners which were more often than not piled high with ripe-smelling garbage.

  I watched Sally peer out the window as though she’d parachuted in from another world. She asked, “What’s with the garbage?”

  “That’s how they do it here.”

  “They dump it in the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And these people have Dylan?”

  “We’re going to find him.”

  We were silent for a block or two. Seeing Santo Domingo through my ex-wife’s eyes, it looked shabby and down-market. As a writer, give me fifteen minutes and I could whip up some prose extolling local colour. The reality? Santo Domingo had a sweaty underwear vibe.

  Sally asked, “How much further?”

  We made a turn and there it was. A neon sign with two blinking hearts and the word Apasionados.

  I pointed. “Straight ahead.”

  “That place with the hearts?” asked Sally.

  “For some reason they want us to go to a love motel.”

  “Love motel?”

  The rearview mirror showed me the cab driver smiling.

  “A place for assignations.”

  “I haven’t missed this about you,” said Sally. “How you’re pompous and low class at the same time.”

  The taxi cruised along a row of motel rooms each with their own one-car garage. The whole enterprise was tucked away, back from the main street. The taxi pulled into one of the garages. I paid the driver and we grabbed our suitcases. As soon as the taxi backed out, down came the garage door. I could see the confusion in Sally’s eyes.

  “First time for everything,” I said. “Your first love motel.”

  “It’s a garage.”

  I went over to the wall and placed Dominican pesos into a window tray similar to those in front of a bank teller. I bent low toward the tray. “Three hours.”


  A hand on the other side of the wall took my money and placed a key and some change in the tray.

  A reedy voice said, “More time you pay more.”

  I picked up the key and said to Sally. “No one sees you check in. No one sees you check out.”

  “How do you know so much about love motels?”

  The room was devoted to one thing only — a quickie fling far from prying eyes. We didn’t even have to switch on the set — Latin porn was already playing on the old school TV. The bed was huge, and in the corner squatted a Jacuzzi big enough for two. The colour scheme was pink, red, and baby blue.

  Sally picked up the TV remote and switched off the porn in mid head bob. There was a little basket next to the TV. Mixed in with the snack bags and candy bars were flavored condoms and lube.

  Sally held up one of the condoms. “Banana flavored. Subtext and good taste. Charming.”

  She flipped it back in the basket.

  When I saw her go to sit on the bed I yelled out, “Stop.”

  She froze and I pulled the printed spread off the bed and tossed it in the corner.

  “There’s no way of knowing when that thing was last laundered,” I said. “Who knows how much DNA has soaked into it. Imagine some guy coming out of the toilet bare ass and sitting down on the spread to put on his socks. Or maybe he’s —

  Sally held up a hand. “Enough. I get the picture.”

  She sat on the white-sheeted bed and rubbed her temples, looking suddenly weary.

  “You’re the one who knows this country,” said Sally. “I’m depending on you. Tell me they’re going to give us our son.”

  “You’re doing good,” I said. “You’re holding up real well.”

  Sally said, without much energy, “I can’t afford to lose it. They have our son.”

  “I thought you’d be on the phone to your therapist by now.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I sat on the bed next to her. “I mean it. You’re doing good.”

  Sally shook her head.

  “Remember the Poconos?” I said. “We had a room like this. A heart-shaped tub and Bob Marley playing on the boombox. I always knew if I played ‘Stir it Up’ I’d get some action out of you.”