Taking Off

by Jenny Moss

  And then I saw it. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before.

  “What?” Mom asked, staring at me.

  I looked down at the ring.

  Her left hand immediately closed.

  “Were you going to tell me?” I asked.

  “I was waiting until the time was right.”

  “And you didn’t think I would notice the ring?”

  “I hoped you’d be happy for me, Annie.”

  “Oh, I so am,” I said sarcastically. “When’s the wedding? Am I invited?”

  “I know you don’t like Donald now—”

  “I don’t dislike him, Mom. I just don’t care. And you want me to embrace him like he’s my long-lost papa.”

  “Annie,” she began, “do you remember when I told you there were two reasons why I wanted you to let Donald pay for your college?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I didn’t tell you the second reason. I … I just want you to feel like you’re part of a family. That you have people who will take care of you.”

  “I already have a family, Mom. I have more family than most of my friends with you and Dad and all my aunts and cousins living right here in town. I don’t have a problem there.”

  “But you don’t have a responsible dad—”

  “I do have a dad, and it’s not Donald.”

  A look of irritation crossed Mom’s face.

  “Now, see, what’s that face about, Mom? Just because you hate my father—”

  “Annie, I don’t hate—”

  “—doesn’t mean I do. Sure, he’s irresponsible and thoughtless and just a mess, at least to you, but he’s my dad. And I like being with him. I mean, even though the car kept breaking down, he kept getting it fixed and even fixed it himself when he had to—just to get me home. And he’s fun. Sometimes it’s exciting to be around that.”

  I pretended to read the paper, wishing Mom would go away. I looked up, irritated to see a smile on her face. “What’s up with you?”

  “I was just thinking. When your dad and I were kids, just a little older than you …”

  I put the paper down.

  “… we drove down to Padre Island …”

  I took a drink of my Coke. “Grandma let you?” Mom was the youngest and the only daughter, very close to her mom.

  “I was a strong-minded girl.”

  “But Grandma is too.”

  “There was some clashing there. But it was 1965. And I had plans.” She looked wistful for a moment, younger. “So anyway, your dad and I parked on the beach in his old beat-up Mustang. We pitched a tent and went for a long walk, picking up seashells, playing in the waves. It was … perfect. And your father was so … young, so happy all the time. Fun.”

  She had this dreamy look on her face. She never brought up Dad at all, except to complain about him. “Then we came back to the car.” She pressed her lips together and her eyes watered.

  “What, Mom?” I asked. Was she upset?

  “The tide had come in.” Mom’s eyes were lit with glee.

  “So?”

  “Well,” she said, “your father had parked the car right on the beach. And set up the tent at the edge of the water.”

  “Oh no.”

  “The tent was gone. Floating out to sea, along with our sleeping bags, our pillows, my little stuffed cat,” she said, “that I used to sleep with and brought everywhere with me.”

  “Oh, Mom, you had a little stuffed cat?”

  “I didn’t actually see the cat float away, but I knew it was out there in the Gulf of Mexico somewhere.”

  “And the car?”

  “We couldn’t drive it out. It was flooded up to almost the top of the wheels.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was so freaked. I screamed, pointed at the tent. I yelled and yelled about my cat. I was so mad,” she said, shaking her head. “People on the beach were laughing. One guy was taking pictures. And your dad,” she said, a smile creeping up on her lips, “yelled, ‘I’ll find Maples!’ ”

  “Maples?”

  “My cat. And he ran into the waves and swam out. I thought he was going to drown. Well, of course, he didn’t find the cat. He came back out all wet, wading through the water to the car, and he opened the trunk, and came back with two cold beers in his hand. He popped the top of one and gave it to me, and said, ‘I’m sorry about Maples, babe.’ ”

  I smiled.

  Mom was watching me. “I don’t hate your dad, Annie.” She got up and poured another cup of coffee. Leaning against the counter, she took a sip of her coffee and looked off like she was still remembering. Then, she smiled. “But he is such,” she said in a most loving way, “an idiot.” She looked at me, her eyes a little teary. “I just got tired of being the only grown-up in the room.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sad for all of us. I got up and stood by her, leaning against the counter, suddenly wanting to be near her.

  She hugged me and then let me go. “It’s all right, Annie. It’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll think about taking Donald’s money if I go to college,” I said. “But I’ll need to talk to Dad about it first.”

  “Ah,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “That’s very brave of you. Are you sure? Because I can tell him.”

  “I’m sure.” I smiled. “See, you’re not the only grown-up in the room.”

  CHAPTER 45

  On Saturday, when Tommy came to pick me up, Mom wasn’t there. Hallelujah! I didn’t want her to know about Tommy. Donald had picked her up early for a breakfast at a local café and an outing to look at possible places for the wedding reception. Mom was particularly excited about the Grand 1894 Opera House in Galveston. She’d heard they held parties on the stage.

  I stood on the porch, waiting for Tommy, anxious to see him. I knew I shouldn’t be so eager, but I couldn’t help what I was feeling. When his car pulled up, I broke into a grin.

  “Hi,” I said, getting into his car. He smiled; I melted.

  “Hi,” he said, pulling me to him for a quick hug. He felt good. I wanted to hold on. And he smelled like fresh air. “Ready to go?”

  I nodded, wanting to get out of my driveway. I was worried I’d get caught. I had actually thought about telling Mark. But I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be going with Tommy anywhere today. I’d either be fighting with Mark about why I was going to go or fighting with Mark about breaking up.

  “Was that your stomach growling?” he asked, giving me another Tommy smile that made my stomach flip. How I’d missed him.

  “Sonic would be great. I’m hungry.” I looked away so he wouldn’t see the idiotic grin on my face.

  “Sonic, it is.”

  At Sonic, we ordered two cheeseburgers, fries, two chocolate malts, tater tots, and two waters.

  When the waitress in skates rolled out with our order, I couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was and how she lit up when she saw Tommy. “Thanks for the tip,” she said, giving him an extra little smile.

  He just nodded at her and turned back to me.

  “Thanks for not flirting with her.”

  “I want to be with you, not her,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Dad told me that, when he was over yesterday.” Dad hadn’t stayed long. He’d asked a few questions about Mom, trying to get information about her and Donald, I knew.

  “Really? Oh, great,” Tommy said.

  “He talks about you all the time now,” I said, teasing him.

  “I’ll have to watch what I say.” He grinned.

  I smiled, feeling a little shy. Here we were back in Texas, back in my real life, together in his car. I looked at him. “Have you had a lot of girlfriends, Tommy?” This was something I’d been curious about since Florida, or maybe since I’d first seen him in my driveway. “I bet you have.”

  “I’ve had a few.”

  “Anyone serious?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “A girl in California.”

  “California? So a co
llege girlfriend. How long did you date?”

  “Until I left.”

  “How long was that?”

  He laughed. “Well, let’s see. I met her my freshman year at a friend’s party. It was about midway through, I guess. Right before Christmas break.”

  “When did you leave college?”

  “After sophomore year.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “That’s a long time to date someone,” I said, feeling a little jealous of this girl from Tommy’s past that had been with him for almost two years.

  “As long as you and Mark have gone out, right?”

  “Yeah, but those are high school years. You were with her for two college years. That’s some serious dating.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think she thought so.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Um … when I stumbled across her making out with my roommate, I figured she wouldn’t mind if I left.”

  “Oh no. Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Is that why you left college?”

  “No.” He thought for a moment. “Well. Kind of.”

  “Really?” I asked, disappointed.

  “Well, no. I mean, I was staying because of her. I wanted to quit my sophomore year, but I didn’t want to leave her. So I figured I’d get a degree and then figure it out. But when I found her with my roommate—and somehow it hurt more that she’d fallen for an idiot, but then, I didn’t have a reason to stay anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something is. What are you thinking?”

  “I just didn’t think you’d be the kind of guy to change what you’re doing because of a girl.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with being in love, Annie.”

  “No,” I said. “I know.”

  “So is that why you want to stay in Clear Lake? For Mark?”

  “I don’t know. It’s for me, I think. Because I don’t want to give it all up. I have it pretty good, Tommy.”

  “With Mark?” He looked disappointed.

  “I like being with Mark. I don’t think he’s my soul mate, if there is such a thing, but he feels like a part of me.” I tossed a tater tot back in the bag. “I understand people like Lea who want to leave to find something else. Like going to college to get out of here or because they think there’s a better life someplace else. But I don’t think that. I think life is what you make it. And I could be happy wherever I am.”

  “So you might stay here?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “You’re biting your lip,” he said, gently touching my mouth, sending a little thrill through me. “You do that a lot.”

  His touch felt sweet and wrong at the same time. “I wasn’t aware of it.”

  We looked at one another, and he dropped his hand. “I guess I’m surprised because you were so taken with what Christa McAuliffe was doing—reaching for what she wanted.”

  “But I don’t think she did that because she was unhappy,” I said, fighting the sadness that had settled inside me since the accident. “I think she thought it’d be cool to have that experience and share it with her students. But if she hadn’t been selected as the Teacher in Space, I think she would have been perfectly content to stay home and be a great teacher and raise her kids.”

  He smiled.

  “What?” I asked. “What?”

  “You think a lot.”

  “I’m good at thinking. I just need to learn how to actually do.” I looked at him. “Don’t you think a lot? You seem to.”

  “About things not concerning me, maybe,” he said. “But when it comes to me, I just do. React and do.” He laughed. “Or maybe I just react. Here I am working at the plant, when I say I want to be a teacher.”

  “So what’s keeping you from it?” I asked. “Your dad?”

  “He’d rather me get a degree in anything rather than work at the plant. But then again maybe I’m waiting for him to change his mind.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It might just be laziness. I stopped thinking about it as much.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No?” he asked, looking at me closely.

  “No,” I whispered, quieted by his gaze.

  He exhaled. “You gotta stop looking at me like that.” He started the car. “Ready to go on an adventure?”

  CHAPTER 46

  We got on the interstate pretty quickly. There wasn’t much Saturday traffic. I liked being in the car, as a passenger especially so I could watch the world go by. I’d enjoyed the road part of our road trip to Florida. Being on the road was exciting, like you might be on the verge of having the best damn time of your life.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Still?”

  “Be patient,” he said, with a smile.

  We got off on an exit I’d never taken before, to a part of Houston I’d never been in before, just right off I-45, not quite to downtown. Tommy shifted into a lower gear. I liked watching him drive his standard shift. He grinned. “What?”

  “I want to drive your car.”

  “Do you drive a stick?”

  “No.”

  He grinned again. “Okay, I’ll teach you.”

  Nope, Annie. Not going to happen. Get it out of your head.

  “Where are we?” I asked. Small homes lined the street. “Tommy, who do you know here? You’re not taking me to meet a crazy friend who dropped out of USC or something?”

  “No, a postman.”

  “Huh.”

  “But he’s dead now.”

  “Okay. And we’re visiting his grave then?” I asked, trying to be respectful, but not knowing if he was pulling my leg.

  “I can’t believe you’re a child of Jesse’s, and you don’t know about the postman.”

  Then we arrived and parked.

  “The Orange Show,” I said. “The Orange Show. Of course.”

  It looked like an orange and red carnival. But it wasn’t. There were no rides here. It was two city blocks of folk art. I’d heard about it from my dad, how Jeff McKissack had begun collecting found pieces on his mail route and building this monument of stages and stairs, bricks and tiles, lost pieces of people’s lives becoming art, all in dedication to the orange, the perfect fruit.

  We paid our $1 and got our free orange juice and began to wander.

  It was bright out, which was perfect. The colors of The Orange Show popped against the vivid blue of the sky. This was touchable art too. I could run my fingers along the banged-out metal of the railings and sit down on old tractor seats given a new life. This place was made of concrete, brick, and steel, but it had ponds, an oasis, and a wishing well. I thought the Romantic poets might approve.

  This was chaotic harmony, pieces of junk brought together and made into art by the vision of an old country postman.

  I’d seen Dad’s photos of The Orange Show, but they didn’t capture its magic. It had to be seen and touched and walked through in order to feel the artist’s inspiration.

  “You like it?” Tommy asked.

  “I really do, Tommy,” I said, avoiding his eyes. I didn’t want to look at him because I was feeling so emotional. This place was filled with creative energy and not at all ordinary—very much the kind of thing I liked. And for Tommy to think of this for me, it made me feel like I was on the highest hill of the tallest roller coaster, looking over the edge, waiting to drop.

  We sat down on tractor seats in a small amphitheater.

  “It’s so cool,” Tommy said. “So cool that this mail carrier, in the fifties, started collecting scraps, old tires, thrown-away tractor parts, anything he could find. And putting it all together. He worked on it for decades.

  “Can you imagine? He must have really believed in himself and in what he was doing to keep working at it so long.”

  I looked around and knew I
had been wrong about art stealing the souls of its artists. Jeff McKissack hadn’t given up pieces of himself for his art, or rather if he did, those pieces must have come right back to make him richer than when he began. Maybe Vincent’s paintings had given him a joy he would never have known if he hadn’t picked up a brush. He hadn’t suffered for his art; he had lived for it. He had been the person he was supposed to be.

  That was what Christa had told me: the thing I had to offer was me and being true to that. She would have loved the story of the postman and his Orange Show. I could see her here, reveling in someone else’s dream. She didn’t want to just do something amazing herself. She wanted to share it, so others would reach for what they wanted too.

  But you didn’t have to travel to space to inspire: you could live your life, do your job, walk across the street and still create art. Jeff McKissack had left his monument as inspiration, Vincent had left his art, and Christa had left her spirit. Such a simple idea, really, but I felt like I—finally—got it. I understood.

  So what was holding me back?

  I felt my eyes water and turned my head so Tommy wouldn’t see, not wanting to share this with him or anyone else right now.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, trying to pull my chin around.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

  “Stop crying,” he said gently, wiping my face with his napkin. I could smell orange juice on it. “I can’t be friends with a girl who cries for no reason.”

  “Now my eyes sting because of the orange juice.”

  “No more crying, though,” he said.

  “This is perfect, Tommy. Thank you for taking me here.”

  “I thought you’d like it. The art-car folks your dad hangs with told him about The Orange Show.”

  “The Beatmobile would fit right in.” Dad had tried to get me to come here with him so many times, and I’d resisted. Over the years, I’d kept Dad at a distance in a lot of ways. But I knew I’d come here with him now.

  “A couple of years ago, somebody donated a Ford station wagon to The Orange Show for an auction. A local artist created the Fruitmobile out of it.”

  “I think the man who created all this,” I said, gesturing around me, “would have appreciated the Fruitmobile.”