Plan C

by Lois Cahall

  I suppose it could be worse. The elderly woman next to me just set off the detectors with her artificial hip. But I’ve spoken too soon. Now I’m beeping. Or was that the guy in front of me again. Either way, while sweeping a black wand across my breasts I’m told to step aside to the side for further poking prodding, frisking, patting down and spreading eagle, which would be fine if some hot young stud were performing this task.

  “Before you know it they’ll be offering free pap smears,” says Kitty. The guard gives her the evil eye that says, “Don’t push it, sista!” I give Kitty a look, too. One that says, ‘Why don’t you have a cup of shut the fuck up!”

  “I’m going to Paris,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood, with my big toothy smile.

  But the woman patting me down ignores me and says, “Shoes off. Over there.” My enthusiasm doesn’t interest her.

  “I’m so excited,” I say, removing my left shoe. “I have to keep pinching myself.”

  “Other shoe.”

  “This time tomorrow I’ll be sitting in some café eating a baguette.”

  “Boarding pass,” she says, still deadpan. I hand it to her.

  “Do you think it will rain?”

  She examines the boarding pass, matching it to my I.D., and then finally cracks a smile. “Bon Voyage.”

  “Merci, beaucoup!” I say and grabbing Kitty’s arm. Soon we’re skipping to the gate as if we’re on the yellow brick road to Oz.

  *

  Punching in the numbers on my American cell, I record my new voicemail… “You’ve reached the voice mail of Libby Beal Crockett. I’m in Paris. Happy holidays! Call back after the New Year.” I click it off just in time because the cabin crew insists that all devices be turned off and stored. I turn to Kitty in the next seat. She’s fussing with her shawl, her blanket, her face serum, her hand moisturizer and the green gel-mask stickers which she applies to her eyes. She pops a sleeping pill. For somebody about to be thirty-five thousand feet above the earth Kitty is impeccably dressed – black Armani wool pants, Jean-Paul Gaultier blouse, and slip-on Tod’s driving shoes which she’s just slipped off, revealing her perfectly polished French pedicure toes and replaced. She pulls on her booties socks. Me, I’m in black running pants and a long sleeve tee shirt that reads “Oxford.” On my feet are white gym socks – the left toe has the beginnings of a small hole. Anybody in First Class would say I look as if I’d been stowed away in the cargo area for five years and just retrieved tonight. Nevertheless, I’m happy. I rub at Kitty’s arm.

  “I’m so glad to fly with my best friend to Paris. I love you, Kitty.”

  “It’s Kat now, remember.”

  “Okay, then, Kat,” I say, feeling sentimental. “And I’m glad you’ll soon be making money off of your client Helmut Fuck.”

  “It’s Fachhhhh.”

  “Do you have to be such a killjoy? I’m telling you I’m happy you’re here on the plane to Paris.”

  She remains buried under her eye mask, only patting my wrist to appease me before she murmurs, “Vive la France!”

  Of course I know in my heart that this is just me being overly emotional. It’s to do with Ben. It’s all to do with Ben, or the lack of him. How could he let me go alone to Paris without him? How could he just let me pack, leave and just go? An odd feeling takes over my stomach. It’s partly that I feel let down, but there’s also a pang of New-England-sensibilities guilt like when you know you shouldn’t have had that heavy second helping at Thanksgiving dinner. All that bread pudding with plum sauce.

  That reminds me…its just two days before Thanksgiving. I’ve never celebrated this traditional American day outside of Plymouth County before - let alone the United States. Do the French people even know what cranberry jelly and pumpkin pie means to an American?

  Well, what’s in a holiday if your family is all dead anyway? I have my daughters, but we hardly fill a dining room table. I guess there’s an upside to having nobody left for your Thanksgiving. Unlike the rest of tax-paying America, I never have to deal with the drunken, right-wing fanatic grandfather, or the religious hard-of-hearing Aunt who’s just found God, or the secretly gay cousin who only trusts me to know his proclivity, “but I can’t tell the rest of the family.”

  I was an only child, so I never had to worry about a brother bringing home some bimbo he picked up the night before and treating her to all the white meat from the turkey even though he’ll most certainly dump her before Christmas. And I’ll never have to deal with the older sister who announces her diet, yet again. Who diets on the biggest carb-devouring holiday of the year? Or her vegan yogi best friend who sits twisted into a pretzel on my dining room floor just as I place the platter of turkey down whereupon she announces, “I don’t eat anything with a face or a mother.” And, last but not least, I never have to deal with the hand-to-mouth peanut-shoveling football freak as he announces the score of every college game every five minutes. Of course, he always arrives with a bachelor best friend in tow. You know, the one who’s an alcoholic and feels the need to remind all the guests how many days, hours and minutes he’s been sober and then gazes longing at my glass of cold Sauvignon Blanc? Well, too fucking bad! I’m still drinking…

  But, is it okay not to slave over an oven for two days before this all-American holiday? Is it okay not to roll out all those pie crusts, or peel and roast the chestnuts for the stuffing? Is it okay considering my guests would down the entire meal in twenty minutes anyway?

  Madeline didn’t seem to think it was okay a few days ago as she stood there with a duffle bag of dirty clothes. I told her I was finally taking my dream trip and her jaw dropped. “But who’s going to do my laundry?” she asked.

  “Try your father,” I said, “Visit him for a holiday. Just remember to pack your sneakers, a warm coat, your cell charger…”

  “My birth control pills and find a job. I know,” she replied.

  But Madeline had taken up the argument again yesterday, when we had a three-way conference call with her sister, Scarlett - the one who had only managed to show up just once a year for the past five years and only in time to carve the turkey, yet never staying long enough to clear the table. Scarlett said, “It’s one Thanksgiving, Madeline. You won’t die. Why can’t Mom do what she wants for a change?”

  “What are you, kidding?” said Madeline. “Since when do you care?”

  I was impressed. Suddenly Scarlett seemed to get it, though the argument didn’t stop there.

  “You’re being a brat,” said Scarlett. I listened while tossing a collection of woolen sweaters into my suitcase.

  “Really?” said Madeline. “I’m a brat. Does Mom know you’re smoking cigarettes now?”

  “What?” I ask. “No, Scarlett! You can’t take up smoking in your twenties, especially when you’re on birth control pills. It will cause blood clots, strokes, heart attacks and…” “

  Did you have to tell Mom that, Madeline?” said Scarlett. “Now I’ll never hear the end of it. But does Mom know you skipped classes last week to hook up with some ghetto dude?”

  “What?” Madeline, no! Not you, too,” I said in shocked disbelief.

  “He’s not a ghetto dude. He’s just not in college,” said Madeline.

  “What do you mean not in college?” I asked.

  “He works full time.”

  “Yeah, as a bouncer at a nightclub,” said Scarlett. “They met at a beer drinking tournament.”

  “So at least he has a job!” said Madeline.

  “Yeah,” says Scarlett. “Unlike the last guy you hooked up with who said he plans to find a way to capture lightning.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a scientist,” said Madeline. “Mom, he said, ‘If I could find a way to harness lightning for energy, we’re on to something.’”

  “Well that’s lovely, honey,” I said, “And he’s right.” I have to wonder how many joints they smoked before coming up with that idea.

  “You’ll like my new Jamaican boyfriend, Mom,
I promise,” said Madeline.

  “Baby boo I’m looking for you,” said Scarlett in her best Jamaican accent.

  “At least he didn’t dump me for a girl still in high school like some people’s boyfriends did…” said Madeline.

  “Really? Does Mom know about your degree?” said Scarlett.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “She’s going for her Bachelor of Science.”

  “Yeah, more like her Bachelor of Smoothies,” said Scarlett.

  “Madeline, what is your sister talking about?”

  Madeline went quiet.

  “Oh no, let me tell you mom,” said Scarlett. “When your youngest daughter graduates from college she’s opening a smoothie shop — in Jamaica.”

  “I didn’t say Jamaica!” barked Madeline. “It could be Barbados…” As though Barbados would make a difference.

  “Mom, don’t listen to her,” said Madeline. “I love college. I finally feel like a real student.”

  “That’s a good thing,” said Scarlett, “Since the semester is over in a week.”

  “I’m working on my final paper for English class now, so mind your business,” said Madeline.

  “Oh, you mean you aren’t studying your usual book?” asked Scarlett. “The Bartenders Guide to Mixing 600 Cocktails.”

  “I said to mind your business,” said Madeline.

  “Madeline,” I said, “Just be sure when you’re done writing that paper you attach a nice note to that Professor telling him how much you enjoyed his class.”

  “You mean the note that says I would have screwed you if you didn’t fail me?” said Scarlett.

  “I didn’t say he was hot,” said Madeline.

  “Yes you did!” says Scarlett.

  “It’s the Economics teacher who’s hot!”

  As the two girls carried on, I felt myself moving further and further into the distance - yet miraculously closer and closer to my luggage clasps.

  “And you still go to tanning booths!” said Scarlett. “Mom says you’ll get cancer!”

  “At least I’m not getting a tattoo on my…”

  ‘Girls! Girls!” I said. They fell silent. “You could try being with your father this holiday.” The moans ensued. “Oh, it won’t kill you. I love you. I’ll send you a postcard. Au revoir and I’ll see you sometime in the new year.” And just like that, I hung up.

  *

  Kitty’s hand suddenly reaches out and touches my left wrist. She offers a weak smile and speaks from under her eye mask. “Before my sleeping pill kicks in, I want to say…on that thing you said before….”

  “That I’m glad I’m with you?”

  “Yes. That,” says Kitty. “I’m glad I’m here, too. But let’s sleep. That’s why they call it a red-eye.” And then she adds, “Besides, I have a huge moment riding on Helmut.”

  “As it were…”

  But she doesn’t laugh at my joke. She’s already asleep. I close my eyes, too, reclining in my contoured seat. We’ve just reached cruising altitude.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Until you’ve lived in Paris, and had your very own apartment there, you can’t imagine the thrill of throwing open your twenty-foot-high double atrium windows to reveal a rusted metal window box that’s covered in a year’s worth of pigeon droppings. Simone wasn’t kidding when she said she never has time for Paris. But I do, and here it is, right in my face – Paris, alive and singing, completely and utterly at my disposal. It’s like the red carpet but without the velvet rope.

  I can see Notre Dame’s steeples just above the buildings since I’m only one street over from the Seine, just as Simone said.

  I’ve always loved Paris, but this time is different. This time I can place my suitcase down and call it home.

  Simone wasn’t kidding about the flight of stairs, either. The white stone steps form a spiral that tilt as you go up getting narrower with each tread. One of these evenings, undoubtedly after too many glasses of Lillet with a twist of orange, I’ll go spiraling down, destined to reach the bottom the hard way.

  I roam from room to room. It’s all mine for an entire month “or two” she had said, “Stay however long you like.” My fingers caress the rose-and-daylily fabric wallpaper that feels like an inside-out birthday present from turn-of-the-century in America. Only yesterday I felt like some pathetic woman aging in a turn-of-the-century novel. Today I feel like Francoise Sagan! And I’m sure I could come up with one of her over-the-top quotes of the day.

  My long, hot bubble bath is accompanied by the classical music that seeps down from the upstairs apartment. When the bubbles are dissolved, I rise from the settled water, wrap a plush towel around my torso, unlatch the bathroom window and watch the vapors escape in a swirl above the other rooftops. Across the way, I spy an architect sitting at his desk gazing up at me. I move carefully behind the etched glass so he can only see my naked silouette as I slather almond body butter on my freshly shaven legs.

  Ten minutes later I’m wearing a forgiving baby doll black dress. Turning left and right at the closet door mirror, I’m inspired by Francoise Sagan to change my mind… “A dress makes no sense unless it inspires a men to take it off of you.”

  Now then…No more nicey-nice. No more mom. No more age-appropriate. I’m in Paris now. “Je suis a Paris!” I scream to the ceiling. I want to be young, rebellious and uninhibited. I rip off the sweet dress, unsnap my bra and stare at myself in the mirror naked. Not bad. As long as I don’t turn around to see my fat ass. Then I lower the lights, close the drapes slightly and return to the mirror, backwards. Okay, it’s fat. There are worse things.

  I reach up to the shelf to where I’ve folded several pair of skinny AG jeans purchased on credit from Bergdorf Goodman just before I left Manhattan. Pulling them on, I like the way they hug my hips, and caress my ass - like a glove. Carefully I unwrap the beaded, animal-print, tank top with a Robert Cavalli label, still in tissue paper with a price tag. I tear it off and toss the tag in the basket - no need to remind myself how much it cost me. I can’t afford it anyway. So what if my daughter’s college meal card was cheaper? The way I see it, if you haven’t risked missing a mortgage payment by the time you’re forty, what the hell are you waiting for?

  I pull the tank top over my head and stand back admiring myself. It flows perfectly over my perky breasts and carves my waist to slimness. A burgundy knotted scarf around my neck to top it off and then the final touch: I slip into my one big, guilty pleasure – my Hogan boots.

  Grabbing my jacket from the chair, I spy my wristwatch on the table, but ignore it. What does it matter? I’m on my own time now. I pluck the house key off the marble table, clomp down the circular stairs – much easier than climbing up – and jump-land off the final three steps to the cobblestone inner-courtyard below.

  The massive red metal door leading to the rest of France is a chore to pull open, but once I do, I’ve entered paradise. A man whisks by me on a bicycle - the kind with a wicker basket – but not before turning his head to holler out, “Bonjour!” to which I reply, “Bonjour!” with a grand air of confidence. I can do this. I can be Audrey Hepburn in Paris. I can be Catherine Deneuve in “The Umbrellas of Cherbourgh.” I don’t need Ben and his perfectly fluent French to survive here. I have three years of Pimsleur French CD lessons under my belt. And my attitude is that of an explorer ready to set sail into this New World. This city of lights.

  Seconds later I’m across from the Pont Neuf admiring the willowy and old trees that dot the Seine. They stoop like a drunken grandfather - like something straight out of a Pissarro painting. I bet that very Pissarro picture is housed in the Louvre museum I’m staring at right now, this very second, just across the river. Oh, my God! I’ m here. I’m in Paris! “Je suis a Paris!” I say again and again, clapping my hands with girlish delight and jumping up and down.

  Golden leaves twirl at my ankles and I fiddle with my new Canon camera, snapping photos of the architecture lining the Seine. Their buildings are centuries old a
nd meticulously thought out - twenty different shades of yellow, beige, crème, white, bisque, parchment. Nothing on earth could be this romantic or historic yet at the same time feel so current and real. Anybody who tells you a weekend in Paris is enough… is lying.

  The French say, “un coup de foudre” – love at first sight - and just like that, the rules of my life seem suddenly suspended. Its been one day and one evening since my arrival, and, with only a ten minute catnap in between, I’ve covered the length of the Left Bank, crisscrossed back and forth from the George V on the Right back to the Musee d’Orsay on the Left again, passed the Louvre, cut through the Ile de la Cite to Saint Chapelle and into the fashionable Marais, where the mood turns to creative and spontaneous. Paris is like a Hollywood movie studio as you zig-zag from one stage set to another, visually changing with each arrondissement.

  And the best part of all….I don’t have to get back home to cook dinner, go over homework papers, get to bed early for that staff meeting at 8 a.m. No more life on a clock. I can stay out all day. Or all night. There’s nothing to worry about but selfish ole me.

  A boy bangs into me. “Pardon,” he says, smiling, as he joins a group of teenagers crammed at a traffic light smoking. Their attitudes could resemble any fifteen-year-old-American, their voices highlighted with defiance. One boy talks about the fence he scaled to avoid an ex-girlfriend. He’s talking too fast for me to grasp all the details though I’ve gathered that he “je ne veux jamais encore la voir” – he never wants to see her again. Perhaps he’s onto his Plan B?

  Then he stops talking. And stares at me, sensing my eavesdropping. He blows smoke rings toward my face.

  “Salut!” I say, daunted by his attitude.