The female guard stayed in the room with me while there was some argument outside.
“So you pick random people to search, I guess, eh?” I said, in what was meant to be a conversational tone. My hands were shaking, and I felt sick.
“Yeah, we do.” She referred to the clipboard she was holding. “There’s a flag in here says you’re pregnant. We need to check that, of course.”
“Excuse me? You want a urine sample?” She laughed, thank God. If you’re dealing with people in uniform, it’s always a good thing if they have a sense of humour. “You’re not shy, are you?” she asked. Oh, jeepers. Couldn’t be.
They took a quick look in my knapsack, tossing my underwear and socks aside and peering into my overloaded toiletries pouch. They confiscated my nail file, but didn’t pay much attention to the blue velvet bag with Becker’s Dad inside. I told them what it was and showed them the official “these are human remains” papers, and they nodded and carried on searching. I guess it’s common for people to transport human ashes from place-to-place—just another day at the customs office. Anyway, they were far more interested in the puppets and their carrying case. It was as if the thing had “Suspicious Parcel” written all over it, and in spite of my expensive official carnet, they took the whole thing apart, piece by piece. They ripped the lining out of the case, looking for explosives, maybe. They even cut into the foam padding, leaving little bits of the stuff all over the table. I managed to stop them from performing a Caesarian section on my pregnant lady puppet, and I was allowed to demonstrate how the little door in her belly opened to reveal the small baby inside. It was an adorable little object, the puppet’s baby, about the size of your thumb, painted pink, curled up and sucking its thumb. The female gate-person even said “awww” when she saw it.
“What’s it made of?” the guy said.
“Papier mâché,” I said. “It’s hollow—nothing inside it, I swear.”
“We’ll have to run it thought the X-ray,” he said, taking the whole mess with him, puppets, baby, case and all. While he was gone, I was required to prove that the bulge of my belly was not a bunch of dynamite, taped on. This involved a certain amount of disrobing, and it was enormously uncomfortable, for both me and the woman guard, who I think was beginning to feel some regret about the whole thing. This may have been my imagination only, but it made me feel a bit better. She did not subject me to the indignity of a cavity search, for which I was thankful. I saw the box of rubber gloves on the counter by the door. I knew what could have happened.
The male guard returned with everything intact, more or less. They hadn’t seen fit to operate on the baby, and I popped it back into its proper place in the puppet’s belly, then did my best to put the whole case, padding and puppets back together. I was also pathetically grateful for their not having completely destroyed my work, and it wasn’t until after it was over that I realized how angry I was. Still, they were just doing their jobs, I suppose—as the woman said a couple of times on our way back to the luggage check counter.
They led me to the head of the lineup, butting in front in a most un-Canadian way to put me first. They stood by as I checked my bags properly, then handed me over to a waiting Marcel, who was looking grim. Everybody in the line-up was staring. I felt like a criminal.
“We didn’t get him—your guy, I mean,” he said. “But we’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“Look, I have to get on a plane,” I said. “The thug’s probably downtown by now, and anyway, he didn’t do any damage. Unlike some people.” I glared at the retreating backs of my gate security friends.
“Yeah, that was a tough break,” he said. “Don’t take it personally, though. It’s a new policy, post 9/11, eh? They’re just doing their jobs.”
“Uh-huh. So you might as well go off and do yours. You have my name and address and the description of the guy—you don’t need anything more, and I need to go. If you catch him trying to rob anybody else, send me a postcard.”
“Yeah—okay,” he said and backed off a bit. Maybe he could see my inner Rottweiler getting ready to attack—it was a wise move, anyway. I could feel myself growing fangs. My invaded luggage was finally on its way into the hold of the plane, but my stomach was growling like a bear, and I had fifteen minutes to find my departure gate and strap myself in.
“Have a nice trip,” he said to my back as I stumped away.
I know it’s not terribly cool to be a fearful flyer, especially since there are dozens of under-twelve airport veterans who treat the whole process as if it were a boring old preschool game. People who don’t mind air travel often regard those who suffer from aero-anxiety with a kind of patronizing superiority. They will quote statistics at you, pointing out that your chance of dying in a plane crash is far smaller than your chance of being struck by lightning or winning a lottery. They will emphasize the words “safe” and “comfortable” and “perspective”, and will make you feel like a stupid child. But the fact is, for me anyway, that I do not fear death by plane so much as I fear the experience of flying. I know that it’s reasonably safe—more so than driving Highway 401 in a blizzard, which is certain suicide. It’s the enclosed and powerless feeling that paralyzes me. It’s the sensation of being shut up in a metal box miles above the natural habitat of the earthbound human, where the air is as thin as Kate Moss and oxygen-free. It’s the fact that I’m not driving, and the driver, him or herself, is someone I have neither met nor even seen, and who might be someone I wouldn’t trust if I did. It’s the restriction and the surrender that I hate. Of course, media reports of hijackings and fiery crashes don’t make this discomfort any easier, either.
The logic of the calm air traveller goes like this: “This machine is proven to be reliable, statistically, and I have always arrived at my destination safely, well-fed and well-watered. If I took a boat, it would take a week, and instead, I’m here in seven hours. This is a good thing. QED.”
My logic stops at the statement about the machine. Strapping yourself helplessly inside a locomotive machine of any kind is an act of faith in human perfection, and my degree of faith in that is thin enough on the ground, never mind in the air. Perhaps my Catholic early years are to blame for this serious gap in my psyche. Most everybody else seems to have the ability to trust that what is made by men is worthy of its intended use, and infallibly made to boot. That’s why we use leaf blowers and Sea-Doos without a thought to the ethics of their existence, and we flick the power switch on without giving a toss how the hydro is generated as long as it arrives in time for us to boot up the system and log on. We have extraordinary faith in machines and their makers, it seems to me. Still, seeing as we’re always ferociously at war about the question of who the Ultimate Maker is, and genocide and attrition make us question the existence of any just god at all, perhaps the human version is easier to believe in.
It’s not that I don’t believe in something, but human perfection isn’t it.
After I’d found my seat and settled in, a female attendant labeled Natalie came to visit. I was looking over the pamphlet they’d given me with my boarding pass. Moms in the Air, it was called, with some very amusing illustrations. Presumably, a big airport computer somewhere had flagged my name with information about my gravid state. Then it twigged. It was far more likely that my official status as Lady with a Baby actually provoked the security search, no matter how much they had insisted on its having been random. On the other hand, I hadn’t had much choice about letting them know, as it affected my insurance and ticket purchase. Turning up large without warning them first would have undoubtedly provoked a similar search, which would probably have been more justified than the one I’d just endured.
Moms in the Air assured me that everything would be fine. Commercial air travel poses no special risks to a healthy pregnant woman or her fetus. The cartoon accompanying this statement showed a happy fat lady reclining comfortably in her seat and reading a baby magazine. At least they didn’t draw her knitting booties.
I had waved my doctor’s note frantically at the gate guards, but they’d hardly looked at it and had still made me bare my belly. The flight attendant was more interested—in fact she specifically asked to see any papers I was carrying about my condition, leaning across the elegantly suited man sitting next to me and tapping my shoulder. She had to do that because I was staring into nothing at the time, white-knuckling the pamphlet and reliving the search, quite unaware that she was standing there.
“I like to know what I’m dealing with, if you know what I mean,” she said, when I handed over Dr. Cass Wright’s “To whom it may concern” letter.
“Twenty-eighth week, eh? You’ll be fine. You might want to switch with your seatmate here, though, unless he wants you climbing over him every five minutes. We’re supposed to ply you with liquids.”
Mr. Suit looked suitably alarmed at the prospect, and I probably did, too. He was a small man, and I would have squashed him. It was nice of Natalie to suggest it.
“Oh, certainly,” my seatmate said and scrambled to undo his seatbelt and collect his briefcase and newspaper. I thanked him, and we did the musical chairs bit.
A pregnant woman should be advised to walk every half hour during a smooth flight and flex and extend her ankles frequently to prevent phlebitis. The safety belt should always be fastened at the pelvic level.
The illustration that came with this bit showed the large and smiling lady striding regally down the aisles like a loaded barge in a wide canal. In truth, I’d touched the sides on my way into dock, and I was leery of any navigation that wasn’t entirely necessary.
Natalie got close and personal to make sure the belt rule was complied with, then moved on. I suspected that I was in for some special treatment, and I wondered whether Natalie would notice that I was not smiling like the cartoon Flying Mom.
“Nervous?” my seatmate said. An English accent—a thick one. I nodded. The engines had just fired up, and they were awfully loud, although nobody else appeared to think they were. Doors were being shut with dreadfully final thumps, and the pilot had just done his opening spiel over the P.A. system.
“I always think the take off’s the worst,” I said, “until we’re in the air, and then I think being in the air is the worst until we’re landing, and then I come away thinking the landing is the worst until I’m about to take off again.”
“Ah,” the man said and smiled, kindly. “It’s like that, is it? Wear these. It’s Mozart.” He handed me a slim and obviously expensive portable CD player and tiny little earplugs. “Keep it hidden—they don’t want you wearing anything in your ears, but you’ll find it helps, I think.”
He seemed to know what he was talking about, and I figured it couldn’t hurt, so I slipped the little black plugs into my ears and fiddled for the play button. Of course, it was a curiously intimate moment, the one in which I checked my actions for a nanosecond, aware that I was about to commit orifice-related contact with an utter stranger. You think this is extreme? Have you ever taken a close look at the ear-receiver on a payphone? Yergh. They’re made of black plastic for a reason, you know. Still, the plugs looked clean, and so did he, so I was okay with sharing.
The CD was something orchestral and glorious, soaring and soothing, and I turned it way up, gave him what I hope was an appropriately radiant smile and closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew, the cabin was level and Natalie was poking me with a snack tray.
Nine
Finding out you’re pregnant is one of the most exciting moments in a woman’s life. But for women who find themselves pregnant far from their families—and the familiar—the joy and anticipation they feel can be tempered by an overwhelming sense of fear.
-From Big Bertha’s Total Baby Guide
I borrowed Mr. Fogbow’s earphones on the way back down to earth, too, and by then we were old friends, and as it was a night flight, we had sort of slept together. Over our ten p.m. dinner, Norman Fogbow had introduced himself as an anthropologist whose specialty was the study of human mating rituals and practices. If he’d said it with a smirk or a leer, I would have taken it as a come-on, but he was quite serious and genuine about it and eager to make sure I didn’t misinterpret him.
“I know that sounds unlikely,” he said, “but it’s quite true. Fascinating subject, and something we all care about, in one way or another. I’ve just been giving a paper at a folklore conference in St. John’s, Newfoundland.” He pronounced the name of the province the way the locals do—Newf’n’land—proving himself an observant man.
“What was your paper about?”
“Oh, my dear, you’d kick yourself for having asked me, once I got started,” he said and gave a little barking hoot, like the barred owl who hangs out in George’s swamp. He had fluffy dark hair, cut very short and going grey about the ears. His face was alert and a bit wicked, delicately-boned with a small, sharp nose. If you were flying the plane, I thought, I’d be fine with that.
“Where are you off to, if you don’t mind my impertinence?” he asked.
I explained who I was and where I was going and why, thereby breaking every rule in the “Single woman travelling alone” handbook that Theresa had shoved in the outer pocket of my knapsack. During the exchange of personal information, opinions about the airline food and personal philosophies, I discovered that Mr. Fogbow taught his subject at a minor college in London, was married with two children and was not fond of airline coffee. He displayed an uncanny knack for asking extremely personal questions in a way that left one quite comfortable about giving a frank answer. Perhaps it was just because mating rituals were his area of expertise. I felt like a tap he’d turned on, and I hope I didn’t bore him.
In my less-than-reticent account of myself, I had made little mention of Becker, and my ring finger was bare, so it wasn’t hard for Mr. Fogbow to surmise my unwedded state, and he could hardly have missed the baby-part.
“Are you going it alone, then?” he asked, with a quick referential glance at my midriff.
“That’s in negotiation,” I said. “Marriage was already a question on the table—the baby came up in the middle of it.”
“A bit hard on the baby,” he said. “It always seems to me such a waste of potential to bring a child up with only one parent.”
“Well, I suppose one parent is better than two parents at war,” I said.
“If it’s permanent war, yes, perhaps you’re right. But the occasional skirmish is character building, in my opinion. You’re not at war with your young man, are you? I see you’re not wearing a ring.”
“I have one,” I said, fishing it out of my shirt, where it had been dangling on its chain. “I just haven’t worn it yet.”
“You might think about doing that while you’re travelling,” Mr. Fogbow said. “It would make you less vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable to what? Interrogation by anthropologists?”
He hooted again, softly. “Forgive me—I’m afraid I am an incurable elephant’s child. You must tell me to stop.”
“No way,” I said. “You’re doing a perfect impression of a very expensive shrink, and it’s probably good for me. After all, we’ll probably never meet again after we land—but you’ll have another case study in hand, and I’ll feel all cleansed and re-motivated.”
“I’ll write up a bill, then, and post it later,” Mr. Fogbow said.
Not long afterwards, he settled down to sleep, burrowing into his airline pillow and emitting a few endearing peeps of contentment as he did so. I sat there motionless for a while, until I was sure he was properly asleep, then quietly reached up to undo the chain around my neck. The clasp was stuck, and I pried it apart with what I found in my pocket—Morrison’s ha’penny—th
en slipped Becker’s ring off so I could look at it. I held it up to the light and studied it for the bazillionth time. It was a relatively harmless looking ring, really. A simple gold band, no scrollwork or twiddly bits, set with a modest diamond that sparkled pleasantly, yet didn’t shout. I thought of Frodo, all befuddled and conflicted, meditating on his lordly ring. They’re powerful things, rings.
What had Mr. Fogbow meant by vulnerable? I suppose it was partly that single-woman-alone thing, complicated by my being a person of pregnancy. I had always felt reasonably impervious to the dangers out there—at least, I’d always felt that it was absolutely my own responsibility to defend myself against attack, and I’ve always assumed that I would be up to the task. What would wearing a ring do to change that? Mark me as protected, perhaps? A badge declaring me One-Walking-As-Two (or three, in my case)? Who needed a guardian, anyway? Not me. Somewhere deep down, a shard of memory stirred, a long ago lesson in self-defense that hurt where it touched the mind and made me pull back into myself, like a snail. We wouldn’t be going there, I thought. Not just yet, not while I’m testing the gods already, trapped in this wretched airplane.
I’d told Becker that he would know my answer when I either returned the ring or began to wear it. Poor mook. All at once, I felt deeply sorry for him, and for myself, too. Why did this have to be so hard? I looped the ring back on the chain, did up the clasp around my neck, and dropped it down my front again, where it hung suspended, as ever, between my breasts (my first real set of them, actually, quite alien still, and sore as hell).
Mr. Fogbow and I parted amicably as we emerged into the customs area at Gatwick airport seven or so hours later. His Mozart tape had made the landing bearable, and I was feeling quite the grown-up air traveller, all calm, perky and businesslike, in spite of its being four a.m., Canadian time. We exchanged business cards before he beetled off to find his luggage. Mine said simply “Polly Deacon, Puppets” and gave my mailing address. His had lots of academic initials after his name, the college address and information and his own personal numbers, faxes and email addresses as well.
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