To Catch a Falling Star

by L. Duarte

  FOUR B, THAT’S my seat. I think. The letters are billowing in front of me. I dump my backpack onto the spacious beige leather chair and stumble to the bathroom. My head throbs. I need a pain pill. But, first, I need to get a fix. Soon, the flight attendant will ground me to my seat for departure.

  The bathroom is small even for first class. I line up the white powder the best I can, roll a dollar bill, and snort. Tilting my head back, I close my eyes. My heart speeds with the anticipation of the white and cold numbness that will overtake my body and mind.

  I wipe the counter and shove the dollar bill in my pocket. With the exhilaration of getting high coursing through my body, I scramble to my seat.

  My body responds to the high, succumbing to the exuberant feeling of oblivious. This is my favorite part of the high. Takeoff. I can get high for the rest of my life just for the few minutes when I’m invincible and immortal. My heart pumps fast and hard, spreading the thick and cool blood through my body. I forget for a moment that I’m forgotten, unloved, and invisible. Yeah, I fucking love the dulling of my senses, as numbness covers my soul. It’s the thrill of oblivion. It eclipses the moot point of my existence.

  I call the flight attendant and request a double dose of vodka. A smile of recognition crosses her face. She is pretty. I mean, her tits are perky and they inflate on my face when she serves me the drink. I don’t really pay attention to her face. Yeah, it’s a long flight. If the sleeping pills don’t do their job, I will put her in the sack.

  I pop a pill in my mouth and rinse it down with the vodka. I wince as the undiluted clear liquid burns my throat and drops into my empty stomach.

  Then, the soothing smell of herbs permeates my nostrils. I glance to the side and, for the first time, notice the presence of a petite Asian lady. She wears thick glasses and her bobbed hair has a bad perm.

  She glances at me and smiles. Oh, fucking no. I hope she is not the chatting type.

  “Can’t wait to get high, huh?” she asks.

  “What?” I scowl.

  “Takeoff, that’s the best part isn’t?”

  “What?”

  “Flying, it gives that feeling in the pit of the stomach that sends everything else into oblivion. That’s an exquisite feeling.” She whisks her hand in the air.

  Realizing she is talking about the airplane liftoff, I offer a tight smile.

  “What do you have here?” Invading my personal space, she reaches across the seat and grabs my empty glass. Annoying and nosey. Should I request a seat change?

  “Whew. Not for me.” She sniffs the cup and winces. “But I really like champagne with fresh fruits, especially strawberries. I saw on a movie once. I’ve had them every opportunity since.”

  “Oh,” I respond, searching the compartments for fucking earplugs. I don’t mean to be rude, but there is no way I’ll waste the perfect solitude of a flight talking to an annoying stranger.

  “Could you please order me some?” Mrs. Nosey asks as the attendant strolls by, checking if the belts are secured. Pissed, I wonder why she doesn’t fucking order her damn fruits. But, eager to rid of her, I ask the flight attendant.

  “Excuse me, may I have a glass of champagne with fresh fruits, preferably strawberries. Also, bring me a package with earplugs and an eye cover, mine are missing.”

  “We are getting ready for takeoff, but I’ll see what I can do,” the attendant says with a broad smile.

  “Oh, the perks of being a rock star.” Mrs. Nosey sprawls back on her seat.

  Fucking great, she knows who I am. Without trying to be a douche, but clearly acting as one, I ignore her. Maybe she will notice I don’t want to make small talk.

  “Here we go.” The solicitous flight attendant is about to place the drink and fruit in front of me, but I raise my hand and point to the lady beside me. She shrugs and places it on the lap tray of the aisle seat.

  “Here is your package, sir, I apologize for the inconvenience.” She ignores the lady and turns away.

  “Oh, this is my favorite part of my job. Eating is very satisfying.” She pops a large strawberry into her small mouth. I’m not getting up to give her a Heimlich maneuver. Just saying.

  “But, sometimes there is a void inside us that nothing seems to obliterate.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask with irritation.

  “We are all searching for something in this journey of life. You don’t know yet, but you will find it.”

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” I ask. She clearly knows me. Which is no surprise, the fucking world knows me. Or think they do.

  “The perfect, pure melody you have been searching for your entire life. You are going to find it.”

  “What are you talking about it?”

  “You are going to recognize it the moment you hear it, Tarry.” She gulps the champagne down. “But she is not yours to keep, not for now anyway. Don’t screw this up, Tarry.” She looks at me. Her eyes pierce my soul. I wrench my eyes away. The intensity in hers is too strong.

  With my teeth, I tear the plastic wrap to access the earplugs. This woman is bat-shit crazy.

  “Have a good rest, Tarry. And congratulate Portia on her wedding.”

  Great, she already knows. I hope she doesn’t know the location of Portia’s wedding. The paparazzi would swamp the place.

  I slide the mask on and shove in the earplugs. My inebriated mind merges into a fitful sleep.

  Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean I wake up with a jerk. I snatch the blinders off. My head throbs again. Where are my fucking painkillers? I glance to my right and the crazy lady is gone. She must be in the bathroom.

  I call the steward and request a glass of water.

  I swallow the pain pill. My mind reels back to the conversation I had with the woman. I wonder if I imagined the whole thing. I glance at the seat. It’s still empty with no indication of anyone occupying it.

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten thirty, sir. New York, local time.” She offers me a smile.

  “Where is the lady who was occupying this seat?” I ask.

  “Oh, the passenger supposed to take this seat never made it.”

  “But there was a lady sitting next to me. You served her champagne and strawberries.”

  “No, sir, I served you. And you must have liked it, because you cleaned the plate.” She smiles and turns away.

  Shit, I’m hallucinating.

  Slowly, I open my eyes from my nap. My dazed mind realizes it was just a dream and I’m not in an airplane. Relief curses over me. I didn’t go back to using it, yet. A faint smell of oil paint reminds me I’m at the barn. It’s past noon. After church this morning, my body ached from exhaustion and I had to lie down. The preacher is back so my pathetic life is now complete with regular Sunday church and pathetic daily afternoon naps. Ridiculous, but it pleases Portia.

  I ponder the dream I just had. No, it wasn’t a dream, it was an unconscious recollection of the day I met Mel. Creepy and weird, I know.

  The distant rattle of rain tapping on the rooftop filters through an open window. I smell the scent of wet dirt and relish it. Secretly I really like rainy days. But it sounds too corny, so I keep it to myself. There is a solace when the curtains of water keep the world out and me safe inside.

  The weather is changing. The chill makes me shiver under the light blanket. I turn in the bed and my eyes focus on the gray clouds outside my window. Lightning crosses the sky, followed by the rumble of a thunder.

  I think about the day I met Mel. It was Thanksgiving. I had just flown in for Portia and Will’s wedding. Portia and Nillie convinced me to volunteer to serve dinner at a homeless shelter. When I entered the room, my eyes were immediately drawn to Mel, or Melody. Oblivious to my stare, she stood behind a long table looking radiant.

  I’d like to think that I was not attracted to her. She was very pregnant. I’m a jerk and all, but even I have standards. Screwing a pregnant woman is not on the top of my list. But, my eyes betrayed me a
t every turn. To the point that Mel was uncomfortable and Portia told me to back off.

  In hindsight, I think that the hallucination I had on the plane made me stare at her the way I did. What are the chances of having a hallucination saying you’re gonna find a perfect melody and, that same day, meeting Melody? Coincidence or not, it was a supernatural experience.

  Without my consent, my mind goes back to Friday night. In spite of the fact that the sadness in her lonely eyes bothered the living hell out of me, it was the best meal I’ve had in my pathetic life.

  I replay the conversation we had. Her smile is utterly the most fucking pure sight I’ve ever seen. My gut clenches when I remember her flirtatious charm. She was not trying to be seductive and, for that reason alone, it was cute and sexy as hell.

  The light on my cell phone indicates I have a voice mail. My heart speeds up with the anticipation of a phone call from Mel. Seeing her at church earlier, but not being able to talk to her was just shitty.

  I hit play to listen to the voice mail. Nope. Disappointment rushes through me. It’s a message from her father. I’m to wear comfortable workout clothing for my therapy. It is Sunday, but, apparently, I’m going hiking with a preacher. Shit, my life can’t get any lamer.

  Portia should be appreciative that I have caved to all of her demands, especially anything regarding her in-laws. Seriously, I question my reason to be here. Court order, you moron. No, I know this is beyond being under a court order. I could summon my attorneys to find a loophole around the judge’s fucking decision. Truth is, I’m lost.

  Portia and Nillie are the only people I have. Without them, I might as well make it quick. My death, that is.

  I glance out the window. To my disappointment, the clouds vanish and give way to a bright sun. I guess there is no escaping the hike.

  I scramble inside a faded cotton shirt and sweats. I grab a water bottle and stride outside to smoke a cigarette while I wait for the preacher. This will be interesting.

  I’ve barely lit my cigarette when I see a green Toyota pulling into the driveway. Shit, he is early. Now I’ll have to wait hours until I can smoke again.

  “Hey, Tarry, so good to see you. Sorry I could not talk to you earlier at church, but it was a busy morning after being away.” Portia is right; the preacher does have a grin glued to his face.

  “How’re you doing, pastor?” I stamp on the cigarette and shake his hand.

  “Are you ready to go, son?” he asks.

  “Sure, let’s go.”

  The ride is not as dreadful as I had anticipated. The preacher tells me about his trip to Colombia, where he and Maritza, his wife, have spent the past few weeks. He tells me about his grandparents, who migrated here from Ukraine. What do I care? Well, at least, I’m putting in my time of therapy without having to talk about me. Mel who? I’m in love with my new therapist.

  Finally, he pulls over into a parking lot.

  “We are going up on the purple trail. It’s Portia’s favorite.” He grins. It’s starting to annoy the hell out of me.

  He begins to climb the mountain and it appears effortless to him. For the first stage of the trail, we hike along a stream. For just a moment, I wish to swim in the stream. But, I puff along and follow the preacher, feeling lousy that a fifty-year-old is kicking my ass on a hiking trail.

  We hike in silence. Occasionally, he stops to admire a sight. No wonder Portia likes this trail. It’s fucking beautiful. It’s deep in the woods. The only sounds are the distant chirps of birds and the leaves in the breeze; it’s soothing and peaceful.

  When we reach the summit, he guides me to the ruin of an unfinished castle. We stand side-by-side at the top of the ruin. Stunned, I stare in awe at the panoramic view. There is only silence. Never has silence spoken so loudly before. No music, no conversation, and no noises. Just silence. Sublime, soothing silence.

  I don’t know how long we stay there absorbing the peace of the place. I’m not one to mull over deep thoughts and shit. But for a moment, I have a glimpse of understanding why Portia has changed into this brainwashed, la-la-land type of person.

  Peace can be so appealing; it grabs hold of a soul.

  “What are you looking for Tarry?” The pastor’s deep voice breaks the silence. I startle. And wince at the fact that he notices my reaction.

  “What do you mean?” I ask with skepticism. If he is thinking I’m spilling my guts to him, he is in for the same trip Mel took. My chest itches ferociously.

  “There is no double agenda to my question, son. Life is a relentless pursuit of the unknown. Whether or not we consciously choose to embark on this journey, every one of us is a passenger of this quest. That’s how we are wired, full of an undying desire to seek, to discover, to evolve. Humanity is a masterpiece. What is it that you’ve been searching for?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it,” I say dryly. I never had, not even after the hallucination on the airplane.

  “That makes it even harder to find, doesn’t it?” He grins. Another long silence follows.

  “This is where Will proposed to Portia.” He grins. “And this is where Portia told Will she was expecting Dominick and the baby they are now expecting,” he says. It’s so out of the soul-searching conversation he started that I’m unsure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  “Son, I don’t want to impose my beliefs in you. It would be impossible for me to interact with you without intertwining what I hold true in our talks. So I ask you to indulge me when I throw a thing or two about my faith into our conversations.”

  “Sure,” I say. Either he has no idea how to do counseling or he is bat-shit crazy.

  “Portia and Will searched for each other. I’m sure their souls cried out, until one day, their world collided. That’s a pretty darn good definition of a miracle, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Bat-shit crazy.

  “What are you searching for, Tarry?” he asks me again. Redundant, but I can deal with that.

  “The hole in your chest, son. It needs to be filled, if you want a fighting chance at winning this battle.” For once, he is serious.

  Fingers, long and rugged, poke against the aching, rotting flesh surrounding the fucking hole he mentioned. How the hell does he know about this hole that is so big it threatens to swallow me entirely? I never told a soul about this void that the numbness from the drugs scratches and makes almost bearable. My chest closes and the air ceases to reach my lungs. It suffocates me. It hurts me. Fuck.

  I rub my shaking hands over my eyes. There is no way in hell I’m crying in front of a man who knows shit about my life.

  “Oh, by the way, Maritza invites you to dine with us tonight. Do you happen to like authentic Spanish food? Portia loves it. In fact, I still hold my suspicions that she only married Will because of Maritza’s culinary skills.”

  The preacher places a hand over my shoulder and ushers me out of the ruins. What the fuck? Aren’t we supposed to dig deeper into the soul-searching crap? What just happened?

  On our return, the preacher alternates between silence and small talk. He seems pensive at times. That irritating grin never leaves his face.

  “Do you have any plans for when you are going back to work?” he asks.

  “My manager is lining up some gigs for me. But I need a court release before I can go anywhere.”

  “I see.”

  He drives past the church and parks on the driveway of his house.

  “Come on, son, it looks like you can use a good meal. You’ve lost a great deal of weight.”

  I follow him inside. The house is just as I remember it, simple and warm. Right after I cross the threshold of the front door, an older version of Mel pulls me into a tight embrace.

  “Welcome back, Tarry. Finally, you decide to come and visit with us. Portia talks so much about you, that it feels like we are lifelong friends. Come, we were just waiting for you to start eating.”

  “Thank you. It is a pleasure to see you again,” I say pol
itely.

  In the kitchen, my eyes search unconsciously until I find Mel. She stands at the counter with Dominick hanging from her hip. She is chatting with Lucas. Wow, it’s a fucking family reunion.

  I see Portia’s father, Mr. McGee shaking hands with the preacher. Un-fucking-believable, the tycoon seems right at home. With his arm draped over Portia’s shoulder, he laughs at whatever the preacher tells him.

  I restrain myself from scratching my chest and stride across the room to greet Lucas and Mel.

  “Hey, man, how’s going?” Lucas grins. Yeah, the grinning thing is a family trait.

  “Just back from hiking. Man, you had better work me hard next week. It sucks to have a preacher kick my lame ass,” I say. To my surprise, I hear Mel’s crystal laugh resonating through the room.

  “Don’t worry, Tarry. Dad is a professional hiker, if there is such a thing. He kicks ass at it.”

  “No shit,” I say.

  We talk for a while, before Maritza directs us to the dining room. A long table overtakes the small room. I steer close to Mel and sit next to her. From the opposite side of the room, Portia glances my way with a speculative look, but I ignore her. I fucking crave Mel and, the weird thing is, near her I can almost forget the damn craving that haunts me all day.

  If Mel notices my clinginess, she does not display it. Our elbows bump slightly every time Mel brings the fork to her lips. I’m relieved that Lucas sits beside us. He pretty much carries all the conversation.

  To my surprise, the empanadas and tortilla soup are delicious. I eat more than I’ve been eating. I can tell from Portia’s expression that my appetite appeases her.

  After dinner, we gather in a living room adjoined to the kitchen. I swear this is true: Mr. McGee and the preacher wash the dishes. Lucas, Will, and I get a free pass. I wonder if the New Yorker has published a piece about how well Mr. McGee can organize a dishwasher.

  I stand on the doorsill of the living room to observe the peculiar family—including Portia—at their prime. Dominick and Ella are playing catch when he stumbles into me.

  “Sorry, Uncle Tally,” Dominick says.

  “It is Uncle Tarry, Dominick,” Ella corrects him.