A Soft Place to Land: A Novel

by Susan Rebecca White

  That said, Ruthie and Julia are invented characters. And they change so much after they are separated by thousands of miles. So pretty much once the Grand Canyon crash occurs, and the girls are split apart, the resemblance between my fictitious sisters and Lauren and me evaporates.

  You include great descriptions of both Atlanta and San Francisco. You grew up in Atlanta, and currently live there. You also spent time living in San Francisco. Did you need to do much research for the settings of your book, or were you already well versed in these cities?

  Though I know mistakes happen, I really strive for verisimilitude in my stories. My feeling is that if I want my characters to seem as if they are made of flesh and blood, then I need the world they inhabit to match the world as it is, or as it was during the time the story takes place.

  While drafting the book I didn’t do much research about Atlanta, but I did go to San Francisco for about a month, just to reconnect with the feel of the city. During that time I spent a couple of afternoons at the San Francisco public library, researching newspaper headlines from 1993, mainly so I could figure out what Mimi and Robert might discuss during dinner. After I finished a draft of the book I did a ton of research, to make sure that I was accurately describing the way Atlanta and San Francisco would have been over fifteen years ago. It’s amazing the changes that a decade and a half bring.

  Here’s a minor example: initially when I wrote the book I had Dara and Ruthie meet at Peet’s Coffee on Market Street in the Castro neighborhood of San Francisco. (This is the scene during which the two friends play “Who the Hell is He?”) But then I called my friend Ellen Sinaiko, who has run a café in the Castro since the early eighties, and I casually asked whether or not Peet’s had been there in 1993. I was fully expecting her to say yes. But it had not! So I had to change the location to Café Flore, which, in fact, I think works better as a meeting spot for the two girls. So serendipitously, by fact checking I actually found a better place to set the scene. Or maybe serendipitous isn’t the right word, maybe this minor example just proves how good things will come from sweating the details.

  There are great descriptions of meal preparations in the book. Do you cook? Did you invent Ruthie’s signature dessert, “Elvs”?

  I love to cook. I think of it as my second passion, behind writing. I read cookbooks for pleasure, and spend time imagining which foods might taste good together.

  I did invent “Elvs,” but I was greatly influenced by two sources: 1) the “phatty cakes” at Cakes & Ale restaurant in Decatur, Georgia, which are sandwiches of two spicy ginger cookies with a marscapone cream filling, and 2) a dessert I had at Woodfire Grill in Atlanta. I don’t remember the exact specifics of the dessert, but I know it included caramelized banana, caramel sauce, and bacon crumbles. It was both earthy and sublime.

  You’ve mentioned that you have a fear of flying. What made you decide to tackle that fear by incorporating two plane crashes into A Soft Place to Land? What do you imagine your last thoughts would be?

  Wow, I wish I had tackled my fear of flying by writing this book. Unfortunately, I have only intensified it, especially after researching the details of the “Miracle on the Hudson” flight. That said, I think it’s important for me not to give into the fear, so I’ve learned to deal with it by 1) getting a prescription for Xanax for flights, 2) adopting the mantra, “It’s probably going to be okay,” and 3) making sure I have a charged iPod before I go to the airport, because listening to familiar music really soothes me on the plane.

  I have some idea of what my last thoughts might be because I was once on a pretty intense flight that I thought was going to crash. Now, granted, I have an active imagination. Probably we were just going through severe—and I mean severe—turbulence. But there was a moment in the midst of the turbulence—I was hyperventilating, mind you—when the plane must have dropped 1,000 feet and I suddenly became very calm. I thought, Oh. This is it. This plane is actually going to crash. And suddenly, I was more or less okay. I was distantly sad that I was going to die but I realized that—as Julia says—it happens to everyone. I was glad that I had experienced such a great love with my husband, Alan, and I hoped the crash wouldn’t make the rest of my parents’ lives too sorrowful.

  Eventually the turbulence subsided, and I realized we were going to be okay, and I felt panicky all over again, felt like I had to get off the plane that instant even though it was an international flight and we had about six more hours to go. But in those few moments when I honestly thought my death was imminent, I experienced a strange and comforting peace, which I allowed Julia to have during her own experience on Flight 1549.

  Julia’s memoir incorporates personal details that Ruthie would rather not share with the world. Julia’s writing seems to be cathartic for her, but it has almost an opposite effect on Ruthie. Do you believe Ruthie is right to want to hold back details she remembers about their childhood? Which sister do you side with?

  I don’t side with either. I absolutely understand why Ruthie felt betrayed and I absolutely understand why Julia included the detail about Ruthie’s past abortion, especially because in her memoir she never refers to Ruthie by name, only as “Biscuit.” My showing both sides of the story was probably my way of wrestling with what it means to be a writer.

  Have you ever considered writing a memoir?

  While I love my life, and feel immensely grateful for it, I’m not sure it warrants a memoir. Basically all I do is read (a lot), write, teach, cook, eat (a lot), walk the dog (not as much as she’d like), spend time with my husband, and eat meals with friends. And do laundry. In the summer I garden. Occasionally I go to the movies. And I’ll take any opportunity I can to escape to New Orleans or New York for a few days. (And in New Orleans and New York what do I do? I read, I spend time with my husband, I eat meals with friends . . .)

  Which is all to say that the stories I make up are probably more interesting than my own life.

  What are you working on next? Would you ever write a sequel to A Soft Place to Land?

  I have just started working on my third book, and while I’m not yet ready to talk about the details of the story, I will say that cooking plays a huge role in it, and a good portion of it is set in New York City during the late 1940s.

  Right now I’m not planning on writing a sequel for A Soft Place to Land , but who knows how I’ll feel later. I certainly imagine I’ll continue to explore its themes in my writing.

  Click through for a look at Susan Rebecca White's latest

  A PLACE AT THE TABLE

  Available from Touchstone

  ROYAL AMBASSADOR

  (Decatur, Georgia, 1970)

  Some people think being a Royal Ambassador is just like being a Scout, but boy, are they wrong. It’s better! Cause everything we RAs do, all of the games and craft projects and circle shares and stuff, is in the name of Christ. And as our RA leader Mr. Morgan says, nothing is as sweet as Jesus, not even Coca-Cola. Mr. Morgan even has a T-shirt that has “Jesus” spelled out in fancy letters like it is on the Coke bottle, and beneath that it reads, “Is it!”

  Once I drank a whole one-liter bottle of Coke by myself and I got so fidgety my hands were vibrating like our seventy-two-year-old neighbor down the street, Mr. McDade, who Mama says has the shakes. Mama made me run around the house ten times just to get out some of my energy. At least she didn’t hook me up to the zip line, which is what she used to do with my brother Hunter, who’s wild.

  Daddy built the zip line a long time ago, as a sort of a combo Christmas present for all three of us Banks boys. It runs through the backyard, just before the land turns to woods, where all sorts of squirrels and rabbits and frogs live. What the zip line is, really, is just a long wire stretched tight between two trees. And there’s a handle on wheels that runs along the wire. You walk up the hill to the starting post, grab the handle, lift your knees, and whoa! There you go. Sometimes Daddy will give me a big push to start, and that’s the best because then I go flying through the
air, the wheels squeaking and screaming on the wire. When I’m just about to smack into the other tree either I touch the ground with my legs, sort of bumping to a stop, or my brother Troy—he’s the oldest—will grab me, stopping the flight.

  But what Mama used to do to make Hunter calm down was attach him to the zip line using a bungee rope and two carabiners, which are these big clips, one that would hook on to the handle and one that would hook on to the belt loop on the back of Hunter’s pants. Course, he could have reached back and unclipped the carabiner, but he knew if he did he’d be in real trouble when Daddy got home. So Hunter would go along with whatever Mama told him to do. Usually she’d make him sprint up and down the length of that wire for half an hour or so. Mama said that way he could get out some of his energy without getting into any real mischief.

  • • •

  Hunter is also an RA, but he doesn’t take it seriously. He’s only in it for the M&M’s. The other day he got in trouble for not listening during Mr. Morgan’s talk about the Wayne and Evelyn Marshall Truth Tellers Foundation, which is the missionary group we help sponsor. The third time Mr. Morgan caught Hunter goofing off he made Hunter pull his chair right next to his. Then he kept on telling us about our missionaries. He said that Mr. and Mrs. Marshall are originally from Kansas, but they moved all the way to Calcutta to help run an orphanage for children living on the streets. “And sure,” said Mr. Morgan, “the orphanage provides food and shelter, and that is wonderful, but more importantly, it introduces the poor orphaned children to Jesus. Can you imagine,” Mr. Morgan asked, “growing up without parents or Jesus? And I’m not just talking about children in India,” he said. “There are poor, godless orphans living right here in Decatur, Georgia, too.”

  Then Mr. Morgan showed us the picture of the special boy we are sponsoring, a boy who lives at the Marshalls’ orphanage in Calcutta. He’s my age—nine years old—and his name is Amit Patel. He is dark brown and real skinny, even skinnier than me. The funny thing is, when I looked at his picture, even knowing he doesn’t have a mama and daddy, I didn’t feel sorry for him. That’s cause he’s got a smile like he’s holding onto a wonderful secret. It’s a smile that makes me want to meet him, that makes me think he and I could be good friends.

  I want a good friend, a best friend. There are boys in the neighborhood I play with sometimes, but Hunter’s always with us and that makes it not as fun. Hunter says I act like a sissy and then he starts pretending to talk with a lisp, and it’s not fair cause that’s not how I talk! It’s just that sometimes when I get really excited the words get jumbled up in my mouth and they don’t come out good. It’s cause I’ve got too much to say and I don’t slow down enough to say it clearly. Least that’s what Mama says, and she should know; she majored in child development at the University of Georgia, where she also earned her MRS. (That’s a joke Daddy likes to tell, and whenever he does Mama will sort of slap him on the arm and tell him to hush, she was a very good student.)

  There is a picture book Mama used to read to me called Little Black Sambo. It’s about a boy who lived in the jungles of India. Even though I’m in the advanced reading group at school—Miss Lisa says I read at the eighth-grade level—I still like to flip through the pages of that old book. I wonder if Amit Patel is smart like Little Black Sambo. Little Black Sambo is so smart he tricked four tigers out of eating him. What happened was, Sambo was taking a walk through the jungle and he ran into four hungry tigers who thought Sambo would make a good breakfast. But instead of letting them eat him, Sambo tricks the tigers into chasing their own tails round and round a tree until they run so fast they turn into butter, which Sambo then eats, melted on top of a tall stack of hot pancakes.

  If I ever meet Amit Patel I’m going to ask him if he’s ever heard of a tiger running so fast it turned into butter. I don’t think that could really happen, but then again, there are mysterious and wonderful things that occur every single day. Least that’s what Mr. Morgan says. And I sure don’t think a tiger turning into butter is any stranger than Jonah living inside the belly of a whale.

  • • •

  Everyone has a best friend but me. Even Mama. Daddy says that Mama and Betsy Meadows are “glued at the hip.” They are so close that we boys call her Aunt Betsy, even though she’s not kin. Aunt Betsy lives down the street, but she and Mama met long before they were neighbors. They knew each other even before they were married. They were both at the University of Georgia together, where they were members of Alpha Delta Pi sorority, which Daddy said had all of the prettiest girls. Aunt Betsy has two boys, identical twins, a year younger than Troy. She says they are double trouble, but they’ve never given me any. And I guess Aunt Betsy’s going to have another baby soon; at least that’s what she was talking about the other day.

  It was midafternoon and Mama had finished all her chores, so she telephoned Aunt Betsy and told her to come visit. Aunt Betsy was there in a flash and a minute later the two of them were relaxing on the screened-in back porch, each lounging on one of the two white wicker chairs made extra comfortable by thick pillows covered in a pretty fabric with big flowers all over it, their feet propped up on matching ottomans. Mama had put two Tabs in the freezer before calling Aunt Betsy, so they’d be good and cold. Aunt Betsy sipped from hers while Mama’s rested by her side. I could see Mama’s handprint in the bottle’s condensation.

  I stood behind Mama, scratching her head while she and Aunt Betsy talked. Mama is not a fan of the new “wash-and-wear” hairstyles. She says at five foot two she needs all the lift she can get. The puffed hair on top of Mama’s head is hard from all the hairspray she uses, but you just push through and you can get to her scalp.

  “All I’m saying is, after what those boys put me through, I’m praying for a girl. I’m serious, Edie; you pray for me, too.”

  “You think you had it bad? You don’t remember Hunter? Mercy! I was on my knees each night praying the next one would be a girl.”

  “You were?” I asked.

  Mama reached her soft hand around to pat me on the arm. “But I was wrong, sweetheart. The only reason I prayed for a girl was I thought a girl would be easier. But you were an angel, weren’t you, doll? Slept through the night almost as soon as you arrived, only fussed when you were hungry or had a dirty diaper, didn’t mind sitting on the kitchen floor and just playing with Play-Doh all morning, while I did my work.”

  “I remember,” said Betsy. “I was jealous. You were a dream baby for sure, sweetheart. While Hunter was wild.”

  “Was?”

  “Is,” said Betsy.

  “He just came out that way. Fast and fearless. Once when he was three or four I left him alone in the living room for half a second, and next thing you know there was Hunter on top of the Mission bookshelf. To this day I don’t know how he got up there. It’s got a glass-fronted case. He must have scaled the sides.”

  “Good Lord,” said Betsy.

  “Well, he’s on top of that thing and he’s got his little red cape on around his neck and he’s holding his arms out in front of him like he was at the pool and about to dive off the board. I heard myself saying the three words I said most often to him, ‘Hunter, no sir!’ but I was too late. He was already plummeting toward me. I managed to catch him, but I twisted my ankle doing so.”

  “Mercy.”

  “But honestly, Betsy, don’t worry too much about this next one. The surprise babies are a gift from God. That’s what everyone says. Certainly was the case for Bobby. Not that I love any of you better than the rest, you hear, son? But you were an easy baby.”

  Mama is always checking her words, trying to make sure she doesn’t play favorites, but I know she loves me best. Probably has something to do with how much I love her, too. She just smells so good, on account of how often she rubs her hands with Jergens lotion, which is scented with almonds and cherries. She is prettier than most other mothers, too, so pretty she was runner-up in the Miss Georgia contest back before she married Daddy, and she flat-out wo
n a contest for her face to be on the side of the Greenfield Pralines N’ Cream ice-cream box. She almost always wears a skirt and heels—except when she is doing her “fitness walks” or gardening or deep cleaning the house—so she just clicks along the kitchen floor like a dancer. And she is the best cook in the world, well, except for Meemaw, whose pound cakes are so good ladies buy them straight out of her kitchen. Meemaw sells them for five dollars a cake, taking a maximum of ten orders a week, which always get filled. She says the steady baking is no problem now that she no longer has her job working in the lingerie department at Davison’s Department Store.

  I love to help Meemaw and Mama cook. By the time I was two I could crack an egg without getting any shell in the bowl. Mama swears to this, even though Christians aren’t supposed to swear. Most afternoons I’m in the kitchen with Mama, snapping beans or peeling potatoes or husking corn or mixing meat loaf, while Troy studies in his room or is off meeting with the Fellowship of Christian Athletes and Hunter plays sports outside.

  There are two rules Hunter has to follow when he goes outside to play. He has to always have a friend with him, and he has to wear a whistle on a string around his neck. If a bee stings him, he’s supposed to blow and blow and blow on that whistle until an adult comes running. Or have his friend blow the whistle for him, depending on how bad off he is. He’s only been stung once in his life, but he swelled up all over. It was during the annual Fourth of July church picnic supper at Clairmont Avenue Baptist. We all ate on the lawn, on blankets. After the desserts were served, but before the fireworks began, the kids started playing Red Light, Green Light. Hunter was the caller, so I stayed with Meemaw on the blanket, who brought one of her pound cakes to the potluck even though she goes to her own church and not ours. The reason I stayed with Meemaw was because Hunter didn’t play fair. He always said I moved even when I didn’t, and he would send me back to the starting line.