They felt the landing gear clicking, clicking, clicking, unable to engage, and for the first time in her career, Mink was frightened.
Pyramid 2408 was barely 1,200 feet from the ground. She was going to try to land. She didn’t have a choice. She turned on the speaker. “Okay, brake, brake, brake.”
“Ease the power back now!” Mink screamed at McQuilla. “Easy! Easy!. . . . Left . . . left . . . easy.”
Then she heard the second explosion.
* * *
Thousands of feet in the air dark purple clouds billowed. The crew in the tower stared in horror at the wreckage in the making. Every service vehicle on the scene moved toward the carnage.
The police department arrived on the scene first. With all available trucks and equipment, Captain Mosely of the Detroit Fire Department had called in all firefighters in the Wayne County area. Dwight Majors was one of them.
With over three hundred passengers on board, and the possibility of the landing gear not working properly, the airport had prepared for a major disaster. Three hundred and seventy-five national guardsmen and one hundred soldiers were poised to assist the firefighters and rescue units at Metro. One hundred backboards were set up in area four by the airport’s rescue team. Dozens of red-and-white rescue vehicles were on the scene and waiting to plunge into action.
Members of the ground crew began shouting orders as flames shot into the air. It took only seconds to come to an agreement and coordinate everyone into a single effort. Everyone was talking at once. Captain Mosely issued the command: “On the double. Move! Move!”
Choppers circled overhead, talking to the tower as they heard from the radio, “Move in!”
Dwight fixated on the shouts of the survivors. He ran toward the crash. Men and women running away from the plane screamed. But when he heard the helpless screams from the children, he plowed into action.
Blood coated the survivors’ faces. Panicked passengers fled for their lives. Some were able to jump down the airplane’s inflated ramp, until suddenly there was a third explosion . . . then an eerie, odd silence.
Fellow firefighters worked fearlessly to pull the passengers away from the plane. Dwight ran toward a small body he saw trapped amid the flames. He stumbled, fell, and injured himself on a piece of metal from the plane’s wing flaps. Blood squirted from his leg, but he plowed ahead to save the small child. The little boy’s legs were stuck under a heavy piece of metal. Dwight managed to pull the child out and carried him to one of the ambulances. The smoke was blurring his vision. All of a sudden he heard a woman scream. On his hands and knees he crawled toward the woman, whose face was so blackened it was unrecognizable. When he reached her, he wrapped his protective arms around her, hugging her, until the screaming stopped. Only then did he realize he held his wife in his arms. In the distance someone was hollering “Medic! Medic!” Dwight’s energy was depleted. He pressed his wife’s head against his chest and said, “Hold on, sweetie. We’re going to make it.”
CARMEN
In praising or loving a child, we love and praise not that which is, but that which we hope for.
—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
C armen had things under control. She had a decent apartment and an okay job. But doubt kept creeping in. She’d gone back several times to her AA meetings, but she still felt like an outsider. Maybe she just couldn’t make it, maybe she was fooling herself. She missed talking to Spice.
Two days before, when her sponsor called, Carmen lied about going to meetings regularly and quickly hung up the phone. Today her mind began to glorify the high she’d felt while drinking, how good it was, how good it could be again.
Being cooped up in the apartment was wearing on her nerves. Her hands shook so badly when she tried to work with the dolls, she’d gotten frustrated and stopped. There had to be something else that she could do. Work another job? No. The added stress would probably make her want a drink more.
Deciding that it was time to get some exercise, she went out for an early summer walk. There was a small park two blocks away from her apartment complex, and listening to the laughter and gaiety of children of playing and couples chatting relaxed her.
She sat in a swing, pushed off, and swung her feet up and back until she soared higher and higher into the air. From across the street, she could see in the window of a quaint café a woman and a man smiling at each other as they sipped glasses of wine. Carmen felt an immediate resentment. Why could they drink like “normal” people and she couldn’t?
She watched the waiter refill their glasses and saw the pleasure sweep across their faces. Carmen’s tongue began to feel thick inside her mouth. She bit the side of her bottom lip and held it. She felt a twinge of anger as she continued to watch them. Feeling dizzy, she stopped and got off the swing.
Turning away, Carmen reminded herself that she had to take it one day at a time. But right now she didn’t feel that she could make it through this day. Her hands began to shake, and her mouth felt bone dry. Her heart pumped up, faster and faster, as the craving she tried to suppress gained strength. Damn! Damn! Damn! She was growing breathless.
Who was she kidding? She couldn’t make it. Somehow she’d always known that she couldn’t. Carmen pulled herself up from the bench and walked six blocks to the liquor store that she had passed every day on her way to work. Just touching the bottle inside the brown bag gave her comfort. And as she walked home, she felt uplifted by a sense of impending elation. She walked faster. Her entire body was coated with sweat when she shut the door of her apartment behind her.
She set the bottle on the coffee table, went into the kitchen to retrieve a glass, then sat down. When she reached over to grab the bottle, something stopped her. Placing a clump of fingers inside her mouth, she bit down hard, stifling a scream.
Don’t do this. You can make it.
Slowly she eased her arm back, clenching both fists on her thighs. Carmen told herself that she’d been sober longer than this before. Four months was nothing.
She willed herself to think, to tell herself that she was stronger than the bottle, that she wouldn’t be defeated again by alcohol.
The clock over the sofa ticked and ticked. Carmen felt the sounds reverberating inside her heart. She felt as though she were a time bomb ready to explode. She looked at the bottle and the glass again, then back at the clock. In nine hours she would leave for work. Telling herself she could make it, she went into the spare bedroom and covered the bed with newspapers.
For two hours she tried to paint. During that time, her hands shook more and more, and her head throbbed. But she completed six faces. None of them were any good.
In the kitchen, she tried to prepare a small meal and popped open a soda. She sat at the table, nibbling at a pastrami sandwich and pickle. An ice cold Vernor’s soda burned her throat and eased some of the rumblings in her stomach.
It wasn’t working. She needed a drink.
Pounding her fist in her palm angrily, she watched the vodka bottle watching her.
Back in the bedroom, she again tried to paint. She had to make it until midnight. If she concentrated a little harder, she could do it.
Carmen thought about Spice and how much she missed her friend. Even though a part of her still resented her success, the sane part remembered that Spice would begrudge her nothing and that always when it came to Carmen, she acted out of love.
Three and a half hours to go. She was beginning to feel stronger. She selected three faces from her unfinished porcelain dolls and took them into the kitchen. The painting was getting a little easier, and she had actually made one look almost real, the way she used to.
By eleven-thirty she knew she’d made it. Walking by the lonely bottle, she smiled. She showered and dressed and felt relieved for having conquered the evil that threatened her sanity.
When she picked up her purse and car keys, she stood at the door for a moment and stared at the bottle of vodka. She told herself when she returned home that morning, she would
keep the bottle in that exact same spot to remind herself of her weakness and her strength.
“You are not my friend,” Carmen said to the bottle, and walked out.
* * *
The very next afternoon, Carmen returned to AA. This time she no longer felt alienated from the others; she finally understood their common cause. With victory as her source of inspiration, she spoke with other members after the session was over. Each night thereafter, she found friendship. She found understanding. And she finally found salvation.
After a full week of going to regular meetings, Carmen got up her courage to call Spice. Specifically, she wanted Spice to attend an AA meeting with her.
As she dialed Spice’s familiar phone number, Carmen prayed that her friend had not deserted her. Did Spice understand her need for silence? Carmen knew she had to make the call regardless of her fears.
“Spice?”
“Carmen? Is that you?”
Carmen could hear the relief in Spice’s voice. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m alive!”
“Oh, thank God. Not that I ever doubted you. I knew you had to go away in order to come back.”
“Oh, Spice, it’s so wonderful to hear your voice.”
“Oh, Carmen, I’ve missed you—we’ve all missed you. When are you coming home?”
Carmen thought of her little apartment. She had paid a mover to go there and pack up so she would not risk seeing Spice before she was able to.
“Well, I’m not sure. I kind of like my life here—not that it’s nearly as entertaining as Southern Spice—” The women laughed together. “But I am calling for a specific reason. I was wondering if you’d attend an AA meeting with me.”
“Of course, I’d be honored.”
“It’s what they call a qualification meeting. After someone has been sober for a certain number of months, when they feel ready, they stand up and begin to make amends with the world.”
“I would be so happy to be there for you, Carmen. Just tell me when and where.”
When Carmen hung up, she couldn’t believe the inner light she felt coursing through her. She felt strong, as though her life were finally taking a positive direction.
Moments before she was to meet Spice, Carmen stood just inside the vestibule of St. Peter’s Church—jittery and biting the last fragments of her nails. Then she saw her friend approach.
As always, Spice looked magnificent, walking into the church like a princess.
“Carmen, talk to me. Are you okay?” Slipping off her lace gloves and stuffing them in her purse, Spice continued, “I know you’re ready for this. Otherwise you wouldn’t have called me, right?” She pulled Carmen closer, and Carmen once again felt her friend’s strong grasp.
“I’m just a little nervous. I’ll be fine. Come on, let’s find a seat.”
One hour and six testimonials later, it was Carmen’s turn.
“And now, I’m sure most of you know our newest member.” The speaker turned to Carmen. “She hasn’t been with us long, but today she’s ready to share her story with us. She’s a little nervous. This is her first time speaking, so ladies and gentlemen, please welcome her with a hearty round of applause.”
Carmen glanced quickly at Spice before heading up to the lectern. She took a deep breath, exhaled. “Hi,” she said bravely, “I’m Carmen, and I’m an alcoholic.”
The audience applauded in their usual manner, and it gave Carmen the courage to continue. As the group members continued to applaud, Carmen forced herself to look at the white wall ahead of her and not the onlooking faces. She couldn’t bear that . . . not yet.
Her sponsor had told her that she should talk for at least thirty minutes. “I can’t talk for that long,” Carmen had whispered to herself. Now she stepped back, lowered her head, then stepped forward again.
She was about to begin when a gentleman brought her a cool glass of water with a twist of lime, placing it on the lectern. Carmen took a long sip, relishing the fresh taste.
She met Spice’s smile, recognizing it as a bit of encouragement. Carmen was scared. She was ready to run right off the stage, but somehow she gathered the strength to go on. She thought of Spice’s old refrain: Promise me that you’ll take better care of yourself. With that loving thought in mind, she began.
“Just three days ago, I was here at a meeting. A young woman, a fellow member, got up and spoke. She talked about her mother, how much she hated her. When she mentioned why, I felt sick to my stomach. She’d been an incest victim, her father had abused her for years, and her mother knew about it, and didn’t stop him. That night I couldn’t sleep. I dreamed the next night and then the next about my mother. This went on for days before the truth hit me. The therapist had told me that I was suppressing something that I couldn’t deal with. I hadn’t believed her. Wouldn’t listen to her constant proddings to dig deeper.”
Carmen took another gulp of water. “Many of those who care about me think my drinking problems stem from the death of my beloved child in a fire.” She stopped. “That’s partially true.” She stopped once again and took another drink of water. “But what I’ve really been hiding, even from myself, is the fact that I was abused also, like the young woman I mentioned a moment ago.”
Carmen saw the shock in Spice’s eyes, and she looked away. If she looked at her for another second, she wouldn’t be able to continue. “I did some soul-searching in those days in the clinic, getting in touch with the pain and shame of how my child died in a fire and how I could have prevented his death if it weren’t for my drinking.
“Through suffering we learn wisdom. It opens our minds to all that is hidden inside us. Lord knows, God knows, that I’m no better than any of you.”
By now she was crying, but not bothering to wipe away the tears. Carmen felt strong, euphoric. “What I’ve hidden . . . what I didn’t want to face . . .” She stopped, caught her breath. “After the birth of my son, when I was all grown up and living on my own with some other single mothers . . . it was then that my father raped me. I was just visiting, had just come over to my parents’ house, and my mother wasn’t there. I had been drinking, but my father, he was drunk. And he raped me. I became pregnant. The shame, the humiliation of bringing this child into the world, this innocent child I didn’t want, didn’t ask for, was more than I could bear. I tried talking to my mother, but she spurned me, slapped me, telling me that I was no better than she was. What I wouldn’t know for a while was that she, too, was a victim, like all the women in my family, moving from generation to generation like a virus, spawning babies out of unnatural acts. The hatred I felt toward her began to build. I started drinking, and the alcohol took the place of my parents’ love.”
Carmen paused and then continued, “They say I experienced alcohol-induced amnesia. But I know it was my soul unable to reconcile itself with its pain. You expect your parents to take care of you, to protect you. You trust them because you love them.”
I trusted them.
“It’s difficult when you learn that you can no longer trust your parents. It’s hard. It hurts. It hurt me. But I was lucky, because at the time this happened, I was living with . . . my friend.”
Tears streamed down her face. Because her story was so real, so true, many of the listeners were in tears, too. “If my friend . . . my friend . . .” She stopped.
“And I say once again if my friend hadn’t loved me so much, I might not have survived.”
Carmen broke down crying. It took a few minutes for her to regroup. “When I bore that second child, my daughter, I gave her away. I couldn’t bear to look on this child of incest. People say that children born from incest are retarded, look funny, or something is wrong with them. Don’t believe it. My child was beautiful. But I couldn’t take the humiliation.”
Carmen paused again to gather herself. “Even though I knew the person who became my daughter’s mother saved my daughter’s life, and saved my own, I have never been able to forgive myself. Never. Until now.”
Carmen looked up
and found Spice’s eyes. “I want to let you know,” she said, extending her outstretched hand to Spice’s aisle, “that you saved me. I thank you, my friend, for saving my life.”
Spice was crying as everyone around her began to applaud.
“After my parents died, I went home to Midnight and did some digging into my family history. That’s when I discovered that the woman I thought was my mother was really my grandmother. And that my mother was really my older sister, who was so fractured by the rape by my father, she killed herself.
“I’d like to conclude by saying that any of you men out there who are abusing your children, stop. Please stop. A child shouldn’t have to suffer such a shameful sin, such an invasion of their privacy, and carry this burden and shame for the rest of their lives. Some never get over it, like my mother.” She paused. “Some die.”
A man in the audience broke down crying.
“Please, know that your children are worth loving, worth saving, and worth treasuring for just what they are—children seeking the love and respect of their parents. Help them, love them, save them.”
When Carmen stepped down from the stage, Spice met her in the aisle with a handful of tissues in her hand. Together, the two women walked shoulder to shoulder out the door. There were no words necessary between the two friends. Understanding and love was what they shared, and it was all that mattered.
SPICE
She was nurturing within her what had gone before and would come after. This child would tie her to that past and future as inextricably as it was now tied to her every heartbeat.
—GLORIA NAYLOR
W hen Pastor Taylor said, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Spice felt as though her feet were not attached to the ground. It was as if in this one instant, all the tendrils of her life—both light and dark—had come together. And when Golden took her in his arms and kissed her, she felt as if she were floating up to heaven.
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