by Curtis Bunn
Before he could ask for a cup of water, the plane hit some turbulence and rocked. Right away, Paul was panicked again, only worse—and Ginger knew it. She could see it in his eyes, which darted back and forth.
“Come on, sit back down,” she said, guiding Paul back to his seat.
“What’s going on?” he said. “What was that?”
“A little turbulence, that’s all,” the flight attendant said.
“But why? Why is the plane shaking?” he asked.
The flight attendant got him secure in his seat before answering. “It’s just that we’re going through some clouds or some wind bursts,” she said. “Nothing big.”
“Dude, you gonna be OK? You ain’t gon’ throw up on me, are you?” the sleepy guy next to him said. Paul did not answer.
The captain came over the intercom. “Folks, please strap yourselves in. We have some rough spots up ahead that will make it a little bumpy. But we’ll be fine. It should only last about five minutes.”
Those five minutes seemed much longer to Paul. All the good feelings he mustered up diminished. He reached up to open the air vent above his seat; he was getting hot, sweating profusely and he felt as if the cabin was shrinking around him.
In his panic, he wondered how the lady to his right could continue to fiddle with the puzzle and how the guy next to him fell right back to sleep. The plane not only was jumping, but it was spinning, too, at least in his mind. He felt like he was drunk off of two bottles of Shiraz, but was also fiercely scared.
Paul decided he would close his eyes and hold on. He started reciting a poem he memorized called “Invictus,” by William Ernest Henley:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
In focusing on the words, Paul’s attention was off the turbulence. And while he was far from comfortable, he did stop sweating.
He recited the poem over and over until, finally, the plane stabilized; they were out of the turbulent area. Paul did not open his eyes, though. He kept them closed, hoping that he would drift off to sleep so he wouldn’t have to deal with anything else that could come.
And there was more to come. His mother and mother in-law, sitting side-by-side, got along like a mongoose and a snake.
“What’s wrong with him?” Madeline asked Brenda, which was not a good thing to ask.
“What’s wrong with you?” Brenda replied. “You smell like a bottle of Scotch.”
“Actually, it’s cognac,” Madeline said. “You know the last time I was on vacation? Do you know what’s been going on in my life? And do you know that I am sixty-four years old? I can drink whatever I want, whenever I want.”
“Who said you couldn’t?” Brenda asked. “I wanted to know if you have a drinking problem. We’re going to the wine country. I mean, we will be drinking a lot.”
“I have always been respectful of you, and I don’t want to not be respectful now,” Madeline said. “But I really don’t give a damn what you think. I lost my husband of forty-four years less than a year ago. Do you have any idea what that is like?”
“Actually, I do, sort of,” Brenda said. “I lost my second husband—my first marriage lasted a year; we were both too young. I woke up one morning and said I didn’t want to be married anymore. And just like that, it was over. So, yeah, I understand exactly what you mean. My husband didn’t die, but he might as well had. Shit, I wish he were dead because I feel like I wasted a lot of years with him.”
Madeline laughed. It was one of the few times they shared a laugh in the twenty years they knew each other. She then twisted the lid off her stash of Remy Martin and handed it to Brenda.
“Go ahead,” Madeline said. “You could use it.”
Brenda stared at it for a few seconds, reached over and took a swig. She curled up her face. “This is too strong for me,” she said. “But it did warm me up.”
They laughed again. And whatever animosity they held for each other subsided with each turn they took downing the alcohol.
Ginger sat a row behind them, watching in disbelief. She did not know what to think, how to feel. She thought: Wow, it is great to see them actually talking and laughing. But is my mother corrupting Ms. Wall? This is crazy.
She shook her head. She was in a crossfire of drama. To her right and two rows behind her was her husband with his eyes closed reciting a poem. In front of her were her mom and mother-in-law getting drunk.
This is gonna be some trip, she said to herself.
CHAPTER 6
TOUCH DOWN
It was a rough landing. The wind off the San Francisco Bay rocked the plane on its approach to the landing strip. Paul closed his eyes tighter and recited the poem louder.
And when the pilot got it on the ground, it was as if it were dropped from the sky.
Boom!
So hard was the landing that an overhead bin opened up on impact. None of this made Paul feel good about the prospect of having to fly back home in a few days.
People clapped that the plane was safely on the runway, and Paul was confused. “They’re clapping for that landing. I damn near got whiplash,” he said aloud.
“No, dude,” the guy that had slept nearly the entire flight said. “We’re clapping for being safe. You never flew before?”
“Long time ago, when I was a kid and didn’t know any better,” he said.
“Don’t sweat it, man,” the guy said. “Go to sleep. It shortens the trip.”
“Up in the air is not the place to be,” Paul said. “But I hear you.”
His and Ginger’s eyes met, and she offered him a reassuring smile that said, “You did it.”
He smiled back—and then looked right ahead of Ginger and noticed his mom and Madeline chatting as if they were old, close friends.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Gin?…”
His wife looked at him, shook her head and hunched her shoulders. Then she did the motion with her hand toward her mouth to indicate they had been drinking. Paul rolled his eyes and grew concerned. The impact of alcohol could take it one of two ways, and one of them was not good.
But to see them getting along made Ginger and Paul feel good—even if it was alcohol-induced.
“I see we’re gonna have to keep them drunk to make sure this is a good trip,” Ginger said to Paul when they exited the plane.
“Maybe I should get drunk before the flight back,” he said.
“You did good,” Ginger responded. “It was a little rough for you in the beginning, but it got better. I’m proud of you. How do you feel?”
“Not as good as them,” he said, looking at Brenda and Madeline. “You’re right; gotta keep them drunk.”
“That shouldn’t be hard considering where we’re going,” Ginger said.
They walked over to their parents, who were giggling like schoolgirls.
“How’s it going?” Paul asked.
“Great,” the parents said in unison.
Paul and Ginger looked at each other and smiled.
“Let’s pick up the bags and then go rent the car,” Paul said.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Madeline said.
“I’ll go with you,” Brenda said, and off they went.
“Am I in the Twilight Zone or something?” Ginger said.
“Hey, let’s ride it out. It might
not last,” Paul said.
Paul was right. By the time they picked up the luggage and started up the 101 Freeway toward San Francisco, it started to change.
“It’s about ninety minutes to get to Napa,” Brenda said. “We should stop in San Francisco and find someplace to watch the game.”
“The game?” Madeline asked. “What game?”
“The Redskins are playing the Cowboys,” Brenda answered. “We are Redskins fans in my house.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Ma,” Paul said. “And we can get something to eat, too.”
“Aren’t we having Thanksgiving dinner at the hotel?” Madeline said.
“Yes, but it’s only two o’clock now,” Brenda said. “Dinner is at eight-thirty.”
“At eight-thirty?” Madeline said. “That’s eleven-thirty East Coast time. That’s too late.”
“So you want to have Thanksgiving dinner now?” Brenda asked.
And back and forth they went for another two minutes, the dialogue increasing in contention as they went on. Paul glanced over at Ginger, who closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Mother,” Ginger chimed in, “what’s wrong with stopping in San Francisco and having lunch? You have never been to San Francisco. I haven’t either. It’ll be a shame to drive past it without at least stopping for a short time.”
“Look,” Madeline said, pointing to the dramatic skyline of San Francisco off in the distance. “There. You’ve seen it. Let’s get to where we came out here to visit.”
“Don’t worry,” Brenda said, “I’m sure there is alcohol in San Francisco, too.”
And it went from contentious to ugly in warp speed.
All the chumminess developed on the end of the flight was crushed. Madeline was irate. It didn’t help that she still had a slight buzz from the drinking. It heightened her emotions.
“You have some nerve, Brenda,” Madeline said. “You sat there and drank most of my stash and had two—wait—three other drinks. That’s just like an alcoholic to try to point attention at someone else.”
“Alcoholic? I was only drinking so you wouldn’t drink that whole thing by yourself and get crazy behind it,” Brenda said. “And I didn’t drink most of that cheap liquor you had. Tasted like spoiled Witch Hazel.”
Madeline was ready to go “ham,” as the kids say, when Ginger jumped in. “OK, OK,” she said. “Not in front of the children.”
Paul burst into laughter, hoping his action would charge the parents to calm down, at least a little. It worked. Well, sort of. They stopped bickering but stopped talking altogether.
They moved away from each other, up against the back doors of the rented Monte Carlo.
“Mrs. Price, I hope you don’t mind if we do stop in the city,” Paul said. “I’d like to see the game and I’m hungry. Aren’t you? It’s Thanksgiving afternoon, but we should be able to find someplace where we can eat and watch the game.”
“I think we’re all probably a little irritable because we’re hungry,” Ginger chimed in. “And I don’t particularly care to watch the game. But I’d like to see San Francisco. Let’s go down to Union Square. I read about it. We should be able to find a place to eat with some TVs, too.”
The parents in the backseat did not say a word. They looked out of their respective windows, seething.
Paul and Ginger were disappointed that the harmony did not last an hour. Ginger turned on the radio and searched for songs that would promote a good mood.
They hit near-standstill traffic about five miles from down-town—surprising for Thanksgiving afternoon. “Can you believe this?” Paul asked, looking over his shoulder at the in-laws. Neither responded.
It was then that Ginger, ironically enough, found a song on the radio that fit the occasion: “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge.
She turned up the volume on the song and started to sing along with it. So did Paul.
The parents looked at their kids with disdain.
When the song ended, Paul decided to give the seniors a speech for them to consider.
“That song came on at the right time,” he said. “We are supposed to be reminded that we are a family. Like it or not, that’s what we are. And we’re doing something most families don’t get a chance to do.
“We’re taking a trip together as a family. In the end, that’s all we have. We are the people we should be able to rely on. And we shouldn’t be at each other’s throats. Especially today. How can we, on Thanksgiving, sit up here and listen to our parents go at it like enemies? That’s not right.”
“I cannot believe it, to be honest,” Ginger contributed. “Although we are adults, parents never stop teaching and being parents. This is a bad example. Helena will get married one day and I hope to God Paul and I do not behave with her in-laws as you are. It doesn’t make any sense. We respect you so much. But this is disappointing.”
The women felt foolish, but did not respond.
Paul waited a few minutes before saying anything else. They had arrived in downtown San Francisco. They maneuvered up and down the hilly streets toward Union Square. Instead of piling it on, he decided his place was to leave it alone and show his mother respect. Under any circumstance, he would honor his mom.
“Welcome to San Francisco,” he said. “I can’t believe I am here. I heard so much about it, seen it on TV. To be here…”
“It’s very nice,” Ginger added.
Paul decided to park in a lot right in Union Square, across from Macy’s. A prodigious Christmas tree with big, colorful bulbs rested in the center of the square, adjacent to an ice-skating rink.
The mild weather—temperatures in the mid-sixties—promoted walking, and there were many people out on Thanksgiving afternoon milling about.
Paul walked from the underground lot with his arm around his mother’s shoulder and Ginger locked arms with Madeline.
“Ma, we’re in San Francisco,” Paul said. “How awesome is this?”
“It is beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t tell you earlier, but I will say it now, son. I’m proud of you to get on that plane. I read all about people who have a fear of flying. Do you know most of them never conquer it? But you have. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Paul said. “It wasn’t easy. I hated it, to be honest. But I did it.”
Behind them, Madeline said to her daughter: “See what I mean? She thinks she’s better than us, trying to talk about my drinking when she probably had more than me.”
“Mother, it doesn’t even matter,” Ginger said. “Like you told me, you are grown and can drink what you want. We don’t need her approval. I simply don’t want you to let something she—or anyone, for that matter—says influence your trip. This is supposed to be a great trip.”
“You’re right, honey, and that’s what it will be,” Madeline said. “People make me shake my head.”
They walked around the square and up the hill, past an Italian restaurant, Scoma’s, which was closed. The doorman at the small hotel suggested a diner on the corner, a small spot across the street or an Italian restaurant around the corner. But Ginger spotted a Marriott.
“They should have a bar and restaurant, right?” she said.
“Let’s try it out,” her mother said.
Not only that, but they had the Redskins game on, too.
“Ma, this is perfect, right?” Paul said.
That comment annoyed Ginger. It was as if he was still seeking his mother’s approval.
“Perfect,” his mom said. “Things have a way of working out.”
They took a table near the bar and the server distributed menus.
“Can I take the liberty and ordering something to drink for everyone?” Paul asked.
No one contested, so he ordered a bottle of St. Supery Chardonnay, 2009. “It’s buttery and has a citrus taste, but not sweet,” Paul explained. “They have a winery in Napa. We have to check it out.”
“Sounds like it will go well with a burger,” his mom said.
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�See, you’re trying to be funny, but it actually does go well with beef,” Paul said. “Usually I’d go with a red wine with beef. But this chardonnay will work because for me, it’s really—it’s about what tastes good.”
“What do you think, Mother?” Ginger asked. “When is the last time you had a burger?”
“Probably when you were a baby,” she answered. “Maybe a burger would be good.”
“How about it?” Paul asked his mother.
“Fine,” Brenda said.
And so, they all ordered burgers. The wine came and Paul poured and then made a toast as everyone lifted a glass.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he started. “To love and family and happiness.”
“That’s it?” Ginger asked.
“Isn’t that enough?” he answered.
“You know what? You’re right,” she said, and they all tapped glasses, even Madeline and Brenda.
Paul and Brenda were into the football game on the TV in front of their table like two buddies would be. The mother was as passionate about the Redskins as the son, making commentary with every play and hanging on to every action on the field.
When a commercial came, Paul noticed that it was still awkward with the in-laws not speaking to each other. At the same time, the more they sipped, the more the wine began to take a toll.
“Y’all need to keep some of that noise down,” Madeline finally said to Paul and Brenda.
“Are we loud?” Paul asked. He had not eaten in ten hours, so the wine went straight to his head. All of them, in fact, were buzzing.
“Yeah, you are, a little,” Ginger said.
“Well, when you watch a football game, you can’t sit here all quiet,” Brenda said. “And there’s hardly anyone in here. We’re not bothering anybody.”
“Well, you’re bothering me,” Madeline said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Brenda said. “I didn’t realize your ears were so sensitive.”
“Well, they are,” Madeline said.
“Perhaps you should go on the other side—there’s no one over there,” Brenda said. “It’s perfectly quiet. You won’t be missed.”
“Wait,” Ginger said before her mom responded. “On the plane, you all were laughing and talking and getting along. What were you talking about? What was so funny?”