Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  “Someone get a camera.”

  There are squeals of excitement and more than one person trying to catch the frozen particles in their hands. Aubie is twirling around in circles and I’m not sure why she hasn’t fallen, though it’s a little magical to watch her so happy.

  One by one, the outside lights on other houses flick on and the owners step out on their front porches. There are greetings exchanged, more laughter, and the sound of children squealing in delight. Ella Rae is spinning, curls bouncing, both arms outspread. PD is laughing and clapping her hands. Our eyes meet across the street and we share a smile.

  “I think you brought the weather,” Roger accuses me.

  “You may be right,” I tease him back and link my arm through his. “All right, now—do what I do. When you catch a snowflake in your mouth, make a wish.”

  I tilt my head back and motion for Roger to do the same. It’s what my mother and I used to do on the first day of any snowfall. As a child, dressed in a scarf and mittens, holding my mother’s hand, I remember wishing for a puppy and a pink bicycle with streamers on the handles. One year, I wished for a trip to Disney World so that I could meet Cinderella in her castle.

  Tonight, though, as the cold touches my tongue, cheeks, and eyelashes, I don’t wish for a gift or something a person can buy in a store or find in a glossy magazine or catalog.

  Tonight, I blink up at the velvet night sky and wish for my heart’s desire.

  When I lower my chin and glance over at Roger, he is wiping his eyes. He grins and puts a finger to his lips. I smile back at my friend and wonder what he was wishing for. I don’t ask, not wanting to break the spell, and look around for the one person who’d truly make my night complete. I’m still clinging to Roger’s arm when I see him.

  Shug has his arms around Mary Katherine, her long hair like a golden waterfall cascading down her back. As the snowflakes dip and twirl around them, they’ve pressed their foreheads together and are whispering. I want to look away, but can’t bring myself to do it.

  It’s like a scene out of a fairytale, when the rest of the world melts away with a kiss. And the prince and princess live happily ever after.

  That’s how the story goes, isn’t it?

  Chapter 24

  Despite my exhaustion, I pack my bag. It’s close to midnight. My feet are aching and my body is yearning for a nice, hot bath.

  Can’t rest yet. Too much to do, I tell myself, and force my fingers to dial the phone. By now, I’ve decided that Delta Airlines could have a dedicated line for Yankees in the Deep South who change their plane reservations at the last minute. I’m daydreaming about this when the operator answers and greets me with a nasal, but cheery tone.

  The sound in my ear is familiar and oh-so-New York, but the effect is jarring. In the span of four days, I’ve become accustomed to the languid drawl of Southerners; the adorable accent and the way everyone says ‘y’all.’ Even phrases like ‘bless your heart’ have grown on me.

  “Ma’am? Can I help you?” the operator repeats, not quite perturbed yet.

  “Yes, yes,” I recover, shaking my head to clear it, and inquire about securing an earlier flight.

  “No seats open right now.” There’s a pause, and the clicking of a keyboard in the background. It sounds like a fast-forward version of Morse code. “You can fly standby,” she offers. “Just get to Hartsfield as soon as you can.”

  She rattles off possible flight times, departure gates, and change fees so quickly that my hand cramps as I jot down the details. A reminder that my life—and everyone else’s north of the Mason-Dixon line—functions at warp speed 24/7.

  I hang up, hold the cell phone to my chest, and watch the snowflakes still drifting toward the ground. It’s as if the wintry weather is beckoning me home, no matter that my heart and head are in a bitter struggle to leave or stay.

  When I say ‘stay,’ it would only mean half a day—prolonging the inevitable departure, really. A quick breakfast, a polite chat, and perhaps one last stroll along the magnificent homes that line North Eufaula Street.

  The snow would be melted by then, the sidewalks wet and glistening in the morning sun. And there would be Mary Katherine to face, with my luck, simpering and parading Shug around like a trained show dog.

  No, it’s just not something I’m willing to witness. The tug I feel in my heart is an adolescent crush, I tell myself. And an unrequited one at that. He’s polite, a Southern gentleman, anyone could misinterpret the signals.

  I allow the curtains to fall closed, as the snow has stopped. I switch off the overhead light, and then turn on the small lamp at the tiny writing desk. Out of habit, and years of hotel room-life, I pull out the middle drawer of the desk. The scent of cedar hits my nose and I breathe it in. Without looking down, I know that there’ll be a pen, a small pad of notepaper, and a red Bible.

  My hand sweeps the back of the opening, and my fingers find what they are seeking: a small stack of glossy postcards. I pull them out and hold them closer to the light bulb. There’s Shorter Mansion with its pillars, Fendall Hall, and the Confederate Monument, followed by Carnegie Library—which I’d still love to see, but is closed on Sundays. Last, there’s a postcard declaring Lake Eufaula the “Big Bass Capital of the World.” The fine print describes the 640 mile-long shoreline, Lakepoint Resort State Park, and a nearby National Wildlife Refuge.

  With the clock moving ever forward toward morning, I pick up the pen and paper and begin to write. First, a note to Roger for his hospitality and another to PD, for listening. When it comes time to write the third, I hover my pen over the page, thinking about Shug. Writer’s block isn’t something I’ve experienced, so when my fingers refuse to form letters, I know that I’m in trouble.

  After the fourth crumpled note, I straighten my arms, shake out my hands, and focus. Polite. Proper. To the point. When I’m finished, I sign my name, fold the papers, and lick the envelopes. I tiptoe to Roger’s oak roll-top desk, where I prop the cards under the lamp. He’s sure to see them in the morning. By then, I’ll be long gone.

  When I stand back from the desk, my gaze falls on a basket. It’s out of place for Roger’s formal parlor, tied with pink ribbons, and stuffed with tissue paper the color of cotton candy. There’s a floral tag attached, and my name is written on it with a delicate script.

  I lean closer. The smell of home-baked goods wafts up, sugar, chocolate, and hazelnut. Somehow, PD knew I was leaving. This is my care package for the trip home.

  It’s a miracle, but my missing bag has been located and is waiting for me when I arrive in Atlanta. I check in, head for the gate, and manage to snag the very last seat on the plane.

  The flight back to JFK is noisy and bumpy. There’s a toddler kicking my chair, his baby brother wailing every time the plane hits turbulence.

  Because of storms along the east coast, we’re belted in, tethered to our chairs until the jet touches down in New York. I’m a veteran of trans-Atlantic flights, and am comfortable at thirty-five thousand feet, but this may be the longest two hours of my entire life. Even the flight attendants look nervous.

  My normal routine is to whip out my iPod, insert earplugs, and zone out for the duration. Sometimes I sleep, other times I pretend to nap. This flight, however, I can’t ignore the passenger next to me.

  My seatmate, a woman in her mid-forties, is sweating and clutching the armrests for dear life. Her upper lip is beaded with moisture.

  She’s been talking non-stop since takeoff. I’ve learned about her job (chef and restaurant owner), her boyfriend (taxidermist), her parents (now deceased), and her recent escapades (being searched) at every airport security checkpoint. After listening for an hour and forty-five minutes, I’m starting to agree that Homeland Security has it out for her.

  When she pauses for oxygen and a sip of water, I realize she has the drawl of a person born and raised in the South. And decide to try some intervention.

  “Where are you from?” I ask, making direct eye contact. �
�Is Georgia home?”

  The woman nods. “Dahlonega. North of Atlanta.” She attempts a small smile, which I consider a major breakthrough, until the body of the plane drops into an air pocket. Everyone around me screeches or yelps. The baby is crying harder now, with loud, wet gulps. My neighbor begins sobbing.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say, keeping my voice soft and even, then I reach out and pat her hand. To my surprise, she grips it with the strength of a welterweight boxer. “Really. We’ll be landing soon.”

  The aircraft is shaking like the lead car of a wooden rollercoaster. If my seatbelt was any tighter, it would cut off the circulation in my legs like a tourniquet. Any moment, I expect to see the oxygen masks dropping from the plastic ceiling panels.

  As we descend through the clouds, slamming and careening like the aircraft is hitting invisible bumper cars, my seatmate starts hyperventilating. The flight attendant call lights go off like little red fireworks around us.

  I snatch an airsickness bag from the seat pocket in front of me. “Breathe,” I instruct her, snapping open the paper sack and pressing it around her mouth.

  With wide eyes and a pink face, she blows into the bag. It expands, then contracts with her inhalation. “Good,” I smile encouragement. “Very good,” I repeat, noticing that she is still gripped onto my arm like a bird of prey.

  I scoot forward as best I can, closer to the aisle, on my seat cushion-floatation device. “All right. So, tell me about Dahlonega. Is it pretty? Lots of trees? Some mountains?”

  Nothing moves but her chin, and that is barely perceptible.

  “How about lakes?” I attempt to conjure up a picture of North Georgia. Everything in my brain is programmed to Eufaula. It can’t be terribly different, I decide. “Did you swim a lot or go fishing, growing up?”

  Another slight nod. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “I just visited the most wonderful little town,” I tell her, pressing a hand to my chest for emphasis. “Have you ever been to Eufaula? For the Pilgrimage?”

  The woman’s face lights up. Behind the airsickness bag, her cheeks lift, the slightest hint of a smile. Her knuckles aren’t white anymore, and I notice that the woman’s grip is no longer pinching my hand.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” she murmurs after the sack drops from her mouth. Her fingertips rub the edges. “It’s been years.”

  I explain that I’m a travel writer for Getaways magazine, sent to preview the Pilgrimage. In full detail, down to collapsing in the front yard of Fendall Hall, I recount my bee attack, the subsequent trip to the ER, and my shoe snafu at the Christmas Tour dinner. By the time I finish, my seatmate is laughing, almost unaware of the occasional rough patch of air.

  “So, you’re heading home?” she asks, settling back against her seat. The peaches and cream color has returned to her face and I’m no longer fearful she’ll stop breathing.

  I consider the question. The answer, of course, is an obvious one. “Yes, I have a small apartment there, not far from the magazine office.” It’s my turn to shift in my seat. I glance out the window at the silver-grey of the cloud cover. “The City is my home base, but I live like a nomad. Pets are out of the question, I can’t keep a plant alive, and I’m sure my building manager thinks I’m a ghost. He always jumps when he sees me.”

  This also makes her giggle. Then, her eyes fall on my left hand. “So, what about a fiancé? Or is there a special guy in your life?”

  “Also tough to manage,” I try to flash a grin. “Andrew—that’s my boyfriend—he’s pretty neglected. We’re supposed to go to dinner tomorrow night. I promised I’d call when we land,” I turn my wrist to check the time. We’ve been descending for ten minutes.

  My new friend looks me up and down. “That’s not much enthusiasm,” she observes with an arched brow.

  “He’s great,” I rush to say, sounding a little bit ridiculous, since I’m about to break off our relationship. Or put it on hold. Indefinitely. I clear my throat. “Um, Andrew’s really the best. He’s sweet and nice and thoughtful…”

  “But, maybe for someone else?” she fills in. She says the words in a gentle way, treading as if my boyfriend—or spies from his family—might be lurking a few rows up.

  Tears fill my eyes and they drip down my cheeks before I can wipe them away. My throat closes as I try to swallow, making it impossible to do anything but choke. The woman hands me her airsickness bag.

  “Thanks, no.” I wave it away, coughing again into the crook of my arm.

  “So,” my seatmate taps her fingers on the seat rests. “You’re coming home, you’re not in love with him, and you’ve been dating Andrew for how many years?”

  “Two,” I answer as the aircraft breaks through the dark ceiling of cloud cover. A bell dings twice, signaling we’ve reached ten thousand feet. The flight attendants, somber and exhausted from the bumpy flight, walk through the aisles with open plastic bags, pausing to nudge a seat forward or collect a water cup.

  The crackle of the intercom sounds, and the pilot announces we’ll be landing at JFK in a few minutes. He thanks us for flying his airline and wishes us a happy holiday season. The intercom scratches again and clicks off.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” someone squawks in a thick Jersey accent from a few rows back. There are murmurs of agreement, and a single sneeze. “Bless you,” the voice speaks again. Then, for a few moments, everything is still except for the sound of the wind rushing against the body of our silver jet.

  I keep my eyes trained out the window, checking my seatbelt to make sure it’s tight. The pilot lowers the flaps, and the change in airspeed registers in my head and stomach.

  New York sprawls before us in thousands of towers and buildings, the blocks divided with intersecting strips of blacktop. Taxicabs and cars, five rows deep, inch along, snaking around corners, splitting off in twos where the roads divide. Everything below, every square mile, is in motion.

  As we hover over the runway, my seatmate leans closer. “By the way, I’m Dean Alice Waters,” she introduces herself.

  “Julia Sullivan,” I reply with a smile. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.” I glance at her travel bag and try to read the tag. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

  “A little of both, I hope,” she presses her fingertips together and shrugs. “I think I mentioned that I’m in the restaurant business. I’m here for a food show. Many of the top chefs will be there—Cat Cora, Bobby Flay, Rachel Ray, Emeril Lagaisse—”

  “How fun! Sounds like you’ll be eating well.”

  Dean Alice rolls her eyes. “You have no idea. The food never ends. Last year, I gained five pounds in two days. Don’t tell anyone, but I brought my super-secret elastic waist pants just for grazing the dessert tables.” She sighs. “I’m addicted to sugar. Carbs, too. Anything with butter, flour, and sugar.”

  We’re jolted in our seats as the wheels touch down on the runway. The sound of air rushing against the wings is almost deafening and I close my eyes. My stomach grumbles at the thought of food and I remember tucking a few of PD’s treats into my carry on.

  As we taxi to the gate, I unzip my bag and reach inside, and I offer one of the golden marshmallow puffs to Dean Alice. “If you love sweets, you have to try these,” I gush. “My friend made them.”

  Dean Alice takes one of the small pillows of flaky crust, examines it on all sides, sniffs the edge like a wine expert sampling a vintage Cabernet, and takes a dainty bite. I, on the other hand, pop an entire treat into my mouth. As I chew, the marshmallow, Nutella, and sugar dissolve on my tongue like cotton candy. The plane comes to a final stop as I swallow and brush the crumbs from my hands.

  “What do you call these?” Dean Alice blinks in amazement, powering on her phone as she’s talking. It begins to bleat immediately. “Fifteen text messages,” she exclaims, scanning each one. She taps the touch screen and puts the phone to her ear. “And ten voicemails.”

  The flight attendant in the front of the aircraft announces we’r
e free to go, and everyone jumps to their feet, eager to escape the confines of the jet. The baby behind us begins wailing again. It’s mass chaos as passengers flood the aisle, jostling for position, reaching into overhead bins for luggage and laptops.

  Somehow, Dean Alice wiggles her frame into the fray and joins the other bodies, pressed together, shuffling along the narrow, carpeted path to the front of the plane. As an afterthought, black cell phone still pressed to her head, she turns and offers a wave.

  “Thank you,” she mouths and winks, then disappears into the first-class cabin.

  With a grin, I wiggle my fingers at her, saying good-bye. I know she’ll be relieved to put both feet on solid ground.

  The cabin continues to empty, but I remain standing, resting my elbows on the seat in front of me. My legs seem locked in place. For once, I’m not in a hurry. At all.

  Behind me, a few passengers are still wrestling bags from under seats, looking around for keys, and locating ticket stubs. A couple is conversing in Chinese as they brush by me, and the sound of their heated exchange slices through the stale air, thick and guttural.

  At last, I am alone. More than two hundred seats—all of them empty—surround me.

  “Ma’am?” One of the flight attendants strides back toward my row, hesitates, and touches me on the arm. “Is everything all right? Are you missing your carry-on?” She glances down at my feet. “Or can I help you with gate change information?”

  “No,” I shake my head.

  “Rough flight?” she asks, her expression sympathetic. “Try getting a ginger ale on the way out. It always helps when I’m feeling queasy. There’s a shop that sells it on the way to baggage claim.”

  I want to explain that it’s not the turbulence or any amount of rough air. I want to tell her that my anxiety has nothing to do with her, the pilots, the landing, or the weather. I want to reassure her that it’s not my stomach that’s bothering me.

  If I don’t get off the jet, I won’t have to face Andrew.

  If I stay on the plane, in my seat, I won’t have to see my father, David.