Untamed Skies

by Mirren Hogan

  “I still have things here,” he said, whining.

  “Too bad. Give it over now, or I’ll have to charge you for having the locks changed.”

  Grumbling, he fumbled with his car keys and got my key loose.

  “You’re making such a big deal out this,” he said. “It’s just until I get my priorities in order.”

  “Not my problem,” I said. “Get out.”

  Standing behind the curtain, I watched him walk down the path to his car and didn’t begin to cry until he was gone from view. This was not how I had expected our relationship to go. Believing everything he said to me, the lies about us getting married, having a family, I’d hoped the man loved me, that he’d stand by me and protect me no matter what was happening in the world. We were perfect together, everyone said it. “You two make such a beautiful couple!” Now this.

  I looked at the clock. The air-conditioning guy was due in thirty minutes, enough time to pull myself together. I’d spend the day boxing up Jerry’s things and sticking them in the garage.

  Someplace out there was a huge suitcase I never used; in modern, TSA times, it was considered oversized, and they tacked an extra charge on because of it. I’d throw the rest of his belongings into it rather than wait for him further inconveniencing me. Quickly, I was at the place where I never wanted to see him again.

  Changing out of my office clothes into jeans, I sat on the bed to make my call. I hated calling in sick unless I really was. I decided to be honest, and if they didn’t like it they could fire me. I didn’t really hope that, but I was an adult. I wasn’t lying.

  The phone rang forever. When I looked at my watch I realized that no one would be there that early, not even the switchboard operator. I’d have to wait until nine.

  It was still nice outside, the air cool, but just humid enough that I could tell it was going to be brutal. A quality about the atmosphere reminded me of impending storms, but the weather report didn’t support it. We were living in oppressive times, and the heat and humidity mirrored that.

  I prayed the installation would only take the one day like Jerry said. I’d be installing my own window unit tonight, if not. The suitcase was on an upper shelf, and I had to struggle to get it down. It would be great to get rid of it. Let Jerry find a place for it in his crappy apartment.

  That was another thing that amazed me. I had this sweet little house right by the train, and Jerry’s apartment was further west in what was supposed to be a trendy neighborhood, but was really a dump. Yet he was always looking his nose down at my home.

  “You should sell and move into a condo. There are great factory renovations. You could get a fabulous place.”

  “I like it here,” I said. “I’ve got a yard. You’ve got a two foot wide terrace. I’ve got two bathrooms and three bedrooms. Look at my kitchen and then compare it to yours.”

  My house was old, not historic exactly, but almost. I’d done most of the work myself except plumbing; sanding the floors and fixing the windows, all the painting, I even tried my hand at tiling the powder room floor. It took me years, but the result was so worth it.

  Jerry’s constant criticism wore me down, and I almost considered listing it when he slipped.

  “What will happen to all your work if you’re relocated?” he’d asked, the full meaning of his question not penetrating until later.

  I didn’t reply. What indeed?

  He really was a douche. I got the suitcase down and cleaned it up enough to bring inside.

  At eight sharp, the truck with the logo and name of the HVAC firm we hired pulled into the driveway. I waited in the doorway for the repair man. It would be an annoyance having him there all day. When he stepped out of the truck, all my misgivings changed.

  He was so handsome, not handsome like Jerry was handsome, with his Grecian Formula hair, and tanning booth tan, his gym-toned body, and stylish, but unattractive clothing; remember the tie.

  The repairman was gorgeous. He wasn’t wearing a navy blue uniform with Bob embroidered on the pocket, sensible work shoes, and a cheap watch. This guy had on a sparkling white T-shirt, jeans that fit him perfectly, a shock of curly, sandy brown hair, and white teeth that hurt my eyes when he smiled at me. I was willing to bet his tan came from the Jersey Shore and that his watch wasn’t cheap. I tried to determine his ethnicity. When I saw the hair I thought he could be mixed, like me.

  Holding out his hand to shake mine, I hoped I hadn’t been standing there with my tongue hanging out.

  “Hi, I’m Rob. Are you ready for the big day?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, I reckin’,” I said, all smiles, and then turned away mortified, wide eyed and flushing; I’d never used that expression in my entire life. What was wrong with me?

  “It’ll be fine, I promise,” he said. “Where’s your utility room?”

  I took him on the grand tour, showing him where the existing heating system was. The apparatus he installed would use the existing blower and ductwork. He kept asking me questions, seeming to want me to stick around while he worked. I didn’t mind either because the view from where I stood just kept getting better and better. Those arm muscles were from hoisting heavy equipment, I surmised; and the lean, zero body-fat midriff, well I didn’t even want to imagine what he did to get that waist. Surely, there was a six pack under that white t-shirt.

  “I’m going to have another cup of coffee. Can I get you one? Water? Anything?”

  “Thanks, but no, I’ll keep working. Bring your coffee back, and tell me more about your job,” he said, seemingly sincere which I found difficult to grasp.

  Jerry couldn’t stand it when I started talking about my job, like the notion of working for a paper was so beneath him.

  “It’s not that interesting,” I replied, but then I stopped myself.

  He was interested in hearing about it and if he wanted to know more about me for some reason, I should jump at the chance to tell him.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  My kitchen makes me happy. I know that’s a weird concept, but I need to explain my state of mind. Walking into the kitchen, I already had a smile on my face, so entering that wonderful space just blew me away. But the lovely kitchen was only part of it. Jerry used to say I drove him crazy with my optimism. But truly, what’s not to love about life? If it sucks, you have to work at changing it.

  Of course, if I didn’t have a handsome hunk in my utility closet showing a little interest in me as a person, I might be singing a much different tune after getting dumped that morning. Anyway, I digress. I made a fresh pot of coffee, just in case Rob changed his mind.

  Within an hour, he’d completed the inside work. “Now’s the dirty part,” he said, and I hoped it meant he was taking his t-shirt off, but instead, he pulled out a faded denim long-sleeved shirt from his tool case, and slipped it on.

  “I’ll be outside, at the side of the house,” he explained.

  I decided to tag along with him. We already knew where the other had gone to high school; Rob to all-boys Saint Peter’s, Class of 2000, and me, Saint Dominic’s Class of 2001. I was like a caged beast after going to an all-girls school, and he said he went a little crazy after he graduated, too.

  And then 9/11 happened.

  During lunch, we sat on the grass in the backyard and talked, sharing the horror of our personal experiences of that day. I made ice tea, and Rob insisted I share his generous lunch, Italian hoagie and chips.

  In college in Hoboken, Rob had a front row seat to the devastating day. I went to school in East Brunswick, so although I was close to the city, it wasn’t in my face.

  My father was like a crazed person; he was at my dorm looking for me within the first hour after it happened.

  “You have to come home,” he cried. “We don’t know if there isn’t something more planned. You might not be safe here. We want to be together, no matter what.”

  Other students were leaving school, a mass exodus born of fear. We arrived home by noon, and
my mother was in a panic; my sister worked in the day care center in the Mezzanine. We wouldn’t hear anything from her until later that night; the workers had taken the children miles through lower Manhattan, saving their lives. All ten children were reunited with their parents.

  Rob had a story, too. His parents also lived in Jersey City, not far from where I now live. His mother worked downtown and just wanted to get home to her family. Finally, a fishing boat made room for her on one of the trips across the Hudson, dropping her off at Liberty State Park. It took her an hour to walk home.

  “I remember the smell of the jet fuel. That made the biggest impact on me, the stench wouldn’t let me forget what had happened, even after the smoke cleared away,” Rob said. “I guess we’re all changed because of it. Did it have a lasting impact on you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’m still scared to death. Now with everything that is happening, I don’t know whether to run away or hide in place. My dad coming to school that day, bringing me closer to ground zero instead of further away, now that made a huge impact. No matter what, we needed to be together. It’s not possible now. Families are being torn apart.”

  “My mom saved her stockings for a couple of years after,” Rob said. “She’d lost her shoes running, getting to safety in stockings. Her feet were cut up. Finally, she could let go. ‘It’s time to burn them,’ she said. ‘Something clicked recently, and I’m over it.’ Watching the current news, she said maybe she should have held on to them a while longer as a talisman.

  “I don’t normally talk politics with my clients, but I think I’ll make an exception this time,” he said. “You plan on trying to stay here? Or wait until the decision is made to relocate us?”

  “I’m staying,” I said. “Why spend all this money for air conditioning? I’ll take my chances. I’ve heard journalists are safe. It’s probably a lie…”

  “What do your parents say?”

  A topic I was loath to discuss, I never spoke of my family because I’d burst into tears if I tried. But Rob was so sympathetic, I felt safe telling him.

  Even though we’d heard it was a possibility, everyone knew someone who was there in the morning, and then gone by dinnertime. It’s one of those circumstances you think will never happen to you.

  Early, before sunrise, on a spring Saturday morning, my phone rang. I saw my parents’ number and quickly answered. My father had not been well, and medical treatment for older people was no longer an option, health care too expensive to dole out to unproductive citizens.

  “Hello, Dad?”

  “They’ve come. We’re leaving,” he whispered. “I love you. Mom says she loves you. Tell your sister we love her, too. She’s not answering.”

  “Dad!”

  But it was too late. He’d hung up.

  “They’ve already been moved,” I said, choking. “Two months ago, right before Easter. I haven’t heard from them. My sister left town last week on her own steam. She was devastated about our parents. I knew she was going, but she wouldn’t talk to me about it in case I was questioned. She didn’t want me to have to lie for her. I didn’t understand because I thought it was only old people going. But now I know that’s a lie.”

  “How awful for you,” he said, taking my hand.

  His concern seems so real, so authentic. I felt I could trust him. Those of us affected by the relocation didn’t usually speak of it, it was too dangerous.

  “What about you?”

  I could tell he was weighing his words, which made me nervous. I’d already said too much.

  “Can I wait to tell you? I’ll finish the outside part of the installation this afternoon, and then I was hoping you’d have dinner with me. I’ll tell you my plans then.”

  Talking to him was surreal. I’d never talked to anyone so freely. Of course with Jerry, I didn’t feel safe mentioning a word. He’s Mexican. When my parents were first questioned, and it looked like the end was in sight for them, he hinted that he wouldn’t be interested in moving back to Mexico, even to help us. He wasn’t leaving the US. There was no need. Anyone born on the American continent who has clean DNA is safe.

  Being a mixed couple wasn’t a problem for us until last fall. You could feel the shift. Going into a store together, or out to eat, we attracted more attention than before. People were more aware, I think. It was mentioned on the news increasingly, quoting crime statistics, the danger we posed to society. I thought of my little old dad, his food carts in Journal Square, and what a horrible threat he was. Jerry said it was my imagination.

  “You look like a Mexican to me,” he teased. “I think you’ll be safe.”

  Relocation wasn’t even part of our lexicon yet. That didn’t happen until Christmas.

  “For the good of all,” a battle cry heard.

  I even said it, getting caught up in the frenzy. Then, after Christmas, the rumors started. Relocation was the term the heads of state used. But supposedly insiders knew that the real term was separation of the ethnicities. Years ago when the fear mongering first began, they said the criteria used to separate people would be religious, or racial. We were stunned when the edict came down that separation would be by a certain mixture of DNA.

  After 9/11, mandatory DNA testing started; the excuse being that it would help those at risk for certain types of cancer. My parents warned me about it, saying that they were contacting the local ACLU to find out if it was even legal.

  When school told us to get the swab done or leave, I did it. Eventually my parents were pressured into it although they still had their visas from Portugal so it hardly seemed necessary.

  Rob leaned in so close I could smell the scent of his shampoo, a crisp, clean pine. I held my breath. He whispered, “What nationality are you?”

  Hesitating, I didn’t know if I could be honest with him, but decided I had nothing to gain by being cagey but perhaps a larger air conditioning installation bill. “Somali and Portuguese,” I answered. “There’s a little Western Jewish thrown in for good measure, on my mother’s side. What about you?”

  I’d noticed he winced when I told him what I was. Former citizens of any country part of the European Union were suspect. But it was no surprise; my parents were gone. The real issue was the inclusion of African nations. A citizen was fine as long as they were all African, or none. The key word here was mixed.

  “I’m part Irish, part Ethiopian. Not good,” he said. “We’re in the same boat.”

  “Where are your parents?” I asked.

  “My dad died last year, and my mother left for Canada right after,” he said. Then he whispered again. “My brother married a Canadian girl. You can relocate up there without permission if you have a sponsor. But that might change at any time.”

  I don’t know why those words impacted me so intensely. Without Permission. My heart fluttered in my chest.

  “I’d better get back to work. Pull up a lawn chair and keep me company,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder with a smile.

  The next day, while waiting for Rob to return, I finished filling the giant suitcase in the garage with Jerry’s belongings. Amazingly, I didn’t think about him after he’d left. At nine the night before, I was cleaning out the last of my drawers when the phone rang; it was him.

  “Hi, just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said with a worried note to his voice that made me angry.

  Then I realized he’d done me a huge favor leaving because if he’d still been an issue for me, I wouldn’t have had the most marvelous day with Rob.

  “Jerry, I’m fine. I totally get it. You don’t have to worry.”

  “With the way everything is going, I don’t think we’d have much of a future together,” he said.

  I knew what he was referring to. I’d be relocated, and he and Magda would probably live in my house. I wonder if that was why he insisted on the air conditioning.

  “I guess you don’t have to worry about her because she’s from Russia, correct?”

  I’d managed t
o keep the contempt out of my voice. After all, it wasn’t Magda’s fault.

  “I’d better let you go,” he said, ignoring me. It was an unsafe topic. “If it’s okay, I’ll come by after work to pick up the rest of my junk.”

  “You’re all packed up,” I said cheerfully. “I used the behemoth suitcase.”

  “Ha! Good use for it. Do you want it back?” he asked.

  “No, you keep it,” I said. “My going-away gift to you. And good luck, I hope you and Magda will be happy.”

  Early the next morning as I worked with the garage door open, I saw Rob pull in. I walked to meet him. We were like old lovers, and fell into each others arms. Encircling his waist, I pulled him to me. He felt safe. He was going to rescue me.

  “Do you have everything you need?” he asked.

  “I think so. I’m afraid my ex is going to bring his girlfriend here to live when he finds out I’m gone, so I’ve been busy disposing of everything personal.”

  Frowning, my words upset Rob.

  “Do you really think he would do that? Doesn’t he have his own place?”

  “He does, but it’s one of those dumps over by Journal Square. I have no idea where his girlfriend lives. But I’m pretty sure he had this planned. He called last night and said we didn’t have a future together. Why the air conditioning then?”

  Pensive, Rob put his hand on my back as we walked to the garage.

  “How do you feel about a little short circuit? It won’t kill anyone, just destruction of property, maybe a few burns.”

  “You mean…” I pointed to the utility room.

  “Correct. If they do move in, well, it sort of serves them right,” he said. “I’m actually shocked I’m suggesting this. It’s not in my nature to be vindictive.”

  “Perhaps it’s divine,” I said. “I can’t think of anything better. Not to kill anyone, though. Just destroy the house and their belongings. Well, my belongings.”

  “I’ll get to work. We should be on the road by nine at the latest. Gather everything you want to take, and I’ll pull the truck in the garage to load up. Bring your trash, too.”