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from the terminal. Their noise and the likelihood of bouncing around in the
air pockets frequently encountered at the low altitude of Cape Air's short
flights made conversation difficult most of the time. That and the fact that I
was reading an obscure Victorian novel probably known only to English
literature devotees and librarians these days should have been enough to
ensure that my seat partner left me alone.
As the plane vibrated on the deeply potholed runway, my neighbor leaned his
head in toward me. "What do you do?"
"Excuse me?"
"I asked what you do for a living."
I gave him my best grin. "I'm a single mom. Four kids."
I had gotten from coast to coast and from New York to Europe several times
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without ever having to make small talk to guys sitting next to me after giving
that answer. It was a foolproof conversation killer with lonely businessmen
angling for a pickup.
"That's great. How old are they?"
He was either lying or dumber than he looked. "Six, four, and the
twins they're two. I've cornered the market on diapers."
I smiled and put my nose back in the book until he spoke again. "I love kids.
You have pictures?"
"They're in my tote. I gate-checked it." I assumed he was a comic or a
pedophile, seemingly undaunted by my imaginary brood. But I liked his face,
despite my initial instincts. His nose was crooked and he had wire-rimmed
glasses that sat too far down on its bridge to look comfortable, but showed
off the gray-blue cast of his eyes.
"What kind of mother are you? Can't believe you don't have snapshots in your
wallet."
We climbed slowly up out of Logan. If this guy was planning to chat me up the
whole way, it would be a tedious thirty-three minutes.
"It's so rare we're apart that I don't need pictures to remind me. Can't ever
have a moment's peace with four of them demanding attention. Feed me, change
me, blow my nose, feed me again. You know how it is." If that didn't make it
clear to him, I didn't know what would.
The wingtip caught the edge of a cloud and the plane started rolling in the
clear-air turbulence. I turned my head to stare out the window into the thick
white mass we had just entered,
"You a nervous flier?"
"Not at all. I don't mean to be rude, but I think I need to nap for a bit.
Just tired," I said, leaning my head against the small window and closing my
eyes. It seemed to be my only tine of defense.
I actually slept for twenty minutes, shaken awake on the rough descent through
the thick clouds over the Elizabeth Islands. We set down on the short runway
of the Vineyard airport and taxied to the terminal.
My neighbor offered his hand. "By the way, I'm Dan Bolin. I've got my car
here, if you need a lift."
"Thanks a lot," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I'm all set."
"Your name is?"
"Stafford. Joan Stafford." I hoped Joanie didn't mind that I had saddled her
with four hungry little mouths to feed. And there I'd been with Mike a few
hours back, wondering why people find it so easy to lie to us.
The steps had been lowered and the passengers were descending from the center
of the plane. Dan Bolin waited for me to get off, but as I took my time
walking back to the terminal building, he waved good-bye and headed for the
parking lot. I had arranged for my care taker to leave my car there for me, so
I stopped in the Plane View restaurant and loitered over a cup of coffee to
give Bolin the chance to be out of my way.
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There was just enough daylight left for me to enjoy the stunning vistas as I
made my way through the familiar curves and hills of Chilmark. The old Grange
Hall, the dirt road cutoff to Black Point Beach, the calm glade of Abel's Hill
cemetery, the seventeenth-century stone walls that lined the pasture of the
Allen sheep farm, and then the sun setting on the water at the town landing by
the Stonewall bridge. I could race the remaining two miles to my sanctuary,
the old farm house that sat high over Menemsha Pond with a commanding view of
the rich green landscapes and the blues of Quitsa and the Vineyard Sound far
beyond.
My gardens were prepped and dressed for spring. The forsythia gave off a
golden glow on either side of the gates marked by granite pillars, and the
crushed white quahog shells that served as driveway dressing brightened the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]