Takeoffs and Landings

  Chicago. Atlanta. Philadelphia. Phoenix.

  Lori felt numb.

  I am not getting to know American cities, she thought. I’m learning hotels. Restaurants. Airports.

  She was becoming an expert at using hotel blow-dryers. She could decipher airline departure/arrival charts without even trying. She was actually getting sick of eating burgers and fries. But she already had trouble remembering which city had had that great zoo Mom wanted them to see, which city had had the Coke museum Lori missed.

  So what? Lori thought. I didn’t want to be here—any of the “here”s—anyway.

  At least she hadn’t blown up at Mom again. Sometimes when Mom was talking to her, Lori could feel the muscles twitching in her face, as if her mouth had a mind of its own and was going to yell at Mom for her. When that happened, Lori clenched her teeth, pressed her lips together, held everything in.

  Sometimes Lori thought Mom was avoiding them; several times, even when she didn’t have a speech to give, she’d sent Chuck and Lori out on their own: “I’m a little tired. Why don’t you two go see Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell by yourselves?”

  And then Chuck would scurry off to some art museum. And Lori would be alone.

  She could have tattled. Whenever Mom was out of the room, it was always on the tip of Lori’s tongue to taunt Chuck: I know your secret.

  Back home, she wouldn’t have thought it was worth her time to tease him. But traveling, all her reasons reversed. She was very careful around Chuck now, as if he were the one who knew a secret about her. Or as if he were stronger or smarter or better looking or more popular or more—something—than her.

  The farther she got from Pickford County, the more she wondered, strangely, if somehow he was.

  He had his art museums. What did she have?

  Back home, she knew, there were people who were jealous of her. When the principal announced over the loudspeaker that she was a nominee for the Homecoming Court, the girl sitting behind Lori in English class had let out a deep sigh. She’d patted Lori’s back and gushed, “You’re a celebrity.”

  And after that, even after somebody else was voted freshman attendant, the girl always looked at Lori admiringly. Lori couldn’t pass her in the hall without feeling the girl’s eyes on her back, all the way down the hall.

  Lori just wished there were boys who looked at her like that.

  In 4-H, she’d been selected as a camp counselor, even though most of the other counselors were juniors and seniors.

  “We went by maturity, not chronological age,” one of the members of the selection committee had confided to Gram in the hall, afterward. “You should be so proud of your granddaughter!”

  Even in their own home, Lori always had Emma trailing after her, trying to do everything the same way as her. When Lori swept her hair up into a ponytail, so did Emma. When Lori sat at the kitchen table doing homework, Emma pulled out her second grade work sheets and traced her answers again and again, for as long as it took for Lori to finish.

  Sometimes Lori missed Emma more than she’d have ever thought possible.

  She missed everyone and everything about Pickford County that whispered to her a thousand times a day, You’re really something. You’re something special.

  But special in Pickford County was nothing in the outside world.

  She could walk down a single concourse in the Philadelphia airport and see a dozen girls prettier than her. Sitting on the airplane from Philadelphia to Phoenix, she heard a girl about her age switch from Spanish to English to a language Lori couldn’t even identify, all in the space of three minutes.

  Lori had aced Spanish I, but that just meant that she could say “Yo hablo espanol” with a straight face.

  Lying in bed in one strange hotel after another, Lori found herself writing mental letters home that were entirely different from the “Having a great time!” postcards she actually sent. The world’s a pretty big place, you know? . . . We flew over the Grand Canyon, and it’s the biggest hole you could imagine. . . . The desert goes on for miles. I could get lost in it and nobody would even know.

  What Lori wanted was to go back to Pickford County and get married and have kids, and never step foot across the county line again.

  Chuck decided to tell in Phoenix.

  He was sick of being sneaky. He was tired of worrying that Lori would tattle on him. His heart pounded and his palms got sweaty every time Mom asked, “So did you two have a good time?”

  Just think how awful he’d feel if he were doing something really bad.

  Maybe he was. . . .

  He pushed the thought away. He’d tell and then everything would be all right. Maybe.

  He thought about the artist’s pad and colored pencils he’d bought in Philadelphia. He’d seen lots of art students drawing at some of the museums, copying the paintings. Now he’d begun to do that, too, from memory, whenever he could hide from Mom and Lori.

  What would it be like not to have to hide anymore?

  It was one of those rare nights when Mom wasn’t giving a speech. She was sitting at the table in the hotel room, writing notes in the margins of a stack of papers. Lori was sprawled across one of the beds watching TV. Chuck eased into the chair across from Mom.

  “Mom,” he started, and almost lost his nerve. He reminded himself he was in Phoenix, farther from home than he’d ever been before in his life. He was safe.

  Mom looked up, waiting.

  “I’m too dumb to be a farmer,” Chuck blurted out.

  Oh no! Why did I say that?

  Chuck braced himself for Mom to say what she’d have to say: Of course you’re not too dumb. You just have to try harder. Listen to Pop. Pay attention in vo-ag class. I have faith in you. Lies, lies, lies. And Chuck would have to pretend to believe her.

  But Mom just gave him a steady look.

  “I’m too dumb to be a farmer, too,” she said.

  Chuck’s mouth was already forming the obedient, meaningless, Okay, Mom. I’ll try harder. Whatever you say. He froze when she said the wrong thing.

  “Huh?” he managed to grunt.

  “So are most of the people I’ve met, traveling around,” Mom said. “Farmers have to know about everything—botany, animal science, mechanical engineering, commodity trading, international markets. . . . Then there’s all the physical labor. There aren’t many people in this country anymore who’d last even a month or two on a farm. Pop may give you all that ‘I’m just a dumb old farmer’ spiel, but don’t believe it. He’s a genius in coveralls.”

  Chuck stared at Mom, his mouth hanging open. Fine. Pop was a genius. How was that supposed to make Chuck feel better?

  “But I’m dumb,” he repeated.

  “You—,” Mom started and hesitated.

  Chuck was suddenly too mad to listen. His own mother wouldn’t even deny it. He was dumb.

  “The other kids tease me,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Chuck, you just have to know how to deal with them,” Lori said from across the room. “Just get along.”

  Chuck turned on her.

  “‘Just get along’? How am I supposed to do that? Laugh along with them when they call me Chuck Lardson? Hold my tests up so everyone can look at the big fat F’s at the top? Stand up at the front of the room during vo-ag so everyone sees I can’t put a tractor engine back together?”

  Chuck was breathing hard, winded just from talking. Why couldn’t he shut up? All he’d meant to do was announce, I’ve been going to art museums. Where had all that other stuff come from? Now Mom would know what he was really like. Chuck’s face flamed. Images tumbled through his mind. Phys ed class with half the reserve football team, all of them pointing and laughing while footballs slipped through Chuck’s arms. English papers handed back with big red circles and nasty comments written above every other word. FFA meetings where everyone else sat together, and Chuck sat alone in a row of empty chairs. Pop’s face, red and angry, his mouth open, yelling something:
“How many times do I have to tell you to shut the gate? . . . What in the world were you thinking, driving a tractor like that? . . . You trying to kill that corn, spraying anhydrous like that?”

  “Oh, Chuck,” Mom said, so softly it sounded like an echo. Maybe it was an echo. In his mind, Chuck saw the face of another woman who had spoken his name like that. Miss Prentiss, his first-grade teacher.

  “Oh, Chuck, you are not stupid,” she’d say. “Don’t you pay any attention to what those other kids say. Different people just learn different ways. Now, you try that top line again. . . .”

  Miss Prentiss kept having conferences with Mom and Dad. Chuck sat there squirming while Lori played with dolls and Mikey and Joey toddled around the room.

  “Don’t you think this is your fault, Chuck,” Miss Prentiss would say. “If anyone’s stupid, it’s us teachers, because we can’t figure out how to help you.”

  After every single one of those conferences, Daddy took Chuck out for ice cream—just Chuck. All the other kids had to go home with Mom.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Chuckeroo,” Daddy would say. “At least, nothing that a little ice cream won’t help. Here. This’ll make everything better.”

  Chuck could still see those cones Daddy gave him, trailing sprinkles and fudge sauce and chopped nuts. They seemed to tower higher than Chuck’s head.

  Halfway through the school year, Miss Prentiss had gotten some sort of grant and gone off to learn how to help kids read better.

  Every teacher Chuck had had since then was sure it was Chuck who was stupid.

  And after Daddy died, Chuck had to eat his “make everything better” ice cream alone.

  Chuck ate a lot of ice cream. Then he moved on to heaps of meat loaf, mounds of mashed potatoes, bushels of beans, dozens of doughnuts. . . . No matter how much he ate, it was never enough to make everything better.

  Sometimes Chuck was almost glad Daddy was dead and Mom was away most of the time, because that meant neither one of them had to know how stupid he was. How worthless.

  So what was he doing now, telling Mom?

  “Chuck—,” Mom tried again. Her voice sounded wobbly. Chuck thought about how she stood in front of thousands of people every night, without getting nervous at all. But he was so pathetic, she couldn’t get even two words out, talking to him.

  Lori came over and leaned against the wall behind Mom.

  “It’s true,” she said matter-of-factly. “People make fun of him a lot. But Chuck’s not really that stupid. Lots of kids at school are even dumber. Even a lot of the ones who tease him all the time.”

  Chuck couldn’t believe his ears. Was Lori defending him?

  But she wasn’t done.

  “Chuck’s just different,” Lori continued. “You know. Chuck doesn’t talk about cars or hunting or girls or tractors. He doesn’t know a gasket from a gearshift. He likes art. He’s been sneaking out to art museums this whole trip. And drawing. He’s really good. Want to see?”

  Nobody answered, but Lori walked over to Chuck’s suitcase, anyway, and pulled out his secret notebook. Chuck’s jaw dropped. How had she known? Lori flipped the notebook open and laid it on the table in front of Mom, like some lawyer on TV, presenting evidence to the judge.

  Chuck felt naked. What else did she know?

  “May I look?” Mom asked.

  At least she asked.

  Chuck managed to nod. Mom began flipping pages. There was the copy he’d made of the van Gogh painting, where he hadn’t gotten any of the perspective right. There was the Rembrandt portrait, where he’d had to erase the nose fifty times, and still hadn’t gotten it right. There was the drawing he’d made of Mom speaking. He’d done a great job drawing the podium, but she was flat and lifeless, with none of the sparkle she carried in real life.

  “Stop!” Chuck yelled. He yanked the notebook out of Mom’s grasp. Clutching it with both hands, he started to pull in opposite directions. He’d rip his pictures into shreds. He wasn’t an artist. He never would be.

  “No!” Lori and Mom shouted together. Chuck was so surprised to hear them agree on anything that he hesitated. Mom slipped the notebook out of his hands and held it shut on her lap.

  Chuck couldn’t look at Mom or Lori. Everyone was so quiet, the air conditioner’s hum sounded like a roar.

  “You don’t have to show these to me,” Mom said softly. “Or anyone. You have a right to privacy.”

  “I—,” Lori started to protest. Chuck lifted his head in time to see Mom silence her with a look.

  “But don’t destroy them,” Mom said. “They are good.”

  “You’re just saying that,” Chuck said sulkily. “I can’t do anything right.”

  It was true. He couldn’t divide quadratic equations to save his life. He couldn’t dissect a frog without ripping all the vital organs. He couldn’t plow a single row without getting distracted and going crooked. He couldn’t keep a baby pig from squirming long enough to give it a rhinitis shot. And it was like Lori said: He didn’t know a gearshift from a gasket. He didn’t care. None of those things mattered to him.

  But drawing did. Why couldn’t he be good at that?

  “Chuck,” Mom said gently. “You haven’t had any training. Pickford High School doesn’t have any art classes, does it?”

  Chuck shook his head.

  “Then we’ll find someone to give you private lessons,” Mom promised. “Just don’t give up on yourself. Ever. About anything. Okay?”

  Chuck found himself nodding. And nodding.

  Mom handed him back his notebook.

  “Lori, you stay out of Chuck’s suitcase. You hear?”

  Chuck hugged his notebook to his chest, tighter and tighter.

  It was still dark when Lori awoke the next morning. Mom was up already, tiptoeing around. Lori watched through half-closed eyes as Mom pulled on sweats and tennis shoes and slipped out the door.

  She’s running away from home, Lori thought drowsily. Nah. She already did that.

  Lori closed her eyes. It was easier to go back to sleep than to think about Mom or Chuck or anything that had happened in the past week and a half.

  The next time Lori woke up, sunlight was streaming in the window, and she could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Chuck’s bed was empty. The door opened and it was Mom back again, flushed and sweaty.

  Lori propped herself up on her elbows.

  “Where were you?” she asked sleepily.

  “I went jogging,” Mom said.

  “I didn’t know you did that,” Lori said.

  “I do it a lot, when I’m traveling,” Mom said. “It helps me think.” She sat down on the edge of Lori’s bed. Lori was still close enough to dreaming that she could let herself enjoy having Mom nearby. Maybe Mom was getting ready to tell her more. Lori remembered one time at home when they’d all been in the living room together, and some report had come on TV about people jogging.

  “Now, that’s a waste of time,” Pop had said. “If those folks want to get some exercise, why don’t they try doing some honest work for a change?”

  And Mom had sat there and not said a word. Lori felt like assuring Mom now, Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell Pop you jog. Then maybe she and Mom could laugh about how Pop always made those grand pronouncements that didn’t really mean a thing. All bark, no bite, that was Pop.

  Mom glanced toward the bathroom, where the spray of the shower was still pounding away. She leaned in toward Lori. Lori braced herself to receive another secret.

  “While it’s just you and me,” Mom began.

  “Yes?” Lori said. Without even thinking about it, she started holding her breath.

  “You can tell me. How bad is it for Chuck?” Mom asked.

  Chuck. Lori exhaled so hard, she practically snorted.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “The teasing,” Mom said. “Are the other kids really mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Lori
said. “I’m not with him twenty-four hours a day.”

  “You’re around him more than I am,” Mom said.

  It was the perfect opportunity for Lori to spit back, Whose fault is that? She managed to keep her mouth shut.

  “What do kids say?” Mom asked. “They don’t get . . . physically abusive, do they?”

  Lori thought about some of the rumors she’d heard. A couple of guys from school had supposedly circled around Chuck at the fair last year, hit him with hog switches, and yelled out, “Piggy! Piggy!” Would Mom call that physically abusive? It was just a harmless prank.

  Wasn’t it?

  “I don’t know, Mom,” Lori said again. “They call him dumb and stupid and fatso and retard and, I don’t know, stuff like that. But it’s not like people are beating him up every day or anything.”

  “But why Chuck?” Mom asked.

  Either Mom was still sweating, or there were tears in her eyes. Was Mom crying for Chuck?

  Why did that make Lori feel jealous?

  “Come on, Mom,” Lori said, more harshly than she meant to. “Don’t you remember high school at all? Kids make fun of other kids. That’s just what they do. Even if you’re popular, you’ve always got to watch out that something doesn’t happen to make you seem weird or unpopular or whatever. Like, you know how you want to have Chuck take art lessons? That’s not going to help. Nobody takes art lessons. It’ll just make him seem weirder than ever.”

  “But Chuck wants art lessons,” Mom said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Had Mom ever asked Lori what she wanted?

  “Maybe,” Lori said. “But, see, this is how it works. Something like that could even make me look bad—”

  Lori had said the wrong thing again. She knew it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Mom drew back, looking horrified.

  “Oh, sorry,” she snapped. “I forgot that your image was more important than Chuck.”

  “No, Mom, listen—,” Lori scrambled to explain. She couldn’t stand to have Mom looking at her that way again. How had this happened? How come Lori knew what to say to everyone except her own mother?” I mean, I don’t really care if he takes art lessons or not. I mean, I guess it’d be good for him. And, really, if his being weird was going to hurt my image, that would have happened a long time ago—”