Page 9 of A Week Away
The stewardess taught us how to buckle a safety belt, and explained that the flight was too short for meal service but there would be drinks and snacks coming around once we were in the air. Then the seatbelt light went on and we were speeding down the runway.
The plane rose at a steep and uncomfortable pitch. The planes I’d flown on before had been much larger, with two aisles and at least eight seats across. They seemed to lumber into the air, approaching everything gradually and much more gently. This smaller plane jumped into the air and sped upwards.
I wasn’t liking it. Cass, though, seemed untroubled. He sat next to the window looking out at the receding lights of Los Angeles. There was awe on his face. He seemed so young. I wondered if he really understood what it meant to kill someone. I didn’t doubt he knew what it meant towantto kill someone, but that was different from actually doing it. When we found his father’s killer, he believed he was going to want to kill them. I didn’t think he’d be able to.
Soon, the plane leveled off, and the stewardess’ got the drinks cart out and began coming down the aisle. I leaned a bit closer to Cass, and said, “Tell me everything you know about your father.”
“I just know he disappeared.”
“You know more than that. You said you were born four months after your parents got married. So they had to get married.”
“I guess.”
“And your mom was seventeen and your dad was twenty-four, twenty-five—do I have that right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, where did they meet? Did your mother ever say? It wouldn’t have been in school, unless your dad was a teacher. And it wouldn’t have been some place teenagers are supposed to be, would it?”
“They met at Harpo’s. It was a disco then with this floor that had lights underneath. I saw Napalm Death there last summer.”
I had no idea what Napalm Death was, but it had to be weird to see them at the place your parents met. “Your mother was there underage.”
“She and her best friend, Heather, used to get in everywhere just because they were pretty and had cool clothes. That’s what my mother says, anyway.”
“Do you know anything else about the night they met?”
“They Hustled. You know, the disco dance. My mom told him she was nineteen.”
“She told you that she lied?”
“No. My grandparents told me that part.”
Lying is not a great foundation for a relationship. Though I wasn’t one to talk. Ronnie didn’t know my real age, which was four years older than he thought.
The drinks cart arrived and the stewardess asked if we’d like a beverage. Cass order a ginger ale and I said, “Me too.” She gave us the drinks and a small package of nuts each, and then moved on.
“Are you an alcoholic?” Cass asked.
“No. I just don’t drink much.”
Drinking loosened my tongue and I had too many secrets for a loose tongue. Of course, not liking your behavior when you drink was one of the many definitions of alcoholism. But we won’t think about that.
Pouring my ginger ale, I asked, “Did your parents date for long before they got married?”
“Four months. I mean, you can count, right?”
“Four months? Or, atleastfour months? Did she get pregnant the night they met?”
“How would I know?”
“What have people said?” I had to remind him.
He thought for a moment, chewing on a nut, then said, “One time she said I was premature and my grandmother snorted.”
“Your mother’s mother or your father’s mother.”
“My Grandma D.”
