PS_Winter_2012_PS Summer 11/25/12 6:56 PM Page 25
n a n c y tongue is stuck in my mouth. I pucker for saliva and repeat, “Si. Si entiendo.” “Is she talking to me or to you?” I am suffocating. My face quakes even though my molars clench the inside of my cheeks. “Por favor,” I plead. “John, me tengo que ir. I need to go. Por favor, Dios mio.” “My wife is indicating yes, she understands. It’s her bag, which she packed. She’s very upset. She’s very afraid of flying.” I squeeze John’s arm, and he keeps his hand on mine. The metal detectors are yards away, like time counters at the finish line of a race. Other people are getting through and continuing to Gate 36. I inhale audibly to expand my chest and fill my stomach, like Dr. Berger has taught me. Lorraine doesn’t even look toward me. “Jesus Christ. Always on my line. She’s traveling alone, right?” “Yes.” “Tell her she needs to get to Gate 36,
straight ahead after the metal detectors.” Lorraine jerks her head as she gestures for the next people in line to hurry and approach. John and I step aside. My heartbeats throb in my ears. My hands fumble as I unwind my scarf, slip off the ankle length coat with its hood and the zip-up wool sweater. I stuff the random small articles into the sleeves of my coat. John rubs my upper arm, cups my shoulder, and squeezes as gently as if it were my cheek. “Ah, there you are. Tropical Nancy.” He leans in, and adds, “We know you’re not afraid to fly. Lovely Lorraine back there wouldn’t understand. I can tell these things about people.” I nod to play along. I’ll be in Puerto Rico in less than four hours. A new woman. I collapse at the joints like a spring-loaded toy. Tears run down my cheeks before I can get a tissue. I’ve cried so much over the past six weeks, but
The Drunkest Three-Year-Old in the Room By Amanda Erin Stopa Here comes a school of them right nowJust look at em! They are sooo wasted they have to be strung along on a guide rope, one walking like Frankenstein, another like he’s on Broadway. These addicts can’t take two steps in the same direction without falling all over the place. And it’s only noon. And that one’s wearing a tutu, on a Monday. I’m going to guess she’s coming off a weekend long bender; looking mighty sloppy. And lookover by that fountain, those two kids are so hammeredrunning, trying to climb over each other up the backside of a copper goat. But oh, it looks like their little drunk girlfriend is a bit of a downer, possibly cross faded the way she’s kicking around the grass, yelling at her Velcro shoes. Loose cannon. But the drunk I love most is the one who is finding his legs for the first time. Unashamed at how he wobbles, arms reaching towards his intention, the blonde woman cooing through picket fence teeth, he takes his first steps to sobriety. Amanda Stopa lives in Philadelphia, although she is not from there, and attends a Masters Program at Rutgers University.
m e n d e z - b o o t h these tears come fast. I tremble and look down at my exposed knees. John places my coat on the ground, and gathers me to him. “Hey,” he repeats into my hair, my ear, my cheek and neck. My nose swells and I clutch his coat. “I’m okay,” I say, muffled by the wool. “This is good for you. Everyone’s waiting for you.” “I love you,” I say and it makes me want to cry more, so I think about making it to my gate in time. The delays of going through the metal detector, of standing behind people who have to unlace shoes. I need to make one last trip to a normal-sized bathroom before boarding the plane. “I love you too, Nan.” I lift my chin and close my eyes. Even without sight, our lips find each other. I kiss him as if I’d not seen him for weeks. We look like lovers whose rendezvous is ending too soon: Me, the small brown woman returning to my island; John, the white man, staying behind. The image of us is more romantic than the truth. We are long-married. We lost our baby boy. This is breaking me. I am afraid. I take the handle of my carry-on and pull it behind me as I walk past the rope barrier. I turn one last time to wave to John. He raises an arm in uncertain response. My quilted coat is draped over his other arm. The stuffed sleeves hang down stiffly. It looks like a small woman John has caught just as she fell back in a faint. Wednesday, April 11 54 Cedar Lane, Teaneck, NJ 7:00 p.m. 25
It got warmer in New Jersey while I was away. I sit on Dr. Berger’s couch and tell her I don’t need the space heater. She comments on how tan I look. I wore as little as
