route. I double-checked my calendar. Friday I was scheduled to argue motions in court for Sanchez Marks, Jesse’s firm. The rest of the week was flexible enough for me to scramble. I phoned Jesse and told him I wouldn’t be sleeping at his place tonight.
“Give me forty-five minutes,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
Still feeling crappy, I took two Tylenol, stuffed clean socks and underwear and a toothbrush in a backpack, grabbed my keys and computer case, headed across the lawn, and knocked on Nikki Vincent’s kitchen door.
She answered with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, carrying Thea on her hip. I followed her inside.
“Tell him the lighting’s fine,” she said.
Play-Doh was blobbed on the butcher block table. And mushed in Thea’s fingers and caught, bright blue, in Nikki’s hair. Something creole was bubbling on the stove. Nikki set Thea in her high chair.
“Wine, yes. Vodka, in his dreams.”
It sounded like she was talking to her assistant. Nikki ran an art gallery but stayed home two mornings a week. She grabbed a dish towel and ran it over Thea’s hands and face. Held up a finger, indicating just a minute.
Nikki had been my college roommate, and living next door to her continued to anchor me. She was compact and voluptuous, African-American, and today she was wearing shorts and a UCSB Volleyball T-shirt along with reams of silver jewelry. Her bracelets sang as she wiped her little girl’s face. Thea squirmed, and the phone squirted out from under Nikki’s chin and fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” she shouted.
I took the dish towel and finished wiping Thea’s fingers. She was eighteen months old, sunny and curious and sturdy as a fence post. Coming into this homey chaos gave me a feeling of both longing and belonging, and I felt myself unwind. Even the smell of jambalaya on the stove didn’t bother my stomach.
Nikki hung up. “Sorry, the new exhibition. Temperamental artist, imagine that. What’s up?”
“Road trip. I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you lock up after the workmen and set the alarm for me?”
“No problem.”
“And if my cousin Taylor shows up, hit her with a rake.”
“With pleasure. Where are you off to?”
“Palo Alto.” I ruffled Thea’s hair. “Paying my mom a surprise visit.”
“You never pay your mom a surprise visit.”
Not since college, when I drove home and heard her down the hall in the bedroom, whooping, “Phil, you dog !”
“I need to pick her memory about the bad old days in China Lake,” I said.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“What’s that for?” I said.
“You, Miss Military Industrial Complex. Your childhood on the dark side is going to catch up with you.”
“Pinko.”
“Warmonger.”
She hugged me and kissed my cheek. “Safe trip.”
Jesse stopped the truck in front of the terminal. “You know what your father will say about this. You’re not lying low.”
I grabbed my things from the backseat. “Visiting Mom is lying low. I’m spending the afternoon airside past security, then airborne, then sequestered at a house only you and Nikki know about.”
“I can’t take you to the firing range if you’re in Palo Alto.”
Leaning across the cab, I hooked his red tie, pulled him to me, and kissed him. “Your ammo will keep for twenty-four hours. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I schlepped my things up the walk, past flower beds, and inside to the ticket desk, all of fifty feet. The Santa Barbara terminal is less an airport than a hacienda plucked from Man of La Mancha , designed to show the happy tourist he has arrived in Fiesta Land. I showed my ID and paid the tax for the flight. This was the big perk in my life. As the daughter of an airline employee I essentially flew free, worldwide. The agent handed me my ticket and I hiked toward the metal detector.
An hour and a half later the small jet swooped off the runway and headed north. I leaned against the window and watched
“Give me forty-five minutes,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
Still feeling crappy, I took two Tylenol, stuffed clean socks and underwear and a toothbrush in a backpack, grabbed my keys and computer case, headed across the lawn, and knocked on Nikki Vincent’s kitchen door.
She answered with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, carrying Thea on her hip. I followed her inside.
“Tell him the lighting’s fine,” she said.
Play-Doh was blobbed on the butcher block table. And mushed in Thea’s fingers and caught, bright blue, in Nikki’s hair. Something creole was bubbling on the stove. Nikki set Thea in her high chair.
“Wine, yes. Vodka, in his dreams.”
It sounded like she was talking to her assistant. Nikki ran an art gallery but stayed home two mornings a week. She grabbed a dish towel and ran it over Thea’s hands and face. Held up a finger, indicating just a minute.
Nikki had been my college roommate, and living next door to her continued to anchor me. She was compact and voluptuous, African-American, and today she was wearing shorts and a UCSB Volleyball T-shirt along with reams of silver jewelry. Her bracelets sang as she wiped her little girl’s face. Thea squirmed, and the phone squirted out from under Nikki’s chin and fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” she shouted.
I took the dish towel and finished wiping Thea’s fingers. She was eighteen months old, sunny and curious and sturdy as a fence post. Coming into this homey chaos gave me a feeling of both longing and belonging, and I felt myself unwind. Even the smell of jambalaya on the stove didn’t bother my stomach.
Nikki hung up. “Sorry, the new exhibition. Temperamental artist, imagine that. What’s up?”
“Road trip. I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you lock up after the workmen and set the alarm for me?”
“No problem.”
“And if my cousin Taylor shows up, hit her with a rake.”
“With pleasure. Where are you off to?”
“Palo Alto.” I ruffled Thea’s hair. “Paying my mom a surprise visit.”
“You never pay your mom a surprise visit.”
Not since college, when I drove home and heard her down the hall in the bedroom, whooping, “Phil, you dog !”
“I need to pick her memory about the bad old days in China Lake,” I said.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“What’s that for?” I said.
“You, Miss Military Industrial Complex. Your childhood on the dark side is going to catch up with you.”
“Pinko.”
“Warmonger.”
She hugged me and kissed my cheek. “Safe trip.”
Jesse stopped the truck in front of the terminal. “You know what your father will say about this. You’re not lying low.”
I grabbed my things from the backseat. “Visiting Mom is lying low. I’m spending the afternoon airside past security, then airborne, then sequestered at a house only you and Nikki know about.”
“I can’t take you to the firing range if you’re in Palo Alto.”
Leaning across the cab, I hooked his red tie, pulled him to me, and kissed him. “Your ammo will keep for twenty-four hours. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I schlepped my things up the walk, past flower beds, and inside to the ticket desk, all of fifty feet. The Santa Barbara terminal is less an airport than a hacienda plucked from Man of La Mancha , designed to show the happy tourist he has arrived in Fiesta Land. I showed my ID and paid the tax for the flight. This was the big perk in my life. As the daughter of an airline employee I essentially flew free, worldwide. The agent handed me my ticket and I hiked toward the metal detector.
An hour and a half later the small jet swooped off the runway and headed north. I leaned against the window and watched
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