before the storm; her warm sides heave, bovine and alive, patient. Clive gestures toward the house and Dinah moves. She feels afraid of the storm but also dreamy. The grass is very green and squeaks underfoot, and all the while Clive is nudging her forward to the house and up the stairs. Love! She is also afraid. How she must look: the dull hair, her hair, all this way and that, flat patches, a child’s morning hairdo, the nut-size skull, and the scalp that shows through. Terrible thoughts when he means only to please her. And she is pleased and feels purely lucky to be touched.
“Why are you crying?” Clive asks.
“Any number of reasons.”
“I’ll squeeze it out of you, whatever it is,” Clive says.
In Transit
2004
All night sentimental voices in a continuous loop of sound played in the airport. “I should know,” Sally shouted at the little phone in her hand. Cell phones, she hated them. “Can you hear me, Dinah? Yes?” She pressed a button along the side of the phone. “This any better?” Sally asked. “I can hear you better.” Shut down by a storm and being cheap, Sally had spent the night in the Boise airport. Now she watched a half-assed sunrise turn the sky white and perceived no change in the lounge. She was alone; she was alone in the airport but for a man in a red shirt on the other side of the security gate near the end of a spooky job; the concessions stands—two to be exact—were gated. No CAUTION signs, no woman swabbing the tunneling entrance to the women’s restroom, so Sally held it in, wouldn’t go, endured the knotted sensations because who was to say? Murderers—the man in the red shirt, someone she had missed in the long night in the empty airport where the escalator still kept running—ghostly. The escalator and the music! The music was a threaded needle working its way through her brain.
“Oh, Sally.” Dinah spoke softly into the phone, fearful lest she wake Clive sleeping next to her in bed.
“What am I punishing myself for? I could have stayed at a motel.”
“Sally.”
“Some of the money from the painting Dad gave me went to this camp, you know.”
“Sally . . .”
“I loved horses at her age. They always took advantage of me but I loved them.” Sally returned to the airport experience and her good fortune in having a book to read.
But Wisia on a horse was on Dinah’s mind.
Sally said, “I actually finished this book. It got me through the long night. I’ve underlined pages—here.” Sally put on her reading voice, the one she wore with glasses: “‘Encaustic images of women in funerary portraits were discovered in the nineteenth century at Fayum in Egypt.’ That’s nice to know, isn’t it?”
“I thought you said the book was about jigsaw puzzles. What does that have to do with jigsaw puzzles?”
“A lot,” Sally said. “Margaret Drabble makes it fit. She is so smart and frugal. She doesn’t like taking taxis. Art, family, old age. Dad would like it.”
“Oh, Sally.”
“I’m coming to you, Dinah,” she said. “I don’t care what Dad says.”
“Did you have any dinner at all last night?”
“I kicked an old Baby Ruth out of the vending machine. The peanuts were white. Bad sign. But I had no choice; Sabarro’s was shut up. The drinks in the vending machine looked like cleaning fluid.” Sally said, “The meal they’ll be serving in the next life.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t go to a motel.”
“I did expect the lights to dim.”
Instead there was music and CNN. All night the breaking news scrolled across the TV along with footage of the killer whale who had killed his trainer: the killer whale corkscrewing into the air, breaking the water with his tail or else sliding up a ramp, his expression disingenuously smiley. “He had a history of violence,” Sally said.
“No,” Dinah said softly into the phone, no, she had not seen the killer whale.
“I had to pee something terrible,” Sally said. “Fortunately
“Why are you crying?” Clive asks.
“Any number of reasons.”
“I’ll squeeze it out of you, whatever it is,” Clive says.
In Transit
2004
All night sentimental voices in a continuous loop of sound played in the airport. “I should know,” Sally shouted at the little phone in her hand. Cell phones, she hated them. “Can you hear me, Dinah? Yes?” She pressed a button along the side of the phone. “This any better?” Sally asked. “I can hear you better.” Shut down by a storm and being cheap, Sally had spent the night in the Boise airport. Now she watched a half-assed sunrise turn the sky white and perceived no change in the lounge. She was alone; she was alone in the airport but for a man in a red shirt on the other side of the security gate near the end of a spooky job; the concessions stands—two to be exact—were gated. No CAUTION signs, no woman swabbing the tunneling entrance to the women’s restroom, so Sally held it in, wouldn’t go, endured the knotted sensations because who was to say? Murderers—the man in the red shirt, someone she had missed in the long night in the empty airport where the escalator still kept running—ghostly. The escalator and the music! The music was a threaded needle working its way through her brain.
“Oh, Sally.” Dinah spoke softly into the phone, fearful lest she wake Clive sleeping next to her in bed.
“What am I punishing myself for? I could have stayed at a motel.”
“Sally.”
“Some of the money from the painting Dad gave me went to this camp, you know.”
“Sally . . .”
“I loved horses at her age. They always took advantage of me but I loved them.” Sally returned to the airport experience and her good fortune in having a book to read.
But Wisia on a horse was on Dinah’s mind.
Sally said, “I actually finished this book. It got me through the long night. I’ve underlined pages—here.” Sally put on her reading voice, the one she wore with glasses: “‘Encaustic images of women in funerary portraits were discovered in the nineteenth century at Fayum in Egypt.’ That’s nice to know, isn’t it?”
“I thought you said the book was about jigsaw puzzles. What does that have to do with jigsaw puzzles?”
“A lot,” Sally said. “Margaret Drabble makes it fit. She is so smart and frugal. She doesn’t like taking taxis. Art, family, old age. Dad would like it.”
“Oh, Sally.”
“I’m coming to you, Dinah,” she said. “I don’t care what Dad says.”
“Did you have any dinner at all last night?”
“I kicked an old Baby Ruth out of the vending machine. The peanuts were white. Bad sign. But I had no choice; Sabarro’s was shut up. The drinks in the vending machine looked like cleaning fluid.” Sally said, “The meal they’ll be serving in the next life.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t go to a motel.”
“I did expect the lights to dim.”
Instead there was music and CNN. All night the breaking news scrolled across the TV along with footage of the killer whale who had killed his trainer: the killer whale corkscrewing into the air, breaking the water with his tail or else sliding up a ramp, his expression disingenuously smiley. “He had a history of violence,” Sally said.
“No,” Dinah said softly into the phone, no, she had not seen the killer whale.
“I had to pee something terrible,” Sally said. “Fortunately
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