supermarkets. They send me little crafts and knickknacks made from Popsicle sticks. Stuffed animals they’ve made out of scraps of unwashed fabric.”
Peggy Jean paused to dab her pinky beneath her eye. “Lord knows I want to touch my boys, just all the time, but I don’t have the luxury that ordinary mothers have.”
Peggy Jean stood to check on the cookies, peering through the glass of the oven door. Then she went to the sink and gave the flowered ceramic dispenser two quick pumps with her wrist, dispensing an amber pool of Dial antibacterial soap.
“ Touch is how germs are spread, Tina.”
She rinsed her hands under the scalding hot water, dried them on a fresh Bounty paper towel, and turned to her friend. “And my boys have always been very sensitive to germs. I just can’t expose them. Did you know Staphylococcus can live for hours outside the body? Hours ,” Peggy Jean had informed her.
She was startled out of her memory by sudden turbulence. The plane bumped through the air like a speedboat across choppy water. The formerly sleeping man across the aisle from her awakened, gripped both armrests with his hands, and stared straight ahead. Peggy Jean, a seasoned international traveler, turned to him and leaned over. “This always happens when you pass over Greenland. It’s thermo-something, has to do with all their volcanoes, I think.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” the man said, and reached into his seatback pocket for the airsickness bag. Not feeling it, he leaned forward and peered into the empty pouch.
Peggy Jean turned away and looked out her window.
The man made a gurgling sound in his throat, his cheeks plumped out, and he leapt from his seat, dashing up the aisle toward the lavatory.
A moment later, after the turbulence had passed, the male flight attendant appeared and knelt beside her. “Well, hello again,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that we can serve you your specially ordered kosher meal anytime you’re ready.”
Peggy Jean gasped. “My what ?”
“Your kosher meal. We have it all ready for you,” He smiled. “If you like, we can serve it to you in courses, like the other passengers, or we can give it to you all at once.”
“I, I didn’t order a . . .” she lowered her voice and spat, “ a kosher meal .”
The flight attendant looked at the notepad he was carrying. “You didn’t?” He ran the point of his pen down the list, stopped at a name, and circled it. “Peggy Jean Smythe, seat 12D.” Then he stood up and double-checked her seat number. “Yup, 12D, Peggy Jean Smythe, that’s you.”
“But I didn’t order it, I don’t want it,” she hissed. “I’m not . . .” she turned her head to the window, imagined every passenger on the plane glaring at her, then looked back at the flight attendant. “I’m not Jewish . Not that there’s anything wrong with being Jewish, it’s just that I’m not.”
The mere thought of a potential borscht stain made her anxious. After all, she was wearing a white silk pantsuit with palazzo pants and a sheer white chiffon blouse.
“Goodness, well, I’m terribly sorry,” the flight attendant said, brushing the crease out of his pants as he stood. “There must have been some sort of computer error. So have you had a chance to look at the menu?” he asked, pointing to the enormous leather bound volume that contained a single page.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” she said simply.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe, what can we get for you this evening?”
Regaining her composure, Peggy Jean touched the simple ribbed hoop white gold earring on her left earlobe and then gave a small, polite laugh. “Well, actually, I was thinking I might enjoy having the chicken Kiev.”
He smiled, his head cocked to the side. “The chicken Kiev it is, then.”
Then a look of concern spread across her face. “Where is Kiev , anyway?”
The flight attendant paused, placed the tip of the pen between his lips. He
Peggy Jean paused to dab her pinky beneath her eye. “Lord knows I want to touch my boys, just all the time, but I don’t have the luxury that ordinary mothers have.”
Peggy Jean stood to check on the cookies, peering through the glass of the oven door. Then she went to the sink and gave the flowered ceramic dispenser two quick pumps with her wrist, dispensing an amber pool of Dial antibacterial soap.
“ Touch is how germs are spread, Tina.”
She rinsed her hands under the scalding hot water, dried them on a fresh Bounty paper towel, and turned to her friend. “And my boys have always been very sensitive to germs. I just can’t expose them. Did you know Staphylococcus can live for hours outside the body? Hours ,” Peggy Jean had informed her.
She was startled out of her memory by sudden turbulence. The plane bumped through the air like a speedboat across choppy water. The formerly sleeping man across the aisle from her awakened, gripped both armrests with his hands, and stared straight ahead. Peggy Jean, a seasoned international traveler, turned to him and leaned over. “This always happens when you pass over Greenland. It’s thermo-something, has to do with all their volcanoes, I think.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” the man said, and reached into his seatback pocket for the airsickness bag. Not feeling it, he leaned forward and peered into the empty pouch.
Peggy Jean turned away and looked out her window.
The man made a gurgling sound in his throat, his cheeks plumped out, and he leapt from his seat, dashing up the aisle toward the lavatory.
A moment later, after the turbulence had passed, the male flight attendant appeared and knelt beside her. “Well, hello again,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that we can serve you your specially ordered kosher meal anytime you’re ready.”
Peggy Jean gasped. “My what ?”
“Your kosher meal. We have it all ready for you,” He smiled. “If you like, we can serve it to you in courses, like the other passengers, or we can give it to you all at once.”
“I, I didn’t order a . . .” she lowered her voice and spat, “ a kosher meal .”
The flight attendant looked at the notepad he was carrying. “You didn’t?” He ran the point of his pen down the list, stopped at a name, and circled it. “Peggy Jean Smythe, seat 12D.” Then he stood up and double-checked her seat number. “Yup, 12D, Peggy Jean Smythe, that’s you.”
“But I didn’t order it, I don’t want it,” she hissed. “I’m not . . .” she turned her head to the window, imagined every passenger on the plane glaring at her, then looked back at the flight attendant. “I’m not Jewish . Not that there’s anything wrong with being Jewish, it’s just that I’m not.”
The mere thought of a potential borscht stain made her anxious. After all, she was wearing a white silk pantsuit with palazzo pants and a sheer white chiffon blouse.
“Goodness, well, I’m terribly sorry,” the flight attendant said, brushing the crease out of his pants as he stood. “There must have been some sort of computer error. So have you had a chance to look at the menu?” he asked, pointing to the enormous leather bound volume that contained a single page.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” she said simply.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe, what can we get for you this evening?”
Regaining her composure, Peggy Jean touched the simple ribbed hoop white gold earring on her left earlobe and then gave a small, polite laugh. “Well, actually, I was thinking I might enjoy having the chicken Kiev.”
He smiled, his head cocked to the side. “The chicken Kiev it is, then.”
Then a look of concern spread across her face. “Where is Kiev , anyway?”
The flight attendant paused, placed the tip of the pen between his lips. He
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