Takeoffs and Landings(4)

Chuck reminded himself that Gram and Pop were Mom’s parents. They were mostly raising her kids for her. She couldn’t afford to cross them.

Hopelessly, he slunk up the stairs, back to the homework he didn’t understand.

But the next morning, before taking off on another trip, Mom told Chuck and Lori not to make any plans for the last two weeks of June.

“You’re coming with me,” she’d said with a broad grin.

Chuck saw Gram nod silently behind her. Pop already had his back turned, as he pulled on his work boots to head out the door.

“I can’t go,” Lori said. “Jackie Stires always has a pool party the last Saturday in June, and we need to do the Pickford High float for the Fourth of July parade, and then there’s my 4-H projects—”

“You can miss a party for once in your life,” Gram said firmly. “The float’ll be there when you get back.”

“And you never start your 4-H projects until July anyhow,” Mike chimed in, sneaking in under Gram’s arm to snatch a biscuit from the plate she was carrying to the table.

“I do so!” Lori said. “And what about the 4-H pigs? I’m the only one who remembers to feed and water them—they’ll never make weight if I’m not around. They might even die.”

“It’d be good for the younger kids to take on some responsibility,” Mom said calmly. “And Pop wouldn’t let them die.”

“But why can’t we go, too?” Mike complained. Pretty soon Joey and Emma were whining the same thing.

Chuck stopped paying attention.

I’m going away, he whispered to himself.

The crackle of a loudspeaker brought him back to the present.

“We are now boarding rows twenty-two and higher,” a woman’s voice announced.

Chuck’s armpits were drenched now. His hair was plastered to his head with panicky sweat.

“Is that us?” he asked.

Mom nodded.

“No point in rushing to the gate,” she said. “We’ll wait until the line’s down a little.”

She sounded so sure of herself, one of the other passengers sat down.

Chuck gnawed his left thumbnail.

It was Gram’s fault he was scared.

A few nights ago, when he’d come in late from replanting beans (he hadn’t managed to avoid that chore entirely), she’d given him the supper she’d been keeping hot on the stove. Then she hovered over him.

“I never got used to Joanie flying all over the place,” she said. “Every time I heard about a plane crash . . . Well, you know. I read someplace that takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous part. That’s when planes crash. So I always make sure I say a prayer anytime I know your mom’s schedule, the first and the last five minutes of every flight. But now with three of you all flying at once . . .”

She’d bit her lip.

Pop came up behind her and ruffled her hair, like she was just as young as Emma.

“Now, Ida, you know Joanie says those planes are always delayed. Probably sometimes when you’re praying that she’ll have a safe landing, she’s just in the middle of taking off. Don’t you worry about confusing God?”

“God doesn’t get confused,” Gram said stiffly. “And you know you worry, too, Fred. You can’t say you don’t.”

“Aw.” Pop waved her concerns away. He sat down beside Chuck and began eating the beef stew Gram slid in front of him. “Haven’t you seen those statistics about how flying’s safer than driving? The way this kid gets to daydreaming, he’s probably safer on an airplane than driving a tractor.”

He punched Chuck in the arm, to let him know he was just joking, but Chuck still wanted to protest: I didn’t make a single mistake planting this year. Can’t you ever forget anything? Next thing you know, you’ll be blaming me again for letting the cows out back when I was six.

But Pop’s expression softened.

“Won’t be the same baling next week without having to restack half your loads.”

That was the closest Pop ever got to mushy and sentimental. Flying really must be dangerous.

“Chuck? Chuck?” Mom was saying. “Let’s go.”

Lori was already standing—and making a face that very clearly said, Come on, stupid. Chuck scrambled to his feet. Mom picked up the small bag she was going to carry on to the plane. Chuck wondered if he should offer to carry it for her—be manly and all that. But she looked so right with the strap slung over her shoulder, bag balanced against her hip. Someone could take a picture of her and frame it. They could title it WOMAN ON THE GO.

Some magazine had done an article about Mom a year or so ago. There’d been lots of pictures with captions like that, making her sound like Superwoman. MOTHER OF FIVE FLIES HIGH IN “ACCIDENTAL” CAREER, was the headline.