Cousin Andrew

By Sheila McCormick

I wanted neither the mans sympathy, passion, nor esteem. I only wanted to be able to remember the voluptuous well of the ocean between my legs, the swell of salt tide buoying my breasts and none of what came after.

But there was no escaping what came after. Rosanna Flynn was pregnant by a man she hardly knew, met in a tropical paradise on the vacation trip of a lifetime.

Rosanna wants the child, wants to raise it by herself. But will her lovers rich cousin get in her way? Mysterious Andrew. What does he want and how far will he go to get it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 7, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462825608

Sheila McCormick

Sheila McCormick is a free lance journalist writing primarily for equine publications. She has written a number of interview and essay pieces and has previously published poetry in the Cambridge, MA based literary magazine, Ploughshares. She is a graduate of Massachusetts College of Art, has studied writing with author, Rose Moss; attended seminars at the Green Mountain Writer’s Conference, belongs to the Cape Cod Writer’s Center. Since much of her work is full of horse lore and equine characters, it’s fitting to say that she is also a longtime horsewoman. To support that luxury she works as a technical architect for a Fortune 500 company.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

‘WOMAN SHOOTS MOTHER, THEN SELF’.

The headline accused me. I strained to make out the finer print. The banner was ambivalent. I could infer I’d only wounded us both, but the details of my crime were a blur. Without my glasses I wouldn’t uncover them. And the man seated next to me didn’t pause long enough on this page for me to dig them out of my purse and rudely look over his shoulder. Shooting was one way to make a point, I rationalized. But my way had the advantage of being less litigious, easier on the conscience. So what was plaguing mine?

The din of the airport drew me back to where I was. DallasFort Worth seemed like some vast, metal girded savanna filled with traveler beasts and the multiplication of their chatter, their feet along the concourse; the amplified hiss of numberless clothed and striding limbs, and the roar of countless suitcase wheels. I searched the crowds passing in front of me once again. Willis was late. Or I waited at the wrong gate. I wanted to stand; to pace. But my feet hurt and my back ached. I‘d worn the wrong shoes and packed too much in my carry-on bag. I was no savvy traveler. I was no traveler at all. It was time however for me to have a real vacation. My mother didn‘t think so, but I knew it in my bones.

From somewhere in the crowd I heard someone shout. My name? It came again. A shrill, simian bark. And the shriek I made in return mortified me. But here, in a place I‘d never been before, was one of my most favorite, familiar faces; thinner, bearded, and impulsively appreciated.

„Willis!"

„You‘ve escaped! He pulled me to my feet and swung me around in his arms. „Escaped! My gawd! She‘s out! Free! Lawdy! Lawdy! So where have you got your mother stashed? Does she have access to food and water? A phone? Can she contact the authorities? It‘s a good thing we‘re leaving the country. Mexico! Ah, Mexico! She‘ll never find you there. We can be Butch and Sundance. Or-you can be Butch. I‘ll be Sundance. Hey! You don‘t look that butch anymore. My gawd! Rosey! You look like a-a real female!

„Thanks, Willis. I was sarcastic. „The surgery was successful then?

I caught a glimpse of the paper reading man re-involving himself in some article and, for the first time, I noticed Willis was not alone. A young man hung back a few feet from him, watching our reunion with what I could only interpret as surly disgust.

„Friend of mine. Willis nodded towards the man. „I hate to travel alone. Helluva tennis player. He‘s from the UK. I tell him he talks funny. It gets his ass.

He now pushed me towards his friend with such force that I had to choke back my protest about his hating to travel alone. It stuck in my throat like a wad of illicit chewing gum.

„Hey, Gale! This, my good man, is the one, the only, Maria Rosanna Almeida Flynn. My oldest and dearest. But you know that."

To his rendition of my name, Willis gave a Latin trill. The young man lowered his Serengetis to the tip of his nose, looked me up and down, and said, „I thought you told me she was Irish."

„For the most part . . . I held out my hand to him. „I am.

The motion of taking his hand from his pocket to meet mine seemed to fatigue him. His fingers settled weakly against my palm for only a moment.

„He does ‚bored‘ better than anyone I know, Willis apologized. „It‘s part of his charm.

I wanted to laugh; wanted some air; some space around me. I stepped back and immediately stumbled over something just at my heels.

„Sorry." Willis grabbed my elbow to keep me from falling.

„Bad place to leave my bag, I guess. Or . . . He grinned. „There goes Rosey. Falling for another pretty face.

Was his friend pretty? I couldn’t say. His demeanor was ugly and, at the moment, that was all I could see.

Hey! You know what this guy’s name is? Willis poked my arm.

Didn’t I? Gale, wasn’t it?

He’s got the greatest name, he effused. You’ll never believe somebody didn’t invent it.

Somebody did. The young man was moved to speak. And long before my mother thought to use it.

I keep telling him . . . Willis ignored him. . . . with a name like his, he ought to be in show business. He paused dramatically, gave a wide flourish of arms, just missed cuffing a passerby. Galen Gunn! Ta-daah! He sang. What do you think? Great name, huh? Make a great male stripper. Galen Gunn shoots it to you nightly at Chippendale’s. Hey, is that place still around? And The Golden Banana? Hey! He clasped his friend’s shoulder. He’d be the star of Men in Motion in no time. He turned to me. You ever get your mother up to one of those places, Rosey? She told me once she wanted to go the worst way.

She never did! I said.

Hey! Scout’s honor! Bernie can be a regular dirty old lady once you know how to get her juices flowing.

Willis! His companion grimaced. Don’t be crude! Isn’t this your friend who spent some time in the convent?

Oh, hey, Rosey’s cool. She was never what you’d call a typical nun. That’s why she’s no nun no more. He giggled inanely, looked flushed, giddy. Please, tell him you’re not offended, Rosey?

I shook my head; smiled; thought how good it was to be in his playful company again.

See? He turned back to Galen. Rosey knows how I am.

Galen pushed his sunglasses back up on his nose.

If your name is really Maria, why do you call yourself, Rosanna? he challenged.

I’m not in the habit of calling myself, I answered; waited to see if he’d take the conversational bait.

He merely dilated his nostrils, as if he tested the air for some potentially unpleasant odor.

My mother has always seen to it that I’ve been called, Rosanna, I explained. My father insisted that I be named for his mother. But, since my mother didn’t get along with her mother-in-law, she never wanted to hear her name around the house.

Families! he snorted, and said no more.

I was debating how best to draw him out when the announcement came that our plane was ready for boarding.

I thought it was going to be just you and me on this trip, I whispered to Willis as he pushed me down the narrow aisle ahead of him.

Jealous? He winked at me.

When we reached the general location of our seats, Galen insisted on taking my single so that Willis and I could ‘catch it up’, as he put it.

Doesn’t the airline frown on that practice? I asked.

Oh, aye, Galen answered. There’ll be a bloody awful confusion if there’s a crash. Your family will think you really did go off to have a sex change and mine will be happily acquitted of me.

After he’d stowed our bags in the overhead compartment and taken his seat, I probed Willis for more information about his friend. I was intrigued by his remark about his family.

He doesn’t get along with them. Like that makes him unique! But don’t take him too seriously. Enigma is his latest pose. I’d be surprised if he ever got any good at it.

What’s with the, ‘oh, aye’, business? I asked next. Are we colonials supposed to think it’s typically British?

Just another affection, he laughed. And don’t ever call him British. He’s absolutely vain about being from Scotland. I guess the Gunns have been there since before God raised the Highlands.

He excused himself, leapt up and bounded back the two seats to where Galen had installed himself. I over listened as best I could, but the most of what I heard was only my friend’s nervous, juvenile laugh.

Who’s Lord Caliban? I asked when he returned.

You, lady, are a nosy bitch. He grinned.

"Sorry, but that was so singular, I couldn’t help but pick up on

it."

I was just teasing him about his cousin. Lord Caliban is Galen’s pet name for him. Don’t ask me why. Caliban was some kind of monster, wasn’t he? I met the guy once. Galen and I ran into him at The Four Seasons. Seemed okay to me.

The Four Seasons? Were you actually dining there? Or just passing through?

Hey! If you dress me up, you can take me anywhere! As long as you’re picking up the tab! He giggled. And what do I care? Galen’s got an expense account. Anyway-Andy baby-that’s his cousin-was there with some blond, ice goddess type-and he spots us trying to slip out the door and asks us to join them for dessert and coffee. Galen’s shitting twinkies, trying to figure out how long old Andy’s been sitting there, and getting all paranoid that he’s overheard our conversation even though he’s at a table about twenty feet away from where we were. So he decides to try and pass me off as some accountant buddy of his.

Why?

Because . . . He was laughing now. Oh, it was one of the worst afternoons of my life. I mean, I don’t know an asset from an asshole and I’m sitting there-trying to stuff my face with as much shit from the dessert cart as I could stomach—you know?-hoping I’ll have my mouth full if this guy decides to ask me any questions I can’t answer. I mean, I must’ve put on ten pounds that day.

Did he question you?

No. He was cool. And I think he knew what was going on. Galen talks about him like he’s some sort of warden, but I personally think the guy couldn’t care less.

So—what am I missing here? Why was Galen trying to pass you off as an accountant?

Because! Galen works for Andy and we’d just charged a lunch to Galen’s expense account that probably would’ve covered Imelda Marcos‘s weekly shoe allotment. I kept trying to tell him that Andy was probably there on his own expense account and he sure as hell didn‘t look like he was having any business lunch, either. That woman was all over him like a dirty shirt. I don‘t know if he was buying what she was selling, but it sure looked like personal items to me. Anyway, Galen can be a real prig sometimes.

„He seems to think highly of you," I said.

„What? It was a bet. I won a bet with him-on a tennis match. What‘d you think I was going to go for? A night out at The Ground Round?"

I was distracted now by the activity on the ground below my window; fascinated to watch the bags and cases as they were conveyed into the cargo space beneath us, straining to see if I could catch my own new, blue American Tourister as it went up the belt.

„What? He nudged me. „You‘re not going to start that business with me again, Rosey. I should remind you that you and I are the same age, and you‘re not married, either. Moreover, you spent three years sharing a bedroom with a whole bunch of other women. Boy, and did I hear some cracks about you back then! People‘d been kinder if you‘d gone into the military. So, tell me? Are you gay?

„What?" Where had this come from?

„Are you gay?" He insisted.

„My self-exploration hasn‘t led me to that discovery yet, no."

„No! And there you have it. You‘re just like me. You haven‘t grown up yet."

„You‘re probably right. And may I say, you‘re looking very pretty yourself these days."

Oooh! I should’ve known you’d pick up on that. But, hey! I am looking good, aren’t I? Like I always say, Rosey, style is more important than substance.

And, I suppose, even though you’ve hit the big-time, it’s still easier to affect style than it is to back it up with substance.

Jesus! You haven’t lost your touch, lady! Gawd! He grabbed my face and kissed it. It’s good to see you again. But get help on that gay thing. You shouldn’t be running around at your age thinking every guy over thirty who is unmarried and refers occasionally to other men as ‘pretty’ is homosexual. It could prove to be a real deterrent to your future happiness.

A soft bell now sounded and the, Fasten Seatbelts, signs began to flash. It seemed to urge me to defend myself.

So . . . I tried to sound casual. Now I’m neurotic? My! I am deteriorating. A few years ago, all I had was a corrupted sexual ego. You told me the only way I could rationalize why a man wouldn’t want to sleep with me was to think he was gay.

What I told you was that you seemed to have a problem with the fact that I didn’t want to sleep with you. This spewed out in one hurried breath. And, yes. I think you’re deteriorating, he added as he fumbled with his seatbelt; his hands trembling so badly he could barely manage to clasp it.

Willis, I never wanted to sleep with you! A shrill whisper? I blushed.

I knew that. Now-you’ll have to shuttup, Rosey, because I only have conversations with God during takeoffs and landings. If I’m going to meet Him, I want to be in direct contact the moment it happens.

We’re not even moving yet. And if you knew I didn’t want to sleep with you, how could you possibly think I’d have a problem with the fact that you didn’t want to sleep with me?

You would’ve-you know-because-you were just out of the convent and-I knew you weren’t really in control of yourself.

I could only snort at this.

I know you better than you know yourself, he added.

If you think that’s true-and you claim to be my friend-why did you tease me so much? Did I hear a hint of bitterness in my voice?

I didn’t tease you.

All those obscene calls? And those sexual overtures in the corridors at school? My students even picked up on the fact that you were teasing me!

You wish it! Now, for god’s sake, be quiet because I think I just felt the plane lurch.

You did.

Oh, gawd! We’re moving!

We are.

He made a sound like an articulated shudder. I took a breath deep enough to blow away my upset, patted his hand and turned, anticipating, to the window.

When the plane had reached its leveling altitude, he popped out of his trance and immediately asked for news of my family. I caught him up. My mother was well and had gone back to work part-time at the Town Hall. My sister, Ronnie, was certain she was expecting again. My half-brother, Roger, and his wife were not.

Not certain, or not expecting?

The latter.

They’d better hop to it, he chuckled. They’re going to lose their parish rating. Last I knew they only had ten. I thought Rog was going for an even dozen. You know, sort of like his own twelve apostles. And I’m glad to hear Bernie’s getting out of the house. I know you guys aren’t hurting for money, but Bernie’s the only person I’ve ever known qualified to give seminars on Contrasts and Comparisons of Topics Discussed on Oprah.

The extra income doesn’t hurt. I sighed, cleared my throat. I ran into your Dad at the supermarket a couple of weeks ago and he asked me for news of you.

What’d you tell him?

I was thoughtful for a moment; wondering what it was he wished to hear.

I didn’t tell him about this trip, I said. I thought he’d get the wrong impression.

And what impression is that!

I thought he’d think you and I were dating again.

You and I never dated!

Okay. Then I thought he’d think you and I were going out to dinner and seeing movies together again.

Oh, that makes sense. I live in New York City and you live in South Weymouth-Massachusetts’s answer to Brooklyn. Tell me, does our yard still look like Tacky Tim’s Garden and Bad Sculpture Emporium? Gawd! All that suburban serenity! I could puke!

It seems he doesn’t hear very much from you these days.

I called him last month, he snapped. Now-please-don’t mention my father again. You’ll ruin my vacation.

Close behind me now, I heard the rattle of ice cubes in plastic. Willis wasn’t talking; sunk in his thoughts. I rummaged through my purse, searching for the roll of life savers I’d stashed to satisfy my oral habit. I’d just located them when the steward came alongside us with the refreshment cart. Willis ordered a CC and Seven. I opted for a glass of white wine.

When did you take up smoking? Willis pointed to the pack wedged just inside my open purse. You’re out of style, you know. Everybody’s quitting. Haven’t you heard?

I never have been a slave to fashion, Willis. You know that.

Yeah? Well, you’re looking a whole lot more fashionable than the last time I saw you. At least that dress has got a little shape to it. I can remember wondering if you owned anything at all that wasn’t corduroy.

I smiled, but only to myself. He took a gulp of his drink and seemed to shake off his bad mood.

So-are the peasants at the high school begging you for information about the late, great Willis P. Burke? You must’ve told them you and I were taking a trip together. Jesus! What a bunch of jealous, old farts! Well, you can just tell them for me not everyone has what it takes to be a corporate trainer. You got to have class-savoire faire-and the right connections, of course. And you can tell them for me, I don’t think any less of them for their envy. I couldn’t think less of them, in any case. You can tell them that Willis makes more money than they do-and works in classier surroundings. He lives in the most cultured, and most exciting city in the whole wide world. I mean, New York is the center of the universe. Galen thinks it’s uncivilized but . . . He shrugged, waving his arm in a gesture I thought he meant as a toast. . . . what does he know? When the truth comes out, he’ll probably be discovered to be as jealous of me as my former coworkers. He may be prettier, but I’m taller. He chucked me under the chin. And we all know tall men are more credible and, therefore, more successful in life than short ones. He clucked. The same does not apply to tall women, I’m sorry to say, my sweet Rosey. Unless they become fashion models, tall women have little chance for success in life. Men find it too intimidating to be looking up at a woman over the old water cooler. My boss-the erstwhile Director of Human Resources-is a midget with the biggest, goddamned tits you ever saw. She looks like she’d fall right over in a stiff breeze. She’s also brainless and witless. But do they love her? Too bad you weren’t born short like your Mom-or little Roger. That’s his problem, you know. He’s short. It’s tough for a guy to be short. Ask Galen. He’ll tell you. That’s why little Roger’s got to have so many kids. Got to show people he’s got it where it counts. Galen’s got this thing about kids, too. He’s dying to get married and have some. Except he’s gotta find the proper vessel. It’s ‘short man syndrome’, I figure. It’s got to be.

He took another gulp of his drink.

In any case, he went on, you can tell them all for me that I get to go to Utah this spring and attend the Covey Institute because my mission, as they like to call it in the corporate world, is going to be to teach all those blank, left-brained, executive types The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. The best Batchelder could ever do was send you off to Bridgewater State for some computer literacy class.

I was about to speak, but he wound up again. I found myself recalling Miss Bates in Austen’s Emma. Had I enjoyed her so much because she’d reminded me of Willis?

You must still be hearing from somebody-and I’ll bet it’s Mrs. Stonkus-what a big mistake I made. I can remember all the bullshit she laid on me back at the time. She accused me of selling out. That bitch! Like teaching school is supposed to be some kind of noble calling and it’s oh-so-dirty to want to make money. And she was one of the first ones to go screaming, ‘Strike!’ a few years ago when the school committee voted down our raises. And she had the balls to lay this shit on me! Like schoolteachers are all supposed to live just above the poverty line, drive around in rusted out, old Ford Escorts, and wear ten year old clothes, and get all their jollies seeing the glow of enlightenment replace that flashing ‘vacancy’ sign on some little bastard’s pimply face. Jesus! He turned to me, pouting. Are you trying to tell me they’ve forgotten all about me?

I suspect you’re unforgettable, Willis. But I can’t verify what’s being said of you.

Doesn’t anybody there talk to you anymore?

I’m not there anymore.

Not there? He seemed caught between confusion and amazement. You didn’t finally let Bernie talk you into taking a slot at the middle school just because it was closer to home, did you?

I’m not teaching anymore. For the last six months I’ve been working at HeffCo over in Quincy.

My brother-in-law had put me onto the opportunity, I explained. Did he remember that Kevin worked at HeffCo, too? As an accounting manager?

And you’re just getting around to telling me now! You cagey bitch! He punched my arm again. You get laid off?

No.

You quit? After all those years, you just quit! He shook his head. And what the hell are you doing over at HeffCo? Canning donut filling? Counting Styrofoam cups? And don’t tell me you’re fastening little screws on mixing machines or I’ll be insanely jealous. That’ll mean you’re screwing and I’m not.

I’m not working in the plant, Willis. I’m working at the corporate office.

What would they want with an ex-school teacher at the corporate office? What have they got you doing? Teaching them remedial accounting?

I took a sip of wine and glanced out the window, though there was nothing to see. We flew through a dense mist. Inside a cloud? Of course. And, of course, Willis teased me. Given his own recent career change, how could he have such a dim view of the employment for which a teacher’s education and experience might qualify a person?

I was hired as a computer programmer and . . . I played along. Last month, I got promoted to project leader.

He snorted with what sounded like disbelief. I made an effort to remain remote from his reaction for fear my growing notion that he meant to demean me would cause us to argue again. Instead I made a study of my legs. I noted with dismay that the hair I’d neglected to shave in the shower this morning, because my razor was already packed, was more visible than I’d thought; that myriad blue veins criss-crossed the bones of my ankles, so close to the surface they seemed dangerously vulnerable. Thin skinned I was. Still too thin skinned. I needed a hide. Would a week in the Mexican sun make me one of those?

He seemed to sense my wound, or something. He now patted my arm and soothed me in familiar ways. It was good I’d finally worked up the courage to move further out into the world—even if it was only to work. What had he always told me? Poor Rosanna. She had no life. Her mother’s housekeeper. Hiding away every night in her little, dormered bedroom. Not even permitted to use the family car except to run errands. Why—on earth—had I left the convent just to come home and live like a nun? He blamed my family as only a good friend would. I’d heard it all before. I’d always allowed it, even enjoyed it. He condemned them all as I never could. Poor, poor me! Today, I felt guilty however. Perhaps it was the newspaper headline I’d seen in the airport. It pinched a nerve I hadn’t thought I owned.

There had been a kind of violence in my departure from the house this morning. My mother had followed me about lecturing me on the evils that befell women travelling alone; on my lack of professional virtue for taking a vacation such a short time after starting a new job. Mexico! Good god! I could be murdered; raped. She blocked me with threats; made me feel like I needed to assault her just to make an exit. A resort, I’d countered. I was going to a common resort. The report of the front door slamming at my back seemed to echo through the neighborhood. I heard it still in my ears. I shivered.

It’s a shame, though. Willis interrupted my reverie. You were a great teacher. An exceptional teacher. You could really get through to your kids. It used to rot my socks sometimes that you could get kids excited about something as dry as high school math.

Thank-you, Willis. His compliment struck me dumb momentarily. But—you know that old saw . . . I groped ’Those who can, do-and those who can’t, teach.’

You trying to tell me something?

No. I was sincere.

You can’t get under my skin with that one, anyway, Rosey. I don’t choose to do. I choose to teach. The way I see it, my role in life is to measure. Not to be measured. I’m complacently nonproductive. What I’m doing now is perfect. I turn out a few manuals on the old Apple. Give a few seminars. And for that they actually pay me pretty damn well. Oh . . . He sighed grandly. But money isn’t everything.

I laughed.

No, no, lady. You’ve got me all wrong. I’m not interested in money. Just in having a moneyed life style. All style. No substance. You had that part right.

And how do you expect to afford this? You’re not ambitious.

Oh, but I am ambitious. Frankly, I don’t plan to afford this, as you put it. I plan for someone else to afford it for me. I’m still attractive enough. And I can pass for-oh-maybe twenty-five or six. Got a nice ass. Good pecs. Still got all my hair and not a gray boingy in the lot. Not even in my pubes. Nope. I think time’s on my side.

He hailed the steward; ordered himself another drink. I declined his offer of more wine, however. The glass I still worked on was beginning to make me drowsy. And the conversation we had was beginning to seem like a waking dream. Had I ever heard Willis speak this way before? I’d known him always to make a great show of lacking ideals. And I was certainly willing to concede that my not having seen this posture in so long could be the only thing accountable for its sudden, surreal quality; its disturbing ring of truth.

Seriously, Willis . . . I stifled a yawn.

I was being serious.

Seriously, Willis, what have you been up to the last couple of years?

You just yawned.

It’s the wine, not the company, I assured him.

Oh, I’m sure. He laughed. But that about sums up what I’ve been up to the last couple of years. I work. I eat. Christ! I even cook-and I’ve gotten pretty, damn good at it, if I do say so myself. I play racquetball some. Tennis a lot. Outdoors when the weather’s good. Indoors when it’s rotten. He sighed. I haven’t dated very much. But that’s more for lack of persons fitting my high standards than for not having the opportunity.

I see. I was arch.

Oh, I’ve made a few good friends. Most of them are lousy tennis players, though. That’s why I was so glad I met Galen.

He has virtues beyond his expense account?

A few. He grinned.

Does he work with you?

No. He works in the financial district. Big company. He frankly looks down his nose at what I do. I mean, he thinks educational tools are an artificial market, whatever that means. And I’m not exactly sure what he does. I don’t think he’s exactly sure what he does. Asset accounting or something like that. I guess that’s somehow real business. He shrugged. In any case, as I said, he works for his cousin. Nepotism. Great institution. Jesus! I wish my sisters had been more ambitious. What good does it do me to know a second rate engineer at Kodak in Rochester-or a garage mechanic in Seekonk?

Isn’t Barbara’s husband a race track vet?

Oh, yeah. And a lot of good that does me. I mean, you know-just because I’m hung like a horse, Rosey, doesn’t mean I’m interested in making it with one.

So . . . I laughed. Your friend has a cousin who’s the prince of asset accountants. How impressive!

That’s a whole lot better than anyone in my family’s done! He ignored my humor. And I figure—the better your family does for themselves—the better they can do for you! I mean, look at the Kennedys, for gawd’s sake! There’s a price to pay for that, though. I mean, Gale has to watch his back all the time. And he has to kinda keep tabs on old Andy, you know. Track his movements-so he can plan when he can get away with what. And Andy’s always accommodating him by bouncing around-here, there, and everywhere. Apparently Andy’s out of town this week so Galen could afford to blow the joint and come with me. It’s a great life. But I don’t want to give the impression Gale’s a shit. I always know when Andy’s in town because Galen ends up canceling one tennis game after another. Andy’s got him working until nine, ten o’clock at night. So, I figure, if he wants to play when the cat’s away . . . He shrugged. He’s entitled.

Whatever Andy does, he added, it must pay well. That time we ran into him, he was wearing a jacket that was so impeccably tailored, it was all I could do not to reach over and check out the label. I knew it would only make me cry if I did. I mean, you can’t get something like that off the rack. The shirt he had on was silk, and not that chintzy stuff you see all over the place nowadays. You know-because all those aging hippies-who burned their brains out with drugs then turned thirty and saw the face of God staring back at them on a dollar bill-have to wear natural fabrics. This was real broadcloth. Gorgeous stuff. I kept thinking maybe I could pretend he’d spilled something on it just so I could touch it, you know. Guy probably has drawers full of them. Hand made. Jesus! I can’t imagine what that’d cost. I figure the Rolex he had on must’ve set him back about twelve grand. It was solid, fucking gold with this incredible, heavy mesh bracelet. Jesus! Gawd! He yawned. I hate people that are always going on and on about material things!

You are a caution, Willis. I laughed.

I am. He sighed, self-satisfied. Hey-are you still having those-you know-visions?

Though I knew what he meant, I feigned a look of confusion.

C’mon, Rosey. Tell me? What’s going to happen on this trip?

I don’t see any planes crashing if that’s what you mean. I humored him.

No! I mean-have you seen anything around me? You know, like some-some special event-or a-a-meeting with destiny. He fished.

I don’t have visions, Willis.

But you know things. You can sense things. What was it you used to say? In your bones? You know-those kinds of things that always sent your mother to church to light a candle for your soul.

I could only shrug; roll my eyes at him.

Come on, Rosey! You knew my mother was going to die. He’d become serious.

I didn’t.

You did. You made my dad take her to the hospital.

My sister-in-law’s a nurse, Willis. You pick up things.

You knew Mark was going to die, he goaded.

My brother was an alcoholic. Anytime he got into a car there was a very good chance that somebody was going to die, even him. Knock it off, Willis. I don’t have visions!

Okay. Okay. I guess Bernie finally got to you with all that Catholic shit.

Not my mother. I was exasperated. No.

Okay. I’ll drop it. Now his eyes looked past me, widening. "Look out there. Jesus! It always excites me. Every damn time.

Aren’t you glad I talked you into this trip? Thirty-three year old woman who’s never been anywhere-never even been on a plane before! That’s got to be some kind of record, Rosey. Gawd!"

I was about to correct him; to remind him that it was I who had called him; trying to hide my urgency; to ask if he was going to Mexico again this year; to ask-to beg if necessary-if I could tag along. But the view overwhelmed me. Mountains I saw out the window; surrounding us; threatening us from below. I had never before taken in mountains from this angle; always from the ground. I found myself wondering, if I stood in their midst, as I’d stood a few times surveying the landscape from the Hairpin Turn in the Berkshires, would these look any different than those familiar peaks?

Beside me now, Willis flatly sang James Taylor’s tune about Mexico. When he’d done, I sang my own song.

Willis made a face at me, so I stopped.

I can’t believe you know all the words, he said, still grimacing.

That was only one verse. But I do know all the words. I began to croon the second verse.

Okay! Okay! I believe you. You know all the words. What’d you do? Dig out all your old Gene Autry records last night and play them just to get yourself in the mood?

Don’t have my Gene Autry records anymore. Haven’t heard that song for years.

You mean to tell me you remembered that from when you were a kid? He looked honestly incredulous.

Yep.

Whew! I used to think you were pretty weird when you used to be able to hum Saint-Saens Organ Symphony all the way through. But, remembering all the words to a cowboy ditty that’s older than you are? That’s really out there.

I still can hum Saint-Saens Organ Symphony all the way through. I run through it every night in my head on my way home from work. It’s a Pavlov’s dog response to being on a train. And it’s older than I am, too.

Yeah but, as a classical piece, it has redeeming social value.

He now went on to recall all he could of what he termed my innumerable and debilitating insanities; alternately teasing and counseling me for each in their turn. He did this until the landing process commenced. Then he went incommunicado. I watched out the window as, with each lazy bank we made, the earth came closer and closer, until it was no longer earth at all, but ground rushing up to meet us. The clarity of distance drowned in a blur of speed. I was suddenly acutely aware how fast we traveled and, just as suddenly, exhausted.

Before the plane had taxied to a stop, Willis was out in the aisle and down to see Galen.

The shithead was asleep, he said, bouncing back into his seat. Slept through the whole frigging flight! Can you believe that! Fucking shithead!

Do you talk like that at your office? I asked.

Nope. I am the soul of propriety. I even have one of the secretaries believing I was a Rhodes scholar. Just like Kris Kristofferson. Why?

I assume, then, that controlling the use of obscene expletives during the work day must constitute a tremendous strain on you. You’ve been talking like the fabled sailor since Dallas. Can I expect this pattern to continue throughout our stay? Or have you gotten it all out of your system?

Oh, hey . . . He laughed. Please try and concoct something like that for Galen. He’ll get a kick out of it. You sound just like cousin Andy. That man says something and it takes you five minutes to deconstruct the sentence. Having a conversation with him is like talking to a Jane Austen novel. Galen told me about that little quirk of his, but I thought he was joking. But anyway, I assume you’re trying to tell me to clean it up.

I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything. I laughed.

Hey, lady! He began to punch me lightly on the arm. Do you still bruise like a banana? C’mon! We’re in Mexico. You’re gonna love it! He giggled. "And don’t worry about my language.

I’ve been down here so many times, I can say all that stuff in Spanish and it’ll never offend you. He stood and urged me to my feet. Aggravates the fucking shit out of the Mexicans, though!"

People had begun to line up in the aisle and now Galen stood next to our seat, looking disheveled and irritated.

C’mon, you two, he said. You’re disrupting the whole plane.

Alright! Willis whooped, stepping out in front of him. Anarquia! Anarquia!

Galen stepped back to allow me ahead of him. Willis thrust my carry-on bag into my arms, all the while chattering away in Spanish.

Shuttup and move along, you idiot. Galen spoke to him over my shoulder.