Ask the Passengers

When the flying monkeys appear, Ellis still curls her feet under herself and grabs my arm for safety. It’s more comforting than a lot of things I can think of right now. In fact, as I watch the Wicked Witch of the West peer into her crystal ball, I realize it’s probably the most comforting thing I’ve ever known.

I see us old and wrinkled and visiting each other a few times a year and watching The Wizard of Oz and Ellis grabbing my arm when those monkeys appear. I will always make her feel safe.

“They’re just actors in flying-monkey suits,” I’ll say.

44

MOTION IS POSSIBLE.

BEFORE MOM, Dad and Ellis get up the next morning, I’m in the garage rolling out self-drying clay with a coffee can and cutting it into rounded tiles. There’s this design for a dovecote that Dad and I have been looking at in our design book for years, but we never had the guts to try it before. It’s not a huge dovecote for actual doves, but it’s big and it has four floors for four different families and this cool conical roof covered in little handmade roof tiles. So I figured I’d start there.

It’s a crisp, sunny day, and I figure the clay will dry faster in the sun, so when I’m done, I take the two trays of tiles to my table and put them there.

Mom is in the kitchen making coffee when I walk in the back door. She jumps.

“Oh, my God, I didn’t know you were up,” she says.

“Sorry.”

“You want coffee?”

She’s never asked me this before. I tilt my head and ask myself the question. Do I want coffee? “Yes, please.”

“Great. I’ll make a big pot.”

She shuffles back upstairs as the coffeemaker starts to gurgle. I take a shower.

I check my phone, and I see I missed a call from Dee. No voice mail. I flop onto my bed in my shirt and underwear and call her back.

“You rang?”

“You doing anything tonight?”

“Grounded.”

“Oh. Does that mean people can still come to you?”

I say, “I don’t know. Why? You planning a long walk?”

“How about three o’clock?” she says.

“Let me ask and I’ll call you back?”

“Sounds good.”

There’s coffee waiting for me on the counter—extra sweet and light. Mom is in the living room in her robe. This is new. A day off? Relaxation?

“Your father is out there waiting for you,” she says.

“Cool. And, uh, I know I’m grounded, but can I have friends come over here?”

“Sure. I guess. How many?”

I don’t understand her question at first.

“You said friends. Just curious.”

“No,” I say. “I just meant one friend.”

“That’s fine with us,” she says.

Dad works on the door detail and the internal floors, which make him swear a lot but he finally figures it out. I spray-paint the roof tiles and then coat them with a few layers of weatherproof lacquer. When we break for lunch, I call Dee back, and she says she’ll be here at three.

I can’t figure out whether to tell Mom and Dad over lunch about Dee’s visit. I mean, I should tell them who’s coming, shouldn’t I? But do I have to tell them that she’s my girlfriend?

We finish the birdhouse before three. I have red paint on my fingers, and I’m wiping it off with turpentine and a cloth when I hear Dee park. I’d know the rattling sound of the Buick’s engine anywhere. I walk up the side driveway to meet her before she gets to the front door.

“Come with me,” I say. “I’m just finishing up.”

She stops and looks around the backyard. “Daaaamn. That’s awesome.”

I cross my arms and nod.

“I mean, I’d heard about the birdhouses, you know?” she says. “But I didn’t understand it was like this.”

“Yes. We’re freaks. We know.”

I walk into the garage and get back to my can of turpentine, and I load the rag up again and wipe off any leftover paint. Dee looks around and spots the nearly finished dovecote on the bench.

“Did you just make that?”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“I had no idea you could do shit like that, Jones. And you’re a poet and a great kisser,” she says, moving in and putting her hand on my hip.

I take her hand and lead her in the back door and to the kitchen table, where Mom is sitting reading the weekend section of the paper. Dad appears from the powder room, still drying his hands on a paper towel.

Dad points and says, “I know you! Dee Roberts! Mount Pitts! Number thirty-four!”

Dee smiles. “Hi, Mr. Jones.”

I smile shyly and put my arm around Dee’s shoulder, take a deep breath and say, “Guys, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Dee.”

Mom could have been nicer. Dad could have been less goofy. Ellis could have pulled out her hockey stick and invited Dee into the backyard to hit the ball around a little. Instead, they left us alone. So now we’re here.

“What’s that one?” she asks, pointing.

“That’s a Cessna. Single engine. Probably a 172. Nice day to take the family up for a ride.”

She laughs. “I think that’s what you just did.”

“I hope they learn to be less awkward.”

“They will. Don’t worry,” she says. She grabs my hand and holds it in hers.

I spot a reflection in the sky—a high-flying 747. I send it a little love to let it know I’m here.

PASSENGER #587

JESSICA KIMBALL, SEAT 2A

FLIGHT #78

MINNEAPOLIS TO PHILADELPHIA

She put me in a window seat because that way she can control when I go to the toilet and who I talk to. Never. And nobody.

I am her prisoner.

My own mother.

I’m her prisoner until she delivers me to the camp. Gay camp. Conversion camp. Whatever you want to call it… it’s where I’m going.

I look out the rounded airplane window and marvel at the clouds. They are miracles from every direction. The blue of the sky is so deep, I wish I had a parachute and could jump into it. Or maybe… we could skip the parachute.

Below the clouds I see vague ridges of mountains and dark forests. I see a lake. I see a large building—some sort of enormous warehouse that is visible from this high up.

I ask it: What do they store in you, warehouse? And can I jump out of this plane right now and work in you? Anonymous. Unpaid. I’d do anything to get out of this plane before I am handed over.