Tracing Flight

PAULINE SAT QUIETLY waiting for her flight, much like the demure, well-mannered girl she was remembering; her petite posture straight and ladylike, her legs uncrossed and primly drawn together, the heels kissing on her size 4 flats. Centered neatly in her lap was her “Baby Sam,” a baby blue Samsonite cosmetic case that served as her scrapbook, brimming with snapshots from kindergarten through her beauty pageant days—a mélange of crush-filled diaries and cutouts from Tiger Beat and 16, nearly every page crumpled and torn by fluttering schoolgirls, yellowed by sweaty palms and Pepsi stains. Then there were the boys. Gawky, badly coiffed, wallet-sized boys, most of them with blacked-out teeth and devilish horns and beards, having fallen out of favor just as quickly as they came. Fittingly on top of the mélange was her crown. She snapped open the clasps and placed it on top of Baby. It was like a time machine.

You won, baby! You won . . .

“Mommy, I don’t feel good—”

“I told you not to eat so much. Now remember, arms at your side, back straight, and smile—you gotta smile, honey.”

“It’s too hot.”

“It’s not that hot. Hold still—stop squirming!”

“That bald man smells like whiskey, like Daddy—”

“Stop it, Pauline. Oh, I should have taken in the shoulders more . . . Hand me that safety pin.”

“It was creepy when he touched me. What’s Cambodia?”

“The hair spray—hurry up, we don’t have much time! What?”

“The hippies with the signs.”

“They’re war protesters. Oh, this damned humidity . . .”

The air was still in the wings of the bandshell stage, a steaming wet blanket of July heat suckling off the Gulf Stream, pushing the mercury to over 100 degrees backstage—a muggy makeup-and-hair-wrecker of a day that inflamed the fussing worst in the stage-mother pack, zealously primping their potential queens. They were paraded across the stage in their full evening wear regalia, inspected at center stage, then lined up three paces back, facing west into a full four o’clock sun, the smell of baking taffeta and Aqua Net hanging in the thick, damp air, adding superfluous stress to an already overtaxed Junior Miss Division—with Miss Oswego Avenue unduly suffering the worst, the neckline beadwork of her dress as hot as sauna rocks.

Smile, baby, smile . . .

Pauline picked up her mother’s voice from the wings of the stage, one of ten urgently whispering voices reminding their little queens to “smile,” “stand up straight,” and to “stop squirming”—demands rarely complied to under the best of circumstances, but approaching impossibility with overly made-up eleven-year-old girls roasting like prisoners in a Florida chain gang, their stomachs churning with nerves and questionable potato salad. Then there were the photo-ops. An excruciatingly endless string of chamber of commerce pooh-bahs, business leaders, sponsors, media, and pols—the worst being ward boss Dewey Finch, the smell of peppermint Certs and whiskey on his breath, his long sweaty fingers reaching uncomfortably close around the girls’ burgeoning breasts.

Now smile pretty for Dewey, honey. This won’t hurt a bit . . .

Pauline quickly reached for the side of her breast at the moment of memory, an unconscious, protective reflex that brought her back to the ambient bustle of the airport. She let out a long breath to calm herself, her hand lingering on her breast to warm the uncomfortable chill tingling her side, squeezing tighter as her mind’s eye watched his index finger reaching just below her nipple. The discomfort was compounded by memories of her father, his hot whiskey breath as uncut as his inhibitions were unrestrained in the privacy of their home, as she sat on his aroused lap for a picture when she was nine. She could still feel the intensity of his large hands wrapped tightly around the hips of her Easter dress, feeling with her whole body the sickening wish he wanted to fulfill.

“Excuse me. May I?”

A man in a crisply pressed taupe suit was respectfully bowed above her, motioning with his hand to the seat next to her. Pauline eyed the hand uneasily, still fixated in memory before raising a suspicious glance into the eyes of the graying, well-dressed man with the tan and weathered face. He motioned again with a hint of impatience, but softened his intimation with a polite, inquisitive smile. Pauline finally snapped out of her lag, noticing that all the seats in her row had been filled while she was away, with the exception of the seats next to her. But she still didn’t respond.

“Ma’am?” he asked again with a soft drawl.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.” Pauline wriggled to her right as far as possible, her ribs digging into the arm of the chair. “Sorry. Guess I was a little preoccupied.”

“Not afraid to fly, are you, ma’am?” the man said, letting out a relieved sigh as his back hit the chair.

“Flying? No,” she said with a nervous laugh, her right hand unconsciously pulling her, keeping her snugly against the arm of the chair. “You?”

“Just the cost of doing business. Tell you the truth, I’d rather be in the saddle—but I’ve got to do these junkets three, four times a year. Last stop, L.A., then home sweet. Los Angeles home?”

Pauline hesitated momentarily, scolding herself internally for asking. She didn’t want a conversation, but knew she was going to get one judging by the man’s easy-speaking manner.

“No,” Pauline said. “Minneapolis, originally. My sister lives just outside of Los Angeles.”

“God, I do hate L.A.,” the man said, stretching out his long legs. “I mean, earthquakes, mudslides, wildfires, the traffic, smog—now that’s the one that just gets me. All these supposed health-conscious people running through some of the foulest air on the planet. But that’s L.A. logic for ya . . . and those people, they just keep on coming like it’s the land of milk and honey. Me, I’d rather live in an outhouse downwind from a feedlot before I’d live out on the Coast. Oh, I could go on for hours—”

“I bet you could,” Pauline cut in with a wry smile. Part of her wanted him to shut up, but something about his voice made her comfortable.

“Oh, was I runnin’ on, ma’am? Guess I just can’t wait to get home. I do apologize.”

“It’s all right.” She was glad he wasn’t offended by her curt remark. “Where’s home?”

“Mustang, Oklahoma,” his voice piped up with pride. “I have a little ranch just south of Tulsa. It’s roughneck country, but I’m far enough out where it doesn’t bother me none—and the oil business done all right by me.” He ran a thumb down the sharp lapel of his well-tailored suit to make his point. “Say, I never did catch your name...”

Pauline toyed with the idea of using an alias, but was weary from all the lying and hiding that marked most her life. She was six months out of rehab and knew, albeit reluctantly, that she had to get used to the idea of being honest. That, to her, was the hardest part—getting off the booze and drugs was child’s play compared to that. The lies started ten years before the sting of vodka first kissed her lips.

“Pauline,” she said flatly, unable to make eye contact with the stranger. But she tried, her glance slightly askew.

“It’s a pleasure, Pauline. My friends call me T.C. I hope you’ll do the same.”

A surge of anger pulsed through Pauline as she halfheartedly reciprocated the convention. She hated the loss of control she was feeling, of being sucked into a conversation and societal convention against her will. Yet she also was angry for simply feeling that way; she was angry because part of her wanted to talk, but just not now and not to him . . . but maybe it’d be easier to open up to a passing stranger . . . why doesn’t he just go away . . .

“Say—I hafta ask,” T.C. added. “Where’s the crown from?”

“It’s from a long time ago. I won a beauty contest when I was eleven, on the Fourth of July, back in 1971. I was voted Little Miss Sparkler,” she said with a shy laugh. “God, I haven’t seen this in over twenty years . . . I just found this in my mother’s attic. This is my scrapbook from when I was a child—my mother’s old cosmetic case.”

“Well, it’s easy enough to see why you won, ma’am.” A hint of polite flirtatiousness emerged in his voice. “Tell me, was there a talent portion of the program, too?”

“Oh god, I tap danced!” The memory took Pauline by surprise, suspending her guarded shyness. “Oh, what was that song . . . I had this short little tux outfit on, with a cane and top hat. And I had so much hairspray in my hair that my mother had to pin the hat to my hair so it wouldn’t fall off. God, it was so hot that day . . . I remember my feet squirming around in my tap shoes as I danced—they were a half-size too big and my mother had to stuff tissue paper in the toes. And it was so hot in those black tights. One of the girls even passed out, it was so hot. But she was such a little witch, no one cared.” She raised a cupped hand to her mouth to contain her mischievous laugh.

Pauline’s words flowed easily, accompanied by a nostalgic warmth that surprised her, softening her voice. The bad memories were still there, but they were somehow pushed further in the background as she spoke. She couldn’t remember the last time she spoke that freely.

“Sounds like a nice memory,” T.C. said. “It warmed me up just to hear you talk about it. I don’t know how you folks take this cold.”

“You oughta come back in January. That’s when we get the severe pain. It gets so cold, it hurts.”

“Well, we’ll be warmer in about five hours if this steel bird ever gets off the ground. Sunny and eighty-two in L.A. today.”

“Ah, that does sound nice. See, there’s one good thing about California—at least you’re getting out of the Icebox State.”

“Guess that’s true enough. So how long you stayin’ in L.A.?”

Pauline felt a twinge of fear from his question. It was leading to a proposition, and she was unsure of the next step. But she tried to dismiss her paranoid internal voice. She was beginning to enjoy talking to T.C. and, although there was a strange guilt attached to it, she was starting to feel good. It made her feel healthier and more self-confident; she wasn’t lying or concealing with silence. It was the simplest of acts, but it was like learning to walk again for Pauline.

“I’m staying at least through January,” Pauline said. “Maybe longer—my sister just put in a pool and a Jacuzzi. Hey, let me ask you: What’s the T.C. stand for?”

T.C. straightened in his chair, an air of formality in his posture. “Theron Clark Harley the Third, ma’am,” he enunciated in a strong, distinguished voice. “But I’ve been T.C. since I was a boy, so as not to confuse me with my daddy. The only time I’d hear ‘Theron’ was when trouble was comin’ my way, you know how parents do. They get that tone and you know you’re done for.”

“It’s in the parental manual. Rule One in How to Discipline your Child. ‘Use full name to convey authority and impending doom to your child.’ God knows I heard enough of Pauline Frances when I was a kid.”

“That’s a pretty name.” T.C. didn’t miss an opportunity to flirt with Pauline. “Have a strict upbringing, did you?”

“More twisted than strict. My mother was the disciplinarian, and my father . . . well, he was a sick, abusive drunk.”

“I’m sorry.” T.C. wanted to reach out and comfort her with a touch, but refrained, unsure of what she meant by “sick” and “abusive.” “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right. He was just one in a long line of creeps that crossed my path when I was a kid. I seemed to attract them all. But my father . . . well, no matter—he’s been dead for over twenty years.”

“My daddy’s been dead about the same. And, in relating to your story, he had a fondness for bonded bourbon like no other—and he was judge, jury, and Lord high executioner in our roost. And, I guess by today’s standards, he would have been considered abusive, by the way he kept order with his boys, my brothers and me. Trust me, none of us were strangers to the switch on our backsides. But back in Texas, at least back then, it was just considered good, old-fashioned discipline. Something you had to do with boys to keep ’em in line.”

“I’m not talking about hitting.” 

T.C. floundered helplessly in search of a response, only to resign himself to the uncomfortable silence that inevitably follows statements of such weight and disturbing breadth. He managed an almost silent I’m sorry, but that was the best he could do.

Pauline surprised him by gently touching his hand. “No, I’m sorry. I had no right to lay that on you.”

“No, no, really, it’s my fault,” T.C. stammered, reciprocating Pauline’s touch by softly patting her hand. “I’ve been prying and . . . and if I’ve done anything to make you feel uncomfortable, god, I am so sorry.”

“T.C., you’ve absolutely nothing to apologize for, okay? You’ve been nothing but a perfect gentleman, and I really enjoy talking to you. I mean, I’ve said more to you than I’ve said to anybody in . . . I can’t even remember, it’s been so long. But you wanna know something? The truly twisted irony of the whole thing? The people who should be sorry never were. I mean, one right after another, from my father on down, not a shred of remorse from any of ’em. And here we are, falling all over ourselves, saying we’re sorry—and neither one of us has done anything wrong. So no more ‘I’m sorry’s.’ Deal?”

Pauline held out her hand and looked T.C. squarely in the eye. He chuckled and returned the handshake.

“Done.”

“Good,” Pauline said with a broad smile. “Okay—you wanna have a little fun? You’re going to think I’m a little weird, but I want you to do something for me . . .”

T.C. nodded affirmatively, his head turned in curiosity. Pauline grabbed her crown and abruptly placed it in his lap. His hands snapped back reflexively, startled by her action.

“Okay, here’s what you gotta do,” she explained. “I want you to wrap both your hands around my tiara and close your eyes. Now, it may take a minute, but if you let your mind go—you see, that’s the trick—and think of nothing else, you’ll start to see things. But your mind has to be clear for the images to come naturally, okay?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” He was puzzled by her strange request.

“Let’s just consider it a little experiment. Just try it, it’ll only take a minute. Then tell me what you see.”

“Are you sure you’re not from L.A.?” T.C. said, his jocular tone belying the derisiveness of his quip. He didn’t like this at all, but he was attracted to Pauline—hoping he could hook up with her in L.A.—so he grudgingly decided to play along. “Okay, okay. Like this?” He wrapped his hands around the tiara as instructed.

“Now close your eyes and concentrate.” 

Again, he did as he was instructed. T.C. was tired from all the traveling and meetings he’d had over the last three days, and it felt good to rest his eyes. His eyes and mind had a heaviness about them, and he was close to sleep.

What’d I tell you, boy? . . .

“I ain’t feelin’ so good, Daddy—”

“Well now, how you reckon that happen, boy? Your face stuck in that ba’becue like a pig in a trough. Next ya know, y’all 300 pounds of dead-lazy lard like your good-fo’-nothin’ brother. When you boys gon’ listen?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Sorry, nothin’. Now, you up next—what you gon’ do? ’Member what I tole you?”

“Yes, Daddy.” 

“Don’t you ‘yes, Daddy’ me! What’d I tell you?”

“Accelerate out of the barrels.”

“When you boys gon’ listen?”

“I listen!”

“What’d I tell you!”

“Don’t!”

T.C. gasped and jerked awake in his chair. He blew out a short puff of air to calm himself, fluttering his eyes as he was coming to. Pauline looked at him intently, still wincing after witnessing his fitful nap. His face and neck were flushed with tension, his hands a blotchy mix of pale yellow and red, still tightly wrapped around the tiara. He abruptly released his grip—as if he suddenly realized that what he was holding was burning him—his palms deeply indented from the peaks of Pauline’s crown.

“Hey, you okay?” Pauline said gently.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so,” T.C. said, still groggy. “The jet lag must be catchin’ up with me. How long was I out?”

“About ten minutes.”

T.C. exhaled a long breath, still trying to collect himself. “Whew, did I just have a dream. Guess all that talk about my daddy must’ve triggered something. I was dreamin’ about a rodeo I was in when I was a boy.”

“Was it a good dream or a bad dream?” Pauline pried knowingly.

“Why do you ask?” There was a sudden defensiveness and look of worry about him.

“Well, judging by the way you were fidgeting in your chair, it seemed like it was pretty intense—like it was something disturbing or uncomfortable. You were talking some, too.”

“What’d I say?”

“Well, most of it I couldn’t make out. It was mostly just mumbling, but there was something about the way you were doing it . . . something, I guess, disquieting about it. It sounded troubled. But there was one word I could make out . . .”

T.C. sat silently, waiting. He felt like Pauline was toying with him, which he didn’t like one bit. His thoughts of hooking up with her had all but vanished. He was starting to dislike her.

“You said the word ‘don’t’ right before you woke up,” she dropped coldly, as if for maximum effect. T.C. straightened tensely at the sound of the word. “Do you remember what you were seeing just before you woke up?”

“I was getting ready for a barrel race. I was talkin’ to my daddy just before my heat.”

“Do you remember—”

“Look—it was just a dream, okay?” He looked at Pauline squarely and intensely, a look that left no doubt that he’d had enough.

“Okay,” Pauline said, deciding to let it go. “It was just a dream. We all have them.”

Pauline knew there was more to it than that. Being highly attuned to the signs of abuse—hard, painfully-earned experience learned firsthand—she was fluent in the language, both spoken and otherwise. But there was one telltale sign that was proof positive of her hypothesis, something she purposely withheld while questioning T.C. He held up his hand defensively when he said the word don’t. He was blocking a blow.

T.C. was more relaxed now that the matter was dropped. But his southern warmth and charm had gone down with it, leaving him cold and distant, his interest in Pauline thoroughly waned, joining the wholesale free fall.

“They’ll be calling our flight soon,” he said. “Could you watch my bag for me?”

It was as though he was merely asking a fellow traveler for a courtesy. He excused himself to go to the men’s room, brusquely getting up. The tiara jumped off his lap, chiming airily as it danced on the cold tile. T.C. stared at it harshly for a brief moment. Then he walked away.

Pauline sat quietly looking at her crown as it finished its dance. Her scolding inner voice chided her for what she did, but quickly passed, giving way to the cold indifference that always seemed to follow, a detachment that felt like being the only person in a large room, a protective bubble of distance that made her feel safe, but terribly alone. It was a strange comfort, but it had been home for so long. She wondered if, deep down, T.C. lived in the same kind of house.

“Excuse me. I believe this is yours.”

A woman was offering Pauline’s crown back to her, leaning into her hospitably, the crown held delicately in her black-gloved hands. She was cloaked in black from head to toe, her hair a sheen of iridescent purplish black, like the head of a grackle, her eyes doll-like but unmistakably sharp, peering out from an equally doll-like face of porcelain white.

“Oh, thank you,” Pauline said, taking the tiara back into her possession. She snapped open the clasps of Baby to put it back into storage, then stopped. The woman was still there.

Pauline looked into the woman’s penetrating eyes and sensed a thousand questions. Without hesitation or invitation, the woman whisked herself into the chair next to her, leaving a wake of fragrance. It was earthy and organic, like strong tea mixed with incense or candles. She reached out a black-sheathed fingertip and touched the peak of Pauline’s crown.

“That’s an unusual piece of hardware you have there,” the woman said in a quick, even tone, her lips barely parting as she spoke. “Hmm, yes, quite unusual. Quite, quite unusual, indeed.”

Pauline didn’t know how to respond to the woman’s strange comment. It wasn’t exactly a question, and she was taken aback by the woman’s eccentric, hypnotic manner. Lacking a response, Pauline simply cocked her head in curiosity for a reply.

“If I may,” the woman continued, “could you tell me how you came about this item?”

“It’s from a long time ago,” Pauline said. “It’s from a beauty contest I won when I was a little girl.”

“I see, I see, mm-hmm, excellent. Heat, heat—I sense a very hot day. Was it?”

“Yes . . . yes, it was. How did—”

“Very hot, very explosive energy. Explosions—yes, that’s it. Fireworks perhaps?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Pauline snapped sarcastically, mimicking the woman’s odd manner. “Look, who are you, lady?”

“Forgive me,” the woman said earnestly, without her haute inflection. “Gwendolyn Masters.” She held out her gloved hand, which Pauline met tentatively. “Please forgive my interrogative manner, but I am most intrigued by your tiara. You see, and forgive my lack of social graces, but I’ve been sitting just a few chairs down, and I couldn’t help but notice you and your gentleman friend. It seems he didn’t care much for your—how did you put it—your little experiment. But I, on the other hand, am most intrigued. You see, I am a psi practitioner, and most interested in items such as yours.”

“Well, Gwendolyn—personally, I think you’re more eavesdropper than psychic, but, if I may, let’s cut right to it, shall we?”

Pauline placed the tiara on Gwendolyn’s lap.

“Hmm, excellent.” Gwendolyn hastily pulled at the tips of her gloves to remove them. “Though I don’t appreciate your brusque manner, I am most grateful for the opportunity.”

“Let the intriguing begin. Oh, and Gwen? You just go ahead and take your time.” She spotted T.C. at a distance, making his way back. “Enjoy your flight.”

Pauline walked toward T.C., knowing what she wanted to say, but unsure of how she was going to say it. She dismissed the doubts and forged ahead, centering herself on being honest, trusting that the words would follow suit.

T.C. noticed Pauline walking toward him. He looked down at first, seemingly embarrassed, but then broke into a shy smile, never taking his eyes off her the rest of the way.

“Hi,” Pauline started nervously. “Hey, look, I’m sorry.”

“No more ‘I’m sorry’s,’ remember?” T.C. said, running his thumb gently through her strawberry blonde hair.

“Deal?”

“Absolutely. C’mon, I think they called our flight.”

As they walked back, T.C. noticed Gwendolyn, alarmingly pointing out to Pauline that she was in possession of her tiara.

“It’s okay,” Pauline reassured him. “In fact, I feel like telling her to just keep it. I’m so tired of wallowing in my past. Oh, look—I think the woman-in-black has already boarded . . .”

Gwendolyn had her hands wrapped tightly around the tiara, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed in rapt concentration. She was bearing down so hard that her entire body was quivering from the tension.

It’s okay, sweetheart, your mother asked me to pick you up from school . . .

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