Dear Edward: A Novel Read Free

Bruce looks after his wife for a moment, then directs the gangly limbs of Jordan and Eddie into the back of the plane. He peers at the seat numbers they pass and calculates that they will be twenty-nine rows from Jane, who had previously promised to downgrade her ticket to sit with them. Bruce has come to realize that her promises, when related to work, mean very little. Still, he chooses to believe her every time, and thus chooses to be disappointed.
    “Which row, Dad?” Eddie says.
    “Thirty-one.”
    Passengers unpack snacks and books and tuck them into the seat pockets in front of them. The back section of the plane smells of Indian food. The home cooks, including Bruce, sniff the air and think: cumin . Jordan and Eddie argue over who gets the window seat—their father claims the aisle for legroom—until the older boy realizes they’re keeping other passengers from getting to their seats and abruptly gives in. He regrets this act of maturity the moment he sits down; he now feels trapped between his father and brother. The elation— the power —he felt after the pat-down has been squashed. He had, for a few minutes, felt like a fully realized adult. Now he feels like a dumb kid buckled into a high chair. Jordan resolves not to speak to Eddie for at least an hour, to punish him.
    “Dad,” Eddie says, “will all our stuff be in the new house when we get there?”
    Bruce wonders what Eddie is specifically worried about: his beanbag chair, his piano music, the stuffed elephant that he still sleeps with on occasion? His sons have lived in the New York apartment for their entire lives. That apartment has now been rented; if Jane is successful and they decide to stay on the West Coast, it will be sold. “Our boxes arrive next week,” Bruce says. “The house is furnished, though, so we’ll be fine until then.”
    The boy, who looks younger than his twelve years, nods at the oval window beside him. His fingertips press white against the clear plastic.
----
    —
    Linda Stollen shivers in her white jeans and thin shirt. The woman seated to her right seems, impossibly, to already be asleep. She has draped a blue scarf across her face and is leaning against the window. Linda is fishing in the seat-back pocket, hoping to find a complimentary blanket, when the woman with the musical skirt steps into her row. The woman is so large that when she settles into the aisle seat, she spills over the armrest into Linda’s personal space.
    “Good morning, sweetheart,” the woman says. “I’m Florida.”
    Linda pulls her elbows in close to her sides, to avoid contact. “Like the state?”
    “Not like the state. I am the state. I’m Florida.”
    Oh my God, Linda thinks. This flight is six hours long. I’m going to have to pretend to be asleep the whole way.
    “What’s your name, darling?”
    Linda hesitates. This is an unanticipated opportunity to kick-start her new self. She plans to introduce herself to strangers in California as Belinda . It’s part of her fresh beginning: an improved version of herself, with an improved name. Belinda, she has decided, is an alluring woman who radiates confidence. Linda is an insecure housewife with fat ankles. Linda curls her tongue inside her mouth in preparation. Be-lin-da . But her mouth won’t utter the syllables. She coughs and hears herself say, “I’m getting married. I’m going to California so my boyfriend can propose. He’s going to propose.”
    “Well,” Florida says, in a mild tone, “isn’t that something.”
    “Yes,” Linda says. “Yes. I suppose it is.” This is when she realizes how tired she is and how little she slept last night. The word suppose sounds ridiculous coming out of her mouth. She wonders if this is the first time she’s ever used it in a sentence.
    Florida bends down to rearrange items in her gargantuan canvas bag. “I’ve been married a handful of times myself,” she says. “Maybe more than a handful.”
    Linda’s father has been married