Don't Move Read Free Page A

school.
    Sometimes you and your friends walk down the block and descend into that subterranean saloon on the corner, that smoke-filled underground cavern. I looked down in there once. I was standing outside, peering through the sidewalk-level windows. I saw you all laughing, kissing one another, stubbing out cigarettes. There I was, an elegant fifty-five-year-old gentleman out for a nocturnal stroll, and there you were, sitting on the other side of one of those little grated windows the passing dogs like to mark. You were all so young; you were sitting so close together. And you’re all so beautiful, Angela, you and all your friends. Beautiful. I’ve been meaning to tell you that. I was almost ashamed to be spying on you, watching you all so curiously, like an old man watching a child unwrapping a gift. But so I did, and I saw you down there, unwrapping your life in that smoky bar.
    I just spoke to my secretary. She’s managed to get word to the people at Heathrow Airport. They’ll meet Elsa as soon as she gets off the plane, take her to a private room, and explain the situation. It’s terrible to think about her sitting up there in the sky with a lapful of newspapers and no clue at all. She thinks we’re safe down here, my poor daughter, and I wish her flight would never end—I wish her plane would go around the world indefinitely. Maybe she’s looking at a cloud right now, one of those clouds that hide the sun almost but not completely, and a golden beam is passing through the little window and lighting up her face. She’s probably reading an article written by some colleague and reviewing it by adjusting the contours of her mouth. I know all her involuntary expressions; it’s as if every emotion has a tiny indicator on her face. I’ve sat next to her on many airplane flights. I know the creases in her neck, that little pouch that forms under her chin when she lowers her head to read; I know the fatigue in her eyes when she takes off her glasses and lays her head back against the seat. Now the flight attendant’s offering her a meal on a tray and she’s refusing in perfect English and asking for “Just a black coffee” and waiting for the smell of prepackaged food to go away. Your mother always has her feet on the ground, even when she’s in the air. Now she’s probably sitting back with her face turned toward the window; maybe she’s pulled down the stiff little shade for her half hour of rest. She’s thinking about all the things she has to do today, and, on top of that, I’m sure she’s determined to go downtown and buy you something. The last time she came back from a trip, she brought you that great-looking poncho, remember? But no, maybe she won’t buy you anything; maybe she’s still angry with you. . . . What’s she going to think when the people from the airline meet her on the ground? Will her knees give way? What will be the look on her face as she stands there in the midst of all that international coming and going? How much terror will be in her eyes? This is going to age her, you know, Angela; this is going to age her a lot. She loves you so much. She’s a liberated, highly civilized woman, she’s a model of social grace, she’s extremely knowledgeable, but she knows nothing about grief. She thinks she knows, but she doesn’t. She’s up there in the sky, and she doesn’t yet know what grief is like down here on earth. It’s an atrocious wound, a hole in the heart, and it’s sucking in everything at top speed, like a whirlpool: cassettes, clothes, photographs, tampons, marking pens, compact discs, smells, birthdays, nannies, water wings, diapers. Everything’s gone. She’ll need all her strength in that airport. Maybe she’ll run to the window overlooking the runway and fling herself against that transparent wall like an animal swept away in a flood.
    My secretary spoke with one of the airport managers, who assured her that they’ll proceed with extreme caution; they’ll try