FRIGHT FLIGHT

My bags are packed, waiting for the bellboy. Almost all of Joe’s things are still in drawers , the closet and medicine cabinet. I dial the front desk. ‘Please page Mr. J. Morgan.’ I hold. ’ Mr. Morgan doesn’t answer, Ma’am.’ I am nervous, terribly nervous. Where the hell is he? No choice left for me. His empty suitcase and matching black dop kit bode no good. It is already 8 A.M. and our flight is 10:45. ‘Hmnn, didn’t it take us 3/4 of an hour to get to the St. Maarten Colony?’ I dial the desk. ‘Will you try a page for Mr. J. Morgan again? Will you check and see if he has paid our hotel bill yet?’ ‘ No, he hasn’t, Mrs. Morgan and hasn’t answered this page either.’ Frantically I pace, waiting for the slow elevator to reach the 7th floor. It creaks and I’m not sure it will ever get here. It does. Visa card in hand, I scan our week’s stay without taking in the numbers, sign and get my receipt. Ridiculous thought, did he leave tips for the maids. Should I call the police, the airport? Should I just calm down, sit here and wait, miss our plane? My watch sweats. Jesus Christ, where is he?

The door knob turns. ‘Connie, I’m here.’ An unshaven, whiskey wavering husband walks in. ‘Are you crazy? Where have you been? Come on, let’s go. Let’s go. Get a move on, Jerk!’ ‘I’ll tell you where I was, having a damn good time all night.’ His voice falters. ‘She was gorgeous. I even thought of you once, how you used to be. Maybe you still could be like Daisy, but I’m not waiting and I’m not leaving here either. Go ahead. Go back to our house. I don’t care! Maybe I’ll get there eventually, but I’m not going with you now!’

Are you out of your mind? Did somebody slip you a keg of Ecstacy? I’ve paid the desk clerk. My things are already in the lobby and that is where I’ll be after I kick the shit out of you.’ Joe looks at me with hatred in his blood shot eyes. With all of my might and spiked heels. I kick him, claw at his face. My rage is uncontrollable. His scratches bleed. I go for his eyes. He grabs my arm and twists it back. Joe is beaten up, lies still. I reach for his wallet and accidentally touch his shlong. He giggles. There is nothing left of me. Numb toes, broken finger nails. My heart is in my mouth and may die there. My clothes are a mess and I wash the make-up off my face, don’t bother replacing it,
take the new box of Kleenex off the toilet top and suddenly I am in a taxi with no idea of how I got here. The driver is taking me someplace.
‘Driver. Airport please. Dutch Airlines.’

He’ll be sorry. I have his I.D. That Stink Pot may have to live with Daisy forever on St. Maarten. He’ll have to get a job. That man can’t do much. What he can do while broiling in the sun is be a beach comber, use that thingamajig to find lost coins, maybe a tin ring.

Plane security is so easy here. I can keep my spike heeled shoes on, carry cosmetics. The plane isn’t full. Of course not. Joe is one of the missing. Perfect, perfect, no one is sitting in the middle or on the aisle in C10, my seat. As soon as we are airborne, I lift the 2 arm rests, put my shoes in the sunny yellow carry-on case and spread out, grateful I don’t have to make idle chatter for four hours. The overhead A.C. chills me to the roots of my teeth but I leave it on rather than get up.

A stewardess hands me a thin burgundy blanket. It reminds me of blood, of Joe’s face. I roll it up and put it under my seat, order two white wines that send me on the fast road to Sleepville. That’s when I see Joe. He’s in the last seat of the plane, right next to the perfumed toilets. ‘Fall in, Crud Face! Where’s your Daisy? Did you pluck her too much?’ I’m saying those things but thinking how nice it would be if his half of the plane crashed and the septic tank holdings landed on his head.

The white snowy clouds below us are now pink as the sun’s dying reds let them leave until morning. Tiny town lights below wink to the sky.
One hour more to go. Customs with Dorrie waiting and asking immediately, ‘Where’s Dad,’ will be my first test. Where is Dad?’ expected- needs answering. ‘He had business to take care of, Honey. I’ll explain in the morning.’ I don’t yet tell her, ‘funny business.’ Tomorrow never comes. I open my eyes and blink at the winter sun’s rays coming thru the vertical shades. They make a beautiful long picket fence on my bedroom wall. Joe is warm. I cuddle to his back. Joe turns slowly to me. ‘Time to go, Honey. Our flight leaves at 10:45. You slept so tight last night, didn’t even know you were kicking me and kicking me. I didn’t get mad either.

I’ll get your sunny yellow carry on case down from the shelf and we can finish the last few items after breakfast. Dorrie has the coffee perking.