Come Fly with Me

Chapter Twenty-Four Judy

Chapter Twenty-Four

Judy

“I’ve got Rothmans King Size and Pall Mall.”

“But I smoke Newport.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have that brand.”

It takes effort to smile as widely as I am. My jaw is stretched to its maximum. To the point of throbbing.

“And you think that’s what I’ve paid a small fortune for? To have you tell me that you don’t have what I want?”

Here’s what I want. I want to tell him that although Pan Am strives to make every customer happy, there is the small problem of practicality. We’re limited as to what we can store in an aircraft. If only he could see how I can whip up an omelet or a beef Wellington in a galley kitchen that is half the size of an average elevator. Or how luggage is stored in the cargo below in a dazzling display of geometry. There are many feats of genius on this jet craft, but having the variety of a tobacco shop is not one of them.

I also want to show him where the exit door is, thirty thousand feet above the ground.

But I can’t do that either.

“On behalf of Pan Am, we are so very glad that you have chosen us for your traveling needs. As we are landing in Papeete soon, I can recommend a small shop called Pickle’s just a short walk from the airport where they sell locally made cigarettes, and I’ve been told more than once that after you’ve had them, you’ll never want to return to your old brands.”

This is an exaggeration. I have been in that shop once before. To buy tissues when the dryness of the cabin air caused me to have a nosebleed. I saw cigarettes there out of the corner of my eye, but whether they were international brands or local ones, I couldn’t say.

I continue to smile at him, a frozen expression that feels like it would look cartoonish, but he doesn’t notice.

“Be a good girl, then, and pour me a whiskey. Straight up. Jameson.”

I am about to tell him that we’ve already poured our last of it, and I could bring him some Jim Beam instead. But just then, I feel his hand slide across my rear end as if it’s his to possess. Then, a squeeze.

“Right away, sir.” I turn sharply and walk to the back of the plane, feeling the burn of anger in my cheeks. While Pan Am does not condone such behavior in passengers, neither do they encourage us to make a scene.

The greater good here is to ignore it, even if it’s not my own greater good.

“You look like you’ve had an encounter with Mr. King up in first class.” Lyla Murphy, a stewardess who hails from Ireland, pulls me into a hug.

“It shows?”

“Unfortunately. It’s a rite of passage for anyone on this route. Mr. King travels the full Asian itinerary every three months for business. You’ll learn how to lean away from him and still do your job.”

I let out a sigh of frustration. “People like him shouldn’t be allowed on flights.”

She shrugs. “I wish I could say that was the worst of it, but if you’re here long enough, you’ll find that a number of the men think that they can take liberties with us.”

Lyla looks left and right and then giggles. “Here’s a small consolation. Mr. King isn’t his real name. That’s just what he has us call him. It’s actually Jed Beerwinkle. Check out the manifest.” She slides her perfectly manicured finger down the sheet hanging in the back, and there, indeed, is seat 2A. Definitely not a Mr. “King.”

I want to share in her laughter, but the sting of a man putting his hands on me uninvited hits too close to home. It might seem like it did no lasting harm, but I’ve just left two years of marriage to a man who believed that the wedding ring he put on my finger gave him the right to put his hands—his fists —wherever he liked.

Small allowances make way for bigger ones.

Beverly comes to the back near the end of the exchange, hands on her hips.

“Don’t worry, Jude. I’ll take first class if the crew chief will let us switch. And I’ll spit in his whiskey straight up before serving it to him.”

“How did you know that’s what he ordered?”

She shrugs. “I know the type. There were plenty of men like him in my father’s circles. And they all drink the same thing.”

For two seconds, I consider it. But I’m not going to let a man intimidate me again.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I can’t let you fight my battles.”

Ronelle had done more than enough of that. I didn’t need to have more friendships based on their defense of me.

“Atta girl.”

I pour some Jim Beam out for our Mr. Beerwinkle and resist the urge to spit in it, as Beverly had suggested. I won’t let him reduce me to something less than I am.

But it does encourage me to do something I’ve been frightened of doing—when we get back to San Francisco, I’ll see when I can schedule a block of days to fly south and get my Mexican divorce.

“Happy New Year, Judy!”

“Happy New Year, Beverly.”

“Welcome to 1963. This is going to be the best year of our lives.”

“Cheers to that.”

We’re sitting on the balcony of a local hotel that has been fully rented by Pan Am. Tahiti will be a future site for Trippe’s InterContinental brand, but the future Hotel Taharaa here in Papeete is still at the drawing stage. I know this because when we arrived and punched our time cards at the Pan Am airport offices, we saw the artist’s renditions, and it looks like it will be as incredible as I’ve come to expect. Built into the side of a mountain with an enormous thatched roof and tiki statues dotting the grounds. It won’t be complete for several years, and I think about what my life will look like then. Where Beverly will be. Will it find us still working as stewardesses?

I can’t help but think of Joe as I imagine the future. What’s left of my paycheck after rent and expenses goes to long-distance phone calls, as do his. Not when I’m flying—the international rates would render both of us broke. But most nights back home in Burlingame involve long conversations until he starts yawning. An indication of the three hour time difference, not of his boredom. And when my stops home fall on weekends, he tries to catch a deadhead flight to see me.

I may be the only woman in the world for whom a man flies six hours there and back just to have dinner.

I breathe in the tropical air and pinch myself that I am here in French Polynesia, almost as far away as I can get from the person I’d run away from. And as far away from the person I most want to run to.

I’m missing Joe, wishing he could be there to see this. And yet I’m relishing this opportunity to go to a place where so few can even dream to travel.

I’ll send Joe a postcard, as I do from every layover, and then put thoughts of him to rest. Because as much as I love him—yes, I’ve admitted that I love him!—I especially appreciate that he encourages me, in every single conversation, to put myself first. And that means basking in every moment, every destination, for myself. Not merely in relation to how someone else may like it.

“There will be time enough for all the other things,” he assured me the last time we talked.

And time, today, is on my side. Because we’ve just been told that a mechanical issue is grounding our plane and a new one may not be available for a week.

Beverly and I are going to have a vacation.

We slip out early the next morning, before the sun has even risen. Beverly got a tip from the front-desk clerk that the fishing vessels leave the island much earlier than the tourist boats, and that for a couple of American dollars, one should be willing to take two ladies who are trying to evade the passengers lodged at the same hotel.

Everyone is being put up at the hotel on Pan Am’s dime since the delay is the responsibility of the airline. And though there is no expectation that we have to work or to entertain anyone, a lobby full of passengers creates too many opportunities to let those instincts kick in. Our copilot, First Officer Touka, was actually the one who suggested we leave. Word of Mr. King’s roving hands had reached his ears, and as a father of three daughters at his home base in Japan, he felt particularly protective of us.

We consider going to Bora Bora, but it’s much farther out, so we decide upon the nearby island of Mo’orea. It’s only an hour’s boat ride from Papeete, so we won’t be far away if we get word that a replacement plane has gotten here sooner. Because then we would have to scrap our plans. Not checking into a flight is an offense for which we’d be fired immediately. An inability to be reached would not be an excuse.

Lyla has offered to send for us if she hears anything as long as we promise to stay close to the dock and remain easy to find.

The fishing boat has just pulled around a hill that has been our only view of Mo’orea ever since leaving Papeete, and it reminds me of Dorothy stepping into the colorful world of Oz.

“Heavens to Betsy, Judy. Have you ever seen anything like this?” Beverly’s big eyes widen even farther as she takes it all in.

“C’est beau, n’est-ce pas??” says the fisherman as we stare, jaws agape.

“Yes, so beautiful,” I answer in French.

But the word is not adequate in any language. Especially in English with all of its limitations.

Jagged spires of mountains pierce the sky like castle ruins covered in moss. The water is turquoise, blue, indigo. Enough shades that no thesaurus could conceive of. And it is so clear that we can see down to the ocean bed. Fish in every color of the rainbow swim underneath, and blackbirds fly overhead, singing their song and spreading their wings in a gentle glide. The sun has risen to just above the tallest peak in the east, and it sits like a golden crown on top of it.

“La Baie de Cook,” the fisherman says as he points to the bay on our left. “Mais nous naviguons vers la Baie d’Opunohu.”

I’d seen a map of the island back at our hotel. It looked like the footprint of a dinosaur or a bear, the two bays jutting into the land with slender spaces between. I know that the main dock is at the next bay, so we are bypassing this one named for Captain Cook after he came to the island to study the movement of Venus.

Venus, goddess of love.

I think of Joe again.

I know he wouldn’t have come here on any of his flights because the route has only just been opened. But maybe he can still go someday.

Maybe he can go with me.

It is a place designed by nature for amour .

Beverly leans over the front of the boat and spreads her arms out wide, making it appear that she is collecting the breeze in an invisible net. She looks so carefree and almost childlike. I snap a photo with the camera I’ve finally bought and I’m pleased that I haven’t distracted her by doing so. I return it to my bag and take small steps to join her, careful to keep my balance as the waves gently rock the boat the closer we get to the shore. Her eyes are closed, and she is frozen in the pose.

I do the same.

I feel the wind on my cheeks, and I throw my arms out so wide that they’re nearly behind me. The muscles in my shoulders protest, aching from the movements in the cramped airplane cabin that I’m still not entirely used to.

But I banish the thought as soon as it enters my head because this moment is about freedom, not work.

The boat lurches forward, and my eyes fly open. I grip the deck rail and look to my right to see Beverly. The jolt made her fall to the ground, but before I can ask if she’s hurt she lets out a most marvelous laugh.

“This is better than a ride at Coney Island,” she yells with a smile. “Or what I imagine a ride at Coney Island to be like.”

She doesn’t get up and instead grabs my hand to pull me down with her. We lay back on the deck, not caring that our backsides are getting wet from the splashes that have come overboard. Instead, we move our arms and legs back and forth like we’re making snow angels and giggling just loud enough to hear each other over the shouts of the fisherman as they start making their preparations to dock.

We probably look ridiculous. And I love it.

One more jolt. The boat has arrived at the dock, and we sit up to see the fishermen throwing ropes overboard to secure the vessel. A couple of them glance our way and snicker at these two crazy American women.

I stand up first and hold a hand out to Beverly, who grabs it and pulls herself up.

“That might have been the best experience of my life,” she says as she smooths her hair back with her hands.

“Really? Not Paris or London or any of the other fabulous places you’ve been?”

“Better. I promise you. Because even there, there is a way to act, a list of things to see. This , Judy, this is nothing but pure li-ber-a-tion . And how often can you say that you ever get to truly feel like that?”

I can’t disagree.

As we step onto the dock, we grip each other to steady ourselves, our equilibrium off-kilter from the boat ride. Sea legs setting in. Beverly tips the fisherman and thanks him for the ride.

“Le plaisir était pour moi,” he answers. It was my pleasure. He wipes his right hand on his pants and puts it out for us to shake. I take it, and my small one sinks into his large, cushy palm. If a handshake were a hug, this is what it would feel like. He goes on to tell me that there is a tourist boat every evening after sunset that returns to Papeete. Kind information, but it is our hope to stay for a few days.

“àquelle heure est le coucher du soleil?” I ask just in case.

What time is sunset?

He shrugs his shoulder and grins. “Il n’y a pas de temps a Mo’orea. Regarde le soleil.”

There is no time in Mo’orea. Watch the sun.

There is no time in Mo’orea. I feel that. The rest of the world just celebrated the turning of the new year with fireworks and fanfare, but I sense that here on this little island, it’s merely a day like every other.

Paradise.

The fisherman turns around to remove the ropes, ready to set into deep waters for the day’s catch. I’m glad we didn’t take the tourist boat to get here. We have a few hours’ head start and can find an ideal spot before the day-trippers arrive.

“Let’s go over there,” Beverly says. “I see breakfast.”

A woman wrapped in a red sarong is setting up a fruit stand underneath a grass-topped roof, and I imagine it will provide perfect shade as the sun continues to rise. At her feet, two toddlers draw rudimentary figures in the sand while another woman sits on a nearby rock wall and nurses an infant. She is bare chested and thoroughly unfazed by our presence. I am moved that this culture can see something like this for the natural beauty that it is. A woman could never get away with that in Pennsylvania.

Chickens peck at invisible crumbs around our feet. Roosters strut about, shouting their cock-a-doodle-dos.

Beverly, however, is focused on the fruit.

“Bonjour,” she says to the fruit seller. The woman smiles in return and bows her head slightly. “Deux avocats, deux papayes, deux bananes.”

Two avocados, two papayas, two bananas. A truly tropical breakfast.

But then, I see her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, and she points to a pile of spiky red balls. “Dix,” she whispers.

Ten. Either Beverly doesn’t know the name of the odd fruit or she doesn’t know it in French.

Or she can’t speak at all. I see that she is overcome for a reason I can’t determine.

The woman puts everything into a wrinkled brown bag and exchanges it for the coins that Beverly holds out.

She walks toward the beach, and I follow, sensing that she needs quiet in this moment.

We walk and walk, and I pause only to take my sandals off. They have hard soles, and I’m finding their inflexibility difficult on the sand. The ground is strewn with coconuts, fallen palm branches, and seashells, and I am careful not to step on anything that could cut my feet. But I wouldn’t trade it for the sensations I feel as we continue.

“Here,” Beverly says at last. I look back, and the fruit stand is barely a pinprick, but I think we are still close enough that Lyla could send someone to find us if she gets word that a replacement plane is arriving sooner than we expect.

Beverly’s chosen our spot well. We’re shaded by a canopy of palm trees, and the sound of the breeze as their branches sway reminds me of the wooden maracas that were a staple in my grade-school music classes.

“They’re rambutans,” she says. And I understand without her demonstrating that she is talking about the spiky red fruit. “I’ve never seen one in person. Only as a flavor in candy. Filipino candy from my aunt’s salon in New York.”

She goes on to tell me more than she has ever revealed. About her parents, her life in New York, and then Sami, Karina, Ann.

“I always wanted a sibling,” she confides as she stares out at the water. “A sister, specifically. A brother might have been too much like Mr. Wall Street, and I might have suffocated in a household saturated in testosterone. But a sister would have been a confidante. A partner in crime. A best friend.”

I want to tell her that I understand what she means. That I, too, was an only child, and though I was close to my parents, it was not a replacement for the instant playmate that a sister could have been. I want to tell her that I was ostracized in Red Lion for having a French-speaking father. That I knew many people who wouldn’t leave the county out of superstition. Even a man who didn’t travel to the next county, Lancaster, for his own father’s funeral. So a man from another whole country was eyed with suspicion. And I was the unhappy recipient of that brand of mistrust.

So I well understand the feeling of loneliness.

But I don’t tell her this. Because this is her moment, and mine will come in due time.

Like the fisherman said, there is no time in Mo’orea. I do not need to hurry. Our stories can unravel at their own pace.

“I didn’t expect this, you know,” Beverly says. She turns her eyes from the water and toward me.

“Expect what?” I ask.

“That sisters can be chosen. You’re like a sister to me, Judy. I know I’ve been brash and opinionated, and I’m beginning to think that it’s just my way of keeping people at arm’s length. Because I’ve never been in an environment that felt real. And I was craving it. I was craving it, Judy. I thought it was just a drive to have a different environment and that Pan Am would give that to me. But I’ve found more than just pretty places. I’ve found people who even in this short time will no doubt be a part of my life forever.”

I reach into the bag and pick out a papaya, enjoying this discovery that Beverly is making for herself. It’s not often that you’re given a front-row seat to someone’s metamorphosis. The papaya peels easily and its juice runs down my fingers, leaving them sticky. Its black seeds spill onto the sand and onto my bare feet. But I don’t care. I take a bite—equally messy—and it is an explosion of flavor unlike any I’ve ever known.

By the time most tropical fruit is put out in the grocery-store aisle in my town, it’s traveled thousands of miles and is nearly tasteless. And that’s if the stores are even stocked with such exotic varieties.

In Red Lion, different fruits, like different people, are met with suspicion.

This papaya, though, tastes like God personally came down and touched it with his finger. The world is missing out.

Beverly sees my enjoyment of this and picks hers out of the bag too. I use the silence as an opportunity to respond to her.

“I feel the same way, you know. Ronelle showed me that. And then you. Sometimes family is who you choose, not just who you share blood with.”

I pick at a blade of wild grass and get a soothing satisfaction out of tearing it down the middle into two symmetrical pieces. It elicits such a peaceful feeling.

“Don’t you think it’s ironic,” Beverly says, “that I had to run away to Pan Am to grow closer to my mother?”

“Closer?” I ask. I sweep my arm parallel to the horizon. “We’re in French Polynesia, if you haven’t noticed. We’re about as far away as we can get from everyone we know.”

She pulls a rambutan from the paper bag and throws it at me. “You know what I mean!”

And before we know it, we’re engaged in a heated rambutan fight, each of us scrambling to grab more, aiming for the other, crossing our arms to shield us from the deluge. It’s the perfect fruit for it—their red spiky shells are too soft to damage our skin, too thick to be damaged by our shenanigans. Still entirely edible.

When we’ve worn ourselves out, we pause and notice three small children standing on the beach and staring at us. Their skin is brown from a lifetime of sun living, their feet bare, their hair tangled from what is no doubt days and days spent near the glistening water. I can’t tell who is a boy, who is a girl, as none have shirts and all have long hair.

One of many cultural nuances I’ve enjoyed since working for this airline.

I’m envious of their carefree lives.

Or maybe they only look that way. I’m learning more and more not to make assumptions.

Beverly grabs the bananas and holds them out, but the children scamper off. She hands one to me instead, and peels one for herself. She takes a bite, and a look of utter bliss washes over her face.

“I’m telling you, Judy. When I die, I want my ashes to be spread right here on this beach. Then I’ll never have to leave it.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“I’m serious,” she says. And she looks at me then, her bliss turning to something that sends a shiver through me that I can’t comprehend.

“Promise me,” she whispers.

“I promise.”