Come Fly with Me

Chapter Twenty-Eight Judy

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Judy

Beverly and I return to the El Paso airport. Our bus of new divorcées soars through the border patrol, who are accustomed to this trek by Americans.

I look around and see a spectrum of emotions on people’s faces, ranging from quiet relief to outright exhilaration. I’m not sure I fit in with that.

I am numb. I feel like stone. Beverly, who has once again given me a seat by a window, takes my hand and squeezes it. Even that, I barely feel. I know it is meant as reassurance. But I sit in a kind of stupor.

It is done.

The Mexican government will send the paperwork to the state of Pennsylvania, and it will record this dissolution. Two names printed in black on white paper. It will be stamped, recorded, filed away. A mere number to them. But to me, that piece of paper is the end of a dream. The dream I had of having a marriage as happy as my parents had. The dream of the man I believed Henry to be.

I have gained something today.

Freedom.

But I have also lost something.

Innocence.

The girl from Red Lion is a distant memory, and in her place is a woman who has been through battle and bears its invisible scars.

I feel Beverly’s grip loosen, and I look to my side and see that she has fallen asleep, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open. Even in her awkward position, she is beautiful. That is part of her specialness. Beverly makes everything brighter, and I couldn’t have done this without her. Since I can’t dig myself out of my melancholy, though, I imagine what she would say to me.

“You have only to look to the future now, Judy.”

My imaginary Beverly starts counting one finger at a time.

“Joe. Pan Am. Tahitian breezes. Croissants and brie under the Eiffel Tower.”

I know she’s right, or would be if she was actually saying it.

But in the moment, all I want to do is lay my head against the window and lose myself to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

The El Paso airport is bustling. An early season hurricane is swirling off the Maryland coast, and although the eye has not made landfall, all airports within a hundred miles of Washington, DC, are reporting delays due to heavy wind and rain. El Paso’s skies are cloudless. But I know from learning about routes and airline schedules that there is often a domino effect in place when one part of the country is affected.

Beverly, perky after her brief catnap, leads the way to the Continental ticket counter. We hadn’t bought our return tickets in advance since we didn’t know for sure how long Juárez would take.

“And where are you flying off to today?” says the agent. A rare male in a typically female role. He straightens his tie as he speaks, and I can see how nervous he is in front of Beverly. Most men are like that. And the Beverly I’d first met would have played right into his attraction. But not since meeting Mark. I love this change in her. It’s as if she’d found her center of gravity.

“San Francisco. Do you have any flights today?”

The man at the counter runs a slightly chewed fingernail down a list on a clipboard, and I keep the thought to myself that Pan American wouldn’t tolerate anything less than a perfectly manicured hand.

“You’re in luck. The four o’clock has been rescheduled to eight fifteen due to the East Coast weather. But it has a connection in Los Angeles. Would you like me to book two?”

Beverly sighs. It’s an inconvenience, but we’ve certainly experienced worse.

“Please,” she says.

“Wait.” I lay a hand on the counter. An idea has just occurred to me. “What about Miami? Do you have any flights there tonight?”

Beverly grins. “Rapunzel has escaped from the prison tower of her marriage and is going to fly off to see Prince Charming?”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You’re mixing your fairy tales.”

“My parents didn’t read them to me when I was a kid, so I stole my nanny’s romance novels and read them under the covers at night. I’m trying to speak goody-goody to you. Would you rather I make a reference to how your hero will rip off your bodice when he sees you? I’m far more familiar with those kinds of stories.”

I resist an eye roll. I know she does this just to needle me.

“How about no fictions? I would just like to see Joe. I feel like our relationship had too serious a start, and since I have all this time off, maybe we can spend some of it together.”

“Having fun?” Beverly asks. And I know from her expression that she means it literally, not suggestively. She always tells me I’m too serious. But now that I’m free, things are going to change.

“Sure,” I promise her.

“ Fun is my favorite word. You have my blessing.” Beverly lays a hand on my head as a priest might.

“Excuse me,” the counter agent interjects. “But yes. There is one seat on a flight to Miami tonight.” He has been watching our exchange with fascination. But the line behind us is growing, and we shouldn’t delay anyone more than they already are.

“I’ll take it,” I say. No matter what time it arrives, I’m eager to get to Miami.

I’m eager for this next part of my life to begin.

Joe’s house is a little cottage in Coconut Grove, an area just southwest of the heart of Miami. The town is as charming as the name sounds, and although I have now visited some of the world’s major cities—or at least those in Asia—this may be my favorite place of all of them. It reminds me of our bungalow in Burlingame, but with a distinctly Floridian flavor. The front porch is screened to keep away the bugs, the exterior is painted light blue to match the ocean, and the roof is metal to deter the weathering that the blistering Florida sun can unleash.

But where Burlingame is lined with eucalyptus trees, Coconut Grove is saturated, not surprisingly, with palm trees. Their trunks bear marks similar to those I’ve seen in Honolulu—holes bored by cleats as intrepid yardmen climb them to hack away at mature coconuts lest they fall on unsuspecting passersby.

I am struck that all these miles away, there are similarities. And though I know that the cold scientific explanation is that they straddle either side of the Tropic of Cancer, I prefer the more magical explanation that we are all tied to each other even across the globe.

Maybe that’s what latitude and longitude are. Not merely measurements, but invisible strings that remind us of our connection.

“I took a guess. Cream and two sugars.”

Joe finds me on the front porch, where I’ve adjusted the chair to take full advantage of the way the sunbeams are piercing through the screen.

“That’s perfect. Thank you.”

I do not tell him that I learned to like my coffee bitter and black because I tucked away a dollar of the grocery money that Henry gave me on the first of every month. Henry never knew any differently because he drank his like a man and without embellishment.

But that is the end. No more comparisons.

Joe sets a tray on the small round table between us, and I notice the light-caramel color of his own brew.

I take a sip, and though my tongue recoils at its sweetness, I look at Joe, settled into the other chair, and I suddenly cannot imagine anything being better than this.

You can have Honolulu’s sunsets and Hong Kong’s silks and Tokyo’s cherry blossoms. My paradise is right here.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“It might have been the best sleep of my life.”

Joe smiles. “I’m glad. I bought that mattress with my Christmas bonus. Down filled.”

“You didn’t have to give up your bedroom for me. I could have slept in the guest room instead.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quieter. Away from the street. I thought you could use the rest. You’ve—it’s been a rough time for you.”

If I’d needed any more reasons to thoroughly fall in love with Joe Clayton, it would be about what he hadn’t done, more than all he had. He hadn’t expected any more from me when I arrived than taking me into his arms, kissing my forehead, and setting my suitcase in the room that faced a small but lush backyard.

He hadn’t expected me to talk about it all.

Beverly sent me off on that plane in El Paso with a wink when I told her I’d called Joe and would be staying at his house that night. But as much as I am aware of her opinion that going to bed with Joe would be the perfect way to erase Henry from my life, the opposite is true. And Joe senses it. I need some time to feel cherished above all else. I’d had to fend for myself after my parents died. Fend for myself in my marriage. Fend for myself in my budding career. It is bolstering to know what I am capable of.

But it was—is—exhausting as well. To sink into the gift of Joe’s nurturing character is maybe the very sexiest thing he could have done.

“You can have your bed back tonight, though,” I offer, returning my thoughts to the bliss of this morning on the porch.

“No. It’s yours as long as you need it.”

I know there are many meanings behind that.

It’s mine as long as I need a place to stay.

It’s mine as long as I need it to feel safe.

It’s mine until I’m ready to make it ours.

These things, these important things, I know about Joe. And yet it is only now that I am learning little things like how he takes his coffee.

“I found out for you why they call Miami the Magic City,” he offers.

I remember our evening at the Dominican restaurant when he first mentioned those words, and the memory of it fills me with warmth. It was beyond my hopes that it could lead to sitting right here, today.

“Why is that?” I ask.

“It’s from a speech that an old Miami mayor gave in the thirties. Something like how when people arrive here ragged, they go through a magical transformation into happiness and contentment.”

I let those words sit between us, and I close my eyes to imagine them. How right they are. The magic of this city has worked its way to my heart.

Although I think it’s really Joe. I would feel this way wherever he lived.

I stand up and place my now-empty cup on the tray. We did all this relationship stuff in reverse. We’ve weathered serious things between us—work, distance, divorce—but we haven’t had much experience having fun in each other’s company. Beverly was right.

“Why don’t you take the day off and we go exploring?” I suggest.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” I don’t like the pout in my voice, but suddenly the only thing I want to do is spend the whole day with him.

He grins. “Because it’s Saturday. I already have the day off.”

I raise my hand to punch him in the arm, but he’s quick on his feet and catches my arm with his own, wrapping it around his waist and drawing me toward him. My head fits perfectly into his shoulder. He bends his head, and his lips brush the place where my collarbone meets my neck, and I feel a shiver run through me. He places a gentle kiss there. And then another just upward. And another upward of that until I can feel his breath in my ear. I want to melt, and if he keeps it up, this delicate motion, I may abandon everything else I thought and tell him that I need him. In every way.

“How do you feel about ...” He lets the question linger unfinished, and both of my hands squeeze his sides.

Maybe I am ready to say yes.

“Monkeys?” he says at last.

I release my grip and step back.

“Monkeys?”

Joe is smiling, clearly amused. He has no idea how close I came to—well, not monkeys.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

He draws me back to him, and my body is still flush from what he made me feel. Although it was so gentle that even if a nosy neighbor had peered at us through her blinds, she would not have been scandalized.

Joe pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve already taken you to the most beautiful spot in Miami.”

“Villa Vizcaya,” I murmur.

“Mm-hmm. I thought maybe I’d take you to the craziest.”

I meet his gaze, and our eyes are locked on each other.

“I’ll go anywhere you want to go, Joe.”

He pauses and I feel a rush of warmth from the way he looks at me. “I may have been wrong just now,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

His voice lowers, and he speaks slowly. “About the most beautiful spot in Miami. I’m looking at it.”

We stand there for a half second that feels like an eternity before I push up on my toes and press my lips against his. Kissing him in a way that might scandalize an onlooker after all.

An hour later, Joe pulls up into a half-full parking lot. My hair is still wet from the quick shower I took. A proverbial cold one to shock me out of the heat of that kiss—that magnificent kiss on the front porch. I had been both relieved and disappointed when Joe had pulled away, breathless, and said, “We should get going.”

But the magnetic pull that had begun made every part of me aware of his closeness. It was torture not to hold his hand as he drove south down the highway.

Now that he’s turned off the ignition, though, Joe comes around to my side of the car and helps me out. A gesture I appreciate even if I don’t need it. I can balance a tray of six hot coffees and a silver carafe of steaming water with one hand during turbulence thirty-five thousand feet in the air. I can step out of his lime-green VW Beetle on my own.

It occurs to me that 1963 is a strange time to be a woman. Our capabilities are being recognized in new ways every day, but we are surrounded by chivalrous norms that I don’t want to have disappear.

Maybe the sweet spot is to be found in the balance of it all. I know that Joe respects what I do. All while loving me and wanting to care for me. I think I like being cared for.

“I’ve been saving this one for when you came for a visit,” he says, taking my hand as we make our way to the ticket booth. “I picked up a brochure for it at the airport and thought it was something you’d like.”

“I was already planning to take a week off soon and fly to Miami. I guess my forced sabbatical just made this happen, well, even sooner.”

Joe plans a quick kiss on my temple as he pulls out his wallet. “I’m sorry about how it happened. But I am not sorry that you’re here.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’m not sorry I’m here either.”

As we walk toward the entrance, I laugh at the sign:

Monkey Jungle, Where humans are caged and monkeys run wild.

An acne-faced teenager takes Joe’s money. I remember those days of such youthful challenges and how my dad assured me through my tears that I was beautiful.

Joe makes me feel beautiful. It occurs to me that my parents would have liked him. And he would have liked my parents.

“Here’s a map,” the teenager says with a shortage of enthusiasm. “The rainforest is off to your right and the amphitheater is down the path on the left. Don’t miss the chimp show at the top of every hour. We have over five hundred monkeys from six continents.”

It sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard of. I’m already glad Joe brought me here.

Joe checks his watch. “It’s almost eleven. Should we start with a show?”

“You read my mind.”

We veer to the left until we see the small seating area that has already drawn a crowd. At eleven on the nose, two chimps, Kimbo and Billy, come out from backstage and entertain us with antics from riding go-carts to playing the guitar.

“Why is it that we find it hilarious when animals do human things?” Joe leans over and whispers to me just as Kimbo is donning an astronaut’s helmet and stepping into a toy space capsule.

“I don’t know. You think we’d be shocked to realize we’re not as superior as we think we are.”

“Maybe. But it’s quite a stretch between strumming some chords and building an aircraft. I think humanity is safe for the time being.”

“Did you ever have any animals as passengers?” I ask.

“More than I would have liked. I ran several routes from South America to Miami that would take on monkeys and parrots before loading them onto train cars. And once, I worked a charter flight that flew a full cargo of cattle to Colorado.”

“I thought Pan Am only did international routes.”

“For people passengers, yes. The charters are another story. Try catching a ferry flight sometime and sharing it with a barnyard.”

“I can’t imagine the cleanup,” I say.

“And you don’t want to imagine the smell.”

Billy puts on a showgirl wig and starts strutting around the stage. More laughter. I can’t help but giggle at that one, and I see that Joe’s eyes are twinkling.

When the show is over, we head to the enclosure for Bulu, the six-hundred-pound gorilla.

“Wow. Imagine him in first class,” I say.

“You’d have to shove out the Maxim’s to make room for the bananas.”

I look Bulu in the eyes, and something about the intelligence behind them tells me that there is more to him than we might ever know.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I think he might like Maxim’s.”

“Aren’t they herbivores?”

I shrug. “I think Maxim’s chicken cordon bleu would make a meat lover out of anyone.”

“You’re right about that.”

We continue on, pausing at an aquarium into which the Javanese monkeys are diving, and comment on how much they would like the waters of Honolulu.

Our discussions are silly and simple, and I love every minute of it. This is just the levity we needed.

We end our adventure at the rainforest, and it is easily my favorite part. We walk on a narrow pathway through an Amazonian jungle. On our sides and above us is wire mesh that gives us a remarkable view of the surrounding environment. We can barely hear ourselves talk because one loud family of monkeys—I don’t know which kind—is sitting right on top of where we’re standing, and their furry behinds are smushed into the mesh. The mother holds on to a baby while a small one climbs all over her. The father comes over and sits down, back turned to them all, and the mother picks a few bugs off his fur.

“Would you look at that,” I say over their cacophony. “Looks like he’s not the type to bring her coffee on the front porch in the morning.”

But right after I say that, the father sweeps the small monkey into his arms and hoists it on his back. He swings from branch to branch until they are both settled on the one above our heads. The mother continues to hold the baby in peace.

“I stand corrected. He probably does.”

Joe puts his arm around me and we continue on.

As we head toward the exit, we notice a gift shop. We enter through its stone arch, and my eye rests on the postcard stand. I have to get one for Ronelle. I’ve sent her a postcard from every one of my trips. This one will beat all. I look through a few of the choices and spy Joe putting a package under his arm and taking it to the counter.

It’s not until the next morning that I learn what it is. I am again sitting on the porch when Joe brings out the tray of coffee. His is in a plain white mug, so very typical of him. But mine is in a china cup with a saucer—and the Monkey Jungle logo emblazoned across both of them.

It becomes our habit every day, earlier on the weekdays when he has to go into the office. The monkeys are replaced one morning by a more elegant duo. A china cup and saucer with delicate bird-of-paradise flowers hand painted on them.

“From Vizcaya,” Joe says as he stirs sugar into his own white mug. “Now you have one from each place we’ve been to here.”

We add to the collection over time. Joe comes to see me in Burlingame for the first weekend of every month, and I fly out two weeks later for a couple of days. He is always ready with a new place to show me—the Coral Castle, the Everglades—and each time, he finds a cup and saucer that reminds him of that place.

Each time, he gives me his bedroom, his down mattress.

One October morning, Joe goes out for a run after our coffee. I wash and dry the newest set, putting it on a shelf next to its neighbors. I look at the original two—monkeys and flowers—and smile. I love the sweet life we’re taking slow steps to build. I sense that we have many mornings like it ahead of us.

The phone rings, awakening me from the little daydream I’ve been having about our future.

“Hello?” I answer, hoping that he wouldn’t mind me picking up his phone.

“Judy! I’m so glad it’s you.”

“Ronelle!” I clasp my hand to my mouth in disbelief. Though we’ve exchanged letters all this time, it’s been far too long since I’ve heard her voice. “Is everything okay?” We never call. Long distance was expensive for both of us. But I’d always made sure she knew how to get in touch with me. Just in case. She has the Burlingame house line. And Joe’s.

This couldn’t be a casual call.

“It is and it isn’t. And so you don’t worry, I’m calling from a pay phone so that no one can listen on the party line. I wanted to let you know that Henry must have finally gotten the copy of your divorce papers from Mexico. We could hear quite a racket all the way at our house last night. And this morning, there was a bunch of your stuff at the curb waiting for trash pickup. I waited for him to leave, and I went over to check it out. There were piles of your clothes. Torn. Some scorched with cigarette burns. Your suitcase was busted open, and he’d shredded that map you love so much.”

I feel rigid. I imagine what it must have been like for her to discover all that. But my concern is over Ronelle, not over the loss of things that I said goodbye to over a year ago. That was my old life. I’ve made a new one.

“There is some good news among that, though. I found your Sinatra album in the pile. Come Fly with Me .” She lets out a small laugh. “I think Henry must have already thought it was done for because he left that alone. It was just sitting on top of everything.”

“No wonder.” I laugh with her. “I’d worn that thing out on my own.”

“I saved it for you.”

“Ronelle. Thank you.”

I feel tears well up in me. That little connection to my dad. That part of my life I never want to let go of.

“Thank you,” I say again.

“Anyway,” she says. “I doubt he has any idea where you are. But you can never be too careful. I know you’re on a leave of absence, but can you get yourself out of the country for a while?”

My mind goes through the possibilities. I have six weeks left until they reinstate me. Although my flights would be covered, my hotels wouldn’t be. So leaving would be expensive. Joe doesn’t have any vacation time left. But then I think of Beverly. She has already been talking about taking some time off to meet her mother in Europe. Maybe she won’t mind if I tagged along. Not when she knows why.

“Yes. I think I can work that out. I wish you could come with me, Ronelle. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she says. “Hold on, Judy.”

She sets the phone down, and I press my receiver closer to my ear. In the background, it sounds like she is getting sick.

She returns. “Sorry about that. I really should go.”

“Are you okay? It sounded like you’re unwell.”

I can feel her smile across the phone line.

“I’m doing as well as I can be for someone having a baby.”

“A baby! Ronelle!”

I slide down to the floor. Life is such a spinning wheel of joys and sorrows.

“Yeah. We’re adding another Rorbaugh to the world.”

“And Richard and his family?”

“Are over the moon,” she finishes for me. “I just need the rest of the world to catch up.”

Oh, how I hope it does.