Part V: Snakes – (Chapter 87)

“It’s time to go, Sam,” Pappa says in an unsteady voice.

His eyes are watery, but I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s going to miss me or Bobby. Maybe it’s both.

I’m sweaty and uncomfortable in my maroon polyester jacket and skirt; Nana insists that a real lady dresses up for traveling.

I disagree, but now it’s only a few hours to real freedom, and then I can wear whatever I want.

This I know: this smelly outfit goes straight to the Goodwill.

Pappa picks up one of my suitcases and takes it to the car.

I drag the other bag across the carpet until he returns and takes it from me. He puts both cases into the trunk and slams the lid shut.

“Well,” he sighs. “That’s that.”

“Don’t forget to write once in a while,” Nana says.

“I won’t.”

“Never forget where you came from,” she says. “We’re your people.”

Then, in silence, he and Nana slide into the front seat, and I into the back, where I sprawl out, pulling my skirt up to my thighs in hope of catching a slight breeze from the air conditioner.

Not likely: the crotch of my pantyhose digs into my groin, and the band cuts into my waist. My panty girdle also cuts into my gut, the top rolling down around my belly.

Who invented these torture chambers, anyway?

My bra is new, a size 38 C, and it feels stiff and formal. This morning, when I took it out of its box, it crackled like a piece of paper, and the cups resembled those steel cups that opera singers wear on stage.

Now, sweat rolls down from between my breasts and onto my midriff, and I can only hope the temperature on the airplane is turned down low.

I won’t miss Sioux City humidity.

On the way to the airport, Nana clicks on the car radio. “Wild thing/ You make my heart...” blaring through the speaker, and I’m thinking “Wow! What a sendoff....”

“Caterwauling,” Pappa says, running through the dial. More music:

“Hot town/ Summer in the city...”

“Damn hippie stuff!”

Then “Lucy in the sky with diamonds...” (crackle)

“And it’s Summa-time in the city, a SIZZLING eight-o at 8:00 a.m.”

Pappa mutters something about “disrespect for Bobby” as he continues to search.

He fiddles with the dial until he finds what he’s looking for: Bobby Kennedy is barely hanging onto life, I barely hanging onto my sanity....

“It don’t look good,” Nana says, shaking her head.

*

My plane sits on the tarmac, waiting for me to board, engines revved up, heat waves distorting its potbelly.

At the thought of climbing aboard and waiting for that bucket of bolts to lift off, I feel queasy.

I hate airplanes!

But it was either fly or stay in Sioux City and settle down into a boring job. No matter how much I begged to take Union Pacific instead of the plane, Nana and Pappa nixed the idea.

Why, I don’t know.

Maybe they figure that I need to grow up, get over my “unreasonable” fear of flying.

I’ve decided I’d rather die in a fiery plane crash than slowly suffocate in Sioux City, Iowa.

“Here, take this pill,” Nana says, handing me a blue and white capsule and a cup of water. “It’ll calm you down.”

“What is it?”

“Just a tranquilizer. Here, just take it.”

I pop the capsule in my mouth and under my tongue and pretend to wash it down with the water.

“Someone told me marijuana has the same effect,” I say. That “someone” was Mr. Kirk, but I’m not about to snitch on him.

“Don’t you be gettin’ ideas,” Nana says, shaking her finger at me.

“Oh, Nana.” But the idea has been in my mind for a long time.

I turn away from my suddenly aging grandparents and walk toward the plane.

I don’t look back.

I spit the soggy pill into my hand and drop it into my pocket.

*

As the plane taxis down the runway, I think a lot about death, about dying in a burning heap of twisted metal.

I’m not afraid of death, really, not even a violent one ‒ getting run over by a large orange truck at six quelled that mystery long ago.

But I’m afraid of dying without having lived, without having really experienced what it feels like wielding total control over a man squirming inside me, if only for a few seconds.

Never mind that the whole thing is an illusion, that once the squirming stops, a transfer of power takes place. Still...

The flight goes without a hitch ‒ no turbulence or incidents.

The captain on the Denver to L.A. leg updates Bobby’s deteriorating condition, and several passengers sniffle during the bulletins, but I’m past that now.

JFK has already drained every significant emotion from me.

And then the plane lands.

I disembark to my other life.