Phoenix Rising Read online

  Phoenix Rising

  Chapter One - Eight Miles High

  Chapter Two - I Touch Myself

  Chapter Three - Roadrunner

  Chapter Four - Girls Talk

  Chapter Five - Tequila

  Chapter Six - Atomic Dog

  Chapter Seven - Love In Vain

  Chapter Eight - Big Time

  Chapter Nine - Desert Rose

  Chapter Ten - Annie Get Your Gun

  Chapter One - Eight Miles High

  January 1982

  The woman at the counter called my flight. I stood up from the row of molded plastic chairs, slipping my backpack over my shoulder, and headed for the gate, presenting my boarding pass to the woman in the blue skirt suit. She smiled as she handed my stub back to me, flashing two rows of perfect white teeth.

  The plane wasn’t even half full. I walked back through the aisle and found my seat, next to a window behind the wing, stuffing my bag in the overhead compartment before sitting down and watching my fellow travelers file in and find their assigned seats. They were mostly men and women in suits, carrying briefcases and small bags. The women all smoothed their skirts beneath them before sitting down; the men tugging at the knees of their trousers, some crossing their legs or reaching into their attache cases for folders, magazines, legal pads and pens.

  I stood up and retrieved my backpack from the overhead bin, fishing out my journal and a pen and stuffing the bag beneath the seat in front of me. I’d brought a book — Fear of Flying by Erica Jong, an ironic gift from Helen — and I pulled that out, too, placing it on the seat next to me. I read a couple of pages, but I couldn’t get any traction; I kept slipping over the words like a car on an icy road. I put the book down and looked out the window, watching planes land and take off, looking out over the harbor and the Boston skyline, watching the progress of a cargo ship through the choppy grey water.

  As I watched a small yellow tractor pulling a train of silver cargo containers across the taxiway, my thoughts turned to the last few days. Helen and I had spent a couple of days shopping for my trip, buying new clothes, a pair of bathing suits, a floppy hat and sunscreen, a new suitcase, sunglasses, and other accessories that I might need for a trip to Phoenix. I thought it might be hot there, like Florida in the summer, but the newspaper said otherwise, low- to mid-sixties during the day, forties at night, so I’d packed a couple of sweaters as well.

  I was reaching for my journal when a young man in a dark blue uniform stopped at my row of seats, checking the seat number against his boarding pass.

  “Hi,” he said, as he opened the overhead compartment and slipped his briefcase and coat inside. “I think this is my seat.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, gathering my journal and book from the middle seat cushion.

  “No, don’t bother,” he said. “I can sit on the aisle.” He removed his peaked cap and placed it with his briefcase and sat down in the aisle seat, unbuttoning his jacket and crossing his legs. Mid-twenties, tall, handsome, closely cropped blond hair, a row of colored ribbons over his heart. He smiled and pulled a small notepad from his pocket, jotting down some notes in longhand as we waited to get underway.

  As the plane backed away from the gate, a voice over the PA speakers said “Prepare for cross-check” as a male flight attendant walked down the aisle, counting passengers. There was a soft chime and the “FASTEN SEATBELTS” light came on. I reached behind me, looking for the belt, fumbling with the buckle.

  “Let me help you with that,” the young man said, reaching into my lap and fastening the belt. “First flight?”

  “No, not my first,” I said. “But it’s been a while.” I had taken a plane with my mother, about ten years earlier, when I was only five. We’d flown from Florida to Chicago to visit her parents, who were still alive then.

  He seemed about to say something else, but the plane started to move, creeping backwards before turning and lumbering down the ramp towards the runway. A flight attendant stood at the front of the cabin and gave the standard safety instructions: oxygen masks, flotation devices, how to survive a worst-case scenario. I seemed to be the only person paying attention to her, and when I pulled the laminated card from the pouch behind the seat in front of me, the man next to me chuckled under his breath.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked him, after the attendant finished speaking.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just that I’ve never seen anyone read that.” He pointed to the instruction card, still peeking from the pouch.

  “I suppose you know it all by heart, working for the airline and all,” I said.

  “Airline? Oh, right,” he said. “Air Force.” He turned the lapel of his blazer towards me, showing the silver “U.S.” that was pinned to it. Beneath the lapel, on the opposite side of his chest from the ribbons, was a black plastic nameplate with “MITCHELL” picked out in white capital letters.

  “Mitchell. Is that your first name?” I asked.

  “No, my last. Robby,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Anne,” I said, shaking his hand. Something made me say “Anne” instead of “Annie”. I wasn’t trying to be formal; “Anne” just sounded more grown-up.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Anne,” he said. “Are you a student?”

  “Sort of,” I replied. “School hasn’t started for me yet. You’re a pilot?” I had just noticed the silver wings above his ribbons.

  “No, flight crew,” he said. “My eyesight is less than perfect. I was an ‘ewo’.”

  “Ewo?”

  “Electronic warfare officer,” Robby replied. “Before I was grounded.”

  “Grounded?”

  “Medical reasons. Had to punch out. Injured my back.”

  “Punch out?” I started to get that feeling I’d had when Bradley and I discussed the guardianship petition or the details of Julia’s trust, that you’re listening to someone speak English but you still can’t understand what they’re saying.

  “Ejected,” Robby said. “You’re strapped into a seat one moment and a second later you’re in the air without an airplane. Then your ‘chute opens and you float to earth. More like a controlled fall, really.”

  “Why did you have to eject?” I asked. The sound of the airliner’s engines increased in volume, and I could barely make out his reply.

  “We lost part of the tail,” he said. I could feel the blood draining from my face. I’d been slightly nervous since I’d boarded the plane and now I could feel an icy ball of panic in the pit of my stomach.

  “Don’t worry,” Robby said. “Flying is safer than walking. Statistically, that is.”

  “Um, okay,” I said, gripping the armrests as our plane began to roll down the runway. I looked out the window, watching the black tire streaks on the concrete runway blur as we gained speed. The interior of the plane made loud plastic creaking noises as we rolled over a bump and then, suddenly, the ride smoothed out as we became airborne. I felt the pull of gravity inside me, like the ascent of an elevator inside a tall office tower, only more so.

  Despite my anxiety, my apprehension over flying, I liked this feeling. I always loved going fast, roller coasters, bicycles, sledding downhill, even a simple playground swing set. Feeling the tug of gravity in my belly, the wind in my face, teetering on the edge of control; the essence of childhood, yet it felt almost sexual at times. I relaxed my grip on the armrests and looked out the window again. Below us, Boston seemed tilted at a crazy angle, the choppy gray waters of the harbor becoming a fine fabric, marred only by the v-shaped wakes of ships and boats.

  “What was that?” I said, gripping the armrests once again as I heard a mechanical whine and a loud thumping sound coming from beneath my feet. Without even thinking, I reached across the empty middle seat for Robby’s hand.<
br />
  “Landing gear,” Robby said. “Nothing to worry about.” He held my hand in his own, gently squeezing it.

  “Sorry,” I said, releasing my death grip on his fingers. I felt a blush spreading across my face.

  “It’s okay,” he said, still holding my hand. I didn’t let go until a few minutes later, when the plane had leveled off, flying above the broken clouds. The sound of the engines decreased as we reached our cruising altitude and the “FASTEN SEATBELTS” and “NO SMOKING” lights went off with a soft chime. The pilot announced our speed and altitude, as well as our arrival time in Phoenix, where he said it was a balmy 64 degrees. A pair of flight attendants pushed their steel carts down the aisles, serving drinks and snacks. I asked for coffee, Robby had a soda, and we talked.

  Robby had loved flying. The excitement, the camaraderie, even the danger. That he was serving his country and following in his father’s footsteps was icing on the cake. Being grounded for medical reasons had been like clipping the wings of an eagle. He’d undergone over a year of painful physical therapy and a number of operations, hoping to be reinstated to flight status.

  Over the course of that agonizing period, he’d pursued his masters degree at Caltech, and now he was a doctoral candidate at M.I.T., studying some of the same electronic systems he’d operated as a member of a flight crew. He briefly described some of his research, and the dissertation he was currently working on, peppering his description with so many acronyms that my head began to swim again. I listened and nodded, trying to follow all of the technical terms. It was his voice that held me, though, deep and well-modulated like the pilot of our airliner, with just a hint of a southwestern twang, that official airmen’s and astronauts’ accent.

  “I must be boring you with all this,” Robby said.

  “No, no. It’s really very interesting,” I replied.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Where are you going to school? B.C.? B.U.?”

  “Actually, I’m still in high school. But I graduate next year,” I said, blushing as I told this egregious lie. My graduation wouldn’t be for another three and a half years.

  “Really?” he said. “Could’ve fooled me.” I smiled at that, wondering if he was just humoring me. I could have passed for sixteen, maybe seventeen with judicious use of makeup. “Have you picked out a college yet?”

  “Haven’t decided,” I said. “B.U. looks good, though.” Helen had driven me through Boston University’s long urban campus on the way to the therapist’s office in Brookline. It wasn’t so much that the campus looked good, but the students I’d seen walking along Commonwealth Avenue or waiting for trolleys were really cute, guys and girls, just about all of them.

  Our conversation was interrupted as the flight attendants served lunch, some form of lasagna the size of a business card, served on a plastic tray, with plastic-wrapped utensils, a plastic-wrapped salad, and a plastic package of condiments and dressings. As Robby and I picked through the plastic wrappings and ate our tepid meal, I told him about how I was flying to Phoenix to see my father, whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

  That was about all I could tell him about myself. There was so much more, like the year I’d spent on the streets, servicing men for money, or Cami and Delia, the transsexuals I lived with before Bradley and Helen found me and brought me into their family. Even further back was a well of sadness, the deaths of my mother, my stepfather and stepbrothers, a deep hole of sorrow I could only drink from when I was alone with my thoughts and feelings. As the flight attendants collected our trays and served drinks, I tried to deflect the conversation away from my life, asking Robby to look out the window and tell me where we were. He scooted over into the empty seat between us and leaned over me, looking through the broken clouds at the verdant landscape below us.

  “Hmmm...looks like Ohio or Indiana I think,” he said. “Familiar, though. I was stationed at Wright-Patterson for a few months. Not too far from here.”

  Robby’s face was close to mine, and I could smell his after shave. There was a little nick on his cleft chin, a shaving cut, and it was all I could do to keep from kissing it. He leaned back in his seat and looked at his watch, his eyes moving upward as he did a mental calculation of time and airspeed.

  “Would you excuse me for a minute?” I asked. I needed to use the lavatory, as that first cup of coffee had worked its way through my kidneys. He stood up in the aisle, taking this chance to remove his jacket and store it in the overhead compartment.

  It took just a thought, a mere notion, to make me reach into my backpack and pull out the beaded purse that held my diaphragm and spermicidal jelly. Robby smiled and stepped aside as I made my way out of the seat, heading towards the rear of the plane, past the galley and into one of the tiny bathrooms in the back.

  Something I’d read in that book, Fear of Flying, stuck in my mind. The author describes something called a “zipless fuck”, sex with a stranger, no strings attached, even giving an example in the form of a short story in which a widow and a strange man come together in a train compartment somewhere in Europe and then part without exchanging a word. It was a potent bit of writing, one that I’d cherish when I was alone in Carrie’s bed, on rare nights when I wasn’t sleeping with Bradley and Helen. I’d imagine myself as the widow, dressed in black, my breasts full like hers, a small gold cross nestled between them. Sometimes the stranger looked like Bradley, sometimes like Mr. Sheffield, the man who paid me to pretend that I was his daughter. Sometimes he had a different face, someone I’d seen in a mall or on television.

  I squirted jelly into my diaphragm and folded it, slipping it inside my sex. I was moist just thinking about this, the story, my fantasy, giving myself to Robby. Washing my hands in the tiny sink, I looked around and wondered if there was enough room for what I wanted to do.

  Robby stood up to let me slip back in my seat. The cabin lights had dimmed and small video screens had emerged from the ceiling, with the airline’s logo on each one.

  “They’re starting the movie,” Robby said. “I bought a headset for you. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to watch.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the plastic-wrapped headphones from him and plugging them into the armrest. They resembled a little stethoscope, two earpieces attached to hollow tubes that conducted the sound from speakers in the armrest. It was loud and tinny until I figured out how to turn down the volume. A dial in the armrest let you select music or the movie soundtrack.

  “You’re not going to watch?” I asked Robby. He had a book open on his tray table and was making notes in the margin with a mechanical pencil.

  “No, I’ve seen this one already,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a blanket in there,” I said, pointing towards the overhead bin. “Could you get it for me?”

  “Sure thing,” he said, half-standing in his seat and opening the bin, reaching inside for the blanket, blue wool with the airline’s name printed on it. I thanked him and unfolded it on my lap.

  “Chilly?” he asked.

  “A bit,” I said. “Would you mind...?”

  “Mind what?” Robby asked.

  “Would you mind if I sat next to you?” I said. “Just until I warm up a bit.”

  “No. Not at all,” he said, smiling. “In fact, these lift up.” Robby swiveled the armrest next to him upward until it fit flush between the seats. I did the same with the one next to me and scooted over next to him, lifting my legs on to the window seat and snuggling against Robby’s shoulder. He plugged my headphones into his armrest and went back to his book.

  The movie was a James Bond flick, though with Roger Moore instead of Sean Connery. Moore was cute, no doubt about it, but there was something about Sean Connery that pushed all my buttons. That accent, that perfect combination of sophistication and toughness; he made Moore seem delicate by comparison. I suppose Connery was getting a bit long in the tooth to play Bond, but even so, I wo
uld have gladly taken the place of any of the women in his movies. Oh, James...

  The clouds below us had thickened, and every so often I’d glance out the window to look at the puffy white ocean beneath us and then return my attention to the movie. Every couple of minutes there would be a slight bump, making the ice in peoples’ drinks clink in their plastic cups. A chime in my headphones sounded, and the pilot’s voice came on over the sound of the movie, announcing that there was a bit of turbulence and that he was turning the “FASTEN SEATBELT” sign again. I swung my feet off of the seat and Robby helped me into my seatbelt before buckling his own. I pulled the blanket back on my lap as he put his book away in his briefcase and lifted his tray table back in the upright position.

  There was another thump and then the plane dropped like an elevator, sending my stomach up into my throat. I grabbed Robby’s hand again, clutching his arm with my other hand, clinging to him as the plane recovered the altitude it had lost.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, gently squeezing my hand. “Just a bit of turbulence. Looks like there might be some thunder storms out there.”

  “If you say so,” I said. I pulled off the headset and snuggled closer to his shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied. I’d gotten seasick on Ramon’s boat when it was just tied up at a pier, but that was mainly because of the smell of diesel fuel and the reek of fish. I didn’t feel nauseous, despite the jostling, but just in case I made note of the nearest airsickness bag, peeking out of the pouch behind the seat in front of me.

  Our bumpy ride smoothed out a few minutes later, and I relaxed my grip on Robby’s hand, still holding it, though. He had nice strong hands, and I fondled the jewel in his class ring before intertwining my fingers with his, slowly pulling his hand into my lap, letting it rest on my bare thigh. I was wearing a short, flouncy black skirt, with a dropped waist and three tiers of overlapping ruffles, a popular style back then, at least until Cyndi Lauper ran that look into the ground a year or two later. It was still one of my favorite skirts at that time, sexy without looking too tight and revealing like the clothes I’d worn on the street.