Planes

This is called Planes. I wrote it for my creative fiction class in college. Don’t steal it! (I say that as though it’s worth stealing. But if you are a jaded college junior taking a creative writing course, it might just fit the bill.)

They were lying in the grass, Margaret and Tom, eating turkey sandwiches in the hot afternoon sun. Tom was reading the newspaper while Margaret watched the planes that flew overhead every once and a while. She liked how they left large trails of exhaust – a brilliant memory of themselves against the blue of the sky.

“It’s so warm,” Margaret remarked, reaching over to take a bag of chips out of the basket. She offered Tom the apple but he shook his head.

“Indeed,” Tom said blankly, turning from the local news to the obituaries. She searched for his eyes through his dark glasses. Even though no one they knew had died, she knew he always had to be sure. He did this every Saturday – it was as though he was hoping to discover the recent death of a grade school enemy or the passing of a distant great Aunt.

Spring came early this year, and Margaret had wanted to come to the park for a few Saturdays now. Last week, she and Tom were peeling carrots by the sink. Staring out of the kitchen window, Margaret had said “Isn’t it crazy how early the jonquils are blooming?” She looked out on the bounty of yellow and ivory flowers on the hill in their backyard.

“Indeed,” he had said.

“I know!” she remembered saying. “Lets go to the park around the block. We’ll bring dinner. It’ll be sunset by the time we get over there.”

“That would be nice.” he promptly replied – in a flat, reasonable tone. “But you know these streets at night, Madge.” He went back to the carrots in the sink. “Besides, the roast will be cold.”

 

The sun warming her skin, a slight breeze blowing her hair. She finally got her wish. Tom had limply put his arm around her shoulder, and she was nearly asleep before a loud bark split the air. She sat up and saw a young boy, still winter-pale, with blonde hair and a haggard Batman t-shirt struggling with a huge lab, the leash in his right hand turning his knuckles white as the dog barked forward. In his other hand he held a small birdcage, with three white parakeets answering the dog’s barks with high pitched screeches.

“Shut up you dog!” the boy yelled. “Just shut up now!”

He was heading in their direction, and she watched as Tom looked up with a mild indifference, and then turned back to his paper. He had moved on the Doonsbury strip and began chuckling to himself.

A few yards from their feet, the boy hesitated, and then tugged hard on the leash. The dog turned and barked at the boy defiantly, and Margaret could see small tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Just stop it now, Cody!” he yelled, his voice cracking.

She looked back at Tom, who had now put his paper down all together and was sitting upright, watching the boy’s struggle.

“Go hold that dog for him,” she said. He looked back at her uncomfortably, then weakly rose from the grass, his knees popping as he stood up.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, his voice slightly patronizing.

“Thank you,” the boy said. He looked up at Margaret, but said nothing else.

“That’s a big dog you have,” she said, uncomfortably. “Is he yours?”

“Yes’m,” the boy scratched the grass with his sneaker. “Well, not for long.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Tom asked in an accusatory tone.

“I’m going to get rid of him,” he turned to look out at the city. The park overlooked the downtown business district, and the glare of the sun cast a haze-like sheet over the whole scene. The parakeets screeched in their cage, biting at the wire that kept them from escaping.

“Are those your birds, too?” Margaret thought the question was foolish the minute she said it.

His kind eyes narrowed as he said, “Yeah, of course they are.”

“Well lad,” Tom cleared his throat. “Where are you going with this big fella?”

“I dunno. I was just gonna take him as far as I could, then let him go.”

“Wait a minute,” Tom replied, “You can’t just leave a dog this size to roam the neighborhood. You should know better.”

The boy squinted up at her with a confused expression. “Well why not?”

“Because,” Margaret cut in. “There are many young children in this neighborhood.” She put her hand on her hip, a motherly instinct, she thought. “A dog like Cody here could easily hurt one of them very badly.”

“But he’s hurting me!” The boy looked as though he was going to cry.

She assumed the boy was talking about his hands, now with bright marks left from the leash. “Here, hold this ice.”

The boy put the birdcage down as Margaret reached inside the picnic basket for the bag of ice. The dog jumped at his chance to get at the birds, but Tom came alive quickly enough to pull him back. The dog gave three loud yelps before sitting down in the grass.

“Will you take the dog for me?” the boy’s eyes eased as he looked from Tom to Margaret and back again. “We’re going to have birds instead of him.”

Laughing, Tom replied, “No kid, I’m sorry. You’re going to have to take him back home with you.”

Margaret was annoyed with his refusal, even though she knew he was right. They had a cat and the dog was too big for their small home. She looked at the dog’s flea bitten ears and ratty fur. He was missing a few teeth, and large gobs of slobber hovered around the corners of his mouth. Margaret looked over at Tom as he stood, frowning at the dog. She thought of his days in graduate school, their late night talks on meaning, life, and his work at the university’s sociology department leading students on social justice research.

The boy continued to scratch the ground with his foot and Tom uncomfortably grunted. The birds chirped rhythmically in their cage. She shifted her gaze from the dog to a cherry tree in the distance, and still couldn’t help but think of those days with Tom, his youthful spirit warming her, motivating her, pushing her towards her own dreams. Now things seemed dark, like his obituaries. She recognized then that their marriage has calloused over, perhaps beyond repair, but was surprised at her own indifference. Somehow, this boy made things all relative. Something about him made her sad but hopeful. It all seemed so distant yet so real – so entangled in the moment as she looked over at Tom, his stooped frame glaring down at the dog.

“We could take him to the pound,” she said. “That’s where doggies go when their owners no longer want them.”

The boy looked annoyed. “I know what a pound is, lady.”

“Wait a minute,” Tom looked at her coldly. “Madge, this isn’t our responsibility. Suppose his parents want this thing back.”

“No!” the boy cried. “They don’t want him! Please! Get rid of him…he’s hurting me!”

At that, the boy threw down the ice and picked up the birdcage, all in one swift maneuver. He took off running across the park, and as he neared the swing set he turned back to face them.

“My mom died a few days ago,” the boy said, his voice nearly lost in the wind. He kept backing away from them as he said, “She always wanted birds – but my dad…” The boy took off running, carefully holding the birdcage above his head with both of his hands, like an offering. A motherly pride broke within her for the boy, but it was quickly muted as she turned and saw Tom’s frown. She wanted him to see that this boy could’ve been their son. He was the right age, and they might have produced a boy with sandy hair the way he had. Tom clearly saw none of this, as he was straining to convince the dog to sit. Something heavy came over her, and she let her body collapse to the cool grass.

“God dammit! You and your charity!” Tom glared at the dog. “You want to help me with this thing, Madge?”

When she looked up she barely saw Tom, his gray face blurred by the sun. There were a few planes barely visible on the horizon. She smiled – they reminded her of birds. She wondered if the passengers wore seatbelts, if they gazed down at the earth, if they could see her, watching as the plane disappeared on a set course back home.