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Show Motherlunge a novel 70 footplates down and in with her boots. She reached inside her purse and handed me the wig and a pair of oversized Yoko Ono sunglasses, black and caliper-like at the temples. "I know these are ugly," she said wamingly. "Don't say it." I did exactly as my sister told me. I put the glasses on and began stuffing her hair inside the wig. She wriggled and readjusted in the wheelchair seat, pulling her long coat out and away from her body. I held onto her head. When she was still again I grabbed a front section of wig hair and yanked it forward like a ripcord; the wig was finally on. "Okay," Pavia whispered. She took out another pair of sunglasses-identical to the ones she'd given me-and pushed them on. Then she patted the armrests impatiently. "Let's go!" I grasped the molded handles of the chair and leaned forward; jaw clenched, I began to push. My nose was near her desiccated pseudo-hair. "Okay," I mouth-breathed through my teeth as we rolled forward, "Okay." "But tell me-now Pavia-what are we doing?" Pavia waited while a woman announced the flight's arrival over the P.A., then repeated the announcement with the typical variations of inflection-more slowly, extra soothingly, with odd emphases: That's flight SEVEN sixty-nine, with SERVICE from Miami, arriving AT gate twenty-two. I'd marry her ALL OVER AGAIN, I thought. Pavia answered me. "I just need to see Ed and Nanette first, before I ask for the money. For just one last time, and I don't want...," she gestured outward from her wheelchair seat, "I don't want to see the fake expression they're always going to have when they see me from now on." |
