The Air Show

The Air Show

Steering with his arms high and elbows slightly outward was awkward and necessary for Girard. His daughter, Cydney, had fallen asleep across the seat of his pickup, propping her feet in his lap. It had been a long day for them, they’d gotten up at six to get the morning chores out of the way so they could spend the day at Ellington Air Force Base where the Blue Angels were performing. Girard was surprised, happy, but surprised that Cydney had wanted to go. Playing father to a teenaged girl was something very new to him.

During the red lights, Girard studied his daughter. Her cheeks had been lashed red by the sun, beads of sweat dotted her face and matted down the curls around her forehead. Her peppermint striped shirt crumpled about her small torso, and her innocent face rested on the broken arm rest, catching the breeze from the open window on the passenger side of the cab.

Girard smiled when he caught himself moving with the rhythm on the radio, from one of Cydney’s stations. Everytime he turned a corner, the melting ice and soda cans sloshed in the ice chest just behind the cab.

It had been a good day, one of discovery for Girard, he found out his daughter didn’t eat hot dogs, absolutely no red meat and soft drinks were taboo. She liked mountain water, strawberry popsicles, but not the simple kind he had as a kid, the kind made from real bits of fruit and fruit juices. It seemed the only things they had in common were they liked popcorn unbuttered and slightly salted and held a fantasy to take off in an F-14 and fly like maniacs into the sunset.

The road was dark ahead of them. The temperature dropped, and the rain hit the truck’s cracked windshield. Cydney’s toes wiggled as the drops pelted her legs.

“Where are we?” Her voice was groggy.

“Half way home.”

Cydney pushed back her hair, a long white crease from where she had been lying marred her cheek. ‘I’m thirsty.” She smacked her lips in demonstation.

“Stick your tongue out the window, there’ll be plenty of water.”

“Gross,” Cydney wrinkled her face. “Couldn’t we stop at a convenience store or a gas station.”

* * *

The road was barely visible from behind the water thrust at them. The wind pushed the rain into the cab of the truck, and tossed the truck across the slick highway. The truck’s old suspension maoned while Girard struggled to keep it tight to the lane. Both, Cydney and Girard rolled their windows almost shut, leaving only a small crack for the air to come in. Cydney turned up the radio and scooted closer to her father.

“Buckle,” he nodded toward the open seat belt next to her. His eyes moved between her and the road until he saw her securely latched in.

Rain streamed down the center of the windshield and collected in a channel that ran off the side. “When you were little, the rain used to frighten you, and I’d have to sing to you.” His right wheel caught a pot hole, and they tossed in their seats. “After awhile, you’d calm down. You said the rain moved like little ants.”

“And you’d sing the Ants go Marching,” Cydney held her hand close to her mouth. The ends of her fingers were wet where she had been chewing them. “I remember, but I’m not a little girl.”

“No,” Girard shrugged. “But it’s the way I remember you.”

* * *

The rest of the ride home was noisy but silent. The radio continued to blast, the rain droned around them, the ice chest sloshed, but the only human noises were an occasional sigh or readjustment of position.

Girard wondered what Cydney thought of this new situation, if she was happy, if she had any apprehensions.

“Tomorrow, we’ll see about buying a comforter and maybe some curtains, anything to covert the old storage room into a girl’s room.

“Whatever,” Cydney continued watching the rain, but crouched even closer to Girard.

* * *

Beverly Stag had worn khaki shorts accented by a bright orange tank top with white diamonds stretching across her bust line. The straps had been loose and fallen from her shoulder, exposing her pink and orange bra straps. Beverly had seems about twenty pounds thinner than when she and Girard had been married.

“It’s time you took care of Cydney,” she said handing Girard a duffle of Cydney’s clothing. “I’ve done it for fifteen years.” Beverly stood firm, her tone had been matter-of-fact and emotionless. “I’ve thought about this a long time. I won’t change my mind so don’t make me try.”

Girard glanced past Beverly where a teenaged girl, all arms and legs with crazy blonde curls stood. She had worn a wrinkled denim skirt and pink button down blouse. Somewhat, she had resembled the chubby-faced child he’d known, but in many ways, she had been nothing like his memory. Her face had been too thin, her hair too curly and long.

“This is Cydney, your daughter.”

Cydney had stood bunched against the side of his house, twirling the ends of her hair, chewing gum and looking downward.

It had been Sunday morning, early. The sun hadn’t even peeked. The morning dew had still clung to the windows. Girard had hesitated at the doorway, unsure of what move would be appropriate. He wanted to invite them inside, to discuss the matter, but Beverly had made up her mind, and Girard had known Beverly, nothing could change her mind. Girard had also known, he wasn’t Cydney’s father. Birthright, X-chromosome donator, but not a father.

“It wasn’t an easy decision. I’ve thought almost a year about this.” Beverly’s fingers fidgeted with a brass key ring in the shape of an ‘S’. Her Reebok covered feet alternately tapped against the gravel driveway. “I’ve discussed this with Cydney. It’s for the best.”

* * *

The rain brought the first cold front of the season, and Girard left his front door open, closing the glassed-screen door, but opening the panels. A thick scent of gardenias blew in from the bushes that decorated the bricked-in flower bed that ran the front perimeter of his house. Cydney sat cross-legged on the floor, in front of an open window so that the breeze moved in her curls. She cut pictures out of magazines, of women in fancy dresses.

Girard stood over her shoulder as she carefully moved the scissors along the line of a woman in a black evening gown. “You hope to be a model?”

“No,” Cydney’s voice was embarrassed and sarcastic, and she hid her had behind her hair. “It’s a wish book, Mom and I use to make them.”

The word ‘mom’ made Girard go rigid. The situation bother him, but Cydney showed no signs of emotion. “Do you miss her?”

“Who?” Cydney continued her cutting.

“Beverly?”

Cydney stacked the pictures she had cut then shut the magazines. Her long legs pushed her body brom the floor. “I never really think of her. Excuse me, please.” She brushed the back of her legs with her free hand and left the room.

* * *

“She knows a lot about you, at least what I know,” Beverly had said. She had stood under the garage light, had tucked her dish-water brown hair behind her ears, and had crossed and uncrossed her spindly legs. “She knows you are an executive for an investment firm. I called your office to make sure you were still there. I checked to see if you were married, you weren’t.” Beverly had a wad of gum in her mouth that had muffled her words and diminished the emphasis she had tried to give them.

“This is enough,” Girard had wanted time to make some sort of sense out of what was happening.

“I’ll walk right now if you don’t hear me out,” Beverly had started moving for the driveway.

Girard had looked hard at her, concentrating on her steel gray eyes and tight mouth. He had realized she was serious. This had surprised him, it still surprised him. Beverly had been the responsible one, the one who took care of business, who never let things get out of hand. The type of woman he would trust his own child with.

* * *

Cydney took responsibility with ease. For dinner, she peeled the potatoes and carrost, carefully checking for missed eyes.

“Parenchyma,” Cydney told him. “It’s the kind of cells where sugars are stored. It’s why a potato is a starch.”

“What’s your favorite subject ? In school, I mean,” Girard stood over the Chambers range he’s bought in a garage sale. A yellow and blue flame surrounded the bottom of the cast-iron skillet he was searing a chuck roast in.

Cydney shrugged her shoulders while concentrating on a potato. “Math.”

“Math?”

“It’s what I’m best in,” Cydney picked up another potato, a large one that barely fit in her hand.

“Do you make good grades?” Girard wiped his hands on a dish towel he kept near the stove, then stole a raw snap bean sitting in a colander in the sink.

“A’s and B’s, mostly A’s.”

He watched in fascination as Cydney worked the paring knife through the potato, first down the center, toward her palm, then through the middle, horizontally, toward her fingers. He started to correct her, but decided against it. Instead, he continued to talk, but turned back to the stove and the pot roast. “I thawed a couple of pieces of chicken for you. Would it be all right if I put it in the post with the roast?”

“I’ll cook it in foil, on the side. Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

Girard shook his head. “I don’t have any excuses for not seeing you. Your mother got remarried, I got busy,” He heard Cydney’s chair drag along the slate floor, heard the pad of her barefeet leave the room. When he turned around, he could see Cydney staring out the window, at the rain. The wooden sill wore a slick coating of water.

“It’s getting cold out there, maybe you should put on some long pants.”

Cydney stood in a small puddle of rain water. Her legs were covered with goose bumps. She shut the window, wiped her feet on th half circle of rug in front of the sink and moved to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“You don’t have to,” Girard said. “I just meant it as a suggestion, if you were cold.” His voice dropped off with the last few words.

* * *

Beverly hadn’t even kissed Cydney goodbye. Cydney hadn’t made any moves toward her mother, only had watched as Beverly’s new Malibu backed out of the driveway. Girard had stood dumb-founded, Cydney had simply picked up her duffle bag, tucker her flower-covered pillow under her arm and cuddled a stuffed pug, he’d be introduced to as Steve.

“I don’t have any place for you to sleep,” Girard had stood in the middle of the living room looking between the sofa and the hallway. Imagining the clothes piled in his room, and the tools and guns filling the corners of the spare room.

Cydney had simply lowered the bag and stood cuddling the dog. Her gold-green eyes had patiently awaited her next instruction.

“What did she do to you?” Girard wanted to pull the words back in.

Cydney took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling.

Girard’s eyes joined hers. “That brown spot is from a leak, just a few weeks ago.” He pointed to an elliptical stain just above the sofa. “But you don’t have to worry, there’s a new roof.”

* * *

The air show had been three days after Cydney arrived. When she saw a commercial about the Blue Angels, she began to talk to him.

“Billy and I went to the air show once. Billy got me interested in planes. They’re so cool.” Cydney had sat cross-legged in front of the television. Her flowered pillow had been tossed next to her, so she could stretch during the movie. Steve, the dog, had rested comfortably in her lap. “I mean so much power, those monster engines but their structure has to be so delicate. Sort of a dichotomy.” Cydney had tossed her arms in excitement. It had been the first signs of animation Girard had seen in her.

“Billy?” Girard had stretched across the sofa, sat drinking a coke.

“My boyfriend,” Cydney had smiled, then frowned. “My ex-boyfriend, I guess.”

“You broke up?” Girard had stopped immediately. He had felt he was getting into territory he hadn’t been sure he could handle. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“We,” Cydney had hesitated and grabbed Steve. “I moved.”

“If that’s all, maybe you could have him over.” Girard had repositioned himself on the sofa several times. He lifted the can and took a swig. On the metal trunk that doubled as his coffee table, was a coffee ring.

“I don’t want to,” Cydney had said and turned back to the television, but clutches Shannon awfully hard against her chest.

* * *

Cydney waited until Girard was finished in the kitchen before preparing dinner. Girard watched from the kitchen table as she skinned the two breasts and cut the small pockets of fat from the meat. He folded paper towels into triangles, to complete the set table.

“Tomorrow, I’ll have to see about enrolling you in school.” The window was half-way open, and the breeze blew up the ends of the napkins. What grade?”

“I’m a junior,” She carefully crunched the ends of the foil around a stack of raw carrots and potatoes surrounding a piece of chicken meat.

He watched her balance the two packages with her left hand while she opened the oven with her right, felt the rush of heat the oven tossed out. Her forearm brushed against the top of the oven. She shook her arms and started rinsing the beans that sat in the colander.

“Let me see that,” Girard guided her closer to the kitchen sink, and the window to get a better view. Her arms were long and narrow, her hands were cold, and her finger nails bitten beneath the skin line. Rain drops splattered across her arms, and a small welt was rising on her translucent skin.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” He looked into her stoic face. Beneath her hair, he saw the chubby girl face he remembered.

“A little,” she answered.

He was expecting her to force a smile, but she didn’t. When he reached for the towel to dry her arm, he noticed a tear on her cheek. It had been hidden behind a shadow from her hair.

“There’s an airplane museum,” he said. “It’s not very far. Maybe next weekend we’ll go. Maybe you might think of inviting Billy.”