Flight Dreams (10 page)

“Thanks, Neil. The pleasure’s mine. Reporter, yes—but ‘renowned,’ I’m not so sure.”

“Nonsense,” Roxanne insists, “you’re far too modest. Your reporting of the Helena Carter case is utterly authoritative.”

“I’ll have to side with Roxanne,” Neil adds. “The Carter case isn’t exactly front-page news in Phoenix, but it does get reported there, and everything I’ve read has carried your byline. I’m impressed, Mark.”

“What can I say?” says Manning, acceding to the flattery. Ready to change the topic, he asks, “How about you, Neil—what do you do?”

“I’m an architect. I’m here for a couple of weeks working on a project with our firm’s Chicago office. That happens from time to time, and Rox is always kind enough to put me up—”

“In the den, alas,” Roxanne interjects with a low chortle. Her suggestive tone strikes Manning as more inappropriate than amusing. He wants to hear more about Neil’s work, but before he can ask, Roxanne continues, “Now, Mark, how about that drink? Neil, can you take care of it in the kitchen? I need to finish dressing. And I’ll put the CDs in order—I like to have the evening fully programmed.”

“No kidding,” says Neil under his breath. With a jerk of his head, he beckons Manning to follow him to the kitchen. It is a bright, spacious room—no mere apartment-style galley. Neil has taken charge of the duties here, and all seems ready. Trays of hors d’oeuvres are arranged on the counter, something’s in the oven, and the cocktail cart is freshly stocked, ready to roll. Neil offers, “What can I get you?”

“Just vodka on the rocks.”

“Nice clean drink,” says Neil with a tone of approval. “I’ll join you.” He plunks ice cubes into two squatty crystal glasses, then grabs a bottle of Japanese vodka, a brand unknown to Manning. He pours without measuring until the ice is just covered. “Let me garnish this with something I think you’ll like,” says Neil as he picks up an orange. He deftly strips off a long sliver of peel, then twists it over both drinks, dropping half of the peel into each. Invisible droplets of citric oil fill the space with their fragrance. Neil hands one glass to Manning and lifts his own, saying, “I’ve never known what to call this concoction, but I just had an inspiration. Henceforth, this is a ‘Mark Manning.’ So, a toast to its illustrious namesake. Cheers, Mark.”

Touched by the gesture, Manning says, “I’m at a loss for words, and
I’m
the writer.”

Neil tells him softly, “Just drink it.”

They touch glasses and share a smile, a gaze that lingers, suddenly blocking other senses, suspending reality for a long, long instant. A wave of breathlessness passes through Manning like a roll of timpani that is felt but not heard. His jaw droops.

“Drink
it,” Neil repeats, this time through a laugh.

Manning blinks. He sips. As the icy alcohol assaults his tongue, the reality of the moment snaps back into focus. He pauses to taste what’s in his mouth, swallows, and says, “Neil, this is great—the orange gives it a whole new character.”

“I thought you might be ready for something different.” The curl of Neil’s lip confirms the double entendre.

“Never can tell,” Manning admits. Then, defusing their innuendo, he asks, “Who’s coming tonight—do you know?”

“Rox said we’d be ten or twelve. There’s someone she works with, she mentioned ‘several writers’—spouses, I imagine—and she invited someone I met here before, someone I’d rather forget.”

“Blind date?”

“Not exactly.” Neil snorts a loud laugh and takes a swallow from his glass.

“What’s going on in here?” calls Roxanne, her tone playfully accusing, as she appears through the swinging door. She has the music going again, more upbeat than before.

“Nothing, Rox,” Neil tells her. “Just swapping filthy stories—man-talk, you know.” He winks at Manning.

She lets the comment pass, not believing a word. Instead, she strikes a pose and asks, “Well, what do you think?”

She has chosen a cream-colored suit of soft merino wool. Under the jacket she wears a tight black sweater and a fine gold chain that hangs in a single loop, narrowing as it descends between her breasts. The only other jewelry is a similar gold chain looped many times around one wrist as a bracelet. Her hair flows over her shoulders, framing her head like a veil. Her feet are virtually bare, guiding a pair of thin-strapped sandals with short spiked heels that would never be worn on the street.

Neil simply eyes her and nods his approval. Manning attempts—with only partial success—a wolf whistle.

“You guys are impossible,” she says, dismissing the fished-for compliments.

In that instant, Manning recognizes that Roxanne, who is one of the most seductive women he has ever known, is at the same time the least flirtatious. She is unquestionably attractive, poised, and worldly, yet she dampens her glamour with a wearied indifference to her own physicality. What, Manning wonders, does that signal—confidence, or insecurity?

“Hey,” says Manning, “here’s an idea. Let me repay your hospitality and invite you two over to my loft—you’ve never seen it, Roxanne, and I’ve been there almost a year. How about dinner next Friday, a week from tonight?”

“Great!” says Neil.

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” says Roxanne, hesitating. She pours herself a drink. “I think I’m clear. I’ll let you know.”

The door knocker sounds from the other room. As Roxanne turns to leave the kitchen, she tells them, “Curtain going up, gents. Take charge of the booze, please—I’ll meet and greet.”

As Manning and Neil refill their glasses and do some last-minute arranging of the cocktail cart, they hear voices raised in greeting. Manning swings the door open and follows Neil, who wheels the cart into the living room. Roxanne has escorted her guests to the window, where they marvel at the view. Lightning flares in the clouds beyond the horizon.

Roxanne waves Manning and Neil forward to meet the new arrivals—a couple, apparently married, sixty or so, both comfortably overweight.

He wears a nubby tweed jacket with leather buttons and elbow patches, a wrinkled white shirt, and a bulky knit necktie with a knot that is far too big for the day’s fashion. The overall impression is decidedly academic, though the unpolished image is flawed by his dashing silver hair, professionally styled, swept back, blow-dried, and lacquered.

The woman at his side wears a serviceable, matronly suit, also tweed. Beneath the jacket is a brown turtleneck sweater with a collar that rises in many folds, mimicking the layers of her chin. From the ripples of the collar hangs an oversize primitive necklace composed of beads, feathers, and what appear to be painted bones. Her hair—once black, now dull gray—is braided and coiled atop her head in a style that befits the necklace.

Manning vaguely recognizes the man—his crackly voice is familiar too. Then Roxanne introduces the couple as Bud Stirkham, the author and radio commentator, and his wife, Clarice. The Stirkhams exchange handshakes with Manning and Neil. Offering drinks, Neil is asked to pour straight bourbon for both. Still pumping Manning’s hand, Bud Stirkham puts aside the opinions he expressed on the air earlier in the week, telling Manning, “Mighty fine job you fellas are doing with the Carter caper over at the
Journal.
You’re one hell of a reporter, sir.”

Manning says, “Thanks, Bud. I’m glad to tell you how well acquainted I am with your books.” He doesn’t mention that he finds their underlying philosophy reprehensible. “And I hear your program all the time.” He doesn’t mention that he usually switches it off the moment he hears Stirkham’s voice. Stirkham beams in response to the presumed flattery.

“Perhaps, Mr. Manning,” suggests Clarice Stirkham, “you could appear on my husband’s program. I’m sure the public would be keen to hear your thoughts on the Carter case.”

“I’m sorry,” says Manning, “but the public has already read everything I have to say about the case.”

“No, Mr. Manning, you misunderstand me,” she persists. “I’m not talking about the
facts
you’ve reported—that’s all so dry and tedious. Many people would like to know how you
feel
about what’s happened.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “but that wouldn’t be appropriate to my role at the
Journal.
My speculation as to Helena Carter’s fate would do nothing to solve the mystery. I’m a reporter, Mrs. Stirkham, not a detective or a mystic. Thank you for your offer, but I must decline.”

“Now, Clarice …” says Stirkham through a soothing chuckle, trying to unruffle his wife, who is visibly irritated by the lack of enthusiasm for her proposal. Then to Manning, “I’m sure you know your business better than we do, but if you ever change your mind …” he trails off suggestively.

“Mark,” says Neil, bouncing to the rescue, “can you give me a hand with something?”

Manning nods a temporary farewell to the Stirkhams and follows Neil to the kitchen. “Thank you,” he says as Neil begins garnishing a tray of appetizers, “I was getting annoyed.” He gives Neil’s shoulder a squeeze that says, But I’m better now.

“God, they’re awful—and did you catch that neck-piece? Who
are
they?”

Manning sips his vodka and lets himself relax. “Bud Stirkham,” he explains, “is the most overrated and—I feel—misunderstood writer in this city.” He doesn’t bother to hush his words, for the music from the other room covers their conversation, and the rain now beats loudly against the big windows. “He’s written a half-dozen books and a couple of plays that have received respectable critical acclaim and—for reasons that escape me—tremendous public success. He identifies himself with workers, union movements, the common man,
that
whole bit. In short, he’s a knee-jerk egalitarian of the most senseless and rabid variety.”

Manning stops talking and drinks. He stares over his glass at Neil, who looks back at him. Manning’s words have revealed opinions not often expressed, and he finds it unexpectedly important that this young man should grasp and share his thinking.

“You handled yourself beautifully,” says Neil. He hands Manning a tray of crudités and picks up a second platter, heaped with cheese. As they return to the living room with their bounty, the knocker raps.

Roxanne takes leave of the Stirkhams, crossing the room to fling open the door, revealing a short middle-aged couple who stow their dripping umbrellas in a stand near the elevator. The man wears a business suit, proper but blah, and carries a bottle of wine with a ribbon around its neck. The woman beside him wears a simple evening dress of deep blue, embellished with a strand of pearls. She has clearly spent the afternoon with her hairdresser, as her meticulous coif is done up with a tiny velvet bow that matches her dress. She smiles eagerly, suggesting she does not spend as many evenings out of the house as she would like.

“Jerry!” says Roxanne warmly. It is Jerry Klein, chief operating officer of CarterAir, and his wife. Roxanne feels the onset of panic as she struggles to remember the wife’s name; this lapse has plagued her before.

As the Kleins cross the threshold, Jerry thrusts the bottle toward Roxanne, telling her, “Oh, Roxy, it’s such a pleasure to see you outside the office for a change.”

“Jerry and I were thrilled to be invited to your party, Roxanne,” says the wife with obvious sincerity, a twinkle in her eye.

My God,
what’s that damned woman’s NAME!
screams Roxanne’s inner voice. She says calmly, “It wouldn’t be the same without
you,
my dear.” The women lean toward each other, clasp hands, and peck cheeks.

“Mary’s been talking about this party for a week,” says Klein.

Roxanne asks herself,
Mary?
Why the hell can’t I remember a name like Mary? Jerry and Mary—what could be simpler? “I hope the evening lives up to your expectations, Mary,” says Roxanne while leading the woman by the arm into the living room. “Now, you two,
do
meet our little crowd.”

Just as Roxanne completes the round of introductions, there is another knock at the door, requiring another round. These guests are a senior partner in Roxanne’s law firm and his wife. The new arrivals know the Kleins well, and Manning speculates that they have been invited to keep Jerry and Mary company. Roxanne crosses the room to boost the volume of the music, asking over her shoulder if Neil could get drinks for the four newcomers. “But you’ll have to mix your own refills,” she cautions them with a wink.

The guests cluster near the window to chatter an awed commentary on the view while Neil begins pouring their drinks. As he distributes the glasses, the law partner says, “Tell me, Neil—just what is it that you
do?
Roxanne says you’re involved with the arts.”

“The arts?” asks Neil. “That’s stretching things a bit. Roxanne!” he calls across the room. She looks over from the bookcases that house the sound system, where she shuffles CDs in search of her next sonic barrage. He asks her, “What have you been telling these people?” She breaks into a wide grin, then resumes her search.

Neil explains to the circle of faces around him, “Roxanne finds it fashionable to have artsy friends, but
I’m
no artist—at least I don’t try to pass myself off as one. I’m an architect. The purest aesthetic ‘calling’ within my profession is residential work, and I do as much of it as I can. But the truth is, like most architects, I spend the bulk of my time on mundane, artless buildings—anything from factories to shopping centers—because they’re the projects that pay the bills.”

One by one, his listeners cast disappointed glances across the room toward Roxanne. The women seem especially deflated; their image of Roxanne’s exotic friend has been dashed. Manning, however, is not the least disappointed, crediting Neil for his practical attitude. He has a string of questions he would eagerly ask about Neil’s work, but another rap at the door signals an abrupt end to the topic.

Roxanne excuses herself and soon reappears with the next guest. In the singsong tone of giving a cookie to a child, she announces, “Look who’s here, Neil.” At her side stands a young man, tall and thin, with long fingers and pointed features. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, bleached to nothing of a color. The bib of his white painter’s overalls, perfectly clean, covers the front of a red silk shirt. He wears too much jewelry—a necklace not unlike Clarice Stirkham’s, a bracelet not unlike Roxanne’s.