Baby Rocket by Stephanie A. Smith

Author:Stephanie A. Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Anthem Press
Published: 2013-06-01T00:00:00+00:00

2. SHUTTLE

They’re gone now, the Twin Towers of my aunt’s Bicentennial story. I watched them go up, back in ’72 and ’73, up past the Empire State, into the sky so high, changing my city’s skyline forever. Or so it had seemed. In 1999, the millennium and the Towers had yet to fall. I got on my flight to Florida a little sad, but not with my world in tatters. Not yet. That would come later.

“We’ve started our descent into Gainesville,” announced the steward. “Please fasten your seat-belts—”

I stopped listening. I was too busy managing nausea. Leah had been right, I should have flown into one of the major airports, rather than taking the shuttle down from Atlanta. But I’d been infatuated with the idea of a stairway rolled up to a hatch across tarmac, and I, stepping out, into the propeller’s rush.

So much for that fantasy! We bumped and pitched; my ears popped. But then, mercifully, the wheels made contact and we roared into Florida, fish-tailing to a halt, then off to a lone building in a flat field surrounded by scrawny pine trees. I stared out the window, Miss Gloomy-Puss. It was all so flat. Our plane made a wide loop, nose rising, tail dipping. The propellers powered down and in a few minutes I did, in fact, step out onto tarmac. The evening air, warm and wet, was mellow; the scudding teal clouds had gone ruddy with the sun’s goodnight.

Leah met me just inside the terminal. Seeing my face, she said, “Bad flight?”

“Bad landing. The flight was okay. Leah, you do look fabulous.”

She stepped back. “Do I? I’ve gained weight and a temper. Or so I’m told.”

“Never trust your sisters,” I said.

We headed for the luggage claim, which consisted of one conveyor belt that stood silent in a long, empty room. My fellow puddle-jumpers had collected here. I asked Leah how far we had to go, to get into town.

“Not far,” she said. “Nothing’s far in Gainesville.”

The road to town, once we did get on it, was empty and as flat as everything else. It followed the property line of a low-security correctional facility. I saw barracks. There was a gas station. Not much else.

“My condo’s not fancy,” Leah warned.

“I didn’t come to check out your real estate,” I said.

“Phew,” she said, smiling. “What a relief.”

“What,” I said, “is that?” White and large, the tent had a hand-lettered sign clipped to one sagging side: Revival Cursade. To-nite.

“A revival tent,” said Leah as I stared. “Northerner.”

“Oh sure, insult me,” I countered. “Like you’re a Southerner.”

“Down here, ma’am, we’s all just darkies, no matter where’s we comes from.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is it that bad?”

I knew she was unhappy. Overworked, angry, tired, Leah was a Jamaican whose university colleagues seemed to believe that she was an African-American from Chicago, New York or L.A.—as if a well-educated black woman couldn’t have come from anywhere else.

She shook her head. “No, it’s not that bad,” she said. “Not really. I’m just homesick. Enough. You’re here—and here we are.

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