We Were Flying to Chicago by Kevin Clouther

Author:Kevin Clouther [Clouther, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781936787166
Publisher: Catapult

T-BONE CAPONE LOVES THE LADY ACE

In Islamorada the sky was blue and cloudless—perfect, except that neither of us could see the sun from the car, which Angela said was a bad sign. We had the windows down and the air conditioning on, a luxury we never allowed ourselves with my car. The rental was so clean it embarrassed me, as if my cluttered car were a testament to my reluctance to change or inability to recognize when I should. When I said this to Angela, she said my car needed a new muffler.

“Every time you go over thirty, it sounds like it’s dying,” she said.

“You’re just saying that because this car is so quiet. This is the quietest car I’ve ever been in.”

Angela turned off the radio and made a noise like she was gargling without water, which sounded a lot like my car at forty-five miles per hour.

“That’s good,” I said.

“Where is the sun?” She undid her seat belt and turned around. “I haven’t seen it since Miami.”

We’d been driving for two hours, enough time for the spontaneity of the trip to approach frustration. We left after lunch, not sure how else to spend a long September Saturday. But when Angela ran to put on the one dress I’d ever bought her, and I scrambled to stuff clothes into a backpack, I was sure this was exactly what we needed: a long drive and a hotel stay far from the city. The rental car—a gift from the bus that ripped off my side mirror and cleanly scraped the car’s door—seemed then a chariot sent to take us south. But the hotels looked dirty and expensive, and the sun was so far above us I felt directionless, and Angela sounded lonely.

“I didn’t tell Stephanie we were going,” Angela said.

“We didn’t tell anyone. We filled the cat’s bowl and we left.”

“Why can’t I get a signal?”

“There’ll be reception at the hotel.” I could fill the ice bucket and see when the pool closed.

“Let’s stop at the next gas station. The car needs gas.”

I always did what Angela wanted when it came to Stephanie because she was Angela’s sister and she was dying. I read a poem once that pointed out how we’re all dying, that every day we’re dying, and it’s only the speed at which we’re dying that makes any difference. That poem stayed with me because I thought it was a remarkable word to use: speed. What the poet knew, and Angela came to understand when her sister got sick, you can only understand when someone you love is dying. That was the difference between Angela and me. She understood dying, and I didn’t. If I were a poet, I’d write a poem about that. But I didn’t know what to say to Angela, so I tried to give her what she wanted and give her space, figuring someday I would understand what she understood, and if I never did, I would be more ignorant than most people and more fortunate.

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