Bittersweet

CLIFFORD It's a bright, beautiful morning and we've just hit cruising altitude, flying home from Walt Disney World to Pittsburgh, when Demetria turns from the window and stares through me. "I'm not happy," she says. I smile and pat her hand. "Next vacation will be better." "I'm not talking about that! It's this marriage. Clifford, I'm not in love with you anymore. I'm not sure I even like you." I sit riveted to my seat. Invisible hands squeeze my head from the outside while a seventy-car pileup rattles it from the inside. "Baby, what did you say?" She jerks her hand away. "You heard me! I want out of this marriage. And I don't wanna talk about it!" She turns back to the window, suddenly determined to become the world's most knowledgeable cloud expert. I caress her shoulder, wondering why it's been so long since I've noticed its softness, its beauty. Demetria slaps my hand away as if it were some leprous claw. "Demmy?" She doesn't answer, so I lean closer and whisper. "Demetria?" "Leave me alone!" she snarls, snapping her head around and narrowing her eyes. She glares at me, then turns away. I count the steel-gray hairs of the man in front of me. He and the woman sitting next to him are leaning against each other, snuggling and whispering. "Sir, would you like something to drink?" The flight attendant's voice is a small echo that gradually gets louder. "Excuse me, sir. Would you like something to drink?" I try to answer, but my throat's too tight. The flight attendant leans close and pats my shoulder. "I understand," she says. "But there's no need to be afraid. Flying is still statistically safer than driving." She empties a miniature bottle of scotch into a cup and hands it to me before I can tell her I don't drink. "On the house," she says. "Will you be okay?" I nod and look at myself in the polished metal of her food service cart. The reflection scares me. ON THE GROUND, WE FIGHT OUR WAY THROUGH THE CRUSH OF HUMANITY TO THE BAG- gage claim, then to the airport shuttle. Our little boys, five-year-old Bradley and seven-year-old Barry (I call them Braddie and Bear), are in the seats directly across from us in the shuttle bus, playing with their Disney-toy loot. Braddie lowers his voice into a poor imitation of James Earl Jones's bass as he pretends to be the elder lion, Mufasa, from The Lion King. And Bear imitates the son, Simba, who after much consideration and agonizing has decided to eat his longtime warthog friend Pumbaa after all. "Dada, are we gonna pick up Scratch?" asks Braddie, the excitement in his voice proving that he's really missed our lovable mongrel. "I'm petting him first!" declares Bear. I force a smile. My face feels like it's cracking from the effort. "Don't worry, guys. We'll stop by Grandy's on the way home and get him." They whoop their approval and return to their Disney fantasizing. The driver's voice scratches out over the intercom, "Please call out the row and section number where you're parked." "Twenty-six-C!" I shout. The driver gives a thumbs-up and winds his way through the parking lot, eventually letting us off at our brand-new Toyota Camry. Demetria and the boys get in while I load the luggage into the trunk. When I shut itJohnson, Freddie Lee, III is the author of 'Bittersweet' with ISBN 9780345445964 and ISBN 0345445961.