rented a suite at Amerisuites, where they would have their own kitchenette and a pool and wouldn’t be
underfoot in the Kyles’ busy household.
Still, first things first: they had to get out of Lafayette and into Dallas. The logistics of a Leininger move are strictly
military. The planning stage includes firm timetables, crack discipline, and unwavering phase lines—that is, if left up to
Bruce.
The day before the launch, (D minus 1), all bags must be packed and inspected. The tires of the 1994 Volvo 850 Turbo checked
for exact pressure. The gas tank topped off as if the family were heading out into an unchartered wilderness. Clocks and watches
synchronized for the early start. Briefings held so that each member of the unit is on the same page.
However, as in all such complex operations, life gets in the way. Bruce’s careful plan began to fall apart early on Saturday,
May 26 (or, as referred to by the other family foot soldiers, D-day). First, Andrea’s morning shower took a little longer
than allowed for in the operational plan. And then she had to have her coffee. And then James needed a fresh diaper and a
bottle. All the while, Bruce sang out the hour—every five minutes—and tapped his foot. In the end, they left closer to nine,
rather than the planned H-hour of eight a.m.
No big deal, said Andrea.
The trip itself—measured and timed to take a maximum of seven hours—had built-in rest stops. In Shreveport, the Leiningers
pulled into a familiar and notoriously slow Burger King. The delay set off a low-grade grumble in Bruce, which lasted until
they hit Texas.
Passing into Texas had a strangely soothing effect on the Leiningers. For one thing, there was that huge welcome sign: a twenty-foot
hollow star that looked like a big cookie cutter. At the first sight of it, they would all sing out, “Welcome to the
lonely
star state!” It was a ritual by now, calling it “the lonely star.” Of course, it was supposed to be “Welcome to the Lone
Star State,” the Texas nickname—but somehow James got confused the first time he saw it, and Andrea thought his mistake so
cute that they stayed with his version. That big sign would forever set off for the Leiningers, “Welcome to the lonely star!”
When they finally got to Dallas, Bruce suggested that Andrea visit with her sister (all that catch-up Scoggin talk—not that
they didn’t talk by phone every day), while he took James to the Cavanaugh Flight Museum. It was, after all, the Memorial
Day weekend, an appropriate time to go look at old warplanes. He had taken James there before, and the child had loved it.
In fact, just turning around in the car and looking in the backseat confirmed the wisdom of such a visit. There was James,
strapped into his seat, clutching one of his favorite toys: an airplane.
Some months ago, James had been wild about big trucks. He’d played with them all the time. But from the first moment that
he looked out a car window and spotted an airplane passing overhead, his heart lifted to the skies. Airplanes became his new
obsession. Because of that, Bruce decided that a trip to the James Cavanaugh Flight Museum would be the perfect father-son
outing. Bruce bought him a promotional video of the Navy’s Blue Angels acrobatic flight team, which James almost wore out.
He never got tired of watching it or playing with his toy airplanes. After that first visit, no more trucks, only airplanes.
That first trip to the museum back in February was a honey. At the time, the family was still (just barely) living in Texas;
Bruce was hopping back and forth between his job in Lafayette and his home in Dallas. Every other weekend he’d make the eight-hundred-mile
round trip. Andrea, living alone with James, badly needed a break. She was run down, not yet recovered from one of those loopy
household accidents that strike like thunder. It had happened in mid-January. James had gone into the upstairs
underfoot in the Kyles’ busy household.
Still, first things first: they had to get out of Lafayette and into Dallas. The logistics of a Leininger move are strictly
military. The planning stage includes firm timetables, crack discipline, and unwavering phase lines—that is, if left up to
Bruce.
The day before the launch, (D minus 1), all bags must be packed and inspected. The tires of the 1994 Volvo 850 Turbo checked
for exact pressure. The gas tank topped off as if the family were heading out into an unchartered wilderness. Clocks and watches
synchronized for the early start. Briefings held so that each member of the unit is on the same page.
However, as in all such complex operations, life gets in the way. Bruce’s careful plan began to fall apart early on Saturday,
May 26 (or, as referred to by the other family foot soldiers, D-day). First, Andrea’s morning shower took a little longer
than allowed for in the operational plan. And then she had to have her coffee. And then James needed a fresh diaper and a
bottle. All the while, Bruce sang out the hour—every five minutes—and tapped his foot. In the end, they left closer to nine,
rather than the planned H-hour of eight a.m.
No big deal, said Andrea.
The trip itself—measured and timed to take a maximum of seven hours—had built-in rest stops. In Shreveport, the Leiningers
pulled into a familiar and notoriously slow Burger King. The delay set off a low-grade grumble in Bruce, which lasted until
they hit Texas.
Passing into Texas had a strangely soothing effect on the Leiningers. For one thing, there was that huge welcome sign: a twenty-foot
hollow star that looked like a big cookie cutter. At the first sight of it, they would all sing out, “Welcome to the
lonely
star state!” It was a ritual by now, calling it “the lonely star.” Of course, it was supposed to be “Welcome to the Lone
Star State,” the Texas nickname—but somehow James got confused the first time he saw it, and Andrea thought his mistake so
cute that they stayed with his version. That big sign would forever set off for the Leiningers, “Welcome to the lonely star!”
When they finally got to Dallas, Bruce suggested that Andrea visit with her sister (all that catch-up Scoggin talk—not that
they didn’t talk by phone every day), while he took James to the Cavanaugh Flight Museum. It was, after all, the Memorial
Day weekend, an appropriate time to go look at old warplanes. He had taken James there before, and the child had loved it.
In fact, just turning around in the car and looking in the backseat confirmed the wisdom of such a visit. There was James,
strapped into his seat, clutching one of his favorite toys: an airplane.
Some months ago, James had been wild about big trucks. He’d played with them all the time. But from the first moment that
he looked out a car window and spotted an airplane passing overhead, his heart lifted to the skies. Airplanes became his new
obsession. Because of that, Bruce decided that a trip to the James Cavanaugh Flight Museum would be the perfect father-son
outing. Bruce bought him a promotional video of the Navy’s Blue Angels acrobatic flight team, which James almost wore out.
He never got tired of watching it or playing with his toy airplanes. After that first visit, no more trucks, only airplanes.
That first trip to the museum back in February was a honey. At the time, the family was still (just barely) living in Texas;
Bruce was hopping back and forth between his job in Lafayette and his home in Dallas. Every other weekend he’d make the eight-hundred-mile
round trip. Andrea, living alone with James, badly needed a break. She was run down, not yet recovered from one of those loopy
household accidents that strike like thunder. It had happened in mid-January. James had gone into the upstairs
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