bathroom and
turned on the hot water in the tub. Andrea heard the noise and ran upstairs and lunged across the toilet to grab her toddler
before he scalded himself, and in the process, she twisted a back muscle, aggravating an old injury.
It was bad. The former dancer had a weak back to begin with, but now she couldn’t even straighten up or walk. And she couldn’t
begin to carry James down the stairs. Bruce was in Lafayette, so she called her mother, Bobbi, who lived about ten minutes
away. Her mother arrived with a heating pad and a couple of Vicodin tablets (leftover from a tooth implant) and told her to
take it easy. And then she left.
But James still had to be watched and fed. Andrea crawled up the stairs with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich clenched between
her teeth. Since she could hardly stand or walk, it was the only way she could make it to the upstairs nursery. It took her
many sessions with a chiropractor to straighten out her back. But she was a dancer and used to pain, and filled with grit.
She kept managing alone, with Bruce coming home every other weekend to help out. Nevertheless, she dreamed of a long, blissful
afternoon in a beauty parlor, being pampered and primped, having her nails clipped and polished and her hair washed and set—not
having to keep that sentry eye out for her child’s safety.
And so, a month later, on his last weekend home before they all moved to Lafayette, when Bruce offered to take James off her
hands for the day, Andrea leaped at the offer.
Bruce wanted the day to be something special. He thought little James ought to have one more powerful memory of Dallas—something
to remind him of the beauty and charm of the city. They would spend an hour at the air museum, then go for lunch, then maybe
walk around downtown to drink in one last taste of Dallas, then head home. That was Bruce’s plan.
Bruce had been to the Cavanaugh several times. Whenever they had guests come to Dallas, he would take them to see the old
planes from World War I and World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. The planes were all so shiny and fresh—gleaming there
on the hangar floor, all in flyable condition, just waiting for a pilot.
James was eager to go. On the drive, Bruce babbled away about all the great things he would see, but James didn’t need convincing.
He was quietly eager. And then, amid an industrial clutter, the museum popped up. The first thing James saw was an old F-104
Thunderchief sitting behind a roped barricade. It looked so casually glamorous, sitting there on the tarmac, as if someone
had just parked a jet fighter while they went in for cigarettes.
James shrieked when he saw the plane.
The ticket office was right next to the museum gift shop, and James spent a lot of time browsing among the toy airplanes.
It took Bruce the purchase of the Blue Angels video “It’s a Kind of Magic” and a toy plane to get him out and into the display
hangars where they kept the real planes.
The planes were tall and majestic behind the rope barriers, and James’s eyes glowed with appreciation. Security was never
an issue at the museum, which was seldom crowded, and so there were no guards. And Bruce had a hard time keeping James behind
the barriers. He pulled to get closer to the old World War II Mustangs and Spitfires and Wildcats.
“You’re not allowed in there,” warned Bruce. But James plainly was struck powerfully by something he saw out there on the
hangar floor, and he stood there openmouthed with wonder. Bruce started to move on to the next hangar, where they displayed
the more modern jets, but when he looked down, James was not with him. He had gone back to keep looking at the World War II
planes. He was mesmerized.
“Now, come on, James,” said Bruce, taking his son’s hand.
And then James screamed. It was the piercing shriek of an enraged child. No, something even stronger. A thwarted child. A
child in some form of
turned on the hot water in the tub. Andrea heard the noise and ran upstairs and lunged across the toilet to grab her toddler
before he scalded himself, and in the process, she twisted a back muscle, aggravating an old injury.
It was bad. The former dancer had a weak back to begin with, but now she couldn’t even straighten up or walk. And she couldn’t
begin to carry James down the stairs. Bruce was in Lafayette, so she called her mother, Bobbi, who lived about ten minutes
away. Her mother arrived with a heating pad and a couple of Vicodin tablets (leftover from a tooth implant) and told her to
take it easy. And then she left.
But James still had to be watched and fed. Andrea crawled up the stairs with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich clenched between
her teeth. Since she could hardly stand or walk, it was the only way she could make it to the upstairs nursery. It took her
many sessions with a chiropractor to straighten out her back. But she was a dancer and used to pain, and filled with grit.
She kept managing alone, with Bruce coming home every other weekend to help out. Nevertheless, she dreamed of a long, blissful
afternoon in a beauty parlor, being pampered and primped, having her nails clipped and polished and her hair washed and set—not
having to keep that sentry eye out for her child’s safety.
And so, a month later, on his last weekend home before they all moved to Lafayette, when Bruce offered to take James off her
hands for the day, Andrea leaped at the offer.
Bruce wanted the day to be something special. He thought little James ought to have one more powerful memory of Dallas—something
to remind him of the beauty and charm of the city. They would spend an hour at the air museum, then go for lunch, then maybe
walk around downtown to drink in one last taste of Dallas, then head home. That was Bruce’s plan.
Bruce had been to the Cavanaugh several times. Whenever they had guests come to Dallas, he would take them to see the old
planes from World War I and World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. The planes were all so shiny and fresh—gleaming there
on the hangar floor, all in flyable condition, just waiting for a pilot.
James was eager to go. On the drive, Bruce babbled away about all the great things he would see, but James didn’t need convincing.
He was quietly eager. And then, amid an industrial clutter, the museum popped up. The first thing James saw was an old F-104
Thunderchief sitting behind a roped barricade. It looked so casually glamorous, sitting there on the tarmac, as if someone
had just parked a jet fighter while they went in for cigarettes.
James shrieked when he saw the plane.
The ticket office was right next to the museum gift shop, and James spent a lot of time browsing among the toy airplanes.
It took Bruce the purchase of the Blue Angels video “It’s a Kind of Magic” and a toy plane to get him out and into the display
hangars where they kept the real planes.
The planes were tall and majestic behind the rope barriers, and James’s eyes glowed with appreciation. Security was never
an issue at the museum, which was seldom crowded, and so there were no guards. And Bruce had a hard time keeping James behind
the barriers. He pulled to get closer to the old World War II Mustangs and Spitfires and Wildcats.
“You’re not allowed in there,” warned Bruce. But James plainly was struck powerfully by something he saw out there on the
hangar floor, and he stood there openmouthed with wonder. Bruce started to move on to the next hangar, where they displayed
the more modern jets, but when he looked down, James was not with him. He had gone back to keep looking at the World War II
planes. He was mesmerized.
“Now, come on, James,” said Bruce, taking his son’s hand.
And then James screamed. It was the piercing shriek of an enraged child. No, something even stronger. A thwarted child. A
child in some form of
Similar Books
Unruly
Ja Rule
The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou
Maya Angelou
Forever We Fall: Broken #4 (The Broken Series)
Chloe Walsh
Her Prada Cowboy: McCulloch County Series #1
Sabel Simmons
Untitled
Kgebetli Moele
Finding Ever After
Stephanie Hoffman McManus
The Zul Enigma
J M Leitch
Death by Scones
Jennifer Fischetto
Dark Layers Volume 2: Dark Layers
A L Gray
The Liberators: America's Witnesses to the Holocaust
Michael Hirsh