The Stair Case Anne pulled her white Honda accord into the driveway, carefully parking behind Andrew’s white Lexis. Opening the door, she smoothed her skirt over her knees and slid her purse onto her shoulder. Reaching into the back seat, she took out two heavy grocery bags. She picked up the bags and her keys and made her way toward the walkway leading to the house. The concrete stones wound their way serenely through the well-manicured grass to the small patch of sidewalk leading to the wooden porch. She glanced over her shoulder, letting her curly brown hair swing gently against the checked print of her blouse. A glance to the familiar surroundings of this idyll world told her that the hybrid tea rosebushes had been cut back, the wrought iron fence that usually held the colorful offerings standing out starkly in the cold and gloomy December afternoon. She walked up the wooden steps escaping the biting breeze that cut through her and rustled her hair. The bags clinked against the wooden porch as she inserted her key in this all too familiar ritual and turned it. Turning once again to the porch, she picked up the two bags and walked into the familiar wide ceiling foyer. The house seemed just as she had left it yesterday, cool and dark, with only a few signs that someone was here. The slight reflection of a light burning in the kitchen illuminated the white hallway, the beige carpet, and a small table by the door. Proceeding through the thickly carpeted, large living room, she saw that Andrew had been here. True to his usual habits, he had put his flight bag by the couch and had left his keys on the coffee table. An opened magazine sat beside a half-empty glass of iced tea. It had, for all intents and purposes, been a usual night for the returning pilot. It was hard to think that now he lay desperately ill upstairs unable to contemplate the majestic staircase that Anne found so alluring. She had always loved two-story houses. She had always felt as if she wanted to live in one. Now here she was attracted to a man who owned a beautiful house with rose bushes, a wrought-iron fence, and an elegantly carved staircase, lined with banisters of oak. Her eyes traveled toward the hallway that held the stairs, stopping for a moment to admire the carvings. The silence of the house embraced her, seemed to welcome her, to love her as she stood at the foot of that marvelous staircase looking up toward Andrew’s room. The pilot who owned this house had no idea of these things, though they had been friends for two years. She had been his house sitter, checking his mail and watering the roses. She never minded the drive from her own small house to this one; she had always loved it. Driving was a way for her to relax away the stresses of the day. Flying was an experience akin to driving, only quieter, except for the throbbing of the single engine that held her and Andrew aloft. Her heart dropped for a moment. He had said that when he returned he would take her for a flight along the harbor in his Cessna 150, but now all that seemed a distant dream, one that would simmer till her pilot recovered his senses. She wondered, momentarily struck into a paralysis where these feelings had come from? Had they grown on their own from the relationship they had nurtured from a distance? Maybe she had been drawn to him immediately that fateful day when she had helped him out of the destroyed plane. Maybe it was all the little things about him that added up to this devastating awareness: the way he laughed sometimes, quietly, or the way he smiled at her, the way he explained things; maybe it was that mischievous lock of his blonde hair; maybe it was his precise attention to detail when he answered her sporadic email; or maybe it was the way he looked at her sometimes when they did things together. What was it exactly? Perhaps there was no single answer: perhaps it was all just simply indescribable. Suddenly, without further explanation or even logical reason, she realized, she, the practical school teacher, always independent and on her own, transplanting herself from the farms of Illinois to the urban settings of this California town to make her living at teaching English, loved this kind-hearted, sometimes too serious, but always amicable pilot from Missouri. Her gossamer attachment to this dream world disappeared as she realized standing in the kitchen that the sink faucet was dripping. The continual dropping of water into the sink seemed louder than usual and made her think that perhaps she should bring a glass upstairs for Andrew. She rummaged through a cabinet and found a white, ceramic cup, filled it and made sure the faucet was completely turned off. Once again embraced by the pleasant silence, she went to the table and fished through the bags of chicken soup, tea, and apples to find the sinus tablets he had asked her to bring for him. Most likely, she thought, he would be whimpering and whining about how sick he was. The vision seemed to quell that of the romantic one of flying above city lights with someone with perfectly courteous manners and stunningly beautiful brown eyes. She almost wanted to laugh out loud! She must be in love, swinging from one desperate mood to another, trying to tame the romantic tendency toward rapture with strange and unrelated bits of reality. Once again established in some semblance of a sensible mood, she donned her practicality and headed up the stairs. Reaching the top, she scanned the branching hallway, seeing that the door to his computer room was closed. She went to it and opened the door. The room was neat and clean, as if waiting for someone to come and visit it. That was another thing that Anne couldn’t believe…was Andrew always so meticulous? Most men she knew were sloppy, leaving stuff everywhere indiscriminately, regardless of house decor. Her brother, for instance, would leave his keys and wallet and other assorted items scattered in a disorganized fashion on a kitchen table holding dishes or other articles with no regard for other objects, believing that his were the most important. It was, to her, sometimes, very annoying. This type of habit seemed to be lacking in her friend, and for this, she was secretly glad. Closing the door on the meticulously organized room, her mind turned to his well being. If at all possible, she thought, as she turned toward the single bathroom, she would see if she could get him to go lie downstairs in the guestroom. It was probably something he hadn’t thought of yet, only seeing he had told her he had awakened that morning miserably congested and feverish. The stairs, he had told her in their brief conversation, seemed unscalable. She passed the bathroom on her right and proceeded straight ahead to Andrew’s airy, spacious room. Quietly going to the door, she stood for a moment, taking in the scene. Double paned windows covered by white drapes stretched along one end of the room shrouding a view of the gloomy sky. She did a double take as she realized that a table in a corner was messy. Pocket change scattered in piles, pencils, a pocket knife, and bits of paper all lay scattered pell-mell across the small dresser. So, he is a specimen of the human race after all she thought with satisfaction, noticing that his shirt and pants hung haphazardly over a chair, his shoes sitting next to the desk. She felt kind of strange invading his privacy like this, after all this was his room. But the urgency of the phone call and the fact that he hadn’t come downstairs to meet her constrained her to further discover her friend’s private sanctuary. Ah, she sighed in delight, seeing model airplanes hanging on the walls. She realized these models were similar to the photographs in the living room. Turning her attention from the models to the remainder of the room, she found the king-size bed that stretched across one wall, a chair and a sofa across from it. She came into the room now and approached the bed seeing the disarray of white sheets and blankets. Andrew lay huddled in the blankets, unaware that she had entered the room. Immediately, she knew that this man was not whining about how sick he was. That had been a wrong assumption on her part. Andrew had never whined to her about anything, except maybe the Yankees losing important games. Suddenly her anxiousness about entering his private room was replaced by an urgency that made her come directly to him and lay a cool hand on his brow. Her cool fingers on his hot skin made him stir. He sighed gently and shivered. She sat next to him and gently stroked his forehead, her hand resting lightly on the cowlick that seemed to tease her. She seemed momentarily lost for words or action. A breeze pushed against the drapes. As if sensing her hand, Andrew sighed and then was drenched in sweat. “Andrew?” she called gently. His eyes fluttered, but he did not waken. She slipped his fingers into hers and laid them gently against her breast. “It’s Annie. I came as quickly as I could.” He awakened slowly as if from some dark haze. His eyes sought her face, rested wearily on it. He turned restlessly against his pillows and sighed. “Hello, Annie.” Having found her face, he now seemed surprised to see her, though he did not pull his hand away from hers. His soft, brown eyes opened in astonishment. “Oh, Andrew, you don’t remember talking to me this morning?” She had phoned him in the morning only to let him know that she had to make a trip out there today because she had inadvertently left his extra keys in her purse. Was he so ill that he had forgotten their brief conversation? “I remember,” he gently assured, easing her concern. “You said you still had my keys. You needed to bring my keys to me. You’re sweet.” He lay quietly, his eyes resting on her. “You’ve been sleeping?” she asked, knowing instinctively that he had been doing exactly that. “All morning. I was fine last night. Might be influenza all I know is I have a nasty throbbing headache on top of everything else.” “Don’t worry,” she said gently, handing him the cup and the tablets, “everything’s in order. I’ll stay with you for a while. I’m glad I forgot those keys.” “What time is it?” he asked after a moment handing the cup back to her, unwilling to expend precious energy in conversation. “2:00 in the afternoon,” she informed him, setting the cup on his nightstand. “It’s hazy and cold outside. It’s supposed to rain today and all night. No flights in or out of the airport unless we’re using Instrument Landing Systems. Cloud cover is down to 200 feet.” There was a hint of the smile she loved trying to cross his face, a small sound in his throat that resembled a chuckle. “It’s that bad,” he said absently, rubbing his forehead. “Got back just in time then.” “Yes, you did.” VASTLY RELIEVED BY HIS COGNIZANCE, ANNE INFORMED HIM OF HER IDEA. “I was thinking that maybe as soon as you feel like coming downstairs perhaps you could sleep in your guest bedroom. Its closer to the kitchen and you don’t have to feel like you’re rock climbing.” Again, he attempted a wan smile. He moved restlessly, as if the very thought of getting out of bed depleted him. “I know,” she said, detecting his reluctance and pushing wet strands of hair from his forehead, “Not now.” Anne kept herself busy for the next four days doing laundry and making sure he was well. On the day when he seemed most recovered, she looked up to see him watching her from the kitchen doorway as she read her magazine, trying to find the pictures to match the ones on the wall. “Want some help with that?” he asked, the remnants of congestion evident. Startled by his question, she dropped the magazine, eliciting the quiet laugh that amused her. He picked up the magazine and handed it back to her, momentarily waiting while his head recovered from the sudden change in pressure. He came up beside her, scanning the pictures on the wall and then shifting his gaze to the magazine in her hand. “What is this one?” he asked, pointing to one picture on his wall. She pointed to a corsair in her magazine. “This one?” “Cessna.” “What kind of Cessna?” asked the flight instructor as if giving some exam. “Cessna 310, low wing, twin Continental engines, like Eric’s plane. That isn’t very fair,” she smiled, “I’ve seen Eric fly this one.” “You’re going to be an expert, soon.” YOU’VE seen all of them.” SHE SMILED. “I KNOW MORE THAN I LET ON, I THINK,” SHE TEASED HIM, HAPPY TO RECEIVE HIS AMUSED NOD. He stood back from her for a moment, his eyes intensely fastened on her, an electric spark passing between them. He shook his head, walked away and stood next to one of the pictures on the wall. He traced it with his finger. “This Cardinal, this is a nice plane.” “I know,” she said quietly. “I remember seeing this picture the day I drove you back from the hospital after the accident. I asked you about this plane but you were asleep and you didn’t answer me.” “What did you ask me about it?” “I asked if it was your plane.” “No, not mine; it was Uncle Ray’s plane.” Silence passed between them. Suddenly, Andrew looked at her as if remembering something. “Annie,” he said sadly, “I’m sorry about the plane. It didn’t work out this time.” She stepped back, looking at him, wondering if he was all right. But his eyes were clearer and he didn’t seem so incoherent, only weary. His eyes did seem to implore her to remember something. “You mean the flight in the Cessna?” “Yes.” “Oh, Andrew,” she said gently, her eyes seeking his, “I understand. I’ll wait till next time you’re back.” Their gaze held for a moment till she looked away and pretended to study the magazine in her hand. “You’ll still email me won’t’ you?” she asked hopefully. He shook his head, yes. “I’ll answer back.” “Good,” said the pilot, turning from the pictures and walking into the kitchen. He sat down at the table and began to rifle through the piles of mail she had sorted for him during his last flights. Anne came and joined him, watching him write out checks with hands markedly steadier than they had been four days earlier. She watched the confident fingers curl around the pen, leaving neat lines on the pages. She was mesmerized for a moment, relishing each movement. He looked up to see her enthralled stance and thought she looked happy tucked in his high-backed wooden kitchen chair reading a book. “Airplanes?” he asked, shyly pointing at the book. She nodded. “W.W.I planes,” she informed him, “before cantilevered wings.” “Oh, long before,” he smiled, thinking that she looked prettier than he remembered. He let his eyes rest on hers for a moment. “Oh, Annie,” he said, “you’re worse than a pilot, you know that? Worse!” “Maybe I know that,” she said returning his gaze, “or good for a flight instructor’s ego.” She laughed a little. “But it is fun reading about avionics and planes. It’s freedom; how to get above everything. I can’t explain it.” “You don’t have to explain, Annie,” he said quietly, “I’m a pilot. I teach flight. I know. And as for you being good for a flight instructor’s ego, well, I think you’re good for perhaps more than that.” He let his words trail into silence and she did not push the subject. She thought she knew what he meant. They sat silently together for a while. He put his head in his hands, looked at the woman through his fingers. Maybe his neighbor Debby Brand had been right. Maybe he needed a wife and maybe he wanted her. “Still have that nasty headache, Andrew?” she wanted to know. “Hmmm. It’s better.” “Are you ready for me to go yet?” she asked. “You seem more alert. I’ll go and leave you to your house in peace.” She had enjoyed being in this house with him, even if their moments together had been purely domestic; comfortable and easy. They seemed to fit together like a hand in a glove. She looked up, lost in her own thoughts, to see laughter in Andrew’s brown eyes. “It was no trouble to have you here, Annie,” he said diffidently. “No trouble.” He focused intently on his work. She caught the subtle intensity in his voice and her heart leaped. In the morning, she packed her things and prepared to leave. They stood on the doorstep, their hands touching. “Thanks for staying,” he said quietly, as if reluctant to see her go. “Sure.” She seemed to fumble for words. “I like your house,” she finally said, a little awkwardly. “Do you?” His eyes swept the porch, the lawn, the roses, and came back and sought her gaze. “You belong here,” he said, quietly. “I think you always have.” She held both his hands. He squeezed them. “Goodbye, Andrew,” she finally said more confidently. “I will come back.” Wordlessly, they gazed at each other and he held her. She traced her fingers through the blond hair, giving it an affectionate brush as she stepped back from him. “See you when you get back. Don’t forget to write.” “I won’t forget,” he said, and gave her his magnetic smile.
Copyright © 2003 Shelley J Alongi |