Madeline, an academic, a philosopher, a rational person, didn’t hold much stock in Geraldine’s so-called psychic visions—though metaphysically, she realized it was possible. Anything was possible. Parapsychology was never of interest to her, but there were philosophers with cogent theories in parapsychology, philosophers she respected. Scientists, too, though they were usually studying paranormal experiences under the radar since no reputable institution offered grants for something they considered hooey.
And hadn’t Geraldine seen a vision of water during George’s catering debacle at Darcy’s church? She had been right. The church kitchen had flooded and Darcy had slipped and broken his arm. Other little coincidences–that’s how Madeline’s mind preferred to categorized them—had happened along the way, but Madeline had always shrugged them off with a smile.
But she was not smiling now. Geraldine had predicted some disaster on Alex’s flight from Tulsa. Danger, she had said. Something wrong. And so why wasn’t Darcy mentioned in your so-called vision? she imagined herself saying to her friend. Explain that, Geraldine. They’re on the same flight.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” she said to the refrigerator, as she helped herself to the pitcher of iced tea, another part of her after-yoga routine. But it tasted bitter and her stomach roiled. She left the tea on the counter, grabbed her cell phone from the bedroom, and pushed Alex’s name on her contact list. She got his voice mail; but of course, he’d have his cell off if he were already in flight.
She went to kitchen table where sat Alex’s laptop. She searched the napkin holder next to the laptop, where he had left the folded printout of his itinerary. She read the flight number and time of departure, opened the laptop, and Googled Southwest Airlines. She dialed their number on her cell, but she instantly got an automated message that led to another automated message—which, then led to another . . .
She clicked "End" in frustration, left the computer, hurried to her bedroom, threw on some kakis and a sweater, ran a brush through her hair, and, oddly, noticed streaks of gray creeping into the copper coloring, just at the hairline. Why hadn’t she noticed it before now? It was bizarre, she thought, to think about her hair at a time like this, but the intrusive gray streaks were like unwanted customers in the shop. Like Andrea. She always winced inwardly when the blonde cartoon-like bombshell crashed Fat Soul Fridays. That’s how she felt about her streaky gray intruders.
But Alex! Great, she thought. This is just great. I’m worrying about gray hair and thinking of Andrea Ballentine, of all people, when my husband may be in mortal danger. She shook her head as if to get hold of herself, grabbed her purse, and headed toward the door.
Socrates stared at his frazzled companion out of his one eye, his tattered ear twitching in a splash of sunlight.
“I’ll—I mean, we’ll—be back in few hours. Don’t wait up,” she said to the little Cornish Rex whose nap time, extending to most of the day, was about to begin.
The door shut behind her. Socrates listened to the familiar sound of the metal key turning in the lock. He stared at the door with inclined head, as if expecting something more. And there was. There was the sound of the door unlocking. His companion came barreling back in, grabbed the flight itinerary from the table, and left again, cursing Geraldine Nash all the way.
* * *
On the way to John Wayne airport in Santa Ana–a thirty minute drive from Laguna—she turned on the radio. Nothing about a plane crash, thank goodness, but of course there wouldn’t be because it was all just Geraldine’s overactive imagination.
She turned off the radio and thought about what she would say to Geraldine next she saw her, how she would berate her friend for her careless “fuzzy” visions. But more to the point, what would say to the staff of Southwest Airlines? “Oh, my psychic friend thinks there is something wrong with my husband’s flight. She’s had a vision, you see, albeit a fuzzy vision, but you’d better check into it.” She shook her head. Not becoming of a philosopher. Not becoming at all. And the wild gray hair streaking out of her salon-preserved red hair would only add to her batty impression. She sighed. And now it was back to thinking of the gray hair? Odd, she thought, to be distracted by triviality. But it beat thinking of the wide gray sky.
She looked up at the steely marine-layer above and imagined a vulnerable plane, a tiny sliver of metal, piercing though the clouds—a trivial streak of silver in a huge, impersonal sky.
But it wasn’t impersonal, she thought. Not really. Madeline was no atheist. Granted, she did not believe in a traditional, all-powerful God, up there beyond the clouds, working out some divine scheme, like a puppeteer pulling strings—not always lovingly, but with some terrifying jolts and jerks to humanity below. No, she never could believe in that kind of medieval-style deity. But she did believe in Whitehead’s “poet of the world,” a God of love and suffering and presence, infusing even the leaden sky with light. She imagined now, Alex, all wrapped up in light, up there in the sky, all wrapped up and warmed with the comfort of a divine presence, a presence wholly on our side, wholly love, compassion itself, never willing any disaster . . .
Any disaster . . .
Oh, God, he must be all right! He must be all right, because she could not conceive of a world—or herself—without her Alex, her love. Her life.
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