Once In A Lifetime

The plane drops through low clouds toward Greenville, gray filling every window. You chew gum for the pressure, feel the air thicken as the flatlands appear below. Grids of pale roofs, trailer parks like punctuation across the bottom. From this height everything looks provisional, uncommitted, easily judged.

The plane settles onto the runway, a single strip of asphalt that feels like a sentence ending in a nervous ellipsis. At the gate she is waiting—smaller than you imagined, prettier than you hoped. Her eyes meet yours and hold for a moment, then drift away.

You hug. Then comes the first kiss—cigarettes and cough drops.

In the parking lot she clears space in the car. Clothes, bags, toys—clutter of past decisions shifted to make room. Your guitar is wedged in the backseat, identity safe in a hardshell case.

The drive takes twenty minutes through sameness: one trailer park after the next, flat horizon in every direction. The car feels like a bathysphere, sinking below the poverty line, a landscape bleached of color.

A bit of lyric pings in your head. Well, how did I get here?

It started online. A Yahoo chat room called Poetry Cafe. Her screen name was Carolina69 and yours was yrdog4now. You called her Carolina and she called you Dog. Her text came through as voice, then emails voicing connection, then her actual voice on the phone.

You’d seen others in the cafe wander down that same path—desperate attempts to conjure something real from fellow phantoms, then fly cross-country to rude awakenings. But you knew she was more than that, more than a ghost. And at least it would be an adventure, some relief from the ache of an empty bed.

Now there’s the road, the washed-out shapes slipping past, and doubt percolating through your veins: what you wanted, what you told yourself you had to offer.

She turns off and the car slows and comes to a rest.

The trailer is long and low, white siding gone dull with age. The skirting is incomplete, gaps showing beneath. A small set of wooden steps leads to the door, their edges worn soft. The windows are dark, blinds half drawn, shutters mismatched. It looks like it has been here a long time, and like it could be moved at any moment.

“So, this is my place,” she says. “Mine anyway.”

You gather your things. You feel heavy as you approach the house and notice a half-submerged tire, painted white, with what might be the fossilized remains of something once floral. This is not my beautiful house.

You climb the steps together, the wood flexing underfoot. The screen door opens with a soft whoosh. The inner door follows, pushing inward with a sigh of air.

Inside are two children in front of a small television. You knew she had kids. You must have. You show no surprise. A boy, maybe three, a girl a little older. Rebecca clings to a blanket that seems part of her body.

She comes around the couch, less afraid than you are. She is at your feet now and reaches out with her free hand. She places it on your thigh and smiles up at you. You return the smile, unsure how to do it right. There is a brief exchange—names, a few words—enough to satisfy the situation, enough to let you be there. She studies you, then spins off back to the couch.

The kids return to watching the television. On screen a cartoon girl with long red hair flowing around her face.

Carolina moves past the couch into the open kitchen and opens the refrigerator. The refrigerator groans as she pulls it open, the light inside a jaundiced yellow. She takes out two beers. She sets the edge of one cap against the counter and gives the bottle a well-practiced tap with her palm. The cap comes off cleanly. She hands you the beer.

“Let’s get these two fed,” she says. “I’ll drop them off with my mom. We can go out for a drink in town.”

She opens the cupboard and takes down two large cans. Spaghetti and meatballs in tomato sauce slide out into a pot already on the stove. “Spaghetti ok?” she asks, already turning the burner on.

When it starts to bubble she switches it off and goes to the television, lowers the volume, then shuts it down. “Time to eat, my little pets,” she calls.

The kids take their time. They emerge slowly and drift toward the small table in the kitchen area. You follow and take a seat with them.

The plates don’t match. The forks bend near their tines. You have your beers with you. There is a short exchange about which cups they want, and whether it’s grape or fruit punch. Choices are made. The table settles.

The kids eat without ceremony, sauce on their chins, sleeves slick with orange. She eats standing for a while, then sits, then gets up again. No one comments on spills. The younger boy keeps his face turned toward the now-silent television. You glance over and see her again, the mermaid quizzically inspecting objects in a dim blue space. When you turn back, Rebecca is watching you. She smiles, a meatball balanced on her fork. She holds the pose, waiting, as if you’re a mirror she’s finally found a use for. You pick up your own fork and offer a small, silent toast with a piece of spaghetti. She giggles, the sauce staining the corner of her mouth.

Faces are wiped. Plates are pushed aside. “Time to visit Nana,” she says.

Shoes, jackets, the blanket—everything resumes its practiced order. The kids move with mild resistance, then none at all. Their voices trail out onto the gravel as the door closes behind them.

You stay where you are. The refrigerator hums. You listen to it, pumping air in a steady, rhythmic pulse. You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. You blink. You finish your beer. You get up, switch off the television, and carry the plates to the sink. There are already dishes there. You turn on the water and begin washing them. You find yourself mouthing the words, and you may find yourself in another part of the…

She comes back in and breaks it off. “Leave those,” she says. “I’ll take care of them later. Let’s get out of here.”

You end up in a bar with no name worth remembering—dim light, vinyl booths, the air smelling faintly of bleach and cigarettes. You don’t talk about much. Not the past. Not the father of her children. You don’t say much about your kids either. You talk instead about books, about poetry, about anything but the vicissitudes of your lives.

Later, back at Carolina’s place, you sit on the couch with another beer each. The room is lit in muted blues and grays, light thinned and indirect. Your nearness has weight, equal parts desire and caution. She seems nervous, but not about the moment—more about what you see when you look around. The small trailer, the toys on the floor, strata of clutter left unexplained.

The talking subsides and you sink into the couch. She tucks into you. Desire collects in eddies, then finds its way into a current that dislodges you from your nervous inertia. Resistance is brief. You are borne on it into the bedroom.

There you sway toward and into each other. Items of clothing drift off behind you as you paddle toward the bed. The movement is tentative but determined. She seems beautiful. Then, fully unclothed, you see her belly—stretch marks, a faint scar low across the abdomen. You let your eyes slide past it. Tide lines, you tell yourself. Ripples left in the sand after a storm. Evidence of something lived through. This isn’t the moment to focus on that, and you don’t.

The sex is eager but careful, the moment a mirage that might vanish from the horizon. There is sweat, heat, breath. Yet she is dry, so you move lower. Under the water, carry the water. She is ready and it happens. The current lifts you, strokes synchronize. There is water at the bottom of the ocean. Then the waves come over you. They subside and leave you breathing in the tangle of sheets.

You wake to light slanting in through a missing blind. Sounds come from just beyond the door—eggs frying, cereal poured into bowls. You pull on your jeans, find a fresh shirt in your bag, and murmur “Morning” as you amble into the kitchen. The television is on, but the sound is off. You glance over and see a cartoon duck in a black coat and top hat standing on the ocean floor, a glass helmet sealed around his head, air fed down through a hose. Beside him, a large amphibious creature brandishes a pitchfork, gesticulating.

The day goes by. You load up the car and drive into town. You pass used car lots and strip malls and pull into a Piggly Wiggly. The kids are set loose, they want treats. You let them choose. You fetch more beer from the back. Then a park somewhere, maybe a river park, the kids on metal slides while you sit in the shade and comment on the humidity.

Back at the trailer, bags are carried in and set down. The groceries find their places. Afternoon light angles through the window behind the sink. The kids settled onto the couch like silt.

You sit between them. She hands each of them a small fist of gummi bears, then picks up the remote and flicks through a few channels before stopping on a cartoon playing out underwater, everything on the screen tinted blue and green. She leaves the television on and goes to the sink, where she begins working through the dishes.

The boy is perched on your left at the far end, legs dangling, swinging his feet softly over the carpet. Rebecca slides over and leans against you. “Here,” she says, and places one red gummi in the palm of your hand.

On the screen, a sponge in a square uniform works frantically at a grill. You lean back and call to Carolina over your shoulder. You suggest taking her to dinner. Somewhere nice. She smiles and moves to the phone on the wall.

“Mom, can you take the kids a little earlier? No, can’t you feed them? Well… no, sure. I’ll bring some stuff for you to microwave for them.” She pauses, listening. “That’s not something I feel obliged to share with you, Mom.”

She makes a fist with her free hand and presses it against her lower lip. She closes her eyes and says, “Mother. Yes… I do appreciate it… yes, of course.” She lowers her hand and turns, sees you, and gives you a wink. “Soon. Half hour or so. Thanks. Love you, Mom.”

She drops the phone into its cradle and brushes her palms together twice. That was that. She comes up behind you and sets her hands on your shoulders. You feel her there before she speaks.

“I want lobster,” she says.

She leans down and kisses your forehead, then lets her mouth settle near your ear. “And I want you.”

Sounds like a good plan.

She straightens back and runs one hand through your hair. “Ok, munchkins, dinner and sleep over at nana’s. How about you get into your p.j.’s now. And choose a book for her to read to you later.” Two little heads turn and look up blinking. She reaches down and picks up the remote and turns the TV off. “Let’s go pets.” They come to life and move down the hall.

She pulls a paper bag from under the sink, puts a pair of frozen dinners from the freezer along with a couple of juice boxes into the bag. Rebecca’s voice reaches us.

“Are we having lobster at Nana’s?” She asks with obvious incredulity.

“No pet, Mac and cheese, the white kind you like.”

By the time you wash up in the tiny bathroom, put on a button-down shirt and dig a black pair of jeans from your pack she had returned from her mom’s.

“Let me change and we can get to making flippy floppy.”

She turns and heads to the bedroom. You look over at your guitar case. It sits waiting, unopened. She returns. She has a slip over skirt, thin straps, blue on top fading to black, with tight black jeans beneath.

The nice place she has chosen is the Red Lobster. There are Red Lobsters where you live too. Though you can’t recall ever eating at one. Still, the building, the sign, the red glow against wood feel reassuring—a more familiar atmosphere.

You have your arm around her as you stand by the tanks near the entrance. She leans into you while you wait to be seated. You watch the water. Shapes pile and shift inside the glass, bodies climbing over one another, brief flashes of red moving through the green-gray gloom.

At the table you order a Manhattan. She orders a margarita. It seems right. You talk. You mention your kids. She laughs when you can’t quite recall how old they are. When were they born?

“They’re like twenty-five and twenty-six,” you say. “I know they’re eighteen months apart. I know their birthdays.”

She laughs a little harder, then says you don’t look anywhere near old enough to have kids that age.

You keep talking—more than her. You don’t ask too many questions. The lobster requires focus, and the conversation settles into the work of eating. Paper bibs come off. You both lean back. You suggest moving to the bar for a beer.

She glances at the check on the edge of the table. She reminds you that there’s beer at home, so why run up the bill here. You shrug it off—you’ll pick up the tab—but you sense you’re behind the beat, you’re missing the pulse. She wants to be back. Back with you. Why the delay? You recover. Yes, let’s go home. The word doesn’t fit your mouth, but you say it anyway and manage a convincing warmth. She smiles.

Outside it’s humid again. The ride home is quiet. She rests a hand on your thigh. You smile, trying to match her ease. You want to be in sync, but your mind slips. Another river, another woman. The dolphin game with Jane. You turn your head and watch the washed-out roadside go by. You don’t trust what might show on your face.

Back at the trailer you think about saying something—something light, something like home sweet home. The words circling in your head won’t do. Same as it ever was. You follow her through the air lock.

She turns and kisses you, her arms looped around your neck. When she pulls back her eyes stay on yours.

“Yuuur my dog right now,” she says, almost like a purr.

She smiles, light in her eyes, her mouth a sweetly tilted curve.

“Give me one sec…” she adds, and slips down the hall toward the bathroom.

For a moment you don’t move. It feels like there’s a deck of emotion cards dangling in front of you and you know you’re supposed to pick a card… any card. You want another beer and go to the fridge. You take two, pop the caps, and sit back down on the couch.

Carolina returns with her hair damp at the temples. She turns and finds you on the couch. You hold up one of the bottles. “Nightcap?”

She pauses. And then it’s like her chin tilts, retracing the line of that earlier smile. Something in your chest aches. She comes over, accepts the bottle, and drops in beside you. She takes a sip, sets the bottle on the coffee table, and curls into you. The beer is cold. You take a few pulls and lean back. Her hand moves, absent and unhurried. This is fine. This is nice. When she murmurs, “thank you,” you’re not sure what it’s for, or what you’re meant to do next.

There is a sound from just outside. The little porch groans under a seismic weight. There is no knock, just a shift in pressure as the room rapidly fills with bodies. Large bodies now on either side and behind you. One woman and two men, middle-aged—all of them broad-shouldered and bellied by a lifetime of salt and sitting.

At first she stays curled into you, as if she can’t be bothered to look up. Then someone older steps in—more gaunt, with a white, grizzled beard. He circles around and plants himself in front of you, arms folded across his chest, eyes locked on yours.

You glance up. Carolina sits bolt upright.

“Poppa.”

He tilts his head but doesn’t break his stare.

“What the fuck, Dad?”

“Language, missy.” He flicks her a look, then returns his attention to you. “I’d like to know just who this boy is.”

You sit up and hold out your hand. “Hello sir. I’m Art. And you are…?”

He ignores your hand.

The larger of the two men speaks up in an oddly sweet voice. “You got any more of those, sis?” He nods toward the bottles on the table.

She gets up. “Sure. What the fuck. Let’s have a party.” She ignores another look from Poppa and hands out beers to the boys. The woman takes one too, her face holding something like empathy.

She offers Poppa a bottle. He waves it off. She sets it on the table in front of him and sits back down, spine straight. Now her arms are folded across her chest as well.

“This ain’t right, Poppa. You got no business coming in here like this.”

“Shelly, now. You’re my little girl. I got every right to know what’s goin’ on in this house.”

His accent is thick. Hers shifts to match it and her jaw tightens. “I am no one’s ‘little girl.’ I’m a grown woman, and this is my house, and you are embarrassing me in front of my guest.”

He ignores her. He starts grilling you. Who are you, where do you live, what do you do for a living?

You go quiet for a moment. It feels unreal. This is her family. Her brothers are wearing overalls. One has a stained T-shirt. The other is shirtless. They have height and weight over you, and they stand like men comfortable with their size and accustomed to using it.

The refrigerator hum fills the pause.

Here comes the twisted hum.

Her father doesn’t move.

You see flashes of light in your peripheral vision, like tiny bubbles squeezed out of the air. Questions hang there, waiting. And there’s that deck of cards waving in your face again. Go on—pick one. Any one. Your chest feels constricted. You need to dislodge yourself from the couch. You stand, glad for the table between you.

“I’m a musician.”

It isn’t a great answer, but he takes a small step back.

He squints at you, considering. “A musician? What kind of musician?”

You could say jazz. You could say Americana. You could say classic rock. Any of it would be close enough. You don’t.

“I play bluegrass.”

Something changes. The pressure eases, just enough for you to breathe. He cocks his head. His eyes drift to the guitar in its case by the wall.

“Bluegrass, huh?” he says. “What kinda bluegrass you talkin’ about?”

“Bluegrass. You know—Bill Monroe. Flatt and Scruggs…”

He pauses. Pulls slowly at his beard, eyes still on you.

“And gospel, right?” he adds.

You sense you’re not out from under this yet. Just say yes. Don’t mention that you mostly play more modern, bluegrass-adjacent material. You glance nervously at your guitar.

“Well, sure… um. And I play mandolin as well. And sing.”

A smile rolls across his face. He opens his arms wide, as if to gather the room.

“Did you hear that, boys? Bluegrass. Ain’t that fine.”

You notice she’s standing beside you now, one hand on her hip, the other rubbing the back of her neck. You think about reaching for her, but the air still feels too thick to move through.

“I think I will have this here beer.” He scoops up the bottle she left on the table and leans in to give your shoulder a brisk pat.

“Guess you’re all right, Art. It’s Art, right.”

You feel her hand on your arm. You turn and see her tip the last of her beer back, then smack the bottle down on the table a bit louder than she intended. She turns to face her kin.

“Okay. Drink up. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

The shirtless brother lets out a snort. The old man squints at her, then at the bottle in his hand. He shrugs and drains what’s left.

“Aww, hell, and we was just gettin’ to know your—your guest.” He nods once, as if deciding something. “S’pose we can come visit with y’all tomorrow.”

He pauses and gives you something between a leer and a wink. “Yessum. Let’s give the little lady some pri-va-cy.”

He makes a sound that passes for a chuckle and starts toward the door, the empty bottle still in his hand. As he steps through the doorway he begins to sing, more or less. Oh, what a friend we have in Jesus. The others take this as a cue. One by one, the bodies wade back out into the night.

The door isn’t quite shut. Carolina crosses to it and places both palms against it, leaning it closed. Her hands stay there. She rests her forehead against the door.

A muffled silence.

“Hey. I’ll be right back.”

She takes the knob, gives it a quick pull, kicks the screen door aside, and steps through, pulling the door shut behind her.

And you may ask yourself, “How do I work this?”

By the time she returns you’ve taken out your phone and changed your flight. You’ll be flying out late the next morning.

Carolina finds you by the bedroom door. She wraps her arms around your waist and rests her head on your shoulder. Softly she apologizes, breathes out, apologizes again. You say nothing. You begin to rock her gently in your arms.

Between that moment and sleep you lead her back into the silent water, into the blue again. There is water moving underground. You make love, give love… one more time.

In the morning you tell her. She goes still. For a moment something flashes across her face—anger or hurt or the impulse to argue. Then it’s gone. She nods once, turns away, and scrambles some eggs.

She gestures toward the guitar, still in its case near the door. Says something about not getting to hear you sing. You mumble something about her not missing much. She frowns, shrugs, then slowly shakes her head and offers a faint smile.

She asks when your flight is. You tell her it’s in an hour, though it’s closer to three. The kids are still with Nana and she needs to pick them up in an hour. You tell her it’s no problem, you can call a taxi. She glances at the clock over the sink. Says you’d best call now. Call City Cab. They might even show when they say they will.

You call. They say fifteen minutes. You pack your clothes and set the bag by the door.

“Here. Eat something.” She slides a plate in front of you—eggs, a strip of bacon. You sit. She brings you a cup of coffee. As she sets it down she sighs.

“They’re really not so bad. I know the Jesus stuff weirded you out, but they promised to leave us alone. You don’t have to go.”

You make some lame excuse. You pretend it’s not about any of that. You know she doesn’t believe you. You know she isn’t expecting anything.

Same as it ever was.

Twenty minutes later you hear a car on the gravel outside. You make yourself move slowly. She follows you onto the porch.

You tell her it was good to see her. She touches your cheek. You say you’ll call soon. You lean down. One more kiss—cigarettes and cough drops.

The car is dull red, white lettering on the door. You lift your bag and guitar into the back seat and climb in beside the driver. You look back at the porch, but she has already gone inside.

You move past trailer parks, then past fields. A billboard. A gas station. The airport sign comes into view.

At the curb you hand the driver a few folded bills and step out into the open air. The sky is blue and wide above you.

Inside, you follow a red line along the floor toward your gate. Boarding is called. You take your place, move down the jetway, step into the narrow aisle and find your seat.

The engines build. The plane rolls, lifts. You feel the slow release as you rise. The fields flatten. The rows of trailers gather into patterns. One of them is hers.

At the bottom of the ocean.

You will call her. A few times over the next few weeks. Then the emails will taper off.

You feel your face tighten and your eyes moisten. Is it the pressure?

You reach into your pocket for a piece of gum. Instead you find one red gummi. You hold it in your palm for a moment. You close your eyes. And you ask yourself: who saves who in this world?

Then you place Rebecca’s gummi on your tongue. You hold it there for a moment and then swallow, and when you open your eyes again you are above the clouds now and into the blue again.