"I Can Fly"

A fist bangs on my door so loud I think I must be on an episode of "Cops". I throw a sheet over Leo, who is sprawled naked on the futon, and crack open the door. But it's only Mr. Carl, the building superintendent. He leans against the iron railing outside my third-floor apartment, glaring down at the chipped asphalt parking area, and shouts, "Don't you know the dang rules by now? Visitors need a special pass! What the hell are ya? Retarded?"

I know the violation has little to nothing to do with Leo's Hyandai parked in the yellow zone and everything to do with Leo. I've seen Mr. Carl sitting on his terrace at night, tapping his foot to the bland sounds of gospel music, surveying the apartment area through his binoculars. Last week, I'm pretty sure he saw Leo, barefooted, in a vintage "Make Love Not War" tee shirt, leaving my place at a decidely suspicious time of the morning. I really have to worry about things like that. Snitches and high-falutin' bitches have cost me everything I love in this world.

It's hard for me to respond to Mr. Carl's accusations, wedged as I am in the opening of the door, trying to cover my body with a flimsy robe that's no match for the Pensacola sun. "My God, Mr. Carl," I say, "I have no earthly idea whose car that is."

The acrid smell of Leo's cigarette smoke drifts toward the door. Man, can a person be evicted for visitors' smoke? I'm positive I read every anal-retentive word in Mr. Carl's rental contract since legal papers (and legalities in general) spell disaster with a capital "D" for me. Dis-ast-er.

"Well, little lady," says Mr. Carl, "consider yourself warned. This is a warning. I’m warning you."

“Mmhm. I GOT it, Mr. Carl. Thank youuuu,” I shut the door in his face.

Leo's bare, pale ass sticks out of my refrigerator. "Hey, baby," he says, "there's nothing in here but Tom Collins mix and swiss cheese. What are we gonna to do?"

"We aren't gonna do anything. It's Sunday. You said you would leave last night, like I told you."

He slams the refrigerator door and fumbles with my robe. Leo has an amazing talent for making me forget anything, for an hour or three, on the lum,py futon. He insists that he could work miracles on the putrid green shag carpet, but we both know there's just not enough floor space. So he gives up and says, "Okay then, I'll meet you at Lucy’s later."

"Alright, sure," I tell him, but of course I won't be going to any goddamned sleazy bar. Today is Sunday. The day I get Mikey and Manda. Hell, it's already eleven o'clock. As soon as Leo finally pulls on his jeans and ambles out the door, my heart begins to beat faster. Tick. Tock. One o'clock. That's the time to pick them up. Can't be late. Can't do anything stupid. Shit. Can’t do anything stupid.

Number one on my list is deciding what to wear. I've learned the hard way that appearance really does matter. I've tried to buy a few nice outfits with my employee's discount at Foley’s. I work in accessories; I sell mostly handbags and gloves. It's amazing how many gloves I sell. It'll be one hundred damned degrees outside but here come the sweet little old grandmothers, smelling like peppermint and liniment, wanting a pair of gloves. Usually, they're getting ready to fly back up north to see their "babies." That's what they always call their grandchildren. Invariably the converstation turns on me, and the old biddies ask if I have any kids. I describe my shy, determined Mikey and sweet, enchanting Manda, although Inever have baby pictures to show off, like the older ladies always do. With their leather-gloved hands, they pat me on the cheeks. "You're so lucky," they say, "you’re in the prime of your life, you know."

At twelve-thirty, I'm wearing a yellow and white polka dotted sundress and heading down the beach road. Windows down. Breeze off the Gulf mussing my hair. I feel good. I've got a can't-lose plan for today. I've already told the kids about the movie on the phone. Even with their father's five-minute talking limit, I had time to tell Mikey and Manda about Peter Pan. I told them it was their Mama's favorite movie when she was a little girl. Mikey wanted to know if Micky Mouse was in it. Manda didn't say much at all. But just you wait, my babies. We're going to have the time of our lives!

As I get closer to the house, I run my fingers hurriedly through my hair, apply lipgloss with one eye on the road and one eye in the rearview mirror. The house where my children live has a beautiful, lush lawn. The mowing of perfectly even grass is a specialty of my ex-husband's. The flowerbeds that I once planted with daisies and lantana and mexican heather have been redone with reliable green shrubs, their branches clipped like butch haircuts.

It's not quite one o'clock, so I drive on by. Sometimes my ex and his new wife won't come to the door for a while, to make me think no one's at home. Prissy (and that's her actual fucking name) is probably hiding behind their expensive pale sage green sheers, peering out. She's the reason I'm sweating like a whore in church, driving past the house where I used to live, where I used to live, where I used to live.

Ira told me he was leaving on February 1, 2003. The same day the Columbia blew up; the same day the space shuttle exploded as it was attempting re-entry after a 16-day mission. The rest of the country was stunned and saddened by the sudden death of the shuttle's seven crew members. I was busy trying to wrap my mind around the startling demise of my marriage. "Lindsey," he said, "I just don't think marriage is working out for me." Then he paused, "I can't quite say what made me stop loving you." He didn't have the balls then to say it was Prissy.

The few weeks after that, in which I fought for my husband to stay, are fuzzy in my memory. The night he finally left, however, is sparkling clear. Funny how our minds and memories are often sadistic like that.

While I interviewed for a job other than being a Mom, Ira (who worked as a bookkeeper at his father's company) would come to see the kids and mow the lawn. Around Thanksgiving, Ira, looking paler than usual, sauntered into the kitchen and chugged down my last beer. "I'm getting married," he announced. "I've been consulting with my parents, and we think I should have custody of Mikey and Manda."

I was so dizzy I had to lean against the wall.

This was the man who had proposed to me one knee with tears in his eyes and a ring in his hand; this is the man I'd dropped out of college to marry. This man sobbed when our babies were born, laid his head across my chest and begged to suckle my milk. Now he wanted to take the children away from their mother? I couldn't even grasp the concpet. But this strong and spiteful new Ira looked me right in the eyes and said, "The next time you see me will be in court."

"You have nothing to worry about. The mother always wins." This advice was from a tax lawyer, a friend of a friend who looked about twelve but had agreed to go to court with me, "just as a formality." I couldn't afford anything else even if I had thought I needed it.

It's funny about that courtroom. I remember it as a dark, paneled room with high ceiling fans running too slow to wrestle against the mean, hot air. People rustling accordion-pleated paper fans staring at me silently. But it's possible I have everything mixed up with scenes from old movies. So much of that day is surreal to me.

"It's just a hearing," my little lawyer said.

He thought it would be just a quick, "signing of papers." I was prepared to be gracious, to give Ira plenty of visitation privilages. That's about all I was prepared for.

When the hearing began, my lawyer kept jumping up and sitting right back down. Especially when Ira accused me of sleeping around. My jerk of a husband pointed his finger right at me and said, "Just last month, LouAnn McGillicuddy saw a car parked in the driveway all night long." He explained to the judge that the revered Mrs. McGillicuddy, who lived across the street, "saw a strange man leave the next morning."

Ira's attorney told the judge, "The mother has no job, very little education, and no living parents. The father, a professional accountant, is a pillar of his community. So it is obviously in the best interest of the children for permanent custody to be granted to the father." He paused, looking straight at me, and said, "Especially since there's a question about the mother's sense of morality."

"That's not fair!" I shouted toward the high bench. The judge's robe seemed to expand like a fat, black balloon. "He's lying through his teeth!"

My idiot lawyer tried to hush me up, but I was crying mad. "And who was it," I shouted at Ira, "who stayed at home with the kids while you got your fancy Master's degree?"

The judge just stared at me with no discernible expression on his face. I told him I sang in the church choir, took the children to the library every Monday, and had hugged them to sleep every night of their lives. That ought to have counted for something. Doesn't that count for something?!

It didn't.

When it was all over I had every other Sunday, their birthdays on alternate years, and three weeks in the summer. I figured I might as well sign over the house to him, too. I wouldn't move my kids from the only home they knew.

Now it is one o'clock, and I am standing awkwardly in the doorway of the house. Ira is almost knocked over as Mikey and Manda run to me. I am part of a tangle of little boy arms and little girl legs, the smell of strawberry shampoo, and everything I know about life and love.

"They've already had their lunch," Prissy calls out from the kitchen. "Don't bring them back so full of junk they won't eat their supper."

"Be sure they're home by six," Ira adds, his voice sounding higher-pitched, almost effiminate, nothing at all like it used to.

"Not a problem," I call back over my shoulder, as the three of us skip across the flawless green lawn.

We pile into the car with giggles and smiles. "Why is your car so old looking?" asks Mikey. "Ours is shiny and new."

Manda pokes her little brother in the ribs. "That isn't nice, Mikey," she says in a scolding, big sister, seven year old voice. "Mind your manners. This car is just fine."

"Daddy just got a new car too. It's an S-U-B," Mikey says. He is picking the stuffing out of a hole in the gray vinyl seat between his knees.

"Who needs a stinkin' old SUV when you have a magic car," I say with forced cheer. "You didn't know this car was magic, did ya?" But my five year old is neither convinced nor impressed. Mikey glances nervously at the windshield as I drrive along at forty-five miles per hour.

"Just think about the movie," I say. "You love the story of Wendy and Peter and the Lost Boys. Remember when I used to read it to you?" I sing loudly "All it takes is faith and trust/ But the thing that's a positive must/ Is a little bit of pixie dust/ The dust is a positive must/ You can fly! You can fly!/ You can fly! You can fly!"

I'm greeted with dead air. "Well, don't just sit there, silly rabbbits! Why aren't you singing along with me?"

"We don't know the words," says Mikey, sounding as if he is accusing me of something.

Manda pulls down the visor mirror and puckers up her lips. "Mama, can I wear lipgloss? I've got some!"

A tube of glitter purplish lipgloss comes out of her little purse.

"You're not supposed to wear that stuff," her brother insists. "I'm going to tell Daddy and Mama." Mikey's last word starts out wide-mouthed and closes on a muffle. I hear the word like a shotgun blast to the aorta. MamaMamaMama.

Settle down, Lindsey girl, I tell myself. He's just confused. He's just a little kid. Don't say a word.

"Hush, Mikey." Manda slaps his thigh.

"Anyway, I'll tell." His pouty lip breaks my heart.

"Hey, we're almost to the Tinseltown, the big one with the squishy seats that lean back. We'll get us a ginormous tub of popcorn." I ramble on and on while the word "Mama" still flits around the car, and I want to scream, "Miss Tight Ass Prissy ain't nobody's mama!"

Finally, we pull up to Tinseltown at a quarter after one. My kids jump up and down in the line. I hum the first lines of "I Can Fly," knowing that pretty soon we'll all know the words. This is Sunday afternoon at its finest. Plenty of other parents think so too, because the line is long and wide with grinning families. I step up to the window and talk into the round hole in the glass. "Three tickets," I say, "one adult and two children." I say it with pride.

The ticket girl asks for twelve dollars and rises lazily out of her chair to admire Mikey and Manda while I get out my wallet. In the folding part, the part where the dollars should be, are two bills. Each bill is only one dollar. Where is the rest of my money? Last night I had at least a a twenty, a ten, and these two singles. How can this be? The families in back of me begin to fan out and I can feel their stares. The ticket girl's voice oozes impatience. "Twelve dollars, ma'am."

The kids are getting restless. Mikey's hopping on one foot. Manda comes over clutching her Disney Princess purse I got her at Foley's and whispers, "Mama, I've got two quarters."

That is too much for the dad in line behind me with the golf tan and the bored wife. "Maybe you could use a credit card?" I almost laugh in his face at the idea of actually having good credit.

Instead I gather up Mikey and Manda who are looking at the vividly colored poster of Disney's re-release of Peter Pan "Hey, monkeys," I manage to say, "Who wants to spend a gorgeous, sunny Sunday afternoon in a dark old movie theater? Let's go have some real fun!"

In the car they sit still and waiting and silent. The parked car has now heated to at least a hundred degrees. You can get arrested for leaving dogs in this kind of heat. We drive along, holding our faces near the car windows, trying to feel a breeze.

"Why can't we go to your house?" asks Mikey.

"It's not a house," says Manda. "Daddy says it's just an apartment, and it's too small for us to visit there."

She's right about that. I've never dared take anyone I love to my efficiency apartment in the older, run-down part of Pensacola.

"Daddy's gonna take us to Disney World in July." Manda continues. "We could go there now! It's really, really, really cool. My friend Hannah went last summer."

"I know, little monkey. But..."

"Mickey Mouse! Mickey Mouse," hollers Mikey. "There are rides and all kinds of fun stuff. OH! And I want to go to Animal Kingdom!"

"Um, i think that's too far away, kids." My mind is racing. As we approach the row of fancy resorts, condominiums, and hotels that crowd the shore, I'm amazed to see a so many cars parked in front of Lucy's. A sign posted on the cedar siding of the run-down bar announces: "Sandcastle Contest Today! Cash prizes for Best Sand Sculpture."

"Well, well, well. What little monkeys want to see the ocean?"

I know this afternoon is going to get better as I park in the employee's lot where I think I see Leo's truck. We make our way around the crushed oyster shell path to the patio behind the club. The children run straight to the beach, unconcerned about their clothes, which were no doubt Lands End or LL Bean. I know Prissy's type well.

"Take off your shoes," but it's too late.

"Look, Mama. Castles!" And there are, dozens of them. Sugary white sand castles. Beachcombers have constructed six-feet-high towers with paper flags from tropical drinks now flying on top of sandy turrets. There is a remarklably lifelike beautiful barebreasted mermaid lying on the shore. She's lying dejected and sad, as if her merman lover left her there to pine. The whole display is honestly breathtaking.

"A fairy land!" Manda exclaims.

"Let's build one," cries Mikey, "Let's make the wonderfullest castle in the world!"

Of course there's an entry fee, so I have to take the kids with me to find Leo. He's mixing vodka and tomato juice together with a celery stalk. When he sees me, a child on each hand, he comes out from behind the bar. "Hey there, little dudes. Leo's the name. Wanna build a pirate's castle?" They smile, and I wonder how Leo learned to communicate with anyone under legal age. "First, how'd you two like a Shirley Temple?"

I laugh at their puzzled faces and tell them it's just juice and it's all right. My darlings sit at an umbrella-ed picnic table, silhouetted against the blue gulf, holding their little fancy drinks while I hiss under my breath at Leo, "I think somebody stole money from me. Maybe here, last night. Any reports of robberies? He shakes his head, but the look in his eye is peculiar.

The Gulf breeze picks up as we take our position, number 38. All three of us begin to scoop sand using cupped fingers. Seeing that we have no buckets or shovels, Leo brings us plastic cups and pitchers from the bar. Mikey and Manda are amazing architects, fast and purposeful. In minutes, they mound together a gloriously fat castle and poke finger-hole windows. The judge with the megaphone shouts, "Thirty minutes till the end of the contest. First prize, twenty dollars."

Sweat pours from Manda and Mikey's faces; sand clings to their clothes as they run back and forth from the shore to their masterpiece. Their laughter sings in my ears. I'm laughing too and calling to my knight and lady, "Let's get rid of those filthy clothes."

Mikey strips down to his Buzz Lightyear underwear, and Manda wears her a Barbie undershirt and panties. I nod an okay, and they leap into the water, then run around the castle with their battle cry, "Hurray for us! Hurray! Hurraaaaay!"

People gather around. We have plenty of joy to share. Then, just as the prizes are about to be awarded, just as Mikey and Manda are bearing their legs in the wet sand, just as Mikey is calling, "Look at meeeee," an unusually large wave hits. He and Manda are knocked down hard. They're not hurt, but my giggling architects are almost buried in what is left of their fine, fat castle.

As the crowd makes their way towards the patio to see who won the twenty dollars, I hear my name called, "Lindsey!" What the hell? Did we win? Maybe the judge is coming with a trophy. But then I recognize the voice. "Lindsey, what on earth is going on?"

Ira's parents walk so upright that their linen suits aren't even wrinkled. "Dear God!" Ira's mother peers over the top of her sunglasses. "Where are the children's clothes?"

From inside the wet jumble of their fallen castle, Mikey and Manda look toward me as if I had answers. They have stopped giggling. They struggle to stand, looking as if they have just washed up from the sea, and say, "Hi, Grandmother and Poppy."

"Hello, Mikey and Manda." They utter in eerie unison, "Isn't this a surprise?"

After stooping to pat her grandkids' heads, Ira's mother says, "We saw an ad promoting this sand sculpture thing. We thought it would be an art show showcasing local artists, but back there is a sand figure that is, well, obscene."

I pull the kids closer to me. "I suppose some people just see what they want."

"Look how filthy they are," says their grandfather. "We should take them home. They need a bath. Prissy said you were going to a movie. Christ Almighty, Lindsey, you never were very reliable." This from the man who once claimed he loved me like a daughter.

"Please don't be ugly to me in front of them," I say. "And you're not taking them anywhere. I have them until six o'clock." I can see Leo coming over, and I try to motion him away. "It's only ten minutes after four now."

"Wouldn't you rather go back to Daddy's?" asks Ira's father. His phony grin on his hateful head bobs back and forth from child to child. "We can stop for ice cream on the way."

Manda's sun-warmed little shoulder trembles slightly under my hand. "You don't have to leave if you don't want to," I tell them.

Mikey is starting to sniffle, and Manda won't hold up her head. "Listen, monkeys. We are going to start over! We'll build the wonderfullest castle in the world that no one can ever tear down."

"Now, Lindsey, that is exactly the kind of thing we can not tolerate," says Ira's mother, "You are telling these innocent children a bold-faced lie."

"My Mama can do anything she says," screams Mikey. "Can't you, Mama?"

Manda pulls me down to her level and kisses me on the cheek. "It's going to be okay, Mama." It is the saddest thing I have ever heard in my life.

"I know, baby. I know." The air seems to have thickened; it refuses to fill my lungs. I see spots in my peripheral vision. I hope to God I don't faint.

The grandparents start to take my babies away, walking them toward their giant black Buick. I can't bear the way they're leading the children silently. I can't bear it.

"Hey. Is kiddie hour over and done with?" I have no idea how long Leo has been standing there. He slips one finger under the yellow strap of my dresss. He talks toward my chest with his hoarse voice, "Come on back to the bar for a drink. Free Margaritas. All you want."

"Go to hell, Leo," I say.

My heels hit the sand. I run away from the beach on the Gulf of Mexico, past the castles melting into the sea, past the lonely mermaid who may never again know love, and I scream, "It's not six o'clock!"

"It's not six o'clock. They are still mine until six o'clock."

I am still their mama, after all, and they follow me. The wind is blowing harder, whipping Manda's wet hair into her face. Mikey stumbles along, scratching his sandy legs. His lips mouth the words, "I love you, Mama," all the way to my car.

It does not take long to reach my apartment. After we shower and eat some very fine peanut butter sandwiches; after a treasure hunt to find all my cash money and change from drawers and pockets and couch cushions; after tossing our sandwich crusts and a handful of Saltines to the sea gulls, we leave.

I drive. I do not think about tomorrow or the day after that. I drive in my car with my own children. My babies.

Along the highway north of Pensacola, the light grows dim as storm clouds bear down on the sunset. We pass flat land with scrub palmettos growing wild and unruly orange groves left untended. The air drifts in from open windows, it begins to lose its salty, sulfur smell.

At the gift shop beside the tollbooth, I buy my babies khaki shorts and crisp white cotton shirts. I comb their hair and spitwash their faces. I kiss their eyelids and make them giggle.

We roll up the windows when the evening breeze begins to blow cooler inside our car. The radio plays a country music song. A clapping, foot-tapping song. We three sit in the front seat, shoulders touching, singing.

And we all know the words.