FLIGHT

by Devika Ranjan

The bird flew away despite the warnings; he had had a cough since morning and his temperature was rising. “You must stay in quarantine!” The others chirped behind him. He ignored them and ruffled his feathers. Patient Zero my ass, he thought. I need to see the world.

…

Rubbing his sticky feet together, the fly prepared the course of attack. First the sandwich, then the girl. But after the first few bites, he became full and had to take a rest.

…

The flag fluttered in the breeze at half-mast. “Do you know why?” Ms. DeKelley asked Mr. Albert. He shrugged. She scanned the news as the children filed in. There had been plenty of tragedy in the last few hours, but she wasn’t sure which had triggered the half-mast flag. Eventually, once the late bell rang, she mounted a plastic sign: AWAY FROM MY DESK.

“Bill,” she said, “why is the flag at half-mast today?”

“Hmm?” He said, looking up from his sandwich. “Oh, did I forget to finish up?”

…

The red solo cups had been jammed into the flyover fence since before Mali could read. Now, she didn’t even have to look to know that they spelled out WELCOME HOME CHRIS. Maybe Chris was old now; maybe he liked to drive on this road, point out the message to his girlfriends or his grandchildren.

Mali’s car drifted a bit as she stared upwards. The steering wheel automatically dragged her back into the centre of the lane.

…

He brushed the stray flyaways from her forehead, smoothing them back.

“Red hair suits you,” he said.

“Oh, thank you,” she replied.

“For the compliment or for the hair?”

“Both are very nice.”

“You’re welcome.”

He let the silence hang in the air. He admired her. The red hair made her casing look a bit less… metal. Maybe he would get her a skin suit as well. They were expensive; but she deserved nice things.

“You know, I think you are really intelligent.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Not just artificially.”

Another silence.

“Ha-ha. That was clever, Tom.”

“Thank you.”

…

Barry stared at the wreckage in front of him. It was still smoking.

“Linda,” he shouted, “call 911.”

He wondered how close he should get, if it would blow up like those cars in movies.

“What is it — ” Linda said, and then screamed. The metal debris had decimated her raised beds. She had nearly broken her back planting those annuals this year; in fact, she had been wearing a back brace for the last week just to make sure she didn’t do any real damage.

“How did this — ”

“I think I did it.” Barry couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mangled airplane.

“You did it?” How are we going to remove this, she thought. When the tree came down after this winter’s storm, it cost us an arm and a leg. And now this.

“I think I… flew the drone too high.”

“The drone?” Linda’s eyes bugged.

“The one Melissa got me for Christmas…” Now that the smoke was clearing, he thought he could make out the bright yellow of the Christmas drone wedged into the torso of the plane. He took a step towards the wreckage.

“Hello?” He called. “Anyone in there?”

Barry’s remote control lay forgotten on what remained of the green spring grass.

…

“Ah, actually, it’s just a layover.”

“Oh. Um, I could come to the airport?”

“Yeah, I don’t know if I’ll… if the plane will be on time. I don’t want to waste your time.”

“You’d never waste my — ”

“It’s cutting it close.”

“I guess that’s what I get for living in a flyover state. I can’t believe you’ll be so close and we can’t — ”

“I wish you lived on one of the coasts. That way we could stay together, that way we could spend some actual time…”

“But Cleveland’s a United hub, you could fly wherever you wanted from here. You could go on your work trips and go see your family, and we could be together and everything would be fine.”

“Right. That’s right. Well. Maybe next time.”

…

They stared at each other across the subway line, the only ones on either platform.

“I’ll miss you,” he shouted.

“Me too,” she said back.

“Promise me you’ll call!”

“I will!”

They paused, one minute until his train, three minutes until hers. Words did not seem enough for their week. They watched each other, trying to memorize each movement, each gesture, each feature. On the subway back, the people sitting next to him would peek over his shoulder, watch him scroll through the pictures from the last week, zoom in on her face, her smile.

She could feel the metro coming. Its vibrations shook her body. She worked harder to memorize, memorize, from the top of his head to the bottom of his…

“Your zipper!” She shouted over the rumble.

“What?” He said, pointing to his ears. “I can’t hear — ”

“Your zipper! Pull up your fly!” The first cars of the train pulled into the station.

“What?!”

She gestured to her crotch, but it was too late. The train pulled out of the station, depositing a handful of commuters but carrying him away.

…

“I’m going to die, I’m going to die,” she muttered, rocking back and forth. Her knuckles were white from the force of gripping the armrests.

I tried to ignore her. The plane tossed us again, this time projecting her slightly out of her seat. She screamed, grabbed my arm. I looked at her. Her fingernails left small marks, even through my sweater.

“We’re going to be fine,” I attempted, rubbing my arm subtly.

“Maybe you’llbe fine,” she snapped. “I am going down with this beast.”

…

“Mama, Mama, please!”

“That’s enough,” Mama said, dragging her baby while trying to maneuver the shopping cart. “You’ve had more than enough air today. One day, you’ll just float away!”

“Pleeeeeease!” Her baby squealed, and other shoppers tugged their ears in irritation.

“Stop that,” Mama hissed. “And look how round you’re getting already. Any more air and you will positively burst.”

The baby looked down. It was true; her latex stretched uncomfortably. Her white markings, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, had swollen unattractively and now there were gaps in the letters.

“Fine,” she said, and trailed behind her mother — silent, insolent, and a little deflated.

…

“Wow!” Abdo exclaimed, clawing the cardboard box apart. “Mom, can I play with it now?”

“Ask me in Arabic,” Rawa said sternly.

“I hate Arabic,” Abdo whined. He pried at the plastic ties until he finally loosened the plane.

“I hope it wasn’t very expensive,” Rawa worried quietly.

“Of course not,” said Nami. “As if that’s even a consideration.”

“Say thank you to Khala Nami,” Rawa instructed.

“Thank you Khala Nami!” He shouted, already running outside.

As Abdo fiddled with the batteries of the remote control, Nami carried the plane into the yard. It gleamed between her fingers, red-white-blue. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, neatly printed on the side.

…

When she had just moved to this country, she had painted the same plane, its real twin — all 100 tons (is this the size of a plane) of it. She could not have dreamt of holding it in the palm of her hand.

Her English was still poor when she appealed to the temp agency. “I am artist,” she managed. The man across the desk laughed. “You’re in luck.”

She was strapped into a harness, like a circus performer, and outfitted in a large, white coverall. A gas mask covered her face. She and her colleagues looked like those soldiers from the World War I documentaries that her father used to watch, feet up on the coffee table. When she was little, she thought they were aliens.

In the heat of Dallas’ summer, the hangar could get sticky, dense. The heat helped her mind wander while she spray painted. She wondered where the planes flew: China, Brazil, South Africa. Perhaps this one would carry the President, or this one would drop bombs.

At least she was doing something creative, she reasoned. Many of her housemates were cleaning toilets and frying hamburgers. The pay wasn’t very good, but it was enough for her to survive. Besides, things were better than they had been back home.

Nami remembered painting the strong, serifed letters on the nose of the plane, U.S. AIR FORCE. The swoop of the S, the strength of the R. The definitive dots between the first two letters. She had done those alone, painting meticulously, no day-dreaming on those.

She felt a swell of patriotism when she looked at the whole plane, complete. Another alien had painted the American flag on its fin, the proud red stripes gleaming. They clapped as it was wheeled out of the hangar. It was beautiful in the light.

…

Late that night — after the cake had been cut, after the plane had gotten stuck in a tree, after Abdo cried until Rawa climbed a ladder to dislodge it — Nami sat at the dining table. She was working on a design for her newest client, the Mayor’s Office — a social media campaign for the city-wide composting plan.

Rawa wiped down the kitchen counters with a wet rag.

“He won’t talk to me,” said Rawa.

“He’s young,” said Nami.

“But if he doesn’t learn now, he never will.”

Nami closed the lid of her laptop. “Why are you worried about his Arabic? His English is so good, he’ll survive here better than any of us could dream.”

Rawa leaned against the counter. She picked at the rag absently, sadly. “He’ll never understand us if he doesn’t know our language.”

Nami shrugged. “Maybe we came here so he wouldn’t have to.”