In Other Hemispheres

Pamela Ryder

The land slips by below him—towns and treetops, bridges and rivers. Upland fog. The glitter of water.
    The father tries to see. Ground, he says. Low visibility. Ground, come in.
    Shh, the daughter says.
    Tower? the father says. Do you read me on this frequency?
You’d better hold it down, the daughter says.
Attempting to land. Trying to get home.
       Listen, says the daughter. There is no plane. There is no going home.
    No going home, the father says.
    No, she says. Just look around.
    The father looks. The surrounding space is vast but somehow close. Still the land passes under: farmland, deserts, old airfields of a former war.
    Thin clouds. Windsound. And this, too: the smell of cut wood, of pine, of places darkly forested. The father stretches out his hand: there the cradling boards.
Well? the daughter says.
Now I remember, the father says. For a minute I thought I was back in a cockpit.
    Could confuse anyone, the daughter says.
    The walls are so close and there was the sound of an engine.
    Engine? says the daughter.
    Or maybe it was just the wind. But I saw the old runways. I saw the night sky.
    But now you remember. Now you know where you are.
    Sure, says the father. I’ve got it now.
    Do you remember that I fixed your pillow? That I said goodnight?
What you said was: See you tomorrow.
I thought I would, the daughter says. I thought I’d have more time.
    The room was dark, the father says. Then darker. It happened so quickly, I couldn’t call out. I thought I smelled grain—wheat or oats—what horses eat. A clean, sweet smell. There was a field and a gate. There were stars overhead, but I couldn’t get my bearings. The stars seemed to be in some other hemisphere. Then I shit my pajamas. There was nothing I could do. I heard footsteps in the hall. Voices I didn’t know. It seemed like hours before somebody noticed.
Noticed you were dead?
    Noticed I was dead, noticed I shit my pajamas. Dead or alive, eventually you shit your pajamas.
   They washed you after, says the daughter. According to custom. I made sure.
    I remember the water. The cloth they used. The box. The lid.
    It’s pine, says the daughter. With a hand-rubbed finish.
    It’s something like the paneling we put up in the basement. Knotty pine they called it then.
    The funeral guy—he was pushing the oak.
    I’ll bet he was.
    More durable—the oak—that’s what he said.
    Goddamn crooks, every one of them. He was probably just over-stocked on oak.
Probably had oak coming out his ass.
    Could be, says the daughter.
They’ve got you by the nuts, these funeral guys. That should be their motto: In your time of need, we’ve got you by the nuts.
    Well, I went with the pine but I did splurge on the lining.
    The lining’s not bad. A decent lining.
    I told him the lining better be decent. That you knew linings.
    In the clothing business, you had to know.
    I think it’s polyester, the daughter says.
    Could be poly, could be rayon. It’s hard to tell exactly in this light.
    There’s light? You’ve got light?
    There’s some kind of light. Dim, though, like moonlight.
    Too early for the moon, the daughter says.
Then it has to be something that runs on a battery. A night-light, or something.
I really doubt it, the daughter says. It’s a Jewish coffin. They don’t go in for coffin nightlights. I barely got you buried in your old flight jacket.
    What’s wrong with the jacket?
    You know. That Jewish thing. When you go, you’re supposed to be biodegradable.
    No nails in the coffin, the father says. No hinges. No buttons.
And no zippers, says the daughter.
    Still fits, says the father.
Check the pocket, says the daughter. Right hip.
    That’s where I used to keep my compass.
    It’s not a compass, says the daughter.
    Hold on. Here’s something. Well what have we got here?
    Old photographs. Stuff I saved. I stuck them in at the very last minute.
Well, look at this. What do you know.
    That’s you, see? There you are. Beside a plane.
    B-17, the father says.
    And see? There. You’re wearing your jacket.
    Looked damn good on me back then.
    Still does, says the daughter.
Might keep me warm yet, the father says.
    Might, she says. That and the shroud.
    A shroud? Oh sure. What’s death without a shroud.
    The funeral guy said you needed it. He said it was customary—a Jewish thing.
    Another Jewish thing.
He said: Go with the oak and I’ll throw in the shroud.
    Pushing that oak, the father says. What a business. A license to steal.
    I had a choice—linen or cotton. So I went with the cotton.
    Always better. Less wrinkles than linen, says the father.
You always told me cotton breathes.
    What’s the thread count? Did he tell you?
    I never asked, the daughter says.
    You have to die nowadays to get a decent thread count.
    It should be all right.
    A shroud and a flight jacket. All I need, I guess.
Check the other pocket. Left chest.
    That’s where I usually kept my flight plan.
It’s just one more photograph, the daughter says.
Well look at this. Where was this taken?
    See the sign? says the daughter. Catskill Animal Sanctuary.
    Well sure. Sure. I remember. It was sort of a zoo.
A big outdoor zoo with a fence all around, the daughter says.
There I am at the gate, the father says.
    And there’s me, says the daughter.
    You must have been six, maybe seven.
    I cried about the animals in cages. The bears and the wolf. I remember a poor old tiger.
    But the deer were loose, the father says. They were loose and walking around right next to the people. We were all fenced in.
    See? By the gate. There’s a deer. A little buck.
    I remember that deer, says the father. We got deer food from a little machine.
    You put in a quarter and out came some grain.
    I opened the gate to see if he’d go out, says the father.
    You held the food out to him, in your hand. You tried to coax him through the gate.
    But he wouldn’t go. I remember that deer, the father says. He wouldn’t go.   

Shh, the daughter says.  Someone’s coming.
    Who? says the father. Who would be coming?
    It’s the men who will carry you. Shh now, the daughter says.

All through, ma’am? asks one of the men.
    With what? says the daughter.
    With whatever you’ve been doing.
    I’m not doing anything, the daughter says.
    No rush though, says the other man. No rush at all.
    We can wait if you think that you need more time.
    More time? the daughter says. 

The men step in closer and put their hands on the box. Get that end, one says.
    Got it, says another.
    What’s going on? says the father. Where are we going?
    You know, don’t you? the daughter says.
    Ready on three, the first man says. One, two, and OK, good.
    Hey. Take it easy, the father says. Easy now.
    A joggle, a tilt.
    Watch it, the father says. Watch what you’re doing.
    The men step through a doorway. One of them says, A little to your left.
    We’re moving, says the father.
    They’re bringing you along, says the daughter.
    Hold on a minute, the father says. Where will you be? Where are you going?
    I’ll just be upfront. You ride in the back.
    Daughter? he says.
    Me? she says. Did you mean me?
    Yes—you. Of  course—you. Who else would I mean? Who the hell else?

The long car is waiting. The rear doors are swung open: the carpeted interior, tinted windows, the oddness of curtains.
    The box is pushed inside. The men shut the doors. The daughter wonders if the box will be secure on wide turns and sudden stops. There is not much weight. The father had become so thin, so narrow in the shoulder. So spindly in the leg.
    The motor starts. Engine-hum, headlights.
    We’re moving, the father says. We’re going faster now.
We’re on the freeway.
    Where, exactly?
    Still in the world, the daughter says.
    What does that mean? the father says.
    There is still sky, still trees.
    And clouds? the father says.
    Oh sure, she says. Wonderful clouds.
    Which? the father says.
    Cirrus, mostly.
    No, he says. Say it the way you say it.  As if you’re writing. The way you say it with that writing crap you write.
    Sure, the daughter says. How about this: To the north are strays of cirrus, gold-spun with sunrise.
    Very nice.
    Thank you.
    And to the south? the father says.
    To the south—cumulonimbus in an indigo sky.
    What to the west? the father says.
    To the west I don’t know, the daughter says.
    Then make something up. You’re good at that.
    All right, she says. How about some fields? How about some waves of grain, that sort of thing?
    Fine, he says. I liked flying over fields.
    To the west, says the daughter, there is a thresher cutting its way through the wheat. A golden dust lifts above the blades.
    Again with the gold, the father says.

The long car pulls to the curb and stops.
    Now what? says the father.
    A little detour, says the daughter.
    Where are we? The end of the line?
    Not yet, the daughter says.
    Then where?
    Downtown, says the daughter. East Houston and Ludlow.
    Katz’s? says the father. You bring a dead man downtown to Katz’s.
    Sure. Why not?
    Here’s why not: See that sign? No parking, no standing. It’s a tow-away zone.
    I think it’s all right.
    Plus the end-of-the-month parking blitz, the father says.
    They won’t tow if someone’s in the car.
    Good point, says the father. He calls to the driver: Hey driver. You—up front.
    The driver looks in his rearview mirror. Yo. What’s up? the driver says.
    We’re stopping here. We shouldn’t be too long.
    Take your time, the driver says. He takes off his cap.
    If a cop comes by, tell him it’s a funeral.
    You got it pal, the driver says.
    And put on your flashers, the father says.
    No problem, says the driver, coming around to the rear. Here, he says. Let me get those doors. 

Who’s next? calls the counterman.
    Over here, says the father.
    Wooo! Papi, says the counterman peering over the counter. You OK?
    Sure, the father tells the counterman.
    I think you be needing some big kind of sandwich.
    Pastrami on rye, the father tells him. Heavy on the mustard.
    Bueno, says the counterman. Coming right up. He opens the meat case. He hoists a great fat-crusted stump to the slicer. He leans it to the blade.
    The counterman keeps his tip-cup taped to the counter-top. The father reaches up and puts in a bill.
    Gracias, says the counterman.
    Forget it, says the father.
    Forget it nothing, the counterman says. Not everybody tip.
    Nice and thin, the father says. And don’t trim the fat.
    The counterman adjusts the slicer. He flips the toggle switch. He slides the lever back and forth. How ‘bout them Yankees? the counterman says.
    Bums, says the father.
    What to drink?  says the counterman. We got seltzer, cream, or Celray. Out of Pepsi.
    Cream, says the father.
    To stay or go? the counterman says. 

 City streets, traffic stops. A bridge. The hollow hum of tires on the bridgeway grids.
    How much further, the father says.
    Not much, the daughter says. We got a little lost when we took that detour.
    We should have a navigator.
    No need, the daughter says.
    Then who knows the way?
    You do. You always did. You never got lost.
    I’d feel a lot better if I had my compass, the father says. Or even a look at some familiar stars.
    There’ll be night, I expect, says the daughter. Or some sort of night.
    So stars at least, the father says.
    The dipper, the bear. The flying horse.
    Just listen to you, the father says.
    Listen to me.
    It all sounds so pretty, the father says.
    It makes it easier, don’t you think?
    Don’t you believe it, says the father.
    I don’t, the daughter says. I never would. 

They drive on. Neighborhoods are passing. Houses, fences, sidewalks, yards. A woman with flowers. A man with a beard. An old dog in a red coat.
    Birds drop from the wires, one by one, then circle and meet in the air.
    Are we stopping? the father says. It feels like we are.
    Roadwork, says the daughter. Just relax.
    Easy for you, the father says. You’re not going where I’m going.
    No, the daughter says.
    The wipers come on.
    Rain, says the father. I figured it would rain.
    How did you know? the daughter says.
    Cumulonimbus, says the father.
    I forgot my umbrella, she says.
    There might be a canvas for people to stand under.
    Usually is, the daughter says.
    There’ll be water where they’ve been digging. At the bottom.
    There’s water in the gutter.
    Tell me, says the father.
    Things—small things—are riding down the gutter with the rain. A paper bag, a cigarette. A crust of bread someone has tossed away.
    Who would do such a thing? the father says.
    Now a lottery ticket is floating by. And a paper—a letter, I think—that someone has lost. There’s a sparrow perched along the curb. There’s a twig with a yellow leaf sliding down the grate.
    To see it all again, the father says. 

We’re getting close, says the father.
    Yes, we are. We’re very near, the daughter says.
    Time, distance, speed of travel. I know these things, the father says.
    Are you ready? she says.
    I’m not sure if I am. I’m not sure if I’m not.
    Well, here we are. At the cemetery. Turning in now. Now we’re going through the gate.
    I remember the deer, the father says.
    Daddy, the daughter says.
    Angel, says the father.
    Who? says the daughter. Do you mean me?
    No, not you. Why the hell you?
    Just asking, she says.
    But there—there it is—I see one flying by.
    That? That’s a bird, says the daughter.
    Not an angel.
    I don’t think so, says the daughter.
    I didn’t either—not really, says the father. All bullshit, he says.
    Most things, says the daughter.
    And that place in the photograph—that place with the deer—that wasn’t a sanctuary.
    I guess not, the daughter says.
    Even with the gate open, there was no place to go.
    Here we are, the daughter says. We’re here.  

The long car stops. The doors are flung open. The men slide the box along the long car’s bed. They lift the box onto the cart. The wheels flatten the wet grass and bump over the ruts.
    Whoa, says the father. What’s the rush? Tell these guys: slow down, will you?
    Hey, says the daughter. Slow down.
    Thank you, says the father. Thanks for everything.
    Don’t thank me, she says.
    Why the hell not, he says.
    I hate all of this.
    I’ll be all right, he says.
    I don’t know, says the daughter.
    I don’t either, says the father.
    The men stop. The box is steadied. There is a sweet smell of water on wood.
    It’s raining harder, the daughter says.
    So much for the pine with the hand-rubbed finish.
    The daughter laughs. Yes—she says—so much for that.
    I smell the grass, the father says.
    It’s where they were digging, the daughter says. Where they cut though the sod.
    Get under the canvas so you don’t get wet, the father says.
    I am, says the daughter.
    Can you hear me? says the father.
    Daughter? he says. Are you there?    

The father descends. The mounting hush and rumble of approaching weather engulfs him.  He hears the downpour of small stones falling on the wood. Ground—he calls—Visibility poor.
    He reaches into his jacket pockets for what he once carried: right hip for compass, left chest for flight plans. But they are not to be found. They will not be required. There will be no need for the instruments of navigation. There are metals in the earth.
    Ground—the father calls again—We have westerly crosswinds; we have steady precipitation.  Must divert. Must divert.
    The land that sped below him now comes up to meet him. Here are the dark rows of the fields in tillage. Here is the mud of roadside ditches, the dust of desert basins.
    The soil rains down—a fistful in the daughter’s hand.
    Now the shovelful of loam.