6.30 The Pooka’s Wife
After we walked out of the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood Airport, we saw our limo waiting for us at the curb. I heard Terry inform Bob that Juan and Diego, whoever they were, had collected our baggage, which was already in the trunk waiting for us. I slid into the limo’s butter-leather seats and sat back ready to see the sights. The chauffeur told us that it was only about five miles to our destination, Port Everglades. I found that name rather chilling since it reminded me of snakes and alligators, but I kept quiet. I’d already created enough drama for the trip. It was time to take a back seat and let others fight off the dangerous beasts. At first the road we traveled was a string of cars, tall buildings over to the side, lines of palm trees like a decorative fence, and then, an intracoastal waterway with lots of boats. Even through the closed windows and with the air conditioning chugging away, I could smell the ocean. With eyes wide and awake, I searched the horizon and saw exactly what I expected. The blue was a gem of sparkle, and the beaches were plump with white sand that called for us to come out and play. I remembered my times at Santa Cruz Beach where I made sand castles with my mom. My grandmother hated sand, so we never went back to the beach after my parents were gone, but I had wonderful memories of those earlier times. As the driver had told us, the Hilton wasn’t far. It practically welcomed us with its airy and inviting front. The sight of the towering, magical hotel was exciting, but my eyes were drawn to the water, to the beach, and to all the excitement I felt around us. At the welcome counter, we were told that the hotel had thirteen floors. I’d thought that was an unlucky number and had heard that elevators didn’t list thirteen. The woman, very stylish in her burgundy uniform, with a tag on her breast pocket that called her a Welcome Attendant, seemed uneasy about my question. She glanced over at the manager, as if needing assistance with how to respond, but the manager couldn’t bail her out since he was talking to someone else. “I don’t think people worry about that anymore,” the receptionist said, “But if you and your husband don’t want that floor, I can assign another room to you.” “Is it a problem?” Timothy asked me, ready to change rooms if I said so. I loved that about him. He actually listened to my concerns. But being on the thirteenth floor didn’t make me apprehensive, as long as they had elevators. I’d only been curious about it. (There was that mouth of mine, shooting off when it had no business doing so. At least that’s what my grandmother would have said.)
6.29 The Pooka’s Wife
Timothy didn’t say anything. I guess what we’d just experienced was self-explanatory. Doesn’t everyone have a Faery Queen drop in on them in mid-flight, or rather at the point of landing? No, all joking aside. Things were good. I was rid of both the nausea and the horrible necklace that had been glued/cemented/welded to my neck. My hand reached up to touch bare skin. It was a really, really good thing. I felt like me again. Around us, passengers were unhooking their safety belts. A couple had already stood up and were reaching for something in the overhead bins even though the captain or steward had urged everyone to stay seated until the plane reached its gate. That was actually a funny line. Gate? Like there was a fence we needed to get inside? The plane was driving down a long strip of asphalt, just like it was a car traveling back to its garage. Timothy reached over and unbuckled my belt, although I’d have preferred it to remain on. Safety first, right? I heard Bob and Terry discussing the Faery Queen. Bob thought she was knock-out gorgeous. Terry was telling him that it wasn’t wise to discuss her in such terms. Terry was always the caution in their relationship. Bob was the puppy, pouncing around in pure joy. Not that such an analogy applied when we discussing werewolves. I suspected they were both long-toothed and clawfully dangerous. Ben shot a glance my way. He was smiling at me, like he didn’t have a care in the world. He’d actually stood up to his Queen. Didn’t that concern him? Would there be repercussions for him? The man in front of Timothy had stood up too and was unfortunately airing his under pits. Nasty. I hoped he applied deodorant when he made his way home or to his hotel. “You alright now?” Timothy asked, giving my hand a quick squeeze. I’d let go of my husband’s hand a couple of minutes after the wheels touched the pavement and we were slowing down. I felt guilty for causing him pain. “Are you okay?” I asked. “Did I tourniquet your hand?” Timothy laughed and kissed my forehead. “I’m tougher than that, my darling.” We both stood then, feeling that it was our turn to exit the metal monster. Daniel, in front of us, moved back slightly. Ben moved to his right side. “Welcome to Florida,” Bob shouted from behind me, getting a hush from Terry, but I was glad for the reminder. I’d never been outside the state of California, and here I was clear across the continental US. Wow! Florida, land of alligators and sea cows. I wondered if we’d have time to go see a manatee. Timothy had once promised to take me to Florida, but I’d thought he was joking, yet here were.
6.28 The Pooka’s Wife
There are times, especially when dreadfully nauseated, when it would be a big plus just to keep my eyes closed and to pass into the cavern of queasiness, but Ben had just said words that could have gotten his head chopped off, if Faery Queens did that sort of thing, and this was me that folks were discussing, so I wedged open my eyes, pulled my nose out of the airplane bag, and looked up. The Queen, hearing Ben’s words, had reared up her head either with an air of royalty or of great rage, but seeing me looking at her, she blinked once, then moved closer. “Timothy, pull the necklace off your wife. I command it.” The fact that Timothy and I had both tried to remove the necklace back at the house/mansion didn’t seem to have any bearing on the Queen’s demands. Timothy didn’t even pause to argue. He reached out to touch my neck, then scooped the blasted thing off me like it had never been attached. Then, not knowing what to do with it, he tossed it to Ben, who started squeaking with the sound of fingernails on chalkboard. The plane was decelerating, its little wing flaps tugging on the air around us, howling and growling as if it were an injured puppy. I wanted to clamp my hands over my ears, but that was only a moment of whimsy. I was too fascinated by the spectacle going on around me to fall back into my relief bag. The Queen, still robed in a gown that sparkled blindingly, was clinging with all her strength, one hand on Timothy’s seat and the other on Ben’s, trying desperately to keep her balance. Poor Ben stood beside her, also hanging onto the plane’s heavy seat framework with one hand, while the other held the necklace with such distaste, it was like it was a snake that might suddenly bite him. All the people about us continued frozen in their stasis. I have no idea what they were thinking. Were they even aware of the golden-gowned woman standing in the aisle? Had they heard anything, or were their bodies and minds just turned off as if they were anaesthetized to the scene? Ben handed the necklace to the Queen, then practically jumped back into his seat and had the safety belt about him only seconds later. When my eyes returned to the Queen, she had suddenly disappeared. The plane’s wheels were breaking, laying skid marks across the runway, I supposed. Gravity thrust me backwards. I was holding Timothy’s hand with such intensity, he’d probably have finger imprints in his skin when the plane stopped. My vomit bag had been lost, possibly on the floor, maybe even pushed backward to share space with the two werewolf guards behind us. I was glad that not only was it empty, but luckily, I didn’t need it anymore. My stomach had given up its protests. My eyes saw only one reality, the inside of a skidding, noisy, vibrating metal contraption, that might possibly be falling apart at any moment it was rattling so hard. I was still a panicked mess, but not nauseated anymore. And the plane was slowing down. We’d made landfall. Could the worst be over?
6.27 The Pooka’s Wife
Daniel, without a word, returned to his seat, and I heard his seatbelt buckle click a moment later. Ben continued to hover, while Timothy moved me back to my seat and strapped me in. The forest scene on top the mountain with the braves all in breechclouts which covered their privates, but gapped open a bit if I cared to look — they were gone. Their soft singsong voices were silent. Their exquisite face paintings were only a memory. I supposed they had departed with Daniel’s departure. The Queen’s court was still solidly planted on my right. A slow blink could recall the colorful dancers who’d been parading about in their costumes, like sparkling jewels ripe to admire. And the Queen still floated behind Ben, one of her ringed hands, stroking his shoulder. She was robed in Queenly attire, a golden gown that glittered even in the absence of any light inside the plane. The Queen’s eyes were studying me again, but the sharpness of a moment before, seen in her eyes and heard in her voice had quieted. I think she sympathized with my illness, but then there were no lines on her face to give me such meaning, so I have no idea why that thought had filtered in through my dizziness and nausea. The plane was nose diving, preparing to land, I hoped. The engine sounds had changed in preparation. Or maybe that was the wings doing their fluttering reverse, reducing our speed so the impossibly huge metal plane could land on what seemed a smallish landing strip. I reached out to grab at my water bottle, suddenly thirsty. I don’t know where my airplane bag had gone. Did Timothy have it? The bag was still empty, but it had become my security blanket. I missed it. “You, Penelope, wife of my Pooka, you are recovering now. Your human body was frail, but you are no longer that weak capsule of humanity. You are now one of the Enlightened ones.” For a moment, I felt that the Queen might be right, but then the same desperation hit me, and I knew that despite the Queen’s words and her magic, I was about to erupt. “What is this?” the Queen roared when I grabbed the bag from Timothy and thrust my nose back inside. It was Ben who ventured a response that might have brought the Queen’s wrath with it, except the plane’s wheels were suddenly touching down, and she must have known that this stasis period would have to end. She turned to face him and asked him to repeat the words and so he did. “It is not the rejection of the Pooka, that is causing this, but the necklace you secured to Penelope’s neck. Her body cannot endure its magic at this time.”
6.26 The Pooka’s Wife
It was a strange sensation, this being in two places at one time: the middle of a forest on a mountain top with a cluster of men circling me while actually sitting onboard an airplane descending into a Floridian city I’d never heard of. In fact, as I blinked, I felt transported to another spot, a royal chamber: a great hall with spectacular male peacocks in full array painted on the walls and the same Queen I’d met earlier sitting atop her throne. She was watching some people dancing, the women clothed in ballroom style gowns, while the men were wearing Indian-style Sherwani with Nehru collars and exotic embroidery designs on their colorful silk tunics. I spent a moment studying the dancers as they wove about, their hands raised in the air, the women’s dresses swirling about with the women’s movements. But then the eyes of the queen turned to regard me. I wasn’t there. How could she see me? But I could feel her interest. I felt her eyes staring into mine. She took note of Timothy swathing my neck with his tongue and then Daniel, the Thunderbird, mouthing his chants as his hand cooled my brow. “Enough,” the Queen ordered. Daniel must have heard her because he took two steps backwards, and Ben shot up from his seat across the aisle from us. Had Ben’s faery Queen spoken to him? Had she commanded him to do something we hadn’t heard? Strangely, he, too, suddenly had no seat belt securing him to his place in the airplane’s lake-water blue seats. He was simply there beside me almost immediately replacing Daniel. “In trouble,” I said, loosing half my sentence. “I’d meant to scold them for getting up. At least, I think that’s what I meant to do, but even that seemed more than my poor brain could deal with, and my voice came out a harsh echo in the void of a hall once full of dancers but now empty of all but the Queen. “You will not reject the Pooka. You will grow stronger for it,” the Queen commanded, and I knew that demand was for me. But what control did I have over this hollowness inside me, this ricocheting from mountain realm to Queen’s Court that I suspected must be inside the Faery World? Timothy stopped attacking my neck to look up. Was he seeing the Queen, too?
6.25 The Pooka’s Wife
The plane was starting to descend. I think we were all supposed to be locked in our seats, prepared for landing, but Daniel stood up and made his way back to us. When a steward came rushing over, Daniel did something with his hand, and the man turned about and retreated. “She is ill?” Daniel asked. “I think her body is resisting the change. I have no experience with this. I don’t know what to do,” Timothy whispered hoarsely. I had never heard my husband’s voice so ragged. I opened my eyes to look at him, then, as the seat in front of me started whirling, I clamped down on sight. “Are we about to crash?” I asked. Yes, that was the no-no, the never say, the never even whisper phrase that we were forbidden to say on board airplanes, but I was rather out of it at that point. My world was a galloping tea cup, whirling about in some kind of Disneyland Alice in Wonderland fantasy. At least I wished that was where I was at, but the reality was that I was cognizant enough to know that I was still onboard a plane and that things weren’t right with ME, only ME. All of the other passengers sounded fine. No coffee throwing up due to bad hot water. No pastry breakfast bars that had gone bad. No blueberry yogurt rebelling against a lack of refrigeration time. The rest of the passengers were supremely quiet. No mobs in the aisles, no screaming or crying out from panic. It was just me having major spasms and dizzy spells. It was just me who was treating a plastic-coated discard sack like my best friend. Daniel reached over and placed his hand on my brow. He mumbled a series of sounds: words maybe, a song, a lecture about dogs, for all I know. Whatever he was saying, it came out as a chant, the mystical kind that needed a rock circle with a campfire in the middle, eight naked-chested Native American braves smoking peace pipes, and a wild wolf howling up at the moon. I tried to open my eyes to see if I’d somehow been magically transferred off the flight onto a mountain peak in the middle of a forest, but I couldn’t seem to unglue my eyes. I could feel that Timothy had shifted me into his lap. (How could he do so with his safety belt on? Where was the irked stewardess, raging about protocols and necessity?) Daniel still had his hand on my brow, cooling it down somehow. And Timothy was suddenly licking at my neck. What was up with that?
6.24 The Pooka’s Wife
Everyone had been told to buckle up. I already had my seat belt on, of course, so when the steward walked by, checking that every passenger had followed his directions, he gave me a big smile and nodded his head. Strangely, Timothy glared at him. Now, I need to say that I’ve always had a history of being what my grandmother called plump. I also consider myself to be plain as a Chinese dumpling. Yet, Timothy thought I was beautiful. That was strange, but nice. Of course, Simone had given me some enhancements back in the days when I first started dating Timothy. She’d worked on my hair to get it appropriately styled, as she put it, and she’d done something to my cheekbones, as well as giving me eyelash enhancements and who knew what else. (I’d been asleep in the beauty parlor chair at the time.) Anyway, with a little TLC, I guess everyone could brighten up their appearance and more or less turn into a better edition of the original. I would always be grateful for Simone’s assistance in the matter, but the truth is that, I really didn’t see why people kept calling me a “goddess” and describing me as a natural model. Me? That was a laugh. But here this steward had given me his handsome as sin bright-white smile, and Timothy’s eyes were still following the poor man, my husband’s anger tightening the muscles in his face. It wasn’t as if the airline attendant had asked me out on a date for a movie night. Maybe the jealousy bit, was a good thing, except . . . Well, the truth of the matter is that I was suddenly feeling less than par. Was it the water tank that Bob said never got cleaned out on board flights? Was the coffee now churning about inside me complaining that I’d had two cups of it? Or maybe it was that strange pastry sandwich I’d eaten? But Timothy, other than the stern countenance on his face as he watched the steward continue down the aisle, looked fine. I guess I groaned as I reached for the little bag that lay protectively inside the seat pocket in front of me. I opened up the plastic-line, cardboard bag and stared inside. “You’re fine,” Timothy said, soothingly, but I wasn’t, and his reassurance only irritated me, as if he dared to think that my stomach didn’t know the difference between fine — and sick as a dog who’d just foraged in a tipped over garbage can. “Does she need a pill?” Bob called out from the seat behind me. I didn’t look up. If I had, my eyes might have sent Laser Beams at the man. I don’t know why I felt so angry, but I was burning up with it. In fact, I was suddenly dripping perspiration, a steaming glass with moisture pouring out like a . . . I gagged and sank my face inside the bag, but nothing came out. All around me, I could feel people recoiling. No one let out a hiss or a verbal complaint, but it was like a tidal wave in the air that half knocked me off my seat. Or their antipathy would have, if I hadn’t been buckled in. Timothy swung his arm around my shoulder. “Breathe in, my darling. I think you’re just having a bad reaction.” A bad reaction? Reacting to what? The coffee? The sandwich. The blueberry yogurt? The bear claw I wanted but never got? A second heave pushed forth, but nothing upchucked, just misery that slapped me up and down and flapped my stomach about like a gasping, dying fish.
6.23 The Pooka’s Wife
The breakfast bar that they gave us was okay, nothing like the banquet room at the Delta Club where I’d eaten pancakes with honey, but oh, well. I was dining in the sky. That was pretty amazing in itself. The aluminum-covered bar held scrambled eggs and cheese, covered by a pastry crust. There was also a small bowl — a plastic beige bowl, like we’d had the night before. It contained fruit salad, none of it fresh, but the canned, syrupy kind, although not as sweet as the can Grandma used to open on special occasions. She used the contents in gelatin salads, on pancakes, over white cakes, and once over my cereal, which I asked her not to do again. The coffee was the best part of our breakfast in flight, although Bob had told me not to drink any. He said that airlines used unsafe water, but Terry piped up that that story was only a myth. He said the water was perfectly safe and that everyone drank it and no one got sick. I looked around at the people in the seats nearby us, and Terry was absolutely correct. Almost everyone was drinking cups of coffee, except those who were tea-drinkers. And didn’t the hot water come from the same place whether it was tea or coffee the passenger was drinking? Timothy drank all his coffee and asked for more, although he was not usually the coffee enthusiast that I was. I held my cup out for seconds, too. Dying by coffee was a good way to go, I supposed. (Thankfully, Terry was right. No one perished mid-drink or even later as we exited the plane, people looked just fine.) After we finished our egg and cheese pastry with fruit, we also had a yogurt cup. Mine was strawberry. Timothy got blueberry, which was one of my favorites, so we traded. He offered and said he didn’t care which one he ate. The stewardess was just about to take our trays away when the steward from the night before came by with a platter of pastries. I think they were bear claws. My stomach was full, but I noticed that Terry and Bob grabbed a couple of the goodies. I wish I’d known the attendants were going to be offering bear claws. I’d have traded the yogurt for that. But yogurt was better for me, I thought to myself as I inwardly sighed. Breakfast over, coffee drained, bear claws no longer walking the aisles, it was time to prepare for departure. The airline had given us a toothbrush and toothpaste. The latter was the cutest miniature tube you’ve ever seen. I wanted to keep mine as a souvenir, but, instead, I stood up, ready to attempt to brush my teeth in a phonebooth-sized bathroom. (Yes, I remember phonebooths. Superman changed in them, right?) “Let’s wait until we land, darling. The hotel will have an elegant bathroom all properly readied for your face washing and toothbrushing. Okay?” “What about morning breath?” I asked, but I’d barely gotten the words out before Timothy was kissing me. Guess what I learned. Pookas, absolutely, do not have morning breath. Ever.
6.22 The Pooka’s Wife
The hour was late. By the time the empty trays had all been picked up, the passengers were standing up to go visit the WC. I watched the steady stream, thankfully not a push and shove procedure. Bob had earlier explained that the folks in First Class were classy, a statement he hooted over until Terry did the elbow in the ribs treatment to get Bob to stop laughing. I got the pun, but it also seemed that Bob was right. Everyone seemed well mannered and polite. The people around us were softly saying, “Excuse me, please,” and thanking everyone for being equally courteous. It was nice to see. I took my turn when the parade had slowed, Timothy right behind me with Ben and Terry not far behind. I half expected one of them to enter the tiny room with me, but at least the bodyguard business didn’t practice that level of strictness. After we’d all done our business, we made our way back to our places only to find that while we were gone, our seats had gone from vertical chairs to horizontal semi-beds. And we had blankets and pillows. So cool! I snuggled into my bed-chair while Timothy discarded the plastic the airline had wrapped everything in. A steward came by with a large black garbage bag, eager to collect it. Then, Timothy lay down beside me, gathered me close, so that he could fit in my chair-bed, and we kissed a couple of times, then closed our eyes. Almost at once, a steward came by, requesting that we buckle up over the blanket, so they could make sure that we were securely buckled in, just in case of any potential turbulence. “I’m sorry, Sir, but you will need to be in your own seat for that,” the same stew who’d served us dinner explained in a quiet but firm voice. I thought Timothy might argue, but he didn’t say a word and merely moved back into his seat. We both buckled ourselves in, over the blanket, and once more started to close our eyes. Just as we were doing so, I saw the cabin lights dim. It was sleepy time on the airplane. That was pretty exciting, actually. Eating a meal on a plane and now bedding down for a night of snores and . . . When I woke, Timothy was bending over me, telling me that it was time to get up. How could that be possible? I yawned broadly as he helped me return my seat to a normal position. Up at the front, a cart was already bringing coffee down the aisle. That encouraged me not to nod back off in my seat. I smiled at my husband and pecked him on the chin. He growled teasingly and said, “I will soon want more than that, my darling wife.” That’s all it took to make me feel a most wonderful stab of contentment. Married life was going to be A-Okay.
6.21 The Pooka’s Wife
We had plain flatware, not intricately decorated like Timothy’s good set that had been used at the wedding banquet, but they were substantial, not plastic ones, like I’d expected, at least. I picked up my fork and dug into the chicken. Timothy was using a knife to cut his, so I picked up mine, ready to do some cutting. My first bite was a chew and a half. It must be part rubber. I remembered a kid I’d known in grade school who carried a rubber chicken about. He was kind of weird, as we all were at that age. I think he used the chicken to unsettle the adults around him because all us kids just ignored his plopping the thing in our faces. Seen once, what’s to scream about, right? Anyway that rubber chicken might have been cooked and ended up as airplane food . . . oh, geez. The meal wasn’t that bad. I’m being melodramatic here. The green beans, the gravy, and even the chicken were pleasant if not culinary works of art. I glanced over at Ben. He’d passed on dinner and was reading a book. I wondered what genre he liked. Did someone write books about the Fae? Were there Fae mysteries, Fae living on alien planets, and vampire and werewolf Fae books? I took a bite of the bun, the one they’d offered real butter to spread over. I nibbled and then put it down. Grandma would have been irked at my waste, but I didn’t feel like finishing the rest of my dinner. I moved on to the dessert. Eureka. That was a hit. The apples were nicely seasoned with a touch of cinnamon and, I think, cloves. The filling wasn’t too sweet so that after I bite I felt sick. No way. I savored every last bite, enjoying the crumbly crust and the way it so agreed with the apple mixture. I ate it all and then practically licked the bowl. Then when I was done, I looked up. Timothy hadn’t even touched his dessert. He was just sitting there smiling and watching me. “We’re adding that apple concoction to Ben’s TV tray dinners from now on,” my husband said. “I can tell that’s a favorite of yours.” There is nothing more embarrassing than finding out that a spectator was watching your obvious salivation over an apple pie/tart. I felt my face heat as I removed the napkin from my lap and placed it on my tray. “Ok. Eat yours and tell me that it isn’t praise worthy,” I dared him. Timothy reached over and stabbed the bowl with his spoon and dished up a bite. “Yum,” he said, but I think he was just teasing. Timothy never seemed to appreciate sweets appropriately. What was up with that?