Sandrastrail

There were tear stains smudging the ink here and there. All around it on the wooden table there were tiny puddles of the same.

At the time I reasoned that she cried a lot anyway. But later as I drank myself to sleep I realized what bullshit that was.

The apartment was a two bedroom with a tiny kitchen, an equally tiny bathroom, and a decent living room. Before Sandra came along the place wasn't furnished very well. I had had a desk and couch in the living room. A cot in my bedroom. A refrigerator. Microwave. Coffee Maker. I didn't believe in a kitchen table and I read books instead of watching the tube.

This was before Sandra came along with womanly taste for the place. She made me buy everything I hadn't bought, and I did to make it worthy of her.

I was falling in love with her.

I took her to fancy restaurants in the middle of the week. Fast food or take-out on Fridays. Rental movies all day Saturday. Mini-golf or a stroll in the park on Sunday. Things like that and much, much more. I bought her flowers most days. So many, in fact, that one time she asked me to just stop with the damned flowers.

Eventually she proposed to me. I wasn't ready.

***

I should mention how we met. It's a pretty funny story.

It was around nine o'clock at night and I was out for a walk. I walked a lot in those days. I walked by a parking lot and saw her, a striking woman cursing at her car. She was alone. I thought maybe I could help her somehow.

I walked across asphalt toward her. I came up behind her and said, "Need help, Miss?"

She was startled. She turned around and said, "Well, I can't get this damn door to open." The key was turned and apparently it was the handle giving her a problem.

"Want me to give it a try?"

"Sure," she said.

I yanked up on the handle very hard. No joy. Tried again, this time heaving with all my might, and the stubborn thing broke off. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I sputtered. "I'll replace that for you... I'm wicked sorry... What's your name again?"

"Sandra." She was smiling.

"Well, hi Sandra, my name's Martin... is there any way I can make this up to you?" Then I got brave. "Like maybe a cup of coffee?"

She looked at me with surprise. She said, "Yes, I think I'd like that," and a grin was forming on her tanned face.

I knew a pretty good little coffee joint a couple blocks away. My heart was racing as I shoved a hand into a pocket and she followed. I knew what I was doing, but there was something different about her. Something that made my customary zeal for the bedroom wrong. I still can't say exactly what that was. At the time I thought it could be her hair. Whatever it was, I knew I had to make Sandra mine. Hooked, was the word that would later pop into my mind.

I walked to a booth in one corner of the coffee place and Sandra sat beside me. "I really am sorry about the handle. I'll pay for a cab to bring you home, if you want."

"That would be very kind of you."

So we sat and sipped our way through two cups of strong coffee. By the time the lady at the counter said it was closing time, we were through the question-and-answer phase. We were on to telling stories of our lives. I had just finished one about my best friend and his crazy dog.

Paying for the coffee, I asked the woman if I could use her phone. She told me there was a pay phone not a block up the street. I turned to Sandra and said, "Shall we?" She nodded and we left for the pay phone.

I put two quarters into the slot and dialed the number of the taxi company. They told me a guy would be there in five or ten minutes.

When I turned back around Sandra said, "You've been very kind. Thanks for everything." Then she took a pen from her purse and grabbed my hand and marked her number on it.

She was looking at me. I said, "I'll call you tomorrow morning and we can get that handle taken care of, huh?"

She nodded, not tearing her gaze from mine.

The cab pulled up just then. She boarded into the back and I leaned into the driver's window. I handed him three twenties and told him to take her wherever she wanted.

After that I walked into a new era.

***

When I got home from work that day I rummaged in my closet for a few minutes before I found it. It was an old mahogany leather suitcase. Just big enough to carry everything I'd need. I stuffed four sets of clothes into it. I added my journal, a couple of notebooks, a writing tablet, and three books which later ended up in second hand shops in various cities.

I put my Red Sox hat on, my sneakers, and headed for the first floor of the building. I set my bags down and knocked on the landlord's door.

Mister Cuzzio, a short and bald Italian man, answered the door on my second knock. "Martin!" he grinned broadly, "how are you? What can I uh... do you for?"

"Mister Cuzzio, how much would it cost to pay my rent for a year?"

His grin sustained. Magnifico! He did the math in his head, I could almost see the gears working as he stood silent. Then he said, "Nine t'ousand six-hundred. But, you gimme eighty-five or nine t'ousand and we call it goo', eh?"

I bent down and got into my doctor's bag full of cash I had gotten from the bank earlier in the day. I removed fourteen thousand dollars and handed it to him. His eyes were so wide I expected them to burst any second. "That's fourteen." This was Christmas in October for Mister Cuzzio. "I'm going away and for how long I dunno, but that should leave me set for a year and five months at least, right?" The bald man nodded eagerly but never let his eyes stray from the small fortune I'd just presented him with. His demeanor seemed to say: whatever you wish, Mister Money bags-tenant. "Bye, then," I said.

The man was left paralyzed for a moment before he said, "Goo'-bye, have goo' trip!"

I had no clue where to start. But I knew Sandra and I figured the first place she would go would be her mother's house. She had always had a very close relationship with her mother.

Margeret Andersen was a widow who occupied 1315 Maple Street, Tacoma, Washington. The other side of the country, in other words. I would've called ahead of time if I thought it would do any good. I had to embrace her and tell her I was sorry and that if it's marriage she wants then that's what she'll get and we'll honeymoon on Mars if she wants to. If only she'd come back and give me another shot I would make everything up to her. Everything. I'd even do her part of the chores if she wanted, just come back!

I went to Logan International Airport up in Boston. At the desk I was informed I could catch a plane that would go to Indianapolis where I could catch one that went to St. Paul and then finally the plane from St. Paul would take me to Tacoma. "Good. Do it up," I told the lady behind the corner.

"One thousand, one hundred dollars, please."

"Excuse me?"

"It's eleven hundred bucks for the flight, exactly. Cash or credit?"

I stared blankly at her. Pam was the name on her chest, near her shoulder. She had honey-blonde hair cut off at the shoulders and firm breasts and a trim figure all wrapped up in her American Airlines uniform. "Why so much?"

"You're booking it only two hours in advance," she said. "If you had come last week it would be much cheaper."

"Oh, all right. Cash, then." I bent down to the black bag and soon presented her with eleven crisp green bills.

She accepted them a bit suspiciously. I supposed most people paid with credit cards. But I loathe debt. I would hate to use credit for anything substantial. I have only one credit card and it's been used maybe ten times over the last seven years.

She handed me a miniature portfolio with all the necessary information inside. On the front it had the company logo and a picture of a big, ugly steel bird in the sky over one city or another. I always wondered why they never put something beautiful on those things. Why not a surrealist painting or the crest of a wave? Instead they display picture after picture of the ugliest artifacts. Two hours is a long time if all you're doing is waiting. I decided to read one of the books I brought.

The trip itself was boring. The bourbon I had iced in a plastic cup made it a lot easier to bear, just as it is right now.

I've always disliked flying. I would travel by car if I thought it would put me any hotter on Sandra's trail or wouldn't slow me down. But what took eight hours by plane could have taken days by car.

I left Tacoma International Airport in a taxi. It was late at night so I decided to just stay in hotel. Twenty minutes later we arrived there and I tipped the drive ten bucks.

The room was nice.

I woke up the next morning at around 8 PM. Before I left for the car rental, I made sure to visit the complimentary breakfast buffet. I ate a little too much. It's what I do when I'm feeling nervous.

The place had a deal on rentals. A hundred dollars per day. For all I knew I might be there a week or a few hours. I ended up renting a like-new Toyota Camry. I drove it around the city until I spotted a little Asian man selling street maps. I had come to Sandra's mother's house on one other occasion. It was a holiday, and Sandra had driven us there. She was a terrible driver; we almost got into three or four accidents while I was awake.

I bought a map and found her street. Turned out it was ten blocks from where I was. I pulled into the driveway and a mixed feelings came over me. On the one hand I hoped very much that Sandra was there and we would work things out. On the other I knew she wasn't, that she was already somewhere else. It's kind of that feeling one gets when an authority figure hands you a stern punishment and there's no way out. A feeling of defeat.

The house Sandra grew up in, that her father died in, and her mother still lived in, was squat. It had one floor, three bedrooms, a bathroom, a large kitchen, dining room, normal living room and a garage attached on the eastern end. It was painted maroon sometime since my last visit. Not a very bad job was done of it, either. In the driveway sat an older model Caprice, still near mint condition because her mom didn't leave the house much.

I knocked on the front door. "One minute!" I heard an elderly voice say. Then, seconds later the door was open and we stood facing each other. Her lips pursed; she recognized who I was. I half-expected her to tell me to get the hell off her property. Instead she said, "Martin, dear, please come in."

"Hi, ma," I said slowly. Then, because I could think of nothing else to say, "I love her. Can you tell me where she is? I have to find her before it's too late." No better cure for procrastination than action. I figured I might as well get to the point.

Sandra's mother was a wise, gentle woman. She listened very carefully and the look on her face told me she was digesting each syllable slowly so as to not miss a bit of the emotion behind it. "Well, dear, she's gone, I'm afraid. She left yesterday for her friend Loretta's house in Los Angeles. Go now; God only knows how long she'll be there, boy!"

She hurried down the hall into the kitchen. She came back and said, "Here. The phone number is there too," handing me a slip of paper.

"Thank you," I said leaving.

Sandra had never mentioned anyone named Loretta. Then again, I was such a jerk that I had never asked many questions. I returned the rental and was on the next flight to L.A.

In a cab outside the Los Angeles airport, the driver asked where I wanted to go. I looked at the little scrap of paper Sandra's mom had given me. Sandra's slow, careful handwriting:

842nd St., L.A.

109-747-6556

I told the driver. We pulled out into slow-moving traffic. The trip took an hour. Let me say this about Los Angeles, from my experience: there is no room to take a good, long dump without worrying about being in someone's way. We pulled up to a small brick condo. I got out, gave the cabbie seventy-five bucks and walked up the driveway.

I knocked. A small woman with black, graying hair opened the door.

"Loretta?" I said, unsure and fast.

"Uh... Yes," said the little woman.

"My name's Martin. I'm here for Sandra."

"Oh...," she said, looking at her toes. "Yeah, I heard about you." A pause. Then, "What do you want?"

"I've come for Sandra. I love her," I said earnestly.

"Well, she's not here. She left this morning after talking to her mom."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Did she say where she was goin'?"

"I'm not supposed to tell."

"This is important. I'm telling you that I love her more than life itself," I said, deciding I wouldn't leave without an answer.

"Well... All right, but you didn't hear this from me."

"Okay."

"Vegas."

"Where in Vegas?"

"Some woman named Deloris Brack. Her old friend or something like that."

"Thank you." I left.

The cab was still waiting for me, which was strange. Maybe he had a feeling I'd need him still. "Back to the airport, man," I told him.

He said, "Si."

Once in Las Vegas, I found a phone book at a pay phone. There were three Bracks in the directory, but none of them were Deloris or D. I ripped the page out and flagged a taxi.

We went to the first. 17 Money Lane. No joy. Never heard of a person name Deloris, chico, sorry. The next was apparently the woman's brother-in-law. He eyed me suspiciously and said, "Who 'a you?"

"I'm not looking for her, just my wife who's stayin' with her," I said.

"Oh, a'right. 255 Hardin' Avenue," he said to my relief. He was a mean-looking guy.

The cab took me. I hoped she was there.

"Houston," the silver-haired woman told me.

From Houston I went to St. Paul. From St. Paul I went to Vancouver, Canada. I never had the slightest idea she had so many friends.

The clues were now naked city names. I had to call her mother with every new clue to find out who Sandra knew in whichever place. I wondered what motivated Mrs. Andersen to help me like that, to be eager to hear from me. I figured it was better not to question it, though.

At this point it was taking weeks to find the people. I never gave up, not once. I came close a few times, but I didn't think of it much. I might drink then.

I went to Miami for two and a half weeks, dealt with an endless number of suspicious Hispanics. A few called me "a nosy gringo," whatever that means.

I don't even remember all of the cities and sometimes small towns I went to. On Christmas I stayed in a shabby Boulder motel room. New Year's Eve I was in San Francisco.

Last month, though, while calling Sandra's mom, Sandra answered.

"Sandra!" I said.

"Martin?"

"I've been after you!"

"I know. I told you not to. Leave me alone."

"Wait! Don't hang up!"

"Why?"

"Because... because I love you more than anything, don't you see? I'll do anything to have you back. Just give me another chance, baby, I'm beggin' you, we'll never have a problem again!" I was pleading in such a manic way it even surprised and scared me.

She softened. I knew she must still have some love for me. "Okay," she said.

"Can I meet you?"

"Not just yet. Maybe a week or so... yeah. Meet me at the Rockefeller Center in a week at about this time."

"You're gonna give me a chance?"

"We'll see." Click.

I sat in disbelief for a few minutes. Not only because I might have another chance, but also because of the business-like tone in which she had discussed the matter. It made sense, though.

Today is the sixth since the call. I decided to wait around in Boise and see what there was to see.

Yesterday afternoon I went to Boise International Airport and booked a flight for three o'clock this morning. I didn't get a wink of sleep and by ten-thirty I realized I wouldn't. So I walked the lonely, desolate streets of Boise, Idaho. It's funny how some cities, like New York where I'm going, are always bustling. While others, like my hometown, are never very lively, and still others like Boise are only animated during the day.

Which brings me to this American Airlines seat. It's seven o'clock in the morning and in seven hours I'll see Sandra and be with her until the day I die, god willing.

Now I'm jerked violently away from my memories and nostalgia by a booming, foreign voice. I look up and see a bearded man holding the air marshal at knife point. The marshal is a young, inexperienced, probably married man; he gives in easily. I wonder, How the hell did that knife get here?

Now three more men in my row, all wearing the same kind of brown leather jacket, stand up and go toward the guy holding the air marshal hostage. These guys all look European and mean.

The men turn left and face the other marshal. I see a fifth man creeping up behind the marshal with -- is that a toilet seat? -- gripped in both hands. The leather jacket trio advance on the marshal and while he's distracted by them the fifth one whacks him on the head with a resounding crack. The fifth guy stoops and takes the gun from the marshal's hands. He points it down and fires three shots. Seats are in the way; I can't see the marshal. I assume he's dead.

The other marshal is squirming and cursing. Why the hell isn't anyone stopping this? I look around. I see mostly businessmen and women. A few mothers hushing their bawling children. I'd do something, but I have Sandra to think about. The four men on the right stab the other air marshal a few times. Blood's flowing onto the cabin floor. The one who held him hostage kneels and takes his bloody gun.

The fifth, now-armed, guy sees a stewardess in the corner, near where I am. He runs over and takes her by the arm. He has a German accent, I think.

"Take me to da cockpeet!"

"I-I can't!"

Then one of the pilots enters the scene up front. He's walking briskly, I think headed for the toilet. He didn't even notice the guy with the gun until it was too late. The guy shot him and the other three rushed the cockpit.

The guy a few seats behind me with the pretty blond stewardess begins to rape her, from what I can hear. She's screaming, moaning. I can't take that much longer.

Now I'm standing up. I'll go to hell if I don't do something about that. I march back there, kick the scrawny creep, and somehow, I'm not even sure how, get hold of the automatic he stole from the marshal. Without thinking I point it at him and fire four rounds directly into his dark tanned skull. The blond looks at me gratefully and pulls her skirt back up, trying to conceal the many bruises she's just sustained.

I turn around and face the front. I see one of the knife-wielding dirt bags coming. He tries to duck but I've got dead aim. Before dying he exclaims something in German toward the cockpit. Wow, I'm playing the hero now, I think to myself.

I charge up the aisle and find the cockpit door closed, locked. I fire a few rounds but watch as they do no good. I only hope they didn't hit anyone behind me. Oh, damn, that's right! These doors are now fortified, especially on planes headed for New York. National Security....

Now there's not really much I can do. I hear a guy on a cell phone, telling the authorities. Great, but what can they do? I hear another guy telling his someone everything that's just happened, about "some dude who took care of a couple of the jerkoffs," and that he loved her more than she'll ever know. Should he never see her again, he will see her on the other side, baby.

I feel the plane tilt forward. First not very much, but now the tilt is pronounced. I try to crawl up to a seat so I can have something to hold on to but it's no good. The plane now seems fully vertical.

People and babies and purses are now falling from the back row along with suitcases and briefcases and plastic cups and food and papers. It's really inverted and strange to be right where I am. Things are pelting my body but the adrenaline rush I gained by waxing those psychos is numbing the pain. I'm fascinated momentarily by the paradoxical way things presently are. The strongest wind I've ever felt is blowing in every direction now.

I feel fearless. I'm past fear. In fact, I feel an ironic sense of triumph. I would have had her back, I'm sure. The last thought that goes through my mind, as I look at the ceiling, my eyes rolling about, a sick feeling coming into my stomach -- a feeling of hate and wonder and anger -- before we hit the ground and my body becomes a splatter, is an image of Sandra standing in front of Rockefeller Center. She's wearing her best black skirt, there's a look of no-surprise and dismay on her face. Waiting. Alone. Alone...