On a tarmac, near the river that divides state lines, in the vaporous Missouri heat when oily skin stirs claustrophobia from inside pores, I saw Bob and his sailplane dance. As asphalt bubbled and our tongues hung dry, Bob and his long, thin wings glided against bare blue. So delicate, so tender, his slender cockpit and carbon fiber body, twisting to the soft hum of the engine, imprinting the sky, pirouette after pirouette. A retired scientist, known for pyrotechnic aerobatics, he was a different kind of performer. One that didn’t show his teeth with each hairpin turn or chase the speed of sound. There would be no sonic boom or flexing of fuselages when Bob took the stage.
Unlike the other acts that day, the other pilots there to demonstrate the pride and professionalism of the United States Marine Corps. All decorated in various achievement medals, all served their country, all sharp, masculine jaw lines that complemented the curvature of shrapnel in which they sat. Under dark metallic epidermis was the commanding officer— also known as Boss, also known as No. 1— and his fleet that rounded out the famous headlining act: the Blue Angels.
Wing-tip-to-wing-tip, Risking their lives for our entertainment! Dad said.
From Brooklyn to St. Joseph, I had come home only for the weekend—one of the rare ones that I get home at all. I was surprised Dad wanted to spend one of our two days together at an airshow (Why don’t you stay longer? he always asks). That morning he had already snuck in an early mass service and secured four passes from a local grocer before my feet had touched the worn carpet. Streamers of blonde hair were braided halfway down my open back, and jean shorts were rolled taut against my femurs, thigh meat bulging out slightly around the denim casing.
Once inside the base, Dad rambled through clusters of folding lawn chairs, Mom and I shuffling behind, mouthing the I’m sorry’s he forgot one person at a time. Heat rose up through my body, like a giant wick pulling moisture out of the ground, sending it through my pale knees, all nicked and dirtied. There were no red hats, only blistering, pink, squishy skin to give the crowd that human quality. Sweat beaded down arms, foreheads, legs, any exposed flesh, offering a contrast to the black and blue event t-shirts, sponsor banners, and uniformed personnel.
Everyone held the insignia of an aviator badge stamped on their persons, like some sort of cargo cult. Looking. Waiting. Reapplying military-grade sunscreen.
An interlude of Paula Abdul played between performances. Hey baby, just remember I’m forever your girl. Muscle memory from a routine in elementary school popped my right toe on reflex. I wound my hips around the wide vibrato of the saxophone, feet hitting the 8-counts even twenty years later, scooping up notes as I step-touched.
Pointe, shake. Bite down on an Oscar Mayer laced with tang and spice.
Mom suggested we squeeze me into costume like recital, sending me inward, back to wobbling across cracked hardwoods, masking purple crumpled toe beds and shards of nail with tendrils of satin. Conditioned to smile, plié—demi then grand— grab the barre, suck in to lift; lock eyes with the bruised just before you opt to throw your mass not against the desiccated, ribbed reflection in the mirror, but instead 90 degrees over the right shoulder into the next sequence of infinite spins. Forever and ever.
I kept counting the beats, as we clapped and welcomed Shockwave Diesel, the world’s fastest semi. Still the baddest of the bad after all these years. Cowbells clanged, puffed rings ominously floated out as the Frankensteined jet truck launched across the strip, conflagration-sized flames blazing behind. The taste of gasoline thwarted any concern about parabens on my arms.
The heat index registered 109 and Mom wrapped a cool, wet t-shirt around her clavicle as we waited, still hip-shaking, watching paramedics squirt water directly onto anxious gum lines.
I’m a disabled veteran, but I’m no hero. Like the pilots Dad meant. He’s no hero like the six angels. Like honor is quantifiable. Dad with a morality yardstick permanently against his back, and, if I were to look at the pantry wall, our family height chart, above the tick for the back of our yellow lab, below my third-grade ponytail, there would be a thick graphite line to mark his sacrifice—one like the arc of nerve endings that previously connected his left thumb to his forefinger. Until the accident.
Just as my stomach began cramping, maybe from the heat, or my period, but most likely from the broiled encased meat, Bob Carlton and his Salto Sailplane flew in view.
Ladies and gentlemen, Bob has something to say. His voice crackled overhead as he introduced a couple with a baby in utero in the audience. Their first, and now his first, how special this would be, a reveal to top all reveals. A pioneer Bob was, an artist.
Three. Two. One.
The sailplane curved into a figure-eight, as exhaust lines trailed.
I think I see pink…no, wait, blue? I can’t tell…maybe it’s a dud…is that…purple?
He cut the second engine and we listened to the jet silence as a streak of cosmic aubergine sliced through the atmosphere. We followed him, heads moving in unison, loop for loop, as ribbons of smoke criss-crossed as if he was lacing up hazy, tapered feet. He turned, leaving violet track marks like stitched pleating, like the flight pattern across my stomach, the small vessel circled the raised scar above my right ovary, soaring to the indention inside my naval, the primary access point where they had extracted my uterine lining from the lower intestine one year ago.
My stomach dropped to my palm. I let out some gas. I needed to go to the bathroom but couldn’t take my eyes off the choreography. My Mom became glossy-eyed.
I wondered what it would have been like to be pregnant. To be that couple.
I wonder how they will tell their child about today. Which birthday will they sit down and explain gender reveals? I imagine them scrolling their phones searching for the video. Stopping to show posts from other couples. Water balloons with blue dye. Piñatas bursting with pink confetti. But yours tops them all, they’ll say.
They’ll click through and show the video of Bob C. and his sky ballet. All of the likes they received at 16 weeks. How the front page of the local paper folded, drawing a crease through their faces.
Will they remember to describe the heat? And the diesel engine that revved? And the crowd, how despite it, we stayed? We cheered for the beautiful drops of lavender steam and the reveal that didn’t reveal anything but inadvertently restored our ability to be surprised, to restore intimacy, acceptance in not knowing.
Another round of applause for Bob as the Blue Angels took the stage, and I danced my way to the nearest bathroom.