The Secrets of Flight by Maggie Leffler Read Free Book Online Page A

out of the incubator to tell his father which were group A streptococcal positive. But Dave surprised us by falling in love with music instead. We forced him to pick a dual concentration, something that might assure his parents that he wouldn’t grow up to be a bum. So he picked computer science!” When Elyse smiled uncertainly, I thought, Dear God, I’ve said too much . “I fully endorse your plans for a dual career,” I finally finished.
    â€œThanks?” She took a bite of her apple Danish, wiped her mouth, and then asked, “So what’s your book about?” This time it was my turn for my face to cloud over. For a second I thought she meant my essay collection, Miss Bixby Takes a Wife, which had seen the light of day but just barely. But then I realized we were still talking about my “memoir.” It seemed like such a ruse, when I wasn’t even sure I could bring myself to tell the story.
    â€œThe book? Oh. Me, my life, the family secrets,” I said breezily, and the corners of her mouth turned up as if she were intrigued. It was odd that I called them family secrets, when the family was long gone, and the secrets were important to no one but me.
    T HE NEXT DAY I RODE THE BUS OVER TO W ALNUT S TREET AND ambled down the sidewalk, peering in the windows of shops along the way. Headless mannequins wore silk dresses and precarious heels. Sarah, graced with good balance, strong ankles, and a tiny waist—even without a corset—would’ve been in seventh heaven among the racks. Meanwhile, the fruit in the window of the little grocery store looked like it might’ve been genetically engineered to look superior to any other fruit I’d ever seen.
    The Apple Store was probably spectacular too, for someone of Elyse’s age. There were display stations of computers and cell phones throughout the store and a line was forming at the front for the “Genius Bar.” My son Dave—and I say this with only the smallest amount of bias—is smarter than all of those geniuses put together.
    â€œSo, is this a present for someone?” asked the salesman, asloppy youth with a mop of red curls, khaki shorts falling so low that I could see his undershorts, and a blue Apple T-shirt straining at a beer gut. Still, I liked his earnest smile.
    I thought about saying the computer was for Elyse, but what would I call her? My writing colleague? And besides, the model I was looking at would cost me over a thousand dollars. It didn’t matter that I had money to burn, money that it would be a sin to waste: the girl had balked about accepting payment for typing my memoir and was distinctly uncomfortable when I insisted on buying her a Danish at Panera. “The computer will be for me,” I said.
    â€œWhat kind of capabilities are you looking for?” he asked, and I blinked. “Email? Sharing pictures on the Internet?”
    â€œI would like to type,” I said.
    â€œGotcha,” he said, guiding me toward a laptop on the display table. After he talked me through the “word processing” feature, I told him I’d take it. It was probably his easiest sale of the day. When he couldn’t accept a personal check, I handed him my never-used-before debit card, issued against my will by the bank, and he slid it through a handheld device that turned out to be a cash register of some sort.
    â€œYou want to sign up for lessons to learn how to use the computer?” he asked.
    â€œI have a little friend who can help me out,” I said, and he nodded, punched a few keys on his device, and gave me back my card and a receipt.
    So, that’s what she is, I thought, leaving the store. My little friend .
    Returning to my apartment, I made the unfortunate mistake of bumping into Selena Markmann just exiting the building in her usual purple splendor—wind pants and a jacket, which meant she was probably on her way to Jazzercise. She was always