She Poured Out Her Heart (50 page)

T
he plane was a blue and white turboprop, distressingly undersized, but then, they were only going to jump out of it anyway. Bonnie waited as Honey and Babe were loaded in. Then it was her turn. The other, middle-aged couple were not coming, and everyone was OK with that. They had left the room with the rest of them when the orientation was done, but when they reached the hangar and the equipment locker, it was discovered that they had not followed. Through a glass door, Bonnie saw them out in the parking lot, standing next to their car, engaged in what looked like intense conversation.

Rocky said to Bonnie, “I was definitely not going to jump with that guy. No way. Pass.”

“Maybe he just wanted to scare her,” Bonnie said. “Or maybe he was showing off.”

“Isn't it great that we'll never have to know.” He was checking out Bonnie's harness and his own gear with as much care as if they were astronauts. The harness straps were uncomfortably tight, like some sort of unsexy bondage gear. Rocky was going to be Bonnie's tandem jump partner, which surprised her. She would have thought that all of Honey's carrying on would have gotten results. Instead it was likely that they were paired off by weight class, since Babe was headed out with the largest of the instructors, and Honey the smallest while Bonnie and Rocky measured up in the midrange.

Rocky said, “Now tell me you're not a suicide risk.”

“Not consciously.” And then, because he did not know her and was not familiar with her particular kind of bleak humor, she said, “No.”

She was glad she was jumping with him. She didn't care about cute; she wanted somebody like Rocky, a weatherbeaten veteran who shoved people out of airplanes all the time, like sacks of mail. The skin around his eyes was pale, from wearing goggles, probably. He was looking at her, sizing her up. “You're pretty nervous,” he stated.

“If I throw up on you, it's nothing personal.”

“Try not to do that. But really, you should relax. You're paying good money for this, you need to enjoy it. Otherwise, why go to the trouble?”

“Because I'm trying to redirect my risk-taking behavior into less destructive activities.”

He thought she was joking. “Ha! I'll have to remember that one. Now let's go over the jump sequence again.”

The plane was loud, and already crowded enough, even without the missing couple and the instructors that would have gone with them. There wasn't much point in talking, so Bonnie watched the desert beneath them, its vast brown expanses, receding as the plane rose. It looked pillowy, soft, like something you could bounce off of. The altimeter Rocky wore on his wrist was at three thousand feet and climbing. Three
thousand seemed plenty high enough for her. Across the narrow aisle, Honey and Babe were holding hands. There was a GPS-equipped vehicle that was supposed to pick you up afterward. But what if the gadget didn't work and you were stranded, how long could you last without water? What if Rocky had a heart attack and she had to figure out how to open the chute herself? What if her harness broke, or the chute didn't open?

The altimeter went to five and then eight. Bonnie tried to steady herself, imagine herself safe on the ground, laughing with relief and amazement. But she was never any good at seeing into the future. That was Jane's department. That morning in her hotel room, Bonnie had woken up early, showered, dressed in the recommended sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers. She tied her hair severely back and decided there was no point in makeup. When she checked her e-mail, one of the spam messages caught her eye, one of the endless ads for dubious potency drugs: Lift your lady to the heavens!

And here she was, lifted. That had to be some kind of a sign, didn't it? Something about heavenly sex? Or maybe you would have great sex and die? Never mind. She didn't believe in signs anyway.

They had reached ten thousand feet. One of the instructors stood up and beckoned to Honey. “Ladies first!” he shouted. Honey shrank against Babe then stood, waving her hands fretfully, as the instructor hooked their harnesses together and helped her adjust her goggles. The door of the airplane opened with a battering rush of wind and noise, and the two of them duck-walked over to the door, stood there for only a moment, then dropped off. There might have been a thin shriek from Honey, but it was snatched away in an instant.

Babe went next, looking around him as if there might be some escape, like the emergency stop cord on a bus, but there was not, and so he too, along with his instructor, stepped out into the nothing and was gone.

Rocky beckoned to Bonnie and she stood and allowed him to hitch the two of them together, then, guided by his hands on her shoulders, approached the plane's door. Her mouth was dry, her stomach liquid.
What if you landed right on top of a rattlesnake? What were you supposed to do then? Moment of truth! Go or no go!

The wind whipped at her. She gave Rocky a thumbs-up and raised her feet, as they had been told to do, so that he could propel them both out the door. Although she knew that she was falling, she was confused, in that first moment, to find herself looking up into the pure sky and thinking that Jane had been right, it really was a long way
down.

It's time, once again, to thank some people. My wonderful, smart, relentless agent, Henry Dunow. David Rosenthal for his enthusiasm and support. Sarah Hochman, peerless editor. And the Blue Rider team.

To my readers, those I know and those I do not, my gratitude. You are the driving wheel of the
engine.

Jean Thompson is the author of six previous novels, among them
The Humanity Project
and
The Year We Left Home,
and six story collections, including
Who Do You Love
(a National Book Award finalist) and, most recently,
The Witch
. She lives in Urbana, Illinois.

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