UP, UP AND AWAY (Part Two)

“Buckle up, we’re cleared for takeoff,” said the pilot, as the plane lurched and we wobbled up, up and away. Small propeller planes don’t fly very high, so we had a beautiful view of Narragansett Bay for about five minutes before the clouds rolled in. The wind whipped up and the roller coaster ride began.

“Don’t worry. I do this everyday,” the pilot shouted. “There are some barf bags in the seat back.” “Whee!” I yelled. “This is fun.” “Are you crazy?” W.S. yelled into my ear. He was clutching the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles were almost as white as his face.

“Up draft. Down draft,” the pilot kept repeating (as if we couldn’t tell the difference). I think it was the “Ooopsa Daisy,” that finally got to W.S. as he grabbed for one of the white bags, but he only managed a couple of little belches before we bounced down the runway and landed.

“That was fun! I said. “I need a drink,” said W.S. “See you folks on the way back,” said the pilot. Walking through Newport, W.S. noticed a man standing by a limousine obviously waiting for his passengers. In less than five minutes, W.S. arranged for a ride back to Providence. “The driver is a nice guy,” said W.S. “He even threw in a tour of the mansions of Newport on the way back to Providence.

It turned out that, Clive, the driver, was a professional chauffeur. Hired by a wealthy family, he had moved to Newport some 40 years ago, and during that time had ferried many of the rich and famous wherever they wanted to go. He had sat silently in the front seat of his limousine soaking in all of the chatter and gossip going on in the backseat. Now, retired, Clive conducted tours for rubbernecking visitors to Newport, and as we drove past each mansion, he filled us in:

“She had an affair with the pastry chef and her husband disappeared. Rumor has it that they murdered him, but without a body, they got away with it.” “What happened?” I asked. “Did she marry the chef?” “No,” Clive replied. “He returned to France, and she’s still in the house. She’s become a recluse and no one sees her except when she comes out to feed the birds.”

He continued:  “That house belongs to that famous embezzler who’s now in prison. He was a bad tipper.” “That other house over there is haunted.” “How do you know it’s haunted?” asked W.S. “ They have a book at the bar and guests record sightings of ghosts. People claim they have seen little ones and big ones.” “I’ll bet the more they drink, the bigger they get,” said W.S.

We enjoyed the tour and the drive through charming little villages on the way back to Providence, but suspected that Clive embellished many of his tales of intrigue for our benefit.

When we arrived at the airport, we noticed two porters pointing at us and laughing. Still chuckling, one of them asked us if we needed help with our luggage. “No,” said W.S. “Someone is picking us up. But what’s so funny?”

“Well,” said the porter, “every time someone flies to Newport, we always take bets if they will be flying back. You just earned me ten bucks!”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003