I owe this progress report to Burt who had the bright idea that I could dictate this on a transistor tape recorder and have a public stenographer in Chicago type it up.
Nemur likes the idea.
In fact, he wants me to use the recorder up to the last minute. He feels it will add to the report if they play the most recent tape at the end of the session.
So here I am, sitting off by myself in our private section of a jet on the way to Chicago, trying to get used to thinking aloud, and to the sound of my own voice.
I suppose the typist can get rid of all the uhm's, er's and ah's, and make it all seem natural on paper (I can't help the paralysis that comes over me when I think hundreds of people are going to listen to the words I'm saying now).
My mind is a blank. At this point my feelings are more important than anything else.
The idea of going up in the air terrifies me.
As far as I can tell, in the days before the operation, I never really understood what planes were. I never connected the movies and TV close-ups of planes with the things that I saw zooming overhead.
Now that we're about to take off I can think only of what might happen if we crash.
A cold feeling, and the thought that I don't want to the.
Brings to mind those discussions about God.
I've thought about death often in recent weeks, but not really about God.
My mother took me to church occasionally—but I don't recall ever connecting that up with the thought of God.
She mentioned Him quite often, and I had to pray to Him at night, but I never thought much about it.
I remember Him as a distant uncle with a long beard on a throne (like Santa Claus in the department store on his big chair, who picks you up on his knee and asks you if you've been good, and what would you like him to give you?).
She was afraid of Him, but asked favors anyway.
My father never mentioned Him—it was as if God was one of Rose's relatives he'd rather not get involved with.
"We're ready to take off, sir.
May I help you fasten your seat belt?"
"Do I have to?
I don't like to be strapped down."
"Until we're airborne."
"I'd rather not, unless it's necessary.
I've got this fear of being strapped in.
It'll probably make me sick."
"It's regulations, sir.
Here, let me help you."
"No!
I'll do it myself."
"No… that one goes through here."
"Wait, uh….Okay." *
Ridiculous.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
Seat belt isn't too tight—doesn't hurt.
Why should putting on the damned seat belt be so terrifying?
That, and the vibrations of the plane taking off.
Anxiety all out of proportion to the situation… so it must be something… what?… flying up into and through dark clouds… fasten your seat belts… strapped down… straining forward… odor of sweaty leather… vibrations and a roaring sound in my ears.
Through the window—in the clouds—I see Charlie.
Age is difficult to tell, about five years old.
Before Norma…
"Are you two ready yet?" His father comes to the doorway, heavy, especially in the sagging fleshiness of his face and neck.
He has a tired look
"I said, are you ready?"
"Just a minute," answers Rose.
"I'm getting my hat on.
See if his shirt is buttoned, and tie his shoelaces."
"Come on, let's get this thing over with."
"Where?" asks Charlie.
"Where… Charlie… go?"
His father looks at him and frowns.