Up in the Air

took off. No, we’re not arguing. It’s about her job. She lost two dogs this morning at the rescue farm. They jumped the fence and ate some gopher poison and pretty much died in her arms, from what we hear. It got ugly, I guess: they coughed up lots of blood. She split in her van and no one’s heard from her.”

“She hasn’t called Kara? She usually calls Kara.”

“We think someone saw her in Rochester. A cop.”

“Has Julie been eating?”

“Like a horse.”

“I doubt that.”

“It was the dogs, I swear. They’d been abused. Two Border collies with collars grown into their necks. Should I be worried? She’s done this in the past, right? Your mom says this is typical.”

She’s wrong. Yes, my sister runs when she’s unhappy, but there’s a novel element in play here: Julie’s attachment to the poisoned animals. This is a girl who assumes all bonds are temporary, who’s famously well- defended against loss. Her divorces were strangely painless; she skipped away from them, demanding no money, no car keys, nothing. The weekend after our father’s funeral, she sang in and won a karaoke contest at a supper club. She took the job at the rescue farm not out of pity or tenderheartedness, but because the vet in charge was a family friend who didn’t hold her history against her.

“You call me as soon as you hear from her,” I say.

“Kara’s flying up from Utah tonight. She thinks Julie’s probably crashed at some motel, crying things out.”

“This isn’t wedding jitters? That farm must lose animals every other day.”

“I know what you’re saying. Your sister’s changing, Ryan. Stuff affects her now. Pray for her, okay?”

“I never stop,” I say. “Put Mom back on.”

I finish my beer while I wait. It tastes like mucilage, that glue that’s used to paste photos into albums.

“Is it raining there?” my mother says.

“It never rains. It’s the desert. About this dog story: I don’t buy it, Mom.”

“Portland’s not the desert.”

“I’m in Nevada. This wedding is being rammed down Julie’s throat. Of course she’s AWOL. Can’t you people see that? This house Kara picked for her, the whole arrangement, it’s like you’re hanging Julie in some museum.”

“You fibbed to me,” she says. “Where are you, Ryan? You’re probably not in Nevada, either, are you? You’re probably in Des Moines, a hundred miles from here, and you just can’t be bothered to come help out.”

“You know that’s wrong, Mom. Whenever I’m that close to you, I’m there. The force field still works. Do we always have to fight?”

“Kara says you got fired.”

“Well, she knows better. You made that up.”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“I need people not to make things up this week.”

“You told me you were in Oregon.”

“Fight fire with fire. Can we go back to Julie?”

“It’s you that worries us. She knows what she’s running away from.”

“That’s so profound. Someone’s been reading a major woman novelist.”

“I don’t like having to wonder where I’m reaching you. It puts me at a disadvantage, Ryan. For all I know, you’re in Japan and it’s tomorrow. I’ll see you on Friday. We’re tying up the line.”

“I love you, okay? No matter what you think. Congratulate Burt and keep me posted on Julie.”

“How long are you coming for? Just the weekend? Longer?”

“I’m going in segments. I’ll get to that one soon. Are you crying?”

“I’m crying a little.”

“Me, too.”

“I know.”

I pour a glass of water to drink in bed but it tastes of chlorine, so I collect some change and step out into the hall to find a soda. Paper menus with early-morning breakfast orders hang from the doors, and I read a few of them. Coffee, juice, and muffins—they’re all the same. If the doors were to become transparent suddenly, the people behind them would all be the same, too: asleep with the news on, their bags beside their beds, their next day’s outfits hanging on the desk chairs. We travel alone, but together we’re an army.

The Coke machine isn’t where it ought to be, in a nook by the stairwell. I’m disappointed in Homestead— they’ve let things slide. The soul of their business is predictability, and if I were consulting for them I’d yank the name off any unit caught screwing with the blueprint.

I walk down a floor and resume my search. I normally avoid caffeine at night, but the news about Julie will keep me up. I’m half rooting for her to stay away, I realize. Wherever you are, my sister, just sit tight. Hug your pillow. Don’t answer the door. This Keith’s a good man, and Kara wants the best for you, but this is not their life. Just call me, will you? Do you have my number? Call me, Julie.