Laura Kasischke: In a Perfect World

In less than a second, he was on his knees below Jiselle, holding up the shoe as if considering it in the bar’s dim light, and then he slid it with a swift whisper back onto her foot, while a group of businessmen at a table nearby laughed and clapped, and she blushed, and Captain Dorn stood, smoothing down his pants, and gave her a courtly little bow before he sat back down.

That night, Jiselle was thirty-two years old.

She’d been a bridesmaid six times.

It was always a surprise to her, being asked to be a bridesmaid. In truth, she’d had only a few close friends in her life, and none of them was one of these six brides. But flight attendants made acquaintances quickly, and friendships became intense easily—a long layover, a blizzard, a terrible landing—and ended just as quickly and easily.

“You just look good in an ugly dress,” one of her boyfriends had suggested when Jiselle wondered aloud about her popularity for the position.

And maybe she did.

She had a bridesmaid’s shapely legs, wasp waist, blond hair that fell around her shoulders. The photographers at these weddings always seemed particularly interested in her, waving her over to stand by the cake, calling on her to kneel beside the bride and hold up the lacy train.

She’d worn green satin, and yellow chiffon, and something pink and stiff. She’d worn ribbons in her hair, or pinned to the top of her head, or down around her shoulders. One bride asked her bridesmaids to wear rhinestone tiaras, and although the last time Jiselle had been near a tiara was during a dance recital in second grade, The Nutcracker, she did—just as she obediently leaped to catch each bouquet as it sailed over her upturned face while the cameras flashed.

She’d been felt up by the drunken uncles of brides and been crushed on dance floors by their burly brothers. She’d been taken aside by a bride’s mother and asked, “Jiselle, darling, when in the world will we be attending your wedding?” and had simply smiled, blinking.

“Always a bridesmaid,” her mother had said on a couple of these occasions, “never a bride.”

“Mom, I—”

“You don’t have to explain to me,” her mother said. “Do you think if I had a choice about whether or not to get married again, I would?”

“No,” Jiselle said, clumsily, as if it had actually been a question. There was no question. After she’d kicked Jiselle’s father out of the house, along with Bingo, the little dog he’d just brought home, Jiselle’s mother had taken their wedding photos out into the backyard and lit them on fire one by one while Jiselle watched from the window over the kitchen sink. They shriveled up into black bats, and then into ashes, before her mother let them go.

Jiselle herself had fallen in love, too early, with two distracted boys—hockey and basketball, respectively. And then a few years escaped from her along with a married man. There’d been a British Royal Marine between scenes, and then a kleptomaniac. A drummer. A baggage-handler with a drinking problem. Then a few years passed during which she thought she’d given up men for good.

Already she’d buried the friend who would have been her maid of honor, and the father who would have walked her down the aisle. When people asked if she’d like to meet their cousin the doctor, their husband’s shy best friend, Jiselle politely declined. She kept busy, pretending to herself and to everyone else that she wasn’t waiting.

When she wasn’t working, she started crochet projects or bought journals she made plans to write in. She needed only a few plates, a couple of cups, in her rented house, while her acquaintances’ lives grew unfathomably cluttered, took on meaning, accumulated in detail. A few of the brides got divorced, and Jiselle bought them margaritas when the paperwork was complete. She attended a few second weddings in courthouses, casinos. She watched their children while they worked out custody disputes with their exes. One night she stayed up late with another flight attendant whose teenage son had disappeared.

“Never have children,” Angela had said, holding her cup of tea so fiercely that all the tiny bones and muscles in her hand glowed in the light of the television, as if lit from within. Down the block, Jiselle could hear a dog bark, sounding terrified and angry at the same time. “Just be glad you have no one, Jiselle,” Angela said, and then looked embarrassed to have said it, but also too distraught to take it back. They both knew what she meant.

When the son came home a few days later with a pierced lip and a tattoo, Angela called Jiselle and said, “When I was done kissing him, I told him I was going to kill him.”

Jiselle felt relieved and heartbroken at the same time, to think she might never know what it was like to love a child like that.

Once, in Florence, on a bus back to the airport, she had glimpsed a love like that. She was sitting behind a beautiful young girl with a glossy black braid down her back. Outside the bus window, a woman stood and watched. Clearly, she was the girl’s mother. The two of them had the same eyes, the same cheekbones. The girl put her hand to the bus window, and the mother put her own hand to her heart, and as the bus slid away, Jiselle couldn’t help but put her own hand to the glass as the mother’s love poured off of her toward them—as rolling fire, great sheets and waves of love, whole cathedrals filled with flickering candles, hurricanes, tornadoes, vast human migrations of love. Jiselle had wanted to keep watching but couldn’t help closing her eyes.

Like Angela’s son, the years ran off. But, unlike that son, they never came back, changed or otherwise.

“You’re only twenty-nine…thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two,” the six brides said. “I hardly think it’s time to give up.”

But Jiselle saw less and less of those brides as the years went by. They were so busy. So busy! After a while there was almost nothing to talk with them about on the phone, even if they’d had the time to return her calls, even if there wasn’t usually a child screaming in the background or waiting somewhere to be picked up, either in their arms or in their SUVs.

Also, Jiselle traveled for a living. She never met anyone in her own neighborhood because she was usually there for only a night or two before she left again. All the things people said to do to make friends, meet men—take a class, join a gym, attend a church—were impossible for her to do. She worked out in hotel gyms. She ate in hotel restaurants. She slept in hotel beds, where, occasionally late at night, she paged through the Gideon’s Bible in the hotel nightstand.

Once, in a Holiday Inn in Pittsburgh, she came upon a Gideon’s that had been bookmarked and highlighted for her:

Then I heard a voice from the sanctuary calling to the seven angels, “Go and empty the seven bowls of God’s anger over the earth.” And HEY PLEASE ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION? was written in small red, block letters in the margin.

Jiselle slid the Bible back into the nightstand and closed the drawer, feeling as if she’d disappointed someone (Gideon? God?), but also too tired to offer the kind of attention that reading the Bible would require.

There were hundreds of takeoffs and landings, and, occasionally, vomit in the aisles. Sometimes it was Jiselle’s turn to sprinkle coffee grounds on the vomit while the other flight attendants stood around in the galley holding their noses and rolling their eyes.

There were hundreds of layovers and delays, and then, that one windy March evening in Atlanta, seven hours were spent on a runway while the plane was slapped around boorishly in the dark, rain whipping sideways across the windows, only to have the plane turned back to the gate when the flight was canceled.