» Fiction
Tiniest Champagne
Nick Mandernach
For no reason I was cruelest to Mom. I groaned when her hearing got bad, forgot birthdays, stole thirty-four thousand dollars. I knew I’d make it right, but didn’t know how. When she got her mouth cancer, I jumped on it. Makeup work dried up, so I left my apartment and boyfriend to be caregiver for the last months of her illness. Mom bought my ticket, set up a room in the back house, died the morning before I got there.
I loved my mom and want to tell you something about her. I want you to know how she fought with Spirit Airlines in the fall of ‘98.
The two of us were set to do Easter with my grandparents in Tulsa. Mom never got along with them because she wouldn’t walk in the light of God and faith saved my grandpa from cigarettes. The computer said our flight was delayed, which wasn’t a problem until they undid the delay and we were late by being on time. Mom downed two Fruit Roll-Ups and slammed her minivan into an airport lot compact space.
We ran in with bags smacking our thighs. Lateness put me on the edge of crying. Sorry to say, I called Mom dumb bitch. When we got to check-in, the guy said my rolling suitcase was too big and I’d have to tag it. Mom said fine. With both arms she tossed the bag at the high counter. It didn’t land the edge, so she tossed it twice.
“That’ll just be twenty-one dollars,” the guy said.
Mom asked how that was.
Spirit had a surcharge for baggage, the guy told us. His hair spiked so sharp it would spear blood if palmed. I’d do anything for him. I was lost from a young age.
“Just twenty-one,” Mom said.
I squeezed her hand.
“Fuel costs,” he said.
“Just twenty-one. Why’d you say just?”
He raised his hands. “Just the price.”
She lost it and pounded the desk. Just Just Just. Mom informed the man of her marital and financial status and called him a traitor. A traitor to what? An announcement came over the intercom: they were boarding for Tulsa. The bag check guy lifted his neck like he was listening to a dark omen and we should too. I slapped her elbow. “That’s us,” I said. The first time I betrayed her. She bit her lip and handed a card over. Mickey Mouse waving at the stars.
Mom didn’t look at me when we loaded on the plane and didn’t help me when I struggled with the seat belt buckle. Once we reached altitude the steward rolled the aisles with drinks. Me, I ordered Sprite, mostly for the ice. I loved the tube kind the planes used. I’d stick my tongue in the cold hole and blow in them and roll them around my teeth. I’ve seen that ice nowhere else. The steward asked Mom’s order. She groaned. “I’ll do the champagne.”
“Great,” the steward said. “That’ll just be nineteen dollars.”
I checked seats around us for an air marshal.
Mom reached for her buckle and unlatched it, then dug her wallet out from her back pocket.
“That’s fine, thanks,” she said and handed over her card. He gave her a tiny bottle with a short Styrofoam cup. Whatever you’re thinking, half it.
She unwound the wire from its neck, tore the foil top, and dumped the shot of champagne. She drank it for ten minutes. Every sip crackled against her upper lip. She looked at the desert under us, wondering who knows what.
Finished, she put the little bottle upside down in the cup. Instead of putting the cup in the pouch in front of her, she stuffed it in her crowded purse. A stewardess came by with a trash bag, and Mom flagged her down. “Hi,” Mom said. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get a champagne I ordered.”
The lady apologized and brought another little bottle. Mom gave her a thumbs up and undid the wire ring and tore the foil. She took out the SkyMall magazine and looked through the magic items. Digital clocks with holograms, inflatable movie screens, an encyclopedia with the whole world on one CD. When she finished her drink, she put the bottle upside down in the cup and clacked it all in her purse.
Mom hit the attendant button a few times, and the first steward came back. “Hi,” he said. “Never got that champagne.”
“Didn’t I?” The steward looked us over. I had visions of prison yards. Maybe Mom and I would share a cell. He went through his little receipts when the plane jostled, and mom’s purse tipped, knocking a bottle out. The steward looked, but I covered the cup with my tiny feet, like I was stretching out. Growing girl. He shuffled to the back and got her that little champagne. Yes, he did.
When mom poured this one, she offered me a sip. The foam sharpened to liquid in my mouth and burned my cheeks so bad, I thought the meat was coming off.
“Ma’am, minors can’t have alcohol,” the steward said.
“Grand Canyon!” Mom slapped my arm. The majestic gap filled the whole window. Red and brown rock cut away, and we saw miles into the Earth. I tried to imagine what could make something like that. Time, maybe. If you haven’t seen the Grand Canyon, I recommend it. One of nature’s wonders in my opinion.
There was just a big article on Spirit. The court ruled against bag charges in a class action lawsuit. “Junk fees,” the Attorney General said, also “exploitative.” Mom never got to read that. I was up for a piece of the settlement because of a shoot I did in Atlanta. The lawyers made me fill out an online form. Eight million they owed us, but the check came in six dollars and twelve cents.