The flight from Miami rolled to a stop far from the cluster of
low buildings that made up Princess Juliana International
Airport. Concrete cooked in the sun, tin roofs gave off waves of
heat, and the skin of the prop jet crackled as the chill of
altitude evaporated. Suzan unbuckled her belt, felt other
passengers stretch, push, stand, eager to get off. Arthur
pretended to be reading but she could see his eyes flick,
watching for the first sign of forward movement.  After a while,
two men in white shirts and black ties trundled a set of push-up
stairs into place.  Suzan almost fell at the cabin door. She
blamed her shoes, the heel of a sandal catching in the cuff of
white synthetic pants that were insufferably sealed to her body
by the sun, but it was more the slam of hot, sweet-acrid air,
part rose water and part scorch. Ironing day. Her mother ironing
her father’s white pharmacy smocks. She smelled hot steel,
Niagara starch, sprinkled water flashed into steam, cotton hot
almost to burning between metal and p