by R. D. Kardon
He hated talking about those things, and she knew it. He laughed, and the tension in the cockpit finally dissipated.
Both relaxed now, they talked easily while the miles flew by.
“How’s Mike?” he asked, when they were nearing home. He shot Tris a goofy smile and a little bit of a sideways leer. “You two looked like you hit it off at the party.”
“Yep. I talked to him yesterday, in fact.”
“You two going out?”
“This weekend.”
“Cool. Hey, you know he’s looking for a full-time flying gig, right? Maybe you could point him in the right direction. If you know of something?”
ATC interrupted. “Westin Charter One, we need you to start your descent. Descend and maintain one-seven, seventeen thousand. Exeter altimeter Two-Niner-Niner-Seven.”
Tris clicked the mike. “Out of flight level three-one-zero for one-seven thousand. Two-nine-nine-seven, Westin Charter One.”
Bruce had the autopilot put the aircraft in a descent. The weather was good, though a bit windy. He’d have his hands full putting the plane down on the runway, but he’d done a more difficult crosswind landing the day before.
“Before landing checklist complete,” Tris called when they were fully configured and cleared to land.
“Five hundred,” the robotic voice of the airplane’s altitude alerter droned.
“Airspeed,” Tris alerted him. He was a bit slow.
Bruce put his hands on the power levers and could have sworn he pushed them forward.
“Airspeed.” Now Tris’s hands crept up behind and lightly touched his. He jolted, gave the airplane too much power, and the nose shot up, further decreasing speed.
“Steady Bruce. You got this. Level it off, and land,” Tris said, as calmly as if she were discussing where to have lunch. He goosed the power, and the extra speed caused them to land further down the runway than usual, but he’d regained control.
“Okay, Bruce, we’ll talk about it later. You’ve got the tiller. Can you get us to the ramp?”
Why would she even ask? How insulting.
“Of course, Tris. I’ve got it.”
“All right.” She keyed the mike. “Exeter Ground, Westin Charter One taxi to the ramp.”
“Hey Westin Charter One, Exeter Ground. Welcome home. Cleared to the ramp. You know the way.”
Tris asked Bruce to stay after he finished his post-flight duties. There was no one else around, so each of them grabbed one of the leather chairs in the waiting area. The scent of burning coffee from a carafe nestled on their ancient Bunn-O-Matic coffeemaker filled the room. Bruce got up without a word and switched it off.
He couldn’t look at Tris.
“Okay. What happened?” she asked.
“When?”
“First, there was the departure from Jackson, when you didn’t follow the departure procedure and had us heading straight for solid rock. And then the aircraft destabilized on the approach into Exeter, one you’ve flown, I don’t know, hundreds of times. So. What happened?”
Bruce wanted to tell her everything. Explain why he lost his concentration, why he didn’t seem to be able to perform the most routine task. But he didn’t know.
The nausea returned. “I wasn’t myself. I’m sorry.” He scratched at his stomach absent-mindedly. It was like someone else was at the controls of the airplane, another pilot, not him at all.
Tris raised her eyebrows and held up her open palms. “Bruce. The passengers and the plane were at risk during both phases of flight. At real, physical risk.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Sorry’s not enough. You were dangerous, Bruce.”
When he mustered the courage to look at her, he read doubt all over her face. “You gonna tell Woody?” he asked.
It was quiet for a long time. Maybe she hadn’t heard the question.
“Okay, time to go home.” Tris got up. She patted his shoulder and rolled her bag out the door.
She never said she wouldn’t tell.
IQALUIT, NUNAVUT
CANADA
April 11, 2000
CHRISTINE
I know you will be mad at me at first—you’ll have to be angry to move on, that’s part of grief—but you must understand. I beg of you, please, Erik, for me, please understand.
We both chose to live in this land that held no memories, where we could rebuild our lives from the ground up. Our life in Iqaluit was my second chance. You’d been struggling so much at Tetrix, and I was constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting Warren to appear wherever we were, despite the restraining order. It was fate—the day my divorce was final, you got the offer for the job here.
There it was. A chance for both of us to get out from under the thumbs that were crushing us.
Remember the day we got here? Man, it was cold. Just us, in that house with no heat. But the sub-zero temperatures we endured those first days was nothing compared to the chill of being in the same town as Warren. How long was it, how many weeks, months, before I stopped being afraid he’d followed us here?
Erik, you took me, reeling, miserable, on the brink of a breakdown and walked me back. We made it through, made it home, and home is here.
I love our life, exactly the way it is today. At first, I loved Iqaluit for the desolation it offered. But what seemed so stark at first was revealed to be a place we both regard as rich, beautiful.
My work here has given me comfort, since it has taught me that, in time, the way we lived is what you’ll remember, not the way I died. Not the ugly parts you’ll be dealing with while you listen to this. Time will pass, you’ll heal, and the sight of the diner will remind you of when we lost power and sat at the counter drinking cider all night. Or the snowmobile ride to Amka and Tuk’s wedding in parkas and ski pants—and that crazy cummerbund with the polar bears on it that you insisted on wearing. I laughed so hard I almost fell off, which made me laugh even harder, since if I had fallen, I don’t think you’d have found me until spring.
I will be at peace, beyond pain and beyond help long before that airplane touches down in Exeter.
Wait—
PART II:
THE AMENDED FLIGHT PLAN
March 2000
Exeter, Illinois
Seventeen
White, black, and navy blue. Nothing seemed appropriate. Her clothes closet was a sad homage to what not to wear on a date. Tris vowed to do some shopping, someday, at someplace other than Target or a pilot uniform supply store.
Mike’s plan for the evening was loose: have dinner at a local Italian place, and then either head to O’Slattery’s for a drink and live music, or maybe see a movie. So like a pilot—decisive and crisp in the cockpit, hesitant outside of it.
So like her.
Tris settled on a relatively new pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt with a satiny trim. She smiled at her profile in the full-length mirror. The tight fit around her chest would normally make her self-conscious, but tonight, it was the perfect look.
Mike wasn’t picking her up for another hour. Her least favorite part of dressing up was putting on makeup, so she'd delay it until the last minute.
Today’s study material covered her couch. Orion’s head rested on the federal charter regulations manual. His body sprawled out over the three page-training plan Tris had prepared for Bruce’s upgrade, crushing and wrinkling it into valleys and ridges.
Jackson Hole had scared her. But more important, it challenged her confidence in Bruce. She’d trained enough pilots to know that each reacted differently when they were being judged—check rides were designed to make sure pilots could handle themselves under stress, with plenty of distractions. Bruce had failed—obviously and repeatedly—on the flight out of Jackson, then botched a simple approach into Exeter. How could she trust him to command an airplane on his own in bad weather, in an emergency, or with passengers aboard?
As long as she sat next to him, their passengers were not at risk. But Ja
ckson had shaken her. He’d practically flown the Royal into solid rock.
Tris hadn’t made a final decision or discussed her impressions with Woody. Not yet. She and Bruce had an easy trip in a few days. They’d fly empty to Saginaw, Michigan, pick up two people, bring them to Parker Field, an airport about seventy-five miles from Exeter, and then fly back empty. She’d have him do all the paperwork, fly every leg and talk to the passengers. If it turned out that he needed more training, more experience, Woody would have to know right away. But she had to be sure. Ending Bruce’s upgrade training had consequences for everyone involved, including her. This was her call, and she had to make the right one.
Tris sighed. It was time to be purposeful about makeup. In the bathroom, she flipped through a drawer of disorganized tubes and tubs of chemical compounds designed to make women look better. Tris never wore more than mascara and Chap Stick when she flew, and put face paint on so rarely, she had to psyche herself into it.
She pressed a plastic tube and flesh-colored liquid plopped onto a tiny sponge. It felt greasy as she rubbed it on her face. The drawer held only one color of blush, which she dusted on her cheeks. Silver eye shadow went on next, to go with the grey-brown tint of her eyes. The whole idea of cosmetics seemed silly. After all, she hadn’t been wearing any of this when she met Mike, and he’d asked her out.
Her first date jitters intensified when she realized she’d gotten out the curling iron but forgotten to plug it in. Her hair fell straight down her back toward her bra strap. She pulled the brown locks forward, where they came to rest alongside her breasts, making them look even bigger.
All dressed and ready to go, she checked her watch again. Mike’s arrival time was now minutes away. Other than a few one-night stands—she fondly remembered that guy on an overnight in Minneapolis, the one who’d bought her a drink after Bruce had gone to his hotel room—she’d been off the market.
The intercom buzzed right at 6:30 p.m. Her heartbeat reached a crescendo as she pressed the button.
“Hello?” She tried to sound as if she had no idea who was at the door.
Was that crazy?
“Hey, Tris. It’s Mike.”
“Come on in. You can meet my cat.”
Ugh. You can meet my cat. So lame.
Despite the long build-up, she was startled by Mike’s knock at the door. There he stood, one hand in his pocket, and a bouquet of fresh flowers in the other. Tris blushed so deeply, she was sure the color of her cheeks matched the red roses.
“Hey, Tris,” he said, handing her the flowers, “Great to see you.”
“You too. These are lovely, Mike. Let me put them in water. Come in.” She considered the front pocket black t-shirt he’d tucked into his straight-leg Wranglers. His reddish beard had been trimmed since she last saw him, and he’d gotten a haircut.
Mike walked straight over to the sliding glass patio door, like he already knew the layout of the apartment. She gestured toward Orion, who took up the only empty spot on the couch next to the pile of books and papers.
“Studying up, I see.”
She laughed. “Well, avoiding studying mostly. But, yeah.”
“For your promotion or Bruce’s?”
She was in the kitchen looking for a vase. “Bruce’s? Have you talked to him about it?” she asked cautiously. Discussing Bruce’s recent performance with Mike would be unprofessional, although she realized she’d love his opinion.
“Well, we were all together at a family thing yesterday. He mentioned it. Seemed excited.”
“Is he? Well, he needs training. Everyone does. To upgrade,” she said coolly while she touched the petals of a perfect red rose.
Mike had already turned his attention to her purring feline.
“What’s his name?”
“Orion.” When he gave her a quizzical look, she continued, “After the only constellation I can consistently recognize in the sky.”
Mike laughed and softly stroked the cat’s head. “Well, it’s a beautiful night tonight.” He walked over to her vertical blinds again, parted them slightly and peered outside. “Let’s see if we can’t improve on your star-identification skills after dinner, eh? I know a great place to park and look at the sky.”
She grabbed her coat, and they walked out to an evening of glittering possibilities.
“Birmingham was kind of a big small town,” Mike said about his hometown in Alabama as he twisted the top off of a bottle of Dos Equis.
“But you have no accent. None,” Tris protested.
Mike grinned and called up a grossly exaggerated southern drawl. “Why ma’am, Ah can’t buh-leeve you’d say that. Bless yo’ heart.”
Mike and Tris sat in the front of his Honda Accord with the seats all the way back and the sunroof open despite the cold night air. Above them, airplanes on final approach into Exeter Airport seemed to float by. Tris closed her eyes as she listened to Mike talk easily about his childhood, his stories hinting at a broader education than the classic Aviation Management degree.
After dinner, they’d picked up a six-pack, and Mike had driven them to this place, an out-of-the way turnout near Exeter Airport. He seemed to know the spot well—she was probably not the first woman he’d brought there.
She shed that thought as quickly as she had it and relaxed into the moment. There was no place to rush to, no schedule to keep and no need of company other than the man sitting next to her. The two pilots made themselves part of the night.
Tris talked about Pittston, where she grew up. “Check out the definition of ‘small town’ in the dictionary, and you’ll see a picture of one of our two traffic lights. There was absolutely nothing to do. For fun, my friends and I would ride our bikes to the Parker’s gas station and convenience store, Pittston’s social hub. We’d sit for hours, as kids came and went, maybe grab a can of soda from the vending machine, sometimes buy a donut from Mrs. Parker. We kids called her ‘Old Midge,’ because, well, no one’s mom or dad could remember a time she wasn’t there, behind the counter, selling donuts.”
Then Mike broke the unspoken first date compact and mentioned an ex-girlfriend. “You’re not my first Patricia, by the way,” he said playfully after the two had quietly sipped beers for a bit, referring to Tris’s full first name.
“I beg your pardon?” She used a haughty tone in jest.
“My very first girlfriend was named Patricia. No kidding.”
Tris decided to go with it. “Oh really? And how long ago was this?” She was legitimately curious but covered it with mock disdain.
He took a long swig of his beer. “When I was three, I think. My mom’s best friend had a daughter named Patty who apparently I would chase around, yelling ‘Atty, Atty.’ Personally, I think it’s family legend.”
The tension making its slow march toward her shoulders disappeared. “Ha. Well, saving the best for last, eh?” Oh my God, did I say that? She quickly brought the topic back to airplanes. “So, you’re flying contract right now or—?”
“Contract. So, ready to learn some new constellations?”
“Ready,” Tris said, and sat up in her seat.
“You know Orion . . . and he’s right . . . there,” Mike poked his arm through the sunroof. “See him?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, then. Look up and to the right. Looks like a funky rectangle, or maybe a trapezoid? You got it?”
She wasn’t sure. “The thing that looks like it has a crooked handle at the bottom? Is that it?”
He nodded. “Yup. That’s Taurus.”
Tris beamed. “Seriously. Wow, now that I know it, it seems so obvious. Thanks, Mike.”
He cupped her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Ready for another fun fact?”
“Sure.”
“Orion’s shoulders? You see how one looks lower than the other?”
“Right.”
“The higher one is called Betelgeuse. That’s the star that the movie “Beetlejuice” was named after. Theory has it that the star, Betelgeu
se, was the doorway to the infinite blackness of outer space. In the movie, Michael Keaton’s character was the doorman to the underworld.”
“Bullshit.” She playfully pushed him away. “Really?”
“Really. Look it up.” Mike pressed a button and the sunroof started to close. “Ready to move on?” He twisted the key in the car’s ignition
“Sure. Where to?”
“Well, I have a few thoughts. All this constellation talk makes me want to get a better look at that cat.”
Eighteen
“Did you hear? Mike and Tris are out on a date tonight.” Em’s words wafted out of the kitchen, where she stood at the stove stirring tomato sauce. She sounded almost giddy about it. Danny let a twinge of jealousy pass and stifled a sigh. Em didn’t bring up Tris unless it was to remind him that he’d pursued her for nothing. He’d hoped she’d be over it by now; she had a ring on her finger, after all.
“Nope. Hadn’t heard.” He pretended to be engrossed in the issue of Aviation Week cradled in his lap. A college basketball game was on TV, the sound barely audible.
They’d had a quiet, low-key day. Danny ran some errands in the morning while Em did laundry. He was on his second of four days off and had finally started to relax. But when Em talked about Tris, it usually led to an argument.
“Yeah, Heather told me. You know how the information pipeline works.”
Danny had to laugh. In Em’s family, gossip traveled faster than any airplane he’d ever flown. “Well, good for them.”
He caught a whiff of Em’s meatballs and inhaled deeply. She was preparing his favorite meal. How lucky he was to be married to someone who could cook. Em and Heather had an Italian grandmother, who, family history had it, cooked for wealthy locals in the small town she grew up in on the Amalfi coast. When she immigrated to the US, her favorite pastime had been to teach her two granddaughters how to cook.
Danny got up to join his wife in the kitchen. Em already had a bowl of shredded Parmesan cheese and a cruet of olive oil ready for the crusty bread she’d picked up.
