by R. D. Kardon
Twenty-Six
“If only Heather would stop complaining, then maybe I could get something done around the house. Everywhere I step, whatever I touch, she has a snide remark.” Every few seconds, Danny would mumble, “Uh-huh,” or “oh yeah,” as Bruce’s nit-picking soliloquy droned on.
The two men stood in line at the Greek place in the terminal at Exeter International Airport. Danny had a four-hour break between legs—airport appreciation time—and Bruce wanted to talk about his upcoming interview. But now he was on a roll that started with his crappy schedule, continued through his lousy trips, and finally settled on friction between him and Heather. He had yet to mention Legacy.
There were at least fifteen people in front of them in line. How Danny wished he could join the crowd of silent travelers behind them walking to and from their gates on this busy Thursday afternoon.
“I have my head under the bathroom sink, my body is curled around this pedestal and my feet are up against the tub. I got my Maglite in my mouth, and I’m wrestling a PVC coupling.” Bruce’s words rushed on in a conversational stampede that threatened to trample Danny. When he stopped for a swig of water, Danny opened his mouth to speak.
Too late. “‘Are you almost done, babe?’ she asks, for what must have been the sixth time in five minutes. Danny, that girl is in the lav every ten seconds.’”
This dialogue was nothing short of bizarre. Bruce worshipped Heather. Danny had to tamp down any friction with Em when Bruce was around, he was such a devoted husband. Bruce and Heather’s relationship was bullet-proof. Everyone knew it.
Danny’s lips, desperate to curve into some reaction, finally chose a scowl. “She’s pregnant. Pregnant ladies have to go a lot. Is this news to you? So, what’d you say?” And do you always call your bathroom at home a lav?
“‘Workin’ on it.’ What else could I say? She wanted me to call Andy.” Both men recoiled at the mention of their father-in-law.
Danny opted for diplomacy. “Yeah, Em is always asking her dad to come by and fix things. And, I know he’s a jerk, sure, but I let him. It makes him happy, it makes Em happy, it’ll make Heather happy and you can find something else to do while he’s around.”
Bruce shook his head. “No, man. I can’t do it. I can’t stand that he’s friggin’ talking all the time.”
Danny laughed out loud. Like father-in-law, like son-in-law.
It was finally Bruce’s turn to order, and Danny welcomed the conversational lull. They grabbed their respective lunches, packed in the see-through plastic containers airport vendors use to make sure travelers who don’t speak English know what they got.
Bruce swiped some plastic utensils and napkins from a kiosk and headed to an out-of-the way table. They had to brush off a bunch of crumbs before they sat down.
“So, then she says, ‘Let me know, please. I mean, I can go outside if I need to.’ Like I’m gonna make my wife go outside to pee in March? With snow on the ground?”
“Hmm,” was all Danny could think of to say.
Bruce flashed a mischievous grin. “Looks like Mike and Tris are going hot and heavy now.”
“What does that mean?” Danny snapped. Whoa, boy.
If Bruce noticed Danny’s overreaction, he didn’t let on. “They’ve been dating pretty seriously, I think. And now they’re competing for the Chief Pilot job. Man, can you imagine the pillow talk?” Bruce laughed at his own inane comment.
Danny wasn’t sure what upset him more—that Tris had to compete for a promotion at Westin that she’d more than earned, or that she might be serious about someone. “You wanted to talk about Legacy,” he said, putting down his plastic fork.
Bruce swallowed a mouthful of food. “Yup. So. What’s the latest gouge? Anything new? I interviewed the last time a few months after you started, right?”
“I’m pretty sure nothing much has changed. But now you’ll have that captain upgrade to show them, won’t you?”
Bruce’s shoulders rose imperceptibly, then dropped. “Yup. I’ll have it. Almost wasn’t going to get it. But it’s s-s-still on track.”
Danny caught the slight stutter. Sometimes when Bruce was under stress, or was lying, he would start to stutter, then catch himself. Bruce dropped his fork—more like threw it—into his plastic bowl and sat back in his chair. “Well, I think it’s back on track now. My upgrade, that is. Went off the rails a little.”
“Yeah? Some internal delay or something?”
Bruce bent over his food, picked up his fork again and began practically shoveling Greek salad into his mouth. He didn’t take his eyes off of his plate when he spoke.
“Nah. Crossed wires, I think. A misunderstanding. Tris kind of fucked up a little.”
Again, he had Danny’s full attention. “Really? That’s a surprise. What happened?” Danny added a chuckle, to bely his intense interest in the answer.
“Hey, you gonna eat that?” Bruce pointed to a wedge of pita bread on Danny’s plate. Danny motioned that he could take it. Bruce grabbed it and used it to wipe up the juice at the bottom of his bowl.
“Well, look. I don’t want to talk out of school, you know. But she really freaked out on a departure out of Jackson Hole. I guess she thought we were behind on the departure procedure or something. She got angry because we didn’t make a crossing restriction.” He paused, looked down at the table, and pushed away the empty bowl. “I kept telling her to calm down. But for some reason . . . I don’t know. Yeah, ATC was pretty pissed. And so was Woody, I guess.” He unwrapped a toothpick.
“Woody? Your boss? What did you tell him, Bruce?” Danny was emphatic, and immediately wished he hadn’t been. Any hint of excessive interest in Tris would travel at hypersonic speed back to Em.
Bruce worked the toothpick between his back teeth. “I think Woody is having second thoughts about making her the Chief. Mike has been CP before on a Royal, you know.” Bruce belched noisily into the air, attracting annoyed glances from nearby diners. “Woody says Tris is still in the running for it. But he’ll probably get it.”
Danny knew that Bruce had always supported Tris. And while everyone made mistakes, what he described didn’t sound like her. In the thousand hours Danny flew with her at Clear Sky, she’d always been right on with procedures, especially in mountainous terrain, and never—ever—lost her composure. There had to be more to the story. For the first time all day, Danny wished Bruce would keep talking.
Instead, Bruce’s pager buzzed. He checked it and asked to borrow Danny’s mobile phone to call the Westin Charter office.
“Hey, it’s Bruce,” he said. Bruce listened for a minute, then his eyes widened. “Oh really? That’s great. Thanks, Phyll.” And he hung up.
“What’s the trip?” Danny asked as Bruce handed him back his phone.
“Actually, it’s a cancellation. For me, anyway. Tomorrow’s trip to Burbank.”
“What happened?” Danny asked nonchalantly.
Bruce’s head bobbed up and down. “Mike and Tris are flying it, I guess. This will be Mike’s first trip for Westin.”
Twenty-Seven
The hallway was dark, the kind of dark that made Tris think she’d gone blind. She felt her way around the room—what room was it? It wasn’t hers—and finally came to what might be a doorknob. It turned easily in her hand, no click or squeak of hinges as the door cracked open.
This time, just this time, let there be someone else behind it. Please don’t make me see them again, sitting there playing cards.
She peeked in, and there they were. Bron and Mike. Sitting at a poker table, smoking cigars, piles of poker chips stacked beside them, a huge deli spread arrayed behind. The food was guarded by a man whose large biceps were dark with tattoos. His greased hair was tied in a man bun and he wore tight jeans and a Metallica t-shirt. She could only see his left ear, which had at least five studs curving up in a line from its lobe.
A holster bulged underneath the left side of his jacket, but she couldn’t see if there was anything in it
.
She opened the door wide.
“Read ’em and weep,” someone said. It sounded like Ed Deter. When did he arrive? Tris couldn’t see him. Then, out of nowhere, Deter leaned over the table to scoop up all his chips, and the guy with the gun reached for his holster.
Tris closed her eyes and ducked behind the door. Seconds later, the door disappeared. She was fully exposed.
“Hey, it’s Kung Pao chicken,” the man announced and handed Bron and Mike a bag of Chinese food. Mike reached for it, a wedding band circling his ring finger.
Bron held his cards.
“No!” she shouted at the shrill clack of her alarm. Only Orion was there to hear. It was four-thirty a.m.
Every night since Mike got hired, sleep competed with her demons. In the dream, Mike and Bron were always at a card table. Each time, Deter won the pot. And the burly man always reached into his holster and pulled out a different kind of takeout.
While Bron held the cards.
Tris made a mental note to tell Dr. C about it. When was her next appointment? Was it even scheduled?
The last place she wanted to be today was the airport. She’d ignored Mike’s calls and answering machine messages, yet they were flying to Burbank today. That meant at least four hours together in the cockpit.
Woody was still negotiating the purchase of that second airplane, and Mike, before he could act as captain, had to fly a minimum number of hours under company procedures. Ironically, it fell to Tris to make sure he learned them.
At the hangar, the homeless were lined up, huddled as close to the wall as possible, some covered by newspaper, others by folded cardboard. She stepped quietly on the gravel path around them and carried her roller bag so she didn’t wake them.
Woody had invited the disheveled group to sleep inside the hangar during winter. Each one had refused. They didn’t want to be obliged or give up their independence.
Tris stripped off her gloves, loosened her scarf, and stored her roller bag in the airplane’s baggage compartment.
“Hey Tris.” she heard someone call when she came back down the air stairs.
Mike. She hadn’t heard him come in behind her.
“Hey. Mike. So,” she muttered, briefly flustered, “you want the first leg? Have you flown into this airport before?” She passed him the approach charts for Burbank airport in southern California.
“Yup. And didn’t hit a gas station.”
Tris couldn’t help laughing. Mike was referring to the Southwest Airlines accident just days before where the crew landed way too long and rolled a 737 off the runway and right into a Chevron. Luckily, there were no fatalities.
“Great. Okay, then. You take it out, I’ll fly us back tomorrow.” She looked around for his overnight bag. “Where’s your stuff?”
“Huh?” He looked sincerely confused.
“It’s an overnight. Don’t you bring toiletries?”
Mike looked off into the distance and rubbed his chin. She’d noticed this physical tic before. She’d ask him something, and Mike would rub his chin and consider it. Even asking him to pass the remote deserved due analysis.
“My ‘go’ bag’s in the trunk. I’ll grab it. Just wanted to check in with you first.” He stood close by her, glancing over her shoulder to look at the trip paperwork she’d picked up. The captain’s purview. She twisted slightly to highlight her epaulets. Petty, especially since Mike also wore four stripes on his shoulders.
“Want me to pre-flight?” he asked, recognizing that she was in charge.
“Yes, please, I already did a quick walk-around.” Tris wanted to make sure to delegate all first officer duties to her co-pilot today.
When Mike rounded the tail of the aircraft to check out the number one engine, he called, “What about this?” He pointed to a pool of liquid on the ground. Tris hadn’t seen it. Her face reddened.
She replied to the hangar door. “Not sure.”
Mike made a noise of assent. “Yeah, me either. I’ll grab a wrench and see what we can find out,” he said, using aviation slang for mechanic. No attitude. Business as usual.
Thrown off by missing something, although her instincts told her it was probably water, Tris went to get some privacy in the cockpit. Surely once she powered up the gauges, she’d have noticed any low fluid volume. But she’d still missed it on the ground.
He’s not judging you. YOU’RE the PIC.
“Nah. It’s water,” someone yelled.
“Great. Thanks,” Mike responded.
Mike motioned to the entrance to the waiting area, and Tris nodded. He would bring out the passengers; they’d put the three executives aboard in the relative warmth of the hangar and then have the crew tug them outside.
Within minutes, they were airborne, pointed west. Other than required conversation, they’d been silent. Tension between them balled up like a twisted rope.
Tris broke the silence by broaching Mike’s experience at the major airline he walked away from. “Bet you miss that 767 you used to fly for Legacy,” she said, her chair pushed back, legs crossed. He couldn’t walk away from her in the cockpit.
“I sure do. It was one of the lightest aircraft I ever flew.” Mike looked wistful.
“Wow. Nice. Then what—”
ATC cut her off. “Westin Charter One, Kansas City Center.”
“Westin Charter One, go ahead,” Tris responded.
“Westin Charter One, light turbulence reported for the next ten miles. We can give you flight level three-eight-zero if you’d like.”
Even though Mike flew from the left seat, Tris made the call. “No thanks. We’re fine here. We’re not experiencing any chop.”
“Roger, Westin Charter One. Maintain flight level three-four-zero.”
Tris confirmed, then picked up her “Coffee, Me, Skip the Tea” mug that Danny had bought her as a joke. It was her favorite. She supported it with both hands, guarding against jolts that could come at any time.
“Mike, I’m tired of dancing around the subject—why did you leave Legacy?”
At first, he seemed not to have heard, didn’t acknowledge her or look over. But slowly, he put his charts away and pulled the privacy curtain behind them closed.
“Is that really what you want to know?” The words vibrated along with instrument needles and a loose metal panel that had thrown a screw. Turbulence had arrived.
Her anger boiled back up and her words came out quiet but deadly serious. “What I really want to know is how you happened to quit a job at Legacy Airlines, then came here to compete with me for the Chief Pilot position. Which you knew you were going to do while you shared a bed with me. That, Mike, is what I really, really want to know.”
Recycled air hissed around them, mixed with dust and apprehension. Mike put his hands together and cracked his knuckles. Then he stretched his arms above his head and yawned. Tris was fascinated. He looked about to doze.
“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed. His expression was open, eyes inviting. “Tris, I like you. I really like you. I want to be with you. I want to answer your questions about Legacy, because, let’s face it, if roles were reversed, I’d have the same ones.” He paused, and then looked away to run a quick scan of the instruments as the airplane bumped along.
“But,” he continued, “don’t ask me why I pursued the Chief Pilot position at Westin. Because you already know.”
The words spilled out. “Don’t patronize me, Mike.” But was he? Tris opened her mouth to speak again, but this time Mike cut her off. The look in his eyes was sharp, intelligent but not at all unkind.
“I’m not. You know why. I was unemployed. And the perfect gig was right there, right in front of me, to fly for someone like Woody, a great boss, with people like you and Bruce, who I like and respect. Damn, Tris. This is not the watershed issue you think it is. In my position, you’d have done exactly the same thing.”
Tris picked at a hangnail, and then bit it off.
“But here’s the question I have,” Mike continu
ed. “If you think Legacy is such a great gig, that no one would ever leave, and certainly not to work for Westin, what are you still doing here?”
His words were caustic, but his tone wasn’t; his eyes hadn’t narrowed, his posture was open and relaxed. His expression was gentle and welcoming, like he might hug her.
Tris had to say something. But what? Her first instinct was to make notes, organize her thoughts in writing, but she fumbled her pen when she tried to grab it. It dropped between the right seat and the cockpit’s side panel. Her arm slid down into that tight space; her body contorted, and her head rapped on the window.
The pen finally retrieved, Tris used a napkin to wipe off a smear of oil with a ball of dust stuck to it. There she sat, ready to write, to outline her eloquent thoughts.
She had nothing. No argument, no comeback, no suitable response.
Because she didn’t know the answer. Sometimes when she arrived for work, she caught Woody looking at her quizzically, like he couldn’t quite figure out why she was still working there. He’d shake his head, mutter, “overqualified,” and follow it immediately with, “I’m a lucky bastard!”
Tris had the skills, the judgment, the background to be at Legacy. If she wanted it. If.
After a sip of her own brand of liquid courage—coffee produced by the mighty Bunn—Tris punted. “Let’s have dinner tonight in Burbank, okay? And we can talk about the choices we’ve each made in our careers. But, Mike, no bullshit.” Fear bubbled into her consciousness. She stifled it. “If we’re going to do this,” she pointed back and forth between them, “then we both have to open the history books. Personal and professional.”
“Deal,” he said.
His hand slid over the center console, and brushed hers lightly, a touch so ephemeral it wasn’t certain that he’d made contact at all.
Twenty-Eight
The two Royal captains looked through each other across the table at the Italian place near their hotel. Mike toyed with his napkin, ripping it into strips. When the waitress put down his beer, his fingers went to work separating the label from the sweaty bottle.
