by R. D. Kardon
Finally, he cracked his knuckles and nodded, just slightly, just enough to let Tris know he was ready. “All right. You’ve asked me about my past, about Legacy. I’m going to tell you. It’s not a big deal. But first, you need to know. What happened at Legacy had to do with my marriage.”
“Right. And?”
He nodded for several seconds before he spoke again. “Tris, I was married for about five years. I got the job at Legacy while we were still married.”
For the first time Tris held back; it would be unkind to push. Anxious for any little nugget of information, wanting to yank the words out of his throat so she could know, finally, she resigned herself to let him tell the story at his own pace.
Quietly, Mike rolled his right sleeve up to his shoulder, so that it looked like a rubber tube circling his bicep. He gently lifted the cap of his white short-sleeved undershirt. There was a small tattoo. How had she missed it? But in bed with him, in the dark, she had been focused on other things.
It was a tiny heart with the name “Kick” scrawled inside.
Just then, a waiter appeared with their food.
“Looks great,” Mike said, focused intently on his plate of baked ziti after quickly rolling down his sleeve. Tris had seen what he meant to show her.
“Sure does.” Tris had her favorite—a meatball calzone. She cut a third of it off, picked it up and bit. It took the edge off. She pried a meatball from the crusty layers and snagged a piece of it with her fork.
Mike lifted a fork full of pasta to his lips, chewed and swallowed.
“I met Tina, oh, maybe ten years ago. I was thirty, she was thirty-two. She was from Massachusetts and looked so much like one of those Kennedy sisters, the royal one, who they called ‘Kick?’ Ever heard of her?”
“Of course,” Tris mumbled.
“She was impossible not to love. So pretty, so kind.” He shook his head at the memory. “And all she wanted to do was be with me. You know how it is at the beginning, right?”
She did indeed. The story Mike told of his life with Kick was one of young love, lots of sex, and his wife’s waning patience. The more he traveled, the less she tolerated him being away. Tris had heard this tale before. The calzone sat untouched since that first bite.
“It was hard on her. Her father was a pilot, and he was gone all the time. I guess when I was flight instructing and was, you know, home every night it was different. Even flying charter, I was only gone a night or two at a time. But then I got on with Legacy. A dream come true—I thought—for both of us. But Kick took the week-long separations hard.”
He described his first months on reserve, never knowing his schedule. His wife’s frustration intensified in lockstep with his panic.
“I swear, I didn’t know what to do. She was so upset all the time. When I was home, I did everything she asked. Went to every one of her work functions, did things around the house. I was like her slave toward the end.” His voice held no rancor, only regret.
“Finally, I surrendered. I told her, okay, I’ll leave Legacy. What the hell, there are other ways to have a flying career, right?” Resentment finally crept into his voice.
“But then I learned she was cheating on me with some guy she’d met at a seminar out of town. She moved out without telling me while I was on the road.” At Tris’s gasp, he nodded. “Yup, I came home from a trip one day, and everything of hers was gone. Everything she’d brought to the marriage—furniture, books, even the silverware.” His shoulders tensed, but his tone never changed. “She didn’t leave me as much as a spoon.” Mike stabbed at the stubby round noodles on his plate.
“I’m sorry Mike. I really am.”
“Thanks. I took it hard, I’m not gonna lie. I couldn’t deal with . . . with things for a while. I quit Legacy, Tris. They didn’t chase me out. No drummed-up training failures to get rid of me, you know, like the airlines do. Nothing like that. I left.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the strings of paper that had once been his napkin. “And that’s it” He dug back into his dinner as though the conversation had made him ravenous.
They ate quietly for a while. Tris liberated another meatball from her calzone.
When their silence became awkward, Tris forced herself to speak, to say something, anything, to help Mike go deeper, tell her more. “Sounds like leaving Legacy wasn’t enough to turn things around,” she said, against the lively beat of utensils clinking and diners chatting.
“It wasn’t.” He wiped his mouth again, this time with a napkin from a fresh stack their waiter had surreptitiously dropped on the table and placed his utensils in the empty bowl. “But that’s over, Tris. It’s all over.” He lifted his chin and looked over her shoulder, through the open floor-to-ceiling glass window of the restaurant, toward either his future or his past.
They walked back to the hotel hand-in-hand. Tris sensed longing in his touch. And returned it with her own.
Mike had opened the door into his history, and by doing so, he’d shown her how to tell him about Bron. In the safe space he created for the two rookie lovers to relive the shame, conspiracies, and emotional damage of the past, Tris saw the possibility of love without blame, the chance to speak truth without pretense. She could share the guilt over Bron’s death that she’d borne for so long, and how much she not only still loved him, but missed him.
So she did.
In the dark hotel room, they lay on their backs, side-by-side on crisp white sheets, their heads nestled in down pillows.
“I loved him. Despite the age difference, despite the fact that he was so positive all the time. I mean, how could anybody really be like that? But he was. That was Bron.” Tris tried to keep her emotions in check, but by the time she spoke about the end it was no use.
Crying openly, she told Mike about the last night of Bron’s life, how there in her apartment she set the events in motion that led to his death. “I told him no. That I wasn’t ready for him to move in. To this day, I don’t know why. And so, instead of staying over, he decided to go to the crash pad. He kissed me goodbye. He said he loved me. And you know the rest.”
Mike spoke not a word as Tris relayed her last moments with Bron. She’d invited him into her grief and appreciated the reverence he’d shown by just listening.
Finally, he spoke, his words and tone brimming with compassion. “If he were here today, he’d forgive you. And he’d love you even more.”
Twenty-Nine
That night in Burbank, after Tris and Mike opened their hearts, their bodies came together. A toss of her hair, a rub of his beard, were all the invitation each needed to settle into heightened intimacy. Once she knew she wanted Mike, once her anger switch had flipped off, once she’d told him about Bron, it was easy to move their relationship forward. She was grateful at how easy it seemed.
“I need to see you. All of you,” he said. He stood at his full height, fit, lean, with the heart tattoo bearing his ex-wife’s name etched onto his shoulder.
“Can you turn the lights out first?”
“No.” He smiled kindly, almost apologetically.
Her pulse quickened. Doubts battled attraction, and she wondered if this was such a good idea after all. It had been so long, and there was nowhere she could run to if she had second thoughts.
No, this was Mike. She didn’t want to stop.
“Okay.” She slowly lowered the thin sheet, exposing her skinny, straight body, breasts large, round, still firm. More than a handful and a mouthful, Bron always joked.
Mike’s expression didn’t change. His eyes didn’t widen. He took her in, clinically, like he’d review a chart in the airplane. Ever a pilot, his finely-honed ability to maintain the majestic calm masked any emotions underneath. He could have been uncertain. Or nervous. Or frightened out of his mind. In this moment, she truly admired that skill, one that was part of her own expertise.
When he joined her in bed, his physical excitement betrayed the calm exterior.
“You first,” he said, as he positio
ned himself in exactly the right place. Bron’s memory shared the bed with them at first, then mercifully faded into the night. Tris settled into a bliss she’d almost forgotten, from a love that lived long ago.
She was thrilled to return the favor.
When they were done, Mike groaned a bit while turning on his side to face her. He rubbed his beard and scratched his neck, wearing the smile of a man who’d delivered a gift that he knew the recipient desperately wanted, and received the same in return. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. His crow’s feet deepened, and his lips moved in silence. A prayer? Maybe it was just his way. A gesture of appreciation for such a fine, fine evening.
He was still there in the morning.
The piercing beeps of a pager caused both pilots to bolt upright in bed. When her eyes cracked open, Tris noticed that they’d fallen back asleep for an hour after some early-morning satisfaction. Mike yawned, she jumped up to check the page.
It was the office. 9-1-1.
“Something’s up at the home store. I’m calling Phyll,” Tris said after Mike rolled out of bed, patted her butt, and headed to the bathroom.
“When do we launch again?” He called over the sound of relieving himself behind the partially closed door.
“Nine-thirty. The same three back to Exeter.” Tris flipped open her mobile phone and pressed number 1 for the office.
“Tris? Where are you?” It was Phyll and she sounded desperate.
“At the hotel. Where else?”
She heard Phyll call, “still at the hotel,” to someone.
“Tris?” It was Woody. “What the hell? Our passengers are waiting for you at the airport. Where are you?”
Frantic, Tris pounded the pillows that obscured the alarm clock.
“It’s only seven-thirty. We’re going to grab the van in a half hour. What’s the problem?”
“Did you read the paperwork, Tris? All times were in Central. You are scheduled to launch at nine-thirty Central. I’m looking right at the manifest. It’s pretty clear.”
Damn damn damn. Tris scrambled for the paperwork. The minute she picked it up, she saw it, in large block letters: “ALL TIMES CENTRAL.” It wasn’t unusual, since sometimes the Royal traversed numerous times zones in a day; they kept everything consistent that way.
“Woody, we’re on our way. We’ll be there in no time. I’ll call ahead and get the airplane fueled. I’ll fix this.”
Woody’s voice was ghostly calm. “You know I’m going to have to refund part of their fee for this mistake. See ya.” He slammed the phone down.
“Mike, hurry. We’ve gotta get going.” He was in the shower and hadn’t heard her. She jumped in with him.
“Hey. Nice,” he said, turning toward her with the soap.
“It’s not. We’re late. I screwed up. I didn’t read the manifest correctly. We’re so fucking late.”
Mike was confused. “Huh?”
“Central time. Damn it.” She grabbed a washcloth and began scrubbing. There was a shower cap next to the sink, but she didn’t notice it. Her hair got soaked. She’d have to towel-dry it.
They were in the elevator within fifteen minutes, at the airport in forty. She sent Mike out to pre-flight while she apologized to their passengers.
The Royal’s wheels left the pavement of Burbank’s Runway Three-Three at nine-thirty a.m. local time, two hours late. Their passengers munched happily on gourmet sandwiches from an upscale local caterer. By some incredible miracle, a Citation Jet’s trip had cancelled, and the crew generously donated their passenger’s sandwich platter. Tris took the names and email addresses of the two pilots, vowing to make it up to them.
Stiff and edgy, Tris forced her focus onto the flight home, trying desperately not to imagine the conversation she expected to have with Woody when they landed.
In the right seat, Mike calmly performed his duties as co-pilot, speaking expertly to ATC and making sure their navigation was updated with route changes. On those rare occasions when she caught his eye, he smiled warmly.
“It’s fine. It’ll be fine,” he said at one point, but his voice lacked conviction.
A heavy jet passed them in the opposite direction, contrails coiling behind it for miles. In this peaceful place, in the environment she loved beyond explanation, Mike had pulled ahead in the race for the Chief Pilot job.
Her jealousy flared. She tried to tamp it down with logic—she had made a mistake, yes, but no one got hurt. It might cost financially, but all of her loyal service had to count for something, right?
She ignored Dr. C’s advice to let negative feelings “float by in her mind,” as envy consumed her. This time, her error could cost her something concrete, something she counted on, earned and needed.
Something she deserved.
Woody was standing by the open hangar door when the Royal pulled up to the ramp in Exeter. He escorted the passengers to their cars, all smiles, probably hoping he would not have to give out an “inconvenience refund.”
Then he’d deal with Tris.
Woody ushered Tris into his office and closed the door.
“You think this is easy for me?” His low, carefully enunciated monotone scared her. “To have to choose between someone who has been with me as long as you have, and some new guy? Well, not new, of course I’ve known him for years, but he wasn’t here with me at the beginning. But Tris you can’t seem to keep it together. Lemaster. Burbank. And those trips where you say Bruce let you down? Man, I gotta wonder now, maybe he wasn’t getting the right signals.”
Tris almost jumped out of her chair. “Woody, I’m sorry, but you’ve got it wrong. These occurrences are not related. Bruce’s performance issues have not been exaggerated. Have you asked him about Jackson Hole? He’ll tell you himself.”
Woody’s mouth opened in surprise, then snapped shut. “You think so? I’m not so sure,” he said, distracted by a note on his desk.
“What do you mean? Not so sure about what?” Her pulse raced.
Had Bruce pleaded his case directly with Woody? Or worse, had he done it through Mike? Had Mike repeated something to Woody?
Woody picked up the receiver on his desk phone. “That’s all. Thanks for coming in, Tris.” He pressed some buttons and turned his back to her.
When Tris opened Woody’s office door, she caught a glimpse of Bruce, but he scurried off as though she might explode.
Mike stood by the Bunn. He’d waited for her.
“What’s Bruce doing here?” she asked, looking around.
“He and I have a trip in a couple of days. He’s getting a jump on things, to make sure everything’s perfect. He even reviewed the freight manifest and checked the load. Acting just like a pilot who wants to upgrade.”
Anxiety swirled, starting in her stomach, it rose through her chest, and lodged in its usual spot in her throat.
Mike never seemed to lack, or desire, information. Tris was out of the loop on Bruce—she knew it, and she didn’t like it.
But that could change. “Keep an eye on him, Mike. In the cockpit,” she said carefully, lowering her voice. “I’m not sure what he’s told you, or what Woody has. But a couple of times when I put Bruce in the left seat, he had a hard time flying the airplane. A really hard time.”
Mike’s shrugged. “I don’t plan to put him in the left seat, except on the ground, to see him taxi, until his checkout on the angel flight. If he can fly it from the right, he can fly it from the left. You know that.”
“I know that’s true of most pilots. I’m not sure it’s true of Bruce.”
The entrance door to the hangar opened then shut.
“Hey, you two. What trouble are you cooking up?” Bruce said as he went to grab some papers from his cubby on his way home.
“Oh, trying to stay out of trouble as usual, Bruce,” she said. “Seems like you have everything ready for your next trip. Good work.”
Bruce smiled. “Thanks, Cap,” he said as the door shut behind him.
Tris beat some dust
off her uniform pants and grabbed her coat. Mike now had the angel flight file open in front of him. He stared at the dummy flight details they’d put together to estimate potential fuel loads.
“Do you want to see the passenger information? It’s in a separate folder. The one you have is just the flight planning information.” Tris asked.
Mike rubbed his beard. “No need, is there? You’ve got that covered, right?”
“I do.”
“So. See you when I get home?” he asked, with a big grin. They’d promised each other the night before that whatever choice Woody made, their competition would be left in the hangar.
It took every ounce of energy she had to smile back. “Sure. See you,” she said, and scurried away.
Thirty
The light at the entrance to Dr. C’s door stayed red for what seemed like an hour. When Tris checked her watch, though, only a few minutes had passed.
She’d brought along the angel flight passenger’s dossier to pass the time, including some new material that Phyll had picked up yesterday from Tetrix. Phyll was quite put out by having to go all the way over there to grab, “a couple of strips from their local rag.”
On top of the file were copies of two new articles from the Nunatsiaq News, and the latest medical brief. There were no changes to Christine’s condition, at least none that was relevant to the flight.
The first article was titled “Grief Counselor’s March to Beyond.” It was a Q & A with a local reporter, dated a week ago. Tris skipped to the interview portion. Christine was an expert in grief, and years after Bron’s death, Tris still looked for answers anywhere she could find them.
Q: Dr. Edgemon, you’ve helped so many local Inuit understand and deal with the death of loved ones. Now that you are dealing with a life-threatening illness, does all the therapy you’ve given actually help you?
A: The process of death isn’t what people think. Yes, death is the end of physical life. But, mostly, the course of death, the path of it, is a project to be managed, a stage of life to be planned for, approached, experienced, and assessed. That’s what I try to teach my patients, try to pull them in to understanding that this is a very unhappy, distressing time. But the more predictable, the more regular they can make it, the easier it will be on them and their families.
