The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  Only got the one left, he said. Half-thinkin on keepin him for myself.

  Where’d you bury ol Sophie anyway?

  Out back, under her favorite tree. Hell, I’m just a sentimental ol fool.

  No you’re not, Grace said. Least, no more than I would be.

  Fourteen years, Mac said. Like havin another kid.

  You see much of Johnny?

  Not as much as I’d like. He’s a cattle rancher down in Riverside County now. Got himself near-on thirty thousand acres in the Temecula Valley. Good grazin land. Leases most of it out. Smart kid. He got that from his mother.

  So you gonna keep the pup?

  Hell, probably not. He’s a handful. You can have him if you want.

  I’m just thinking about it at the moment, she said. Always saw myself with one, y’know? Growing up, a little girl … Guess that’s just the way God made me.

  She sighed, looked down at the table.

  You ever had the feeling the future’s become the past while you were busy being scared? she said.

  Mac looked at her.

  All the damn time, he said.

  She looked away.

  You wanna come see him? Mac said. He’s out back.

  Lemmie give you a call in a few days.

  Sure, he said. No sweat.

  She smiled.

  Thanks, Mac.

  How’s that fine-lookin husband of yours?

  Oh, fine, she said. His usual self.

  Flyin today?

  Just a few times.

  Man’s gotta work.

  Think I saw more of him when he was flying over occupied France during the war, Grace said. Sure worried about him less. But I guess he knows what he’s doing. At least in the air. It’s down on the ground that’s the problem.

  Mac chuckled.

  I heard they workin on some new type of airplane or somethin? he said.

  They’re trying to break the sound barrier, Grace said.

  Why in the hell would anyone want to do that?

  Jim says someone’s gonna do it eventually. Better that it’s us. Old allies aren’t lookin so friendly anymore.

  The Russians?

  Grace shrugged. She drained her Coke, saw a deck of cards on a shelf near the table.

  You wanna deal a hand? she said, nodding toward them.

  Seems like you’re in a good mood, he said, smiling and fetching the cards. Sure be a shame to spoil it.

  Pipe down, old man, Grace said. You got anything proper to drink?

  Shuffle, he said, handing her the deck. He walked through a side door and returned carrying a plain glass bottle, three-quarters full, and two glasses. He sat down.

  Here, Grace said, passing Mac the cards. Now deal up, you ol cowboy.

  It was just six and Pancho’s was busy. A sloppy Cole Porter melody warbled, lost, into the desert night. There were already men on the veranda, surrounded by Virginia creepers, moonlight and girls, drinking scotch and laughing. Inside, the place looked like a cathouse, the piano smelled like a beer.

  Pancho stood behind the bar, holding a framed six-by-four of Rick Bong in her hand.

  Bing Bong, she said as she hammered it to the wall above the radio. You stupid bastard.

  She turned and faced the crowd.

  You know the problem with you sons-of-bitches? she shouted. You’re all going crazy being horny and sober. We can fix one of them for you, but the other, hell, you’re on your own.

  There was laughter and cheering. Harrison dug out a cigarette and lit it; the match flared in his face. He walked through the crowd and sat down at a table in the far corner, where a man sat chewing gum.

  Pancho wanted you to have this, Yeager said, pushing a glass toward him.

  Scotch?

  Rum.

  Rum?

  Best she’s got, so she say.

  Harrison tried it.

  Ain’t bad, he said.

  Heard they dropped you in a nose-up stall, Yeager said.

  You heard right, Harrison said. Thought they’d have to name an ass-shaped crater after me.

  Yeager chuckled. He was short, with wiry hair and thin, blue eyes. He had a slow, West Virginian drawl and looked like he’d been left out in the desert for too long.

  So how’d it go? he said.

  Pretty much what we figured, Harrison said. Heavy trim pressure, Dutch rolls, massive shock wave buffeting, loss of elevator, pitch—

  You lost pitch?

  Point nine-four Mach, forty thousand feet. I pulled back on the control wheel and, nothing. Felt like the cables had snapped on me. I kept going, same altitude, same direction …

  Christ.

  I turned off the engine, jettisoned the fuel and landed, fast as I could.

  Hell, Yeager said, no way I can get past point nine-four without a damn elevator.

  You should’ve seen Ridley’s face, Harrison said. He looked sick as a hog. We checked the data, turns out a shock wave caught the hinge-point on the tail.

  What the old man say?

  Shook his head, thought the program had reached the end of the line.

  Ridley?

  Thought on it for a minute, said maybe we could get by using just the horizontal stabilizer.

  That’s only meant for extra authority.

  He did some calculations, thinks it could work.

  What if the motor gets stuck trim-up or trim-down?

  Then you got a problem.

  Yeager grunted. What if the airflow overwhelms the motor and stops the tail from pivoting?

  Then you got another problem, but nothing different than what I had today.

  Could rip the damn tail off as it’s pivoting too.

  You got insurance, right?

  Me and Ridley call this part the ughknown. He really thinks it’ll work?

  Tested the hell out of it today. Worked just fine. Point nine-six Mach. Felt a bit ragged, but it’ll keep you in the air.

  Anything else?

  The windshield frosted over at one point.

  It frosted? It usual’ fogs. I just wipe it away.

  That cabin’s so damn cold. I took my gloves off, tried to scrape it, nearly lost my fingers.

  How’d you land?

  Kit was flying chase and talked me down blind. Said I must have been sweatin pretty hard to ice the shield like that.

  Yeager chuckled again.

  Listen, Yeager, Harrison said. That’s the best damn airplane I ever flew, but it’ll bite you hard in the ass when you least expect it.

  One damn thing after another.

  Yeah.

  Get Russell to put a coating of Drene shampoo on the windshield tomorrow; that ought to sort it out. Best antifreeze there is.

  Harrison nodded. You want another?

  Hang on, here’s Pancho, Yeager said.

  Well, Pancho said. Look at this: my boys.

  Rum was good, Harrison said.

  I know. Yeager, you ol bastard, where’s Glennis?

  She’s coming. Jus sorting out the babysitter.

  How’s Mickey and Don?

  Doin good.

  Those are fine boys you got there, Yeager, you hear me? Don’t screw them up by doing something stupid like getting crunched.

  She looked at Harrison.

  When you gonna do the right thing like Yeager here? What have you got to show for your miserable existence on this rock?

  Well, maybe when I reach the grand age of Yeager here I’ll think about it.

  I’ll have a drink for that, kid, Yeager said.

  They’re on the house for you fellas tonight, Pancho said, so you can both shut up.

  You’re a peach, Yeager said.

  A real peach, Harrison said.

  And you two are a couple of miserable sons-of-bitches, but you’re the fastest men in this room so I’ll get Billy to bring you something over.

  Thanks, Pancho.

  She moved on.

  Billy! Scotch for the two pudknockers in the corner. The good stuff.

 
; Billy brought the drinks.

  Shit, Harrison said.

  What?

  Doesn’t matter.

  Grace coming over?

  Yeah.

  You think Pancho’s gonna keep goin on about kids?

  He nodded.

  Don’t sweat it. Get outside, catch her as she comes in.

  I’ll see you, Chuck.

  You bet.

  Harrison started toward the door. A sharp sound cut through the noise and the singing. Pancho was standing on the bar, banging two empty beer bottles together.

  Listen up, you sorry bunch of peckerheads. They say there’s a demon living at Mach one. Well, maybe there is, maybe there ain’t; all I know is Harrison and Yeager make you all look like goddamn mouse farts in the wind.

  The bar roared.

  Either that or the air force don’t care if they get clobbered, a loud voice said.

  Who said that? Pancho said. Gene May. Might have guessed nothing but horseshit could come out the mouth of a civilian pilot.

  The screen door banged against the wall. Harrison looked up and saw his wife standing in the doorway. She stepped inside, leaned against the wall and folded her arms.

  You young fellas, May said. What makes you think you can fly faster than sound itself?

  These two men could fly right up your ass and tickle your eyeballs and you’d never know why you were farting shock waves, Pancho said. Get the hell out of my bar.

  May took out a cigarette, lit it, looked around, shook his head.

  You’re gonna get clobbered and you’re too stupid to see it comin.

  He turned and left.

  Harrison reached Grace and whispered, c’mon, let’s get out of here.

  Anyone else got something they want to get off their chest? Pancho said. Good. Where was I?

  You were sayin Bridgeman flies like a mouse fart, someone shouted. There was laughter.

  Grace smiled at her husband.

  What? No. I just got here, she said.

  I want you to forget everything you think you know about flying airplanes, Pancho said, not that you know that much, and raise your glasses, your bottles, your asses—I don’t care what—to that ol demon. May he piss his pants when he sees you coming.

  There was a cacophony of clattering glass.

  Let’s just hope, Pancho continued, that going supersonic don’t turn them funny in the head, or—she winked at Harrison across the room—the balls.

  What the hell was that? Grace said, turning to her husband.

  Honey—

  I saw that; that wink she gave you. What the hell, Jim?

  She stared at him, eyes slick with tears.

  Gracie—

  She pushed the door open and left.

  Christ, he said, and followed.

  It was cold outside. The veranda was empty.

  Goddamn it, Harrison called after her. Wait up.

  Grace spun around.

  I’m so mad I’m spittin nails right now, she said.

  She doesn’t know, sweetheart, she doesn’t know.

  That’s our business, Jim, our marriage. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  I know.

  Having kids, that’s private; you and me—it’s none of her goddamn business.

  Let me speak to her.

  No. I don’t need you to speak to her, I’m plenty able to do that myself.

  Where you going?

  Where do you think I’m going?

  Grace!

  He ran after her. The back door to the kitchen was open. She ducked inside.

  Grace, honey, stop, please.

  In the kitchen, Minnie was turning six fat steaks on the grill. They smoked and crackled. She looked around.

  Shit, sorry, Minnie, Harrison said.

  Where’s Pancho? Grace said.

  Hello, Mrs. Harrison, Minnie said. What you all doin back here?

  Sorry, Minnie, hi, is this the door to—

  The door opened.

  What the hell are you both doin back here? Pancho said. Party’s out front.

  It’s none of your goddamn business! Grace said.

  What ain’t? Pancho said.

  Jim and me; having kids.

  Hon—Harrison said.

  We can’t.

  Can’t what?

  Have kids, Grace said. We can’t have children.

  Pancho stared at her.

  We’re seeing the doc on Monday, Harrison said. Gettin some results. We don’t know that for sure.

  Well we sure as hell don’t have any now, Grace said, and it sure don’t look likely to change anytime soon.

  Gracie, Pancho said, throwing her large arms around her slim frame. I had no idea. I’m so sorry. She held Grace tight, whispering something in her ear that Harrison couldn’t hear. Grace was nodding her head. They parted.

  Don’t think I’ve ever seen you embrace anyone before, Pancho, Harrison said.

  Shut your mouth, Pancho said.

  Grace wiped her eyes with the undersides of her thumbs.

  Right? Pancho said to her.

  She nodded.

  What? Harrison said.

  None of your business, Pancho said. Between women. You’ll tell me how you get on on Monday?

  Grace nodded.

  Here, Pancho said. Go home, take this.

  She handed Grace a bottle of red wine.

  You keep wine back here? Harrison said.

  Keep that to yourself or I’ll break your damn legs, Pancho said.

  All right, all right, he said. I’ll see you.

  Yes you will.

  Night, Minnie, Grace said.

  Good night, Mrs. Harrison, Captain Harrison.

  Good night Minnie, he said.

  Get out of here, Pancho said.

  Harrison slipped his hand into his wife’s and they left.

  She lay in bed, on her side, away from him; arm hooked beneath her pillow. The yellow light from the lamp felt warm. He pushed his face into the nape of her neck, hand resting on her belly.

  Hey, he said.

  She didn’t reply. He kissed her back. He couldn’t see her face.

  Don’t do that.

  What?

  Stroke my belly. I’m not a genie.

  I know, he said.

  She sighed. Wish I was, she said.

  I know, he said.

  I’m sorry, she said, and rolled over. Her eyes, narrow and full, flicked up to his.

  It’s okay, he said.

  I just—

  I know.

  It’ll be all right, he said.

  She rubbed at a small scar on her forehead, like she always did.

  Monday—

  Monday will take care of itself, he said.

  Okay, she said.

  Okay, he said, then, what’s the matter?

  I need to pee, she said.

  He laughed. She slipped out of bed. He sat on the edge and stared into the empty room. The toilet flushed. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his clothes, and got back into bed.

  Not the eye mask, he said as she got back in.

  It’s too damn bright in here with a full moon, she said.

  You a werewolf?

  Werewolves change shape with a full moon, she said, not have a hard time sleeping.

  You look like a giant fly.

  Come here and kiss me, she said, lying down.

  No way!

  C’mon.

  I don’t want to kiss an insect.

  She sought him out, buzzing through her teeth. He laughed. She climbed on top of him.

  There you are, she said.

  Get off, he said, laughing.

  No.

  Get off!

  Never!

  She stuck out her tongue and moved it toward him.

  This is gettin weird, he said.

  She took off the mask.

  That’s better, he said.

  She bent down and kissed him and he turned her gently beneath him.

  Oh, now you w
ant some? she said.

  I love you, he said.

  I know, she said, giving a gentle gasp, and he kissed her.

  She looked up at him, and he at her, and she touched his face, and he kissed her again, then said, but I’m on the flight line at five, so—he rolled onto his back—I gotta sleep.

  You pig! she said.

  Can I borrow your mask?

  I can’t believe I married you!

  You are one lucky girl.

  Go to sleep, she said.

  Already halfway there, hon, he said.

  She stretched out her arm and switched off the lamp. In the darkness, she said, Jim? Do you still love me?

  He turned to look at her and stroked her face and said, I do.

  They sat with six others on hard benches in silence. Stenciled in black on clouded glass spheres were three surnames, each hanging from a different door like droopy flower-heads. There was no clock.

  The middle ball lit up and a loud buzzer sounded. A woman stood, folded her magazine, placed it back on the table and walked through the door.

  Then there were five, Harrison said. Who we following?

  You didn’t have to come, Grace said.

  What’s the matter?

  I said I’d be fine. Margaret Anderson. And nothing’s the matter. Keep your voice down.

  You don’t sound fine.

  I’m just saying you don’t need to be here; I know you want to get back.

  When did I say that? Old man said take what I need.

  Doesn’t matter.

  Right.

  How much longer? she said.

  Want me to ask? he said.

  No, she said.

  What’s the time?

  No clock.

  You not got a wristwatch?

  At the base.

  What time we get here?

  Ten before ten.

  Must be gone eleven.

  Uh-huh.

  You want to get going? she said. I can get a ride back.

  Nope, he said.

  I know you don’t like doctors.

  I don’t.

  So go back. I’m fine.

  I’m taking care of you.

  I can take care of myself.

  Knock it off, would you?

  You’re not the one they’ve poked and scraped.

  I’m just trying to look after you.

  I know.

  Okay.

  I’m sorry.

  Let’s just see what they say, he said. Find out what the hell’s going on.

  I don’t want to know, Grace said, staring up at the door.

  Two years, you don’t want to know?

  I want kids, Jim; I want to have kids.

  I know you do, honey, so do I, but, you know, it isn’t always possible for everyone.