Among the Dead

by Michael Tolkin

  The list of the dead on the ground was short, only twenty, but the police had not yet notified all the next of kin, which might take days. The police expected the list to grow to at least a hundred.

  He picked up the phone. Who to call? He could call Lowell, but if his brother was annoyed with him for last night’s stunt, then why call him unless he meant to apologize? And if he apologized, would that give Lowell the power to bring frank to his senses?

  Now with an apology, Frank would have to admit that he’d been out of control.

  And with that, Lowell would trundle him out of the hotel, bring him to his house, and help Frank to put the tragedy behind him.

  It was too soon for that. He called his mother instead.

  Lowell had already told her about the arrest, which meant that he was awake and had called them early, or had called them last night.

  ‘Your father and I couldn’t sleep last night.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘We’ll never be OK.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to bury your children or grandchildren, that’s not the way God wants things.’

  ‘He wanted it this time.’

  ‘Don’t be bitter.’

  ‘Mom.’ He said this quickly.

  ‘What am I saying?’ she asked. ‘Be bitter. Be as bitter as you want. It might be good for you. You could stand to cry. Have you cried yet?’

  ‘Last night. I cried when I got home.’

  ‘What were you doing out there? They could have shot you, for looting.’

  ‘I wasn’t looting. I was looking.’

  ‘And what did you hope to see?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I do. And I shouldn’t say this, because I know what kind of pain you’re in, but you were hoping to see their bodies, Frank. That’s what you wanted to see.’ The way she had said this, the words she had chosen, the comma after bodies and then his name, and the quick, short sentence after that, told him that she had gone too far, and knew it, and wanted to negate the first intention, which was to brutalize him with the strength of her insight, her honesty, to show off that she knew things about him to which he was blind. She was punishing him with his own motives.

  So why didn’t I tell her the truth? he asked himself. Why not just come out and admit that I wanted to see their bodies on the ground? Because I did not want to shock her. But she knew anyway.

  How much had she known about me when I was growing up? How much had she withheld from me, how many of her insights did she keep to herself? And do I wish she had been truthful, or am I glad that she let me be? Or was she afraid of telling the truth, for fear that I would turn around and make her suffer the indictment her son had crafted for a lifetime?

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Frank. I wanted to see the bodies. I needed to know for myself that they really are dead.’

  ‘THE GUILT OF THE SURVIVORS,’ she said.

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Frank?’ It was Lowell. ‘Frank, if s me.’

  Frank called out to him, to wait a second, and then his mother said, ‘What?’

  ‘Lowell is here.’

  ‘Let me talk to him.’

  So she wanted to talk to Lowell about the problems baby brother was having, how to take care of him, how to help him get over this.

  Lowell was there with a brown paper shopping bag. Frank saw a few bagels, and a plastic container with cream cheese, and a plastic bottle of fresh orange juice. He told Lowell that their mother was on the phone, and that she wanted to speak to him.

  ’I didn’t want you to have that shitty hotel food. Let’s eat this.’ He handed Frank the bag, in a gesture that meant: accomplish this small task, the setting of a table, and re-enter the world of the living. Your therapy begins now. But the effort to so quickly help him deal with the pain only pushed him further away from Lowell, since he was expected to start his recovery. He opened the bag and put the bagels on the round table near the balcony. There was nothing to cut the bagels with, only plastic knives for spreading the cream cheese. He tore an onion bagel in half and daubed the cut ends with the cheese. While Lowell talked to their mother, Frank went to the bathroom for the drinking glasses, and poured the orange juice.

  On the phone Lowell assured their mother that Frank looked fine, Frank was going to be fine, and that he, Lowell, was fine. Then his mother said something to Lowell, and to respond he grunted a few times. She was telling him something, and she didn’t want an articulate response. What was she saying, that she was worried? Maybe she was talking about their father. No. She’s telling him something about me, thought Frank.

  Lowell offered the phone to Frank. ‘Dad wants to say something.’

  Frank took the phone. His father’s voice was heavy, wet. ‘I’m going to temple, Frank. I’m going to say Kaddish today.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘You should too.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ He didn’t want to pray, or he did, but he didn’t want to go to temple, he didn’t want to have to park his car, think about finding a space, or reach for his keys when the service was over.

  ‘Your mother wants to go to San Diego. The airline says there’s going to be a memorial service, and they think it’s going to be in San Diego, because of the people on the ground. There may be a service in LA, though. We’ll go to them all. These things, these prayers, these services, that’s why we have them, to help us through the hardest times.’ Frank could detect, in his father’s gush of sodden theology, the notes of capitulation to reality that, transposed to the sphere of business, became the shudders of doubt that made him pull short of what he was afraid to do, and brought his business down.

  The phone call ended. ‘Do you know anything about this memorial service?’ he asked Lowell.

  ‘There may be something in a few days, The airline is setting it up. I hate to say this,’ said Lowell, and then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s a publicity stunt, it’s the airline managing the news. They’ll come across as the chief mourner, they’ll set up something in the public’s mind, so that juries will feel sympathy for the airline, so it’ll be harder to get a big judgement against them. For the money. We have to find a good lawyer. I don’t know whether we join a class-action suit, or if we do this alone. Maybe we can find a few other people and sue with them.’

  I could sue my limo driver for getting me to the airport late.’

  Lowell used a laugh at this to pull up a chair and tear apart a bagel and drag the cut end through the cream cheese, piling it against the leading edge. ‘Let’s go back to my place.’

  ‘No,’ said Frank. ‘I want to see Bettina Welch. I want to find out what else they know.’

  ‘I’m not going to say that I know how much pain you’re in. But I am going to say that you’re only going to make that pain worse.’

  ‘If what?’

  ‘By hanging around here waiting for whatever it is you’re waiting for.’

  ‘Where should I go? What should I do?’

  ‘We should go home.’

  ‘But what about the bodies? I don’t want to go home without the bodies.’

  ‘We’ll stay here until we can bring Anna and the baby home. I promise.’ He always called Madeleine ‘the baby’. Frank thought it was because he wasn’t quite sure of her name.

  For the second time in two and a half days, they left a hotel room to see Bettina Welch.

  She was in the conference room, on the phones. The airline representatives all wore identification tags, with their pictures. The photographs were of the same dull style as the picture of Lonnie Walter, a head-shot in front of a cream background. A few of the other survivors who had been in the hotel in Los Angeles were there, getting breakfast from a buffet table. The spread was not so lavish as in Los Angeles, three steam trays, one chef, a few bus-boys. There were eggs, sausages and pancakes. Beside them, on large plates, were cereals and breads, and then a few pitchers with or
ange and tomato juice, and milk. The coffee cups were small.

  The woman with the copper-coloured hair sat at a table, reading the paper, while her husband brought her a plate of scrambled eggs. A Mexican family ate sausages and drank orange juice.

  Bettina Welch left her table. She approached Lowell with her hand out, because he had been so difficult in Los Angeles, and she had to win him over. He took her hand as she said, ‘Hello again, Mr Gale.’

  ‘Lowell,’ he said.

  She gave Frank another official hug. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘We have to talk. Can I get you something to eat?’

  Frank wanted a pancake with syrup, but said nothing. She took him by the arm and they sat at a table away from the others.

  ‘Frank,’ she said, and he knew there was trouble. ‘The press found out about you.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Two things. You weren’t on the plane. And then the arrest last night. They want to talk to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you weren’t on the plane. They say it’s everyone’s nightmare.’

  ‘Not dying on a plane?’

  ‘Missing a plane that crashes. I don’t know why. People have such horrible things, sometimes.’ Have things. What things?

  Lowell put himself between Frank and Bettina. ‘Listen to me. I don’t want the press bothering my brother, do you understand that?’

  ‘You know, Mr Gale, you’re also suffering through this.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me happy, your concern for me, Miss Welch?’ Nothing had changed. Lowell would never try to be nice to her. Lowell blamed her for the crash.

  Frank put a hand on Lowell, the familiar way to bring him back from his rage. ‘We just won’t talk to them. Thaf s all. I just won’t talk to them.’

  ‘We need a lawyer,’ said Lowell. ‘We need a lawyer today.’

  ‘Let’s wait,’ said Frank.

  ‘No,’ said Lowell. ‘And we’re not going to join anybody else’s suit. I want to make a separate case out of this.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about this now?’ asked Frank. ‘Can’t we wait until after the funeral?’

  Bettina Welch interrupted. ‘There’s going to be a memorial service for everyone in two days, here in San Diego. We’ll have limos to take you.’

  ‘Limousines. As if that helps,’ said Lowell.

  ‘We’re trying.’

  ‘Bettina,’ said Frank, ‘my brother is very upset.’

  ‘I know that. And thank you. And now I have to get back to work.’

  ‘What next?’ asked Frank.

  ‘In what way?’ she said.

  ‘Where do we go next? What are we supposed to do now?’

  ‘I’ve given your name to the county coroner’s office. They’ll be calling you as soon as they can. I’m sorry, Frank, but you’ll have to identify the body. I’m sorry, I mean the bodies.’

  ‘Is there anything left of them?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Don’t think about that,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s a natural thing to think about. Do you know?’

  ‘I don’t, no.’

  ‘She won’t answer the question,’ said Lowell. ‘She doesn’t want to say anything that could cause you more distress, so you could sue.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Gale, that’s exactly right.’ And then she turned and went back to her desk.

  ‘You dick,’ said Frank.

  ‘Fuck her,’ said Lowell, in a way that sounded more like a command than a curse.

  The copper-haired woman looked up from her eggs and waved to Frank and Lowell. Lowell led Frank to her table.

  ‘I’m Brenda Cohn,’ she said, ‘and this is Geoffrey. We have lost our Danny, and his new bride, Angela. They were married last Sunday. I guess we’re still in the anger stage of all this. We weren’t in denial very long.’

  ‘I lost my wife and daughter,’ said Frank.

  ‘We heard. We’re terribly sorry. You’re the fellow who missed the plane.’

  ‘Does everyone know?’ asked Lowell, but his belligerence was under control. Frank thought that only he knew the meanness inside the question.

  ‘I think so,’ said Geoffrey. He seemed less a ruined man than on the night of the crash, when defeat was so much a part of him that the crash loomed over him as only the most recent attack on his life, or the necessary conclusion to a series of disasters. ‘It’s going to be hard for you.’

  ‘It’s hard for all of us,’ said Frank.

  ‘But for you,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We’ll have a little privacy. But for you, no. You’ll never have privacy. This is going to stick with you, for ever.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Frank.

  ‘Yes,’ said Brenda. ‘For the rest of your life you’ll be the man who missed two twenty-one. You’ll be marked by this. It won’t be easy for you to remarry.’

  Frank expected Lowell to jump in, but he stayed silent. Frank looked to him for support.

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Lowell.

  ‘Why?’ asked Frank, knowing this was the wrong question, because it brought him into their game.

  ‘Because you’ll be cursed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Every time a woman who loves you leaves for anything, any trip, she’ll worry about her safety. She’ll worry that she’ll be the second wife to die. Your wife, she was your first wife?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank.

  ‘And if she gets on a plane without you,’ said Brenda, not finishing the sentence. The implication was there: if she gets on a plane without you, she’ll be sure to remember how you were widowed.

  ‘But only if she gets on a plane without me when I was supposed to be on the plane,’ said Frank. ‘Don’t forget, I didn’t not take the plane, I missed the plane. A million people don’t take a flight that their wives or husbands are on. That happens every day. But this was different. I didn’t not take the flight. That’s normal. I missed the plane. I was late to the airport. How many people miss a flight their families are on, and then the plane crashes? How many people? You can’t say that happens all the time.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Brenda. ‘You might be right. That’s an interesting opinion.’

  ‘Why were you late?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘Traffic,’ said Frank.

  ‘We dropped them off at the airport,’ said Brenda, ‘and the traffic wasn’t that bad. Which way were you coming from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Everyone knows the direction they’re coming from.’

  ‘Hollywood,’ said Frank. ‘I had lunch with a friend, and then I was running a little late.’

  ‘Your friend saved your life,’ said Brenda.

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Lowell.

  ‘Actually my insurance agent.’

  ‘What insurance agent?’ asked Lowell. ‘Jack Ney?’ Jack Ney was Mary’s boss.

  ‘No,’ said Frank. This was going to be a bad lie, but it was too late to stop. A name spilled out of his mouth. ‘Mark Sifka.’

  ‘Is he with Jack Ney?’ He meant: does he handle the company’s insurance? ‘Is he ours?’

  ‘No, mine.’

  ‘What. Car, life?’

  ‘Not car. House and stuff. Life.’

  ‘I thought you used Jack’s office for that. Why’d you stop?’

  ‘I don’t know. This guy kept calling. I don’t know. I met him at a party.’

  ‘Whose party?’ asked Lowell. Frank thought Brenda Cohn suspected something in his reluctance to answer.

  ‘You don’t know them, friends of Anna’s.’ Now I am using Anna as an alibi for my mistress. This is out of control.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Lowell. Frank thought that he had threatened Lowell with the possibility of independence by finding his own insurance agent, without asking for permission or advice. It had never occurred to Frank before that Lowell needed him too.

  ‘Did you buy l
ife insurance from him at lunch?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘Not then. A while ago.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that have been something?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Although it wouldn’t have been in effect when the plane crashed.’

  Throughout this, Brenda watched Frank, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He thought a stranger might have thought she hated him, the way she looked at him so impatiently. The stranger would have thought that Brenda was keeping a running tab of his errors, and everything he said was wrong.

  ‘Mark Sifka,’ said Lowell. ‘And you had lunch with him.’ Meaning: If s not like you, Frank, to have lunch with an insurance agent, since you are a snob and can’t see past someone’s job as easily as I can, you can’t appreciate a good salesman as well as I do. And since insurance salesmen are so reviled in the culture, it is not likely that you, Frank Gale, would talk to one for any time longer than it took to buy the minimum amount of insurance he was selling, suspicious of his rates, and merciless in not wanting to give the salesman any moment of joy, thinking that his happiness, his satisfaction with the sale, would only mean that he had triumphed over another sucker. ‘So this Sifka, he knew you were going to Mexico. He knew what time you were leaving.’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Frank.

  ‘If he reads the papers,’ said Brenda, ‘he thinks you’re dead.’

  T should call him,’ said Frank. This was perfect, the excuse he needed to leave the table.

  ‘Did he insure your wife and daughter?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank. He didn’t know what else to say, and the stupidity of the lie crashed around him, like an airplane on fire.

  Geoffrey matched his wife’s hard, unpleasant, study of him. ‘You better call him. He’s preparing the settlement on the claim. He’s probably waiting for someone in the family to call him. He insured you too.’