"Not a thing. Not a word here."
"All right, you might as well take over here. I'm beat."
"I'll be right over." When he came you turned over the radio room, complete with dummied recording of the day's communications, and went out. You picked up the portable unit, with the spliced original inside, and carried it to the car. You were trembling as you got behind the wheel.
"What's the trouble, Augie?" Ev asked you.
"There was a crash off Montaugan point. I don't want to talk about it."
"What did you need that thing for?"
"The unit? Oh, I thought I might be monitoring the search for the plane in the water, and I wanted to record it."
"Did you?"
"No. I couldn't get them at all ..."
*
Hennler got out of the car and went into his house, leaving the garage doors open because he would have to take his mother-in-law to the Hyannis plane in the evening.
All through the day he saw them watching him. Evelyn, Mother Gaines and--even the children seemed to be watching him. Not overtly. Not so you could put your finger on it. But at dinner he dropped his fork, and he glanced up to find them exchanging looks.
There was no peace in the house. And there was no chance of the usual Sunday-afternoon trip to the beach, because Mother Gaines detested beaches. He went out in the yard and stretched out in the reclining chair he had made in his workshop. The window of the children's bedroom was directly above him, and he caught a snatch of conversation between Evelyn and Mother Gaines.
"... Do you see what I mean, Mother?" Evelyn said. "And this last week he's been much better."
"I think I ..." Mother Gaines as they moved from the window.
The worst of it was, you couldn't even ask. You must appear undisturbed. You didn't even dare find out if the conversation was about Alec--or you.
Hennler got up and went into the house. The bottle was in the cabinet beneath the sink. He poured himself a stiff shot in a water tumbler and was putting it back under the sink when Evelyn came into the kitchen.
She said, "Augie! Not now! Not while Mother's here."
You tried to keep the resentment out of your voice--but it was there anyway when you said, "Just because I want a shot doesn't mean I'm on a binge."
She shook her head miserably as you went back into the yard and sat down, perching the third full tumbler on the wide chair arm.
The day dragged into the long sloping shadows of late afternoon, and then settled into dusk. Still you sat--though now the bottle was beside you, where you had brought it to avoid repeated expeditions to the interior. You were not drunk, exactly. It would be perfectly possible, if you wanted, to walk a straight line between chair and garage. You had, all afternoon and in the summer twilight, identified each of the flights that had gone over: Cape Airlines' C-46, a Northeast flyover, an American DC-4 flyover, Long Island flights one-twelve, one-oh-five, one-twenty-seven, and one-thirty.
Once, too, August had been confident that Ev and Mother Gaines were peering out at him from the breakfast-nook windows. He wondered what patent absurdities they were telling one another? Wondered in a detached way, not really concerned. They'd see when you came in. They'd see you were cold sober. The question was, should you go in now and show them--or would that be too ostentatious of your sobriety? Or should you just wait until they came out to see?
August looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. Have to leave in about half, three quarters of an hour. Flight one-thirty-two got in from LaGuardia at ten and they were only on the ground five minutes. Might not be a bad idea to have some coffee first, then they'd all drive out to the field together.
He rose unsteadily from his chair, taking bottle and glass with him. His joints felt a little stiff. There was dew on the grass.
The light was on in the kitchen, and the glass coffee flask sat on the gas range over the pilot. It would take only a second to heat up.
The house seemed silent. Empty. He moved the coffee forward onto one of the burners, turned on the heat, and then went into the living room. "Ev?"
There was no answer.
"Ev?" Then, "Mother? Mother Gaines?"
The lights burned in the living room. He went to the staircase, which climbed one wall of the living room. He looked up toward the landing. There was no reflected light from upstairs.
"Ev! Mother!" Then, "Alec? Bertha?"
The house was empty. He found he still held the bottle in his hand. He put it down on the coffee table in the living room, the glass tumbler overturned on the bottle's top. He went to the screen door and peered into the outer darkness. There was no sign of them in the yard.
"Ev!" he called, almost angrily. "Ev!" A couple passing on the other side of Pearl Street turned to look at him. He opened the screen and stepped out on the stoop. They were nowhere in sight.
He went to the intersection of the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. The walk was empty, except for a solitary cat. Sudden panic touched him. He went back into the house feeling alone, deserted, unloved--hated.
He stood for a moment in the living room, looking about at its terrible vacuity. What if Ev had gone for good? What if she'd taken Alec and Bertha and run out? He shuddered.
From the kitchen there came a sudden, explosive hiss. It took a moment for him to record it, another to understand. The coffee boiling over. He ran to turn it off and picked up the glass flask by its plastic handle. His hand shook and the boiling coffee spilled back on his wrist. Shocked at the pain he let go of the flask. It shattered, cascading hot fluid about his feet.
He let out a surprised yell and started for the sink to run cold water on his hand. He heard running feet from the living room. Evelyn stood, a horrified apparition, in the doorway.
"Augie!" A wail. "What are you doing? Oh, no!" Then angrily, purposefully she came toward him across the splattered floor. "You beast. You drunken beast. In front of Mother and the kids." She slapped him. He moved away from her. She followed him, arms flailing, until he was forced to catch her wrists.
Then Mrs. Gaines was in the kitchen. She said, "Evelyn!" once, sharply. Evelyn let herself go limp. August released her wrists and her hands dropped.
She turned and went to her mother. The older woman said, "Evelyn, go upstairs and put the children to bed. Anybody can drop a coffee pot. August, what's the matter with your wrist."
August felt stupid. "Splashed on me," he said. "Boiled over. I'll clean it up." He went to the broom closet and felt out brush and dustpan.
Evelyn said, "Leave it alone. I'll clean it up. Don't touch it!" She went through the doorway to the staircase.
Mother Gaines said, "Put some butter on that wrist, then get the car out."
He followed instructions like an automaton. Mrs. Gaines met him at the sidewalk and he backed into the street. In a long silence they drove until the street lamps spaced out and became highway lights.
August was coldly, shudderingly sober now. His stomach trembled with anxiety.
Then Mrs. Gaines said, "We have plenty of time, August. Stop the car. I want to talk with you." Obediently he pulled to the shoulder.
"August," she said, "What's the trouble between you and Evelyn lately?"
He shook his head dully. "I don't know."
"I don't want to be a scolding mother-in-law," she said. The dashboard faintly illuminated her face, masked with deep concern, "I've tried to keep out of your affairs as much as possible, but--but Evelyn is my daughter, and when she calls me the way she did yesterday--I just don't know."
August said nothing.
"Evelyn says you don't sleep, and when you do you have nightmares. She says you've been drinking too much. You snap at the children. You don't talk to her ... I guess you knew she asked me to come down today."
"No." August said. "I didn't know."
"Well, she did. August, I want to help. It's not that I'm taking sides between you and Evelyn, but maybe there's some way I can straighten things out. Is there anything wrong
between you and Evelyn? Any personal thing?"
"No." There was a faint note of exasperation in his voice.
"There has to be some reason for all this. August, I'm very fond of you."
"I know, Mother Gaines." He was getting the shakes as the liquor drained away. He felt terribly, terribly empty. Very alone. Very frightened.
"Is it something about money? I can help and Evelyn needn't even know."
He shook his head.
"Another woman?"
"No, Mother Gaines, There's nothing wrong. I--I just don't feel especially well lately. I'll be all right after a while. I promise you I will."
"But all this drinking, I watched you all day long. The children are afraid of you. Evelyn's in a terrible state. Can't you tell me what's the matter?"
"I don't know what's the matter," August said, almost shouting.
Then she said it. "There's only one other thing I can say, August. I hate to talk to you this way, but--well, I think you ought to see a--a psychiatrist. I know a Doctor Winville right here in--"
"Look, Mother Gaines, everything's going to work out. Everything will be all right. We'd better get to the field. We'll barely make it."
He saw her aboard the ship and watched it waddling down the field to the line, heard its motors roar up, saw it poise, race down the runway, and leap into the air. He went to his car, and started toward town.
Could a thing like this drive you out of--of your mind? That was silly. He saw the lights of the hospital looming ahead. Supposing you were upset? Supposing ...? But a psychiatrist ...!
IX
GARY HEASLIP
When Gary Heaslip set out for Montaugan airport that sunlit Sunday at the beginning of July, he had no real idea of what he was going to do there. The one thing of which he was sure was, it ought to be on Hennler's day off. Then he could talk freely to the other personnel. He had wanted to come the Sunday before, but a mission of the Carters had involved his taking the station wagon to Philadelphia.
Now, driving toward the airport, he was thinking less of what he was about to do than of the complex state of affairs in the Carter household. The fact was after two weeks he understood them less than he had when he came.
Dolores was avoiding him. It was odd to be avoided by a woman you had slept with. He had driven her into town. But each time she had told him to take the Packard, which meant that she sat in the back seat, and each time she had brought Irene with her. She had wrapped herself in her dignity.
Carter had surprised him. The Doctor looked younger than Gary had imagined him. Younger and sharper. The image Gary had once fantasied, of a Doctor Carter who resembled the Reverend Doctor Garrison Heaslip, had vanished. But there was something rigid about Carter, as though when he was tossing off pleasantries he was in constant deadly fear of giving vent to some emotion. Anger, perhaps, or even jealousy. He was the sort of man, Gary was sure, to whom the admission of jealousy would be more painful than jealousy itself.
Gary wondered if Carter suspected he had slept with Dolores. It was a ridiculous speculation. Dolores was too bright to flout infidelity in her husband's face. Of course, there was that business of the hotel. But the would have explained that by now, unless--the thought made him shudder--unless he were a pawn in her game. He already was a pawn, he realized. But did she go further? Had she slept with him and then told Carter?
But what about Erica? Wasn't Carter doing the same thing with her? Flaunting her in Dolores' face?
What was going on with Erica? She had been avoiding you, too. Not unfriendly. Just staying out of your way, as though you represented some sinister force with which she was not prepared to cope. Like the night of Irene's commencement.
You had taken Irene to commencement in the convertible. None of the family had gone. Carter had gone with Erica to New York, leaving early in the afternoon. They had come out to the garage together. But Erica had waited outside until Carter brought the car--as though she couldn't face you directly when she was going with Carter. In a way it was the right thing to do--because it had bothered you a little. That feeling of slavery--of her enslavement to him--had come into your mind.
That same evening guests had come to the house. About six o'clock, Dolores had called to say she would like you to take Irene to her high-school commencement.
On the way the kid had cried and clung to you, and begged you to watch her graduate. You had to do it. You kept thinking what are these people like not even to go see their daughter graduate? After the exercises Irene refused to stay for the dance, but wanted you to take her somewhere in the car. Now, in dungarees, she was around all the time, hanging out in the garage. She'd wanted to come along this morning, and looked wistful when you left.
Long Island's offices were almost deserted. A disconsolate attendant leaned forlornly against the baggage scale at the checkin counter. Gary said "Hi," as he went past. The attendant said "Hiyah," not recognizing Heaslip out of uniform.
"Frankly," Morley said, "I don't give a damn. Come on. Butter. Take off."
"Look," Gary said, "you guys are POed because I said at the hearing Hennler had given me the wrong dope? You think I'm passing the buck for pilot error?"
"Check," the man to Morley's right said. "Every goddamn flyboy in hot water tries to duck behind some guy who makes a quarter of a captain's pay."
"Okay," Gary said. "I contend that Hennler's tape recordings are dubs. I say he's framing me. If that's true, then you have no right to be down on me."
"That's a lot of crap," Morley said. "If Hennler hadn't had that tape recorder in there, they'd have taken your word against his, booted him out and put you back up in the goddamn sky so you could kill a few more people." His voice became shrill.
"Give me a chance, guy," Gary said. "All I want is a fair chance to prove I'm innocent. If Hennler framed me, then I've got a right to try to prove it."
The fourth man, by the transmitter, said, "Give the guy a break, Morley."
Morley wavered a little, and Gary pressed the advantage. "All I want from you guys is some dope on what happened here the afternoon of the crash."
Morley said to the man at the radio, "I don't see why we got to give this shnook anything. The evidence is pretty sound."
"Still he's got a right to try to get out of it," the radio man said. "That much of a break anybody is entitled to."
"All right, guy," Morley said. "I don't like you and I don't believe you, but I want to be fair, so go ahead."
"What I want to know," Gary said, "is what happened between the time you relayed the change of flight plan from the Boston Center to Hennler, and, say, about six o'clock."
Morley said, "The whole log was turned over to the CAB."
"They were only interested in what happened before the crash. I want to know what happened at the time and a little later."
Morley went over to a file and pulled out documents. "All right, now here's what we've got. Your flight one-oh-five had an ETA1 of fifteen-fifty-six. Now, Cape Airlines C-46 contacted the tower for permission to take off at about fifteen fifty-one, but we had to give you landing clearance in five minutes, so we held the C-46. It hadn't even moved out to the line. Long Island's one-twelve was also due in about three minutes after you, so we figured to hold the nonsked plane until after you both got on the ground. Hennler relayed information up that you had reported hitting the navy plane at fifteen fifty-three, then--Hey! You want to write this stuff down?"
Gary put it down:
ETA, 105 ........................................ 15:51
Cape's C-46 requests take-off ......... 15:53
Tower gets crash report .................. 15:53
Flight 112 lands at ......................... 16:00
Cape's 46 takes off ......................... 16:02
Flight 112 takes off ........................ 16:06
N-1075642 takes off ...................... 16:10
"After that," Morley said, "N-1075642 was the only traffic we had in here. That's one of Pete
Wilcoxon's Pipers. They came back in about seventeen-five. Then just before nineteen hundred things picked up again. You want that?"
"No," Gary said. "That's enough for traffic. But did anybody notice what was happening on the field?"
"Listen," Morley said, "after you reported the crash, there was nobody on the field except the crew of the C-46, some passengers and the crew of one-twelve, the three of us on tower duty, and Hennler. I guess there were people down by Wilcoxon's shop, and there were some who came to meet passengers. I talked to Jack Kerby at Long Island's office about ten or fifteen minutes past five. He said everybody was at the Point."
"Wait up," Gary said. "What was Kerby doing there? Isn't he Hennler's relief?"
"He said Augie wanted him there if anything came up Hennler should put on the air."
"In other words," Gary said, "Hennler wanted the radio room to himself for a while ..."
"Listen, son-of-a-bitch," Morley said, "I'm willing to give you what you're entitled to. But don't give me that, or I'll throw you out anyway."
"You don't look big enough," Gary said, no longer able to hold it back.
"Yeah? Bill! Heaslip wants to play rough."
"Oh, forget it," Gary said. "I don't want to fight with you. I just want to get cleared of this stuff they've hung on me." He waved to the man at the transmitter and went down the staircase.
This time he headed for the offices of Long Island Airlines. It was easy to see what had happened. Hennler had to keep his relief man from seeing what was going on. He'd told Kerby that he would keep on the job, and Kerby should go watch what was happening over at the main office.
It was natural enough for Hennler, as chief radio operator, to stay on the job when there was a crash. If Hennler had chased Kerby away, then he would have seen to it--and damned carefully--that there were no other witnesses.
Still, it might help some if you could prove he had the opportunity to make a dub tape. Actually, he'd had all night to do it. But he hadn't known that he would. There was no assurance the inspectors wouldn't come 'til morning, and Kerby might have noticed if there were a new reel in the machine. So it had to have been done during the period when Kerby was at the main office.
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