by Nancy Moser
A small part of him held on to the hope that the helicopter would return in time. But as the minutes passed, Henry let even that hope slip away. A bit reluctantly at first, but then with the peaceful joy of full surrender. God loved him. God would take care of him—even in the end.
Henry tried to adjust his body against the fuselage, but his grip was slipping. His hands were like two bricks, incapable of movement. Plus, the tail was sinking, and his lungs had tightened around his heart, which beat ever so slowly like a windup toy winding down.
His heart.
My lovely Ellen … my boy, Joey. I love you.
With that final thought, the tail shifted, and Henry Smith was pulled beneath the black water.
Floyd strained to see through the blizzard. Strained to see that familiar head and torso held erect against the fuselage.
Where is he?
Hugh called from the cockpit. “Do you see him?”
“No. Go around again!”
“It’s been so long, too long.”
“I know, I know. Go around again. He has to be here!”
The helicopter dove and circled, making figure eights above the sinking tail section of the plane. Floyd searched the water for a body. If only they could see him floating somewhere and go down and scoop him up as they had done with the woman.
“Come on, be there.” Lord, make him be there.
But he wasn’t there. The man with the black beard was gone.
The man who’d given everything had lost it all.
But death would not win. In the final moments of his life, as he descended into the blackness of the river, Henry Smith, an ordinary man, laughed at death. And as he died, he smiled ever so slightly.
For Henry knew a secret. A secret known to him and to God: “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”
And when the final breath left his body, when death tried to grab hold of his soul, the angels of the Lord shoved death away and said, “You may not have this man. Not this special man.” Then they lifted him out of the dark coldness and took him to a place where the warmth of the Father enfolded him. And then Henry heard the words he’d been longing to hear; the words that made everything perfect.
“Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Six
My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death assail me.
Fear and trembling have beset me; horror has overwhelmed me.
I said, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest.”
PSALM 55:4–6
Ellen Smith put the sack of groceries on the counter and flipped on the kitchen TV. Her attention was drawn to a special report. She stopped to watch with a carton of eggs in her hands. She’d gotten all the fixings for the best omelet Henry would ever eat. In just a few days he would be home.
A reporter stood in the midst of a blazing snowstorm, yet his parka hood was down around his ears. Vanity, thy name is television. Behind him was an icy river. The tail section of an airplane stuck out of the water, an awkward testament to a catastrophe. A helicopter circled overhead, whipping the water with the wind of its blades. Ellen shivered.
“God be with them.”
The camera zoomed in over the shoulder of the reporter as he spoke. “Sun Fun Flight 1382 headed for Phoenix went into the water right before 3 P.M. Witnesses say it strained to gain altitude then clipped the parking garage of Rapid Rentals with the tail, the landing gear still down. It broke in two and slid into the water. The front section of the airplane disappeared immediately. Passengers were seen still strapped to their seats. The tail section fell away and landed where we see it now. Seven survivors have been plucked from the icy water by a helicopter lifeline. We are told that one remains. Witnesses say one survivor—a man in his forties with black hair and a beard—repeatedly handed off the lifeline. Now, finally, it is his turn.”
His turn. She remembered Henry’s words that morning. “Bill’s son is getting married. He covered for me last year when Joey graduated from high school. Now it’s my turn.”
Fortyish. Black hair. Beard. Phoenix. Snow.
My turn.
“No!”
Ellen’s hands flew to her mouth. The eggs broke. As did her heart.
Ellen hurried to the couch in front of the living room TV, grabbing the phone on her way. She dialed information.
“The number for Sun Fun Airlines, please.” She thought of their absurd jingle, “Come fly with us; we’re having sun fun now.”
A recording gave her the number, and she realized that she didn’t have anything to write with. She found a pen and scribbled on the back of a magazine. She hung up and called. It was busy. She hit redial. Busy.
She took a moment to watch the news programs, flipping from one station to another, looking for one that had close-ups of the tail section. In the meantime she took in the disaster: the flashing lights of emergency vehicles; cars on the highway; swirling snow; people on either shore, waiting, hoping, needing something to do. That was the core of all disasters. Once she’d witnessed a car accident and experienced that awful feeling of helplessness, of wanting to help but not knowing how.
Maybe it wasn’t Henry’s flight. He’d never told her the flight number, and there were dozens of flights to Phoenix every day.
She dialed Henry’s office. Maybe they’d heard from him. Maybe he’d called from Phoenix, faithfully checking his messages, being the conscientious man she loved. Maybe—
“Cosgolds. May I help you?”
“Hi, Amy, this is Ellen Smith, can I speak to—?”
“Oh, Mrs. Smith,” said the receptionist. “Have you heard anything yet? We’ve been watching on TV. It’s just awful. Simply awful. We—”
She disconnected the phone with her thumb, not wanting to hear. The phone rang, sending her heart to her toes. “Amy?”
“Mom? Have you been watching the news? Wasn’t Dad going to Phoenix today?”
“It’s his flight.”
A moment of silence. Then the sound of Joey’s tears cut through her. “Ahhh … Mom, what can we do?”
She glanced at the screen. The helicopter hovered over the wreckage. “There’s one man left, Joey. They said so. The helicopter’s come back for him.”
“Black hair, beard … I heard. I even saw footage of him handing off the line to one of the other survivors.”
“Was it your dad?”
“Do you think it could be? Oh, Mom, do you really think …? If only the pictures were closer … the snow makes it blurry. They say he’s handed the line off to six people. It came to him, but he gave it away. Over and over! Ahhh … if it is him …”
Ellen slumped in the chair, a horrid certainty flowing through her veins like acid. “It’s him.”
“I didn’t hear—”
She cleared her throat and tried to get the words out again. “It’s your father.”
“How do you know?”
How did she know? Was her Henry the type of man who would hand off the line, letting someone else go first? Yes. Absolutely. But would he continue to do it when it was a danger to his own life?
“Don’t do it, Henry.”
“What?”
She blinked herself back to reality. “We have to pray, Joey. Pray that the last survivor—whether it’s your father or not—is saved and is brought back to his family.”
“But if it isn’t him? Mom … what if Dad is already dead?”
All the tenets of their faith rushed forward like eager children wanting to be chosen to answer the teacher’s question. Death is not the end; it is a new beginning in heaven, with Jesus. God is in control. Henry believed. His eternity is assured. Even if … even if …
“If he’s already dead, we pray for us, Joey. We pray for us.”
David walked past the break room at work and saw a crowd gathered around the small television on the counter. He stepped inside. “What’s up?”
“Where you been,
David? A plane crashed in the river. They’ve been pulling people out—by helicopter.”
A cold rush swept over him. He pushed his way through the crowd until the television screen came into view. He saw a tail section of a plane in the water. The Sun Fun logo laughed at him.
“Tina!”
Everyone turned around.
“What’s the flight number?” David asked.
“What?”
“My girlfriend. What’s the flight number?” As he screamed the question, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the piece of paper on which Tina had written—
“Flight 1382.”
Sun Fun flight 1382. He stared at the note and mouthed the words but nothing came out.
“David? Are you all right?”
He handed the note to the questioner and bolted from the room.
As David ran for the exit, he heard the commotion behind him as his coworkers realized what had happened.
And what had happened?
The impossible. Tina’s plane had crashed.
“Where is he? Bobby? Where’s the hero?” Reporter Dora Roberts screamed at the photographer who’d come with her and pointed to the sinking tail section.
Bobby turned his 35mm to the area beneath the helicopter, adjusting the zoom. “We were so busy watching the rescue of the others that we didn’t pay any attention to him.”
Dora stepped closer to the water’s edge, on the shore down a ways from the rescue operations. The circling helicopter told the story. “They can’t find him. They’ve gone back for him, but they can’t find him.”
“No!”
The exclamation came from a couple standing nearby. The man’s head was buried in his collar, a stocking hat pulled to his eyes. The woman who’d screamed was burrowed under his arm.
Dora moved close. “Did you see what happened to the man in the water?”
The woman put a mittened hand to her mouth, and Dora saw tears on her face. “I should have been watching him. But I was watching the other rescues. Oh, they have to find him. They have to! He gave up the line. Over and over. We saw him.”
Dora agreed with every word she said. Come on, helicopter, find the hero. Bring him home safe. We need him to be safe.
Bobby moved along the edge of the water. Dora wasn’t sure if he was taking pictures or merely using the zoom to do his own search. They all scanned the river, aching to help. It was growing dark, plus it was hard to see through the blizzard and chunks of ice. The blocks of white floated like pieces of glass in a church window with the blackness of the water serving as the leaded seams. Everything was gray and darker gray. The only hint of color was the logo of the plane on the tailpiece, a splash of happiness among the desolation.
A shiver coursed through Dora, and it had nothing to do with the weather. The thought of that brave man, finally realizing he would not be saved … did he feel resigned? Scared? Did he pray? Or did he merely lapse into a frozen unconsciousness until his grip loosened, and he floated down into the dark—
She shook the image away, knowing it was one that would remain with her for days—if not years. The last lonely moments of a man who had given everything so others might live. Lord, bless him … Bless him.
Suddenly, Bobby sprinted to the right and pointed frantically. Others closed in on him, trying to see. The chopper pilot must have seen the commotion, for he turned and hovered over the area where Bobby and the others were pointing. But as the whirring blades churned the water, the object was revealed to be a seat cushion that must have loosed itself from the wreckage below.
There was a groan from the crowd as the chopper moved back to the tail section to resume its search. But as darkness fell and the minutes passed, it was evident that the last survivor of the crash had become its last victim.
Dora’s body was leaden—from the cold and from the shock of knowing the hero was gone. She felt as if she’d lost a loved one.
The woman beside her sobbed, and Dora heard sniffs from the man. Suddenly, she wondered who they were and needed to know their story. She put a hand on his shoulder.
“Excuse me … where were you when the crash happened? Did you see it?”
The man nodded and pointed up the embankment. “That blue car there. We’re hemmed in. Can’t move. We were just driving by on the highway when we saw the plane struggling. We see planes come close to the highway all the time, but not low like that.”
The woman’s eyes flashed with a memory. “It was so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves cry out.”
“And it hit!” The man let go of his wife and slapped the palm of one hand into the other; his fingers tilted upward like the nose of the plane seeking the sky. “The tail just ripped into the parking garage, then the plane broke apart and fell into the water. If it had been to the north just a hundred feet, it would have landed on the highway. Maybe on us.” He shook his head.
His wife squeezed his arm. “But it didn’t, honey. We’re safe. But the passengers. We swerved onto the shoulder, got out of our car, and raced down the embankment to help.” She put the mitten to her mouth and the sobs started again.
“Can I have your names, please? I’m a reporter for the Chronicle.” They gave their names and a phone number. Bonnie and Ted Gable.
Mrs. Gable continued, her voice under control again. “There was so much noise. Then quiet. Unearthly quiet.”
Mr. Gable nodded. “Then came the screams from the water. There was nothing we could do. Some people tied scarves and belts and jumper cables together, but with the river’s current. Even if we could’ve gotten it long enough, we had no way to get it out to them.” He shook his head. “That’s the worst of it. There was nothing we could do. Nothing anybody could do for the longest time.” His voice softened. “Nothing we could do …”
“Except pray.”
He nodded at his wife.
Dora looked to their vehicle. It was undamaged but blocked in by other witnesses and the curious. Their nice warm car. “Why aren’t you waiting in your car? It certainly would be warmer.” As she asked the question, she knew the answer.
“Warmth isn’t important. Not with those people out there. They were cold. And we decided we could be cold too, to support them by being here.” He shrugged. “I know it seems stupid, but—”
“No, it doesn’t seem stupid. It seems right. I understand, truly I do.” Dora noticed how the crowd that had gathered along the water’s edge had moved closer to each other, as if they were unconsciously pooling their wills and their strength to help the man in the water. Strangers stood shoulder to shoulder, touching, hugging, talking, crying, praying. Their emotions and the overpowering desire to survive bound them. Without understanding what they were doing, they had created a community out of suffering—a community of suffering.
Mr. Gable looked to the sky and seemed to notice for the first time that it was nearly dark. “I suppose we should try to get home.”
“I suppose.” Mrs. Gable sighed.
Their attention was drawn to a man, stumbling down the embankment toward the water. He slid on the snow and tumbled the last few feet. A police officer tried to stop him because he gave every impression that he was going to jump into the river, but the man shook the restraint away. He came toward Dora and the couple, his eyes focused on the water—eyes that streamed with tears.
At the river’s edge, his legs buckled beneath him and Dora ran to grab his arm. “Are you all right?”
His head shook no with a rhythm that seemed to have no end. “My brother’s down—” He pointed to the black water and covered his face with his hands. He collapsed to his knees. The Gables got on the other side of him and offered what comfort they could. “I have to help, have to do something. He was taking a vacation to Phoenix. A much needed vaca—”
Phoenix? Dora’s heart stopped. She looked at the tail section in the water. Sun Fun Airlines. The airline she was going to use to visit her mother in Phoenix.
She felt a hand on her arm. “Ms. Roberts? Are you
all right?”
Sun Fun Airlines, an afternoon flight, Phoenix. The full implications of the information raced through her mind and crashed into the wall that protected her emotions from such knowledge. “I … I was supposed to be on that flight.”
The Gables and the man looked at her, their faces sharing an incredulous stare.
Dora’s voice gained strength as she pointed at the tail section, jabbing the air with her finger. “That might have been me in that water!”
“Or under the water.” Mrs. Gable slapped a hand to her mouth and looked apologetically toward Dora and the man who had lost his brother. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have …”
The man stared at Dora as if she were guilty of something. Maybe she was guilty of living when his brother had died. “Maybe your brother is one of the survivors.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “You mean like you?”
“I’m not a surviv—”
“You’re here, aren’t you? You were supposed to get on that plane but fate kept you off.”
“I’m so sorry.” It was a stupid thing to say, but Dora couldn’t think of anything else.
The man stormed away, up the embankment, as if the sight of Dora disgusted him. She turned to the Gables. “It’s not my fault I didn’t get on that plane. He’s acting as if I did something wrong by not dying.”
Mrs. Gable put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s mad. Like he said, fate kept you off. You should be thankful.”
Oh, she was; she was. But not to any vague notion of fate. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for saving me.
She’d allow herself to think of the whys of it later.
Without a word, the couple turned to leave. Dora followed. There was nothing else to do. Nothing else to say. But plenty to think about.
David drove over the speed limit when he could—which wasn’t often. Traffic was terrible and grew more congested the closer he got to the crash site.
Finally, it slowed. And then stopped. He craned his head, trying to see. Horns honked. He added his to the mix and rammed the palm of his hand into the steering wheel. “Come on, people!”
