Takeoff

by Joseph Reid

  “S’okay,” I said. “I’m good.”

  Begay led us out onto the tarmac, where a beautiful Beechcraft Baron G58 stood waiting. A dual-engine plane, it had a prop mounted on each wing, which met the fuselage at the bottom instead of across the top like the Cessna. White with royal-blue stripes, the paint job on this one gleamed as if it had been finished yesterday.

  Inside, the Baron’s cabin consisted of two pairs of seats facing each other. I strapped the duffel across the rear pair, then helped Max settle onto the ones that backed up against the cockpit. “You got a sore throat?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Just achy. And hot.”

  Her hair was damp and stringy from sweat. Pressing the back of my hand against her forehead, the skin was clammy and damp, but she didn’t feel feverish. “Keep resting,” I said. “Couple of hours, we’ll be there, and you can try to sleep this thing off.”

  Whatever it was.

  By the time I joined Begay up front, she’d tied her blue-black hair into a ponytail, donned a pair of mirrored Oakleys, and gone through half her preflight checklist.

  I let her get through takeoff before I spoke again. “Beautiful plane,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said, beaming. “She’s my baby. Someday I’m going to have a whole fleet of these.”

  “You from Dallas?”

  “Nope, right here. I came in to visit the family.”

  “You known Norgard long?”

  Begay shook her head. “Met him maybe six months ago. He was trying to get out of Dallas before a big storm, but he needed to fix his hose, and all the mechanics were too busy. I had an extra fitting, so I slapped it on for him and helped him get out. He’s a nice old coot. Stares at my ass a little too much, but otherwise he’s harmless.”

  My cheeks flushed. “You do your own maintenance?”

  “Got to, for now. FAA regs say I can’t qualify as a carrier without a bunch of employees, but I owe enough on this girl that I can’t afford that yet. Anyway, I grew up fixing planes—my dad was an air force crew chief at Kirtland before moving over to ABQ.”

  As Begay pushed us up to our cruising altitude, you could feel the difference in power and control between this and the Cessna. Below, the terrain gradually shifted from desert to prairie. Although the sky remained big and blue, it became dotted by white clouds so dense and puffy, they looked like some kind of confection. The mountains disappeared, the earth flattened, and sandy soil was replaced by broad expanses of waving grasses.

  Although less chatty than Norgard, Begay still shared enough details about herself that I felt slightly guilty for not reciprocating. Evidently her parents had wanted her to be a pediatrician or a schoolteacher, something to give back to the Navajo Nation, but Begay had balked at that. Bitten by the flying bug early, she’d gotten her license on her seventeenth birthday and never looked back. Seven years of toiling through three jobs simultaneously had gotten her the down payment for the Baron.

  Foliage picked up below, followed by signs of civilization. Doing some quick calculations, I gathered we’d reached the outskirts of Fort Worth. While my initial thought was to try to spot the roof of my godkids’ house, I put that aside and started thinking about what to do after we landed.

  I’d only ever flown through Love twice, compared to hundreds of connections at DFW. Despite being within sight of the Dallas skyline, the little airport had just one, T-shaped terminal. To promote DFW back in the sixties, Congress had restricted how far you could fly from Love, setting the limit at the four states bordering Texas. When Southwest had come on as a discount carrier, it had basically taken over the place. Now, even though old restrictions had been lifted and other airlines had moved in, Love was still doomed to play second fiddle.

  Checking the burner, I found several texts responding to my calls seeking lodging for the night. One provided an address, and a quick check of the GPS showed it lay right next to the airfield. That was good news. Nothing from Grayson, but he’d warned me that might happen. I’d just need to contact him again once we set up at the crash pad.

  Begay lined us up with the downtown skyscrapers and brought us in, taxiing directly to a hangar on the west side of the field. Once she pulled the plane inside, I moved around back to help Max. Having slept almost the entire flight, she was groggy as I forced her up onto her feet. I found Begay waiting for us just outside the cabin.

  “Thanks again for the ride,” I said, “especially on such short notice. I’m happy to pay you for—”

  Begay shook her head. “On the house. I was headed back, anyway. But you could do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well,” she waved an open hand around the hangar, “like I said, it’s just me right now, but someday when I get my little Diné Airlines here to be a real thing, I’m going to need all the publicity I can get. Compliments from an air marshal and a pop star might—”

  “Wait, what? How do you know—”

  “Jerry called me before he gave you my number. He’s a gentleman like that.” Begay’s face broke into a mischievous little grin. “He explained how he knew you, and promised you were okay.”

  “Did he tell you why—”

  “Nope. And I’m guessing he has absolutely no idea who Max is. But just because Jerry Norgard hasn’t listened to pop radio in thirty years doesn’t mean I haven’t.” She leaned down to Max. “It was very nice meeting you. I like your songs.”

  “Listen,” I said, “we’re—”

  Begay straightened and put her index finger over my mouth. “Don’t worry, Marshal. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Her dark eyes locked on mine for a long moment.

  “Okay, thanks.” With the bag over my shoulder, I started to lead Max out. Then I turned back and asked, “Din-ay Airlines? What does that mean?”

  “Diné is Navajo for ‘people.’”

  I nodded. “Good luck. Let us know when you’re up and running.”

  “Oh, I will,” she said. “And don’t be a stranger.”

  As the map had predicted, the cab ride from Love’s baggage claim didn’t take long. Just outside the airport grounds, we turned onto a narrow street lined with single-story brick houses. Each was fronted by a small patch of sun-bleached grass.

  The cab dropped us on the sidewalk outside one of the nearly indistinguishable dwellings, then sped away.

  Still looking like she might fall over any moment, Max asked, “What is this place?”

  “A crash pad,” I said, moving to a planter beneath one of the house’s front windows.

  “What’s a crash pad?”

  I found the spare key where the text had said it would be and returned to the door. “A lot of commercial pilots and crews don’t live near their home airport, so they have to commute. Airlines won’t pay for that—they only cover stays in the middle of trips. Hotel rooms are expensive, so the pilots and crews get together and share a house or an apartment.”

  From what I knew, crash pads could vary widely in terms of quality and cost—some were essentially minihostels, full of bunk beds open to anyone passing through, while others were rigorously run, with tenants who worked out schedules in advance. This one was definitely one of the latter.

  I’d met the owner, Steve Jensen, a couple of years ago at a party at Shen and Brian’s house. A childhood friend of Brian’s, Jensen had been a flight attendant for thirteen years; for the first ten, he’d been based out of St. Louis. But then his airline had gotten gobbled up in a merger. Suddenly, Jensen’s hub shifted to Dallas. Not wanting to lose seniority or uproot himself and his family, Jensen had bought this place.

  Just a one bedroom, the house gave him somewhere reliable to stay on either side of his turns; plus, he rented it to other crews on the nights he didn’t need it. While it didn’t generate much cash, it covered the mortgage and maintenance.

  After unlocking the door, I ushered Max inside, then followed behind her. The interior was as impeccably neat as I’d expected—not a wisp of
dust on the wooden floors, all the windows clean and clear.

  I dropped the duffel by the door, then drew all the curtains and poked around the place. Fortunately, it seemed to be stocked with everything we might need for the night: bottled water and canned food in the pantry, medical supplies and a first-aid kit in the master bathroom.

  “You should go rest some more,” I told Max. “Take the bed, I’ll take the couch.”

  She didn’t argue. After she closed the bedroom door, I dialed Grayson again. He said his guy Sal Peña could meet us before their morning shift; once I explained where I was, we settled on a motel a couple of blocks away as the rendezvous.

  “There’s one other thing I could use your help with,” I said.

  “What’s that, amigo?”

  “We’re going to need a car. But I can’t rent anything without giving them my license or credit card. Any ideas?”

  “You just need to take it to Austin?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know exactly how long we’ll be there, but not more than a few days.”

  “Let me work on it overnight,” he said. “I bet I can find you something.”

  After we hung up, I noticed my stomach grumbling. Realizing I hadn’t eaten all day, I went to the kitchen and microwaved some soup. When it was done, I returned the couch, only to hear noise coming from the bedroom.

  I knocked lightly on the door, then pushed my way in. Stripped down to a long T-shirt, Max was sprawled across the bedspread, her head propped on three pillows to watch the TV across the room.

  “Can’t sleep?” I asked.

  “I’m feeling better.”

  “Sick as you’ve been, you can use as much rest as you can get.”

  Max rolled her eyes—maybe she was feeling better. Then she sniffed the air. “You cook something?”

  “Just some soup.”

  “What kind?”

  I glanced down into the mug—I hadn’t taken a sip yet, and hadn’t bothered checking the label. “Looks like vegetable something. You want it?”

  She didn’t answer, but I handed her the mug. She took a dainty sip.

  “Good?”

  She shrugged, then slurped down several more mouthfuls. Finally, she announced, “I’m gonna grab a shower. I feel all sticky.”

  “When you get out, I’ll need your help changing my bandages.”

  She nodded vaguely on her way into the bathroom before shutting the door.

  I returned to the kitchen, heated some soup of my own, then brought it back into the bedroom and set it on the vanity. The shower beating against the opposite side of the wall sounded like a fire hose that might rip through the plaster at any second.

  As I began working to get my shirt off through the sling, I checked my reflection. The bright, white makeup lights surrounding the mirror were unforgiving, but I decided I could have looked worse. An equal amount of stubble covered my scalp and face. Dark rings surrounded my eyes, and, of course, my left arm hung limply in the blue canvas sling.

  The shoulder ached. My penance for doing absolutely nothing Anjali had suggested to care for it. In the medicine kit, I found foil packs of Motrin. I managed to rip one open with my teeth, then washed down two pills with scalding broth.

  Leaning against the vanity for support, I tested my right leg, pulling the heel all the way up to my hamstring, then pressing it back down. Even squeezing it hard, the quad muscle felt solid. At least the stitches were doing their job.

  Although I craned my neck to try and look at my shoulder, I couldn’t see anything. The makeup lights made everything behind me seem cast in shadow.

  That’s when the bathroom door opened, and Max stepped out wearing a towel. Her skin tone was better than before: more pink than gray. With her hair slicked straight back, several shades darker from the water, she looked like a different person.

  “You ready for your bandages now?”

  “Yeah, but you can get dressed first.” The end of the towel was tucked directly into her cleavage, a fact I did my best to ignore.

  “S’okay,” she said, stepping behind me. “You might spray me with blood when I peel these things off.” Before I could object, she started picking at the tape surrounding the upper wound. “Let’s start with the bad one.”

  Once the tape was up, I gritted my teeth and braced myself. The gauze gave a squishy sound again as it peeled away with what felt like chunks of my shoulder, but not as many as the previous night.

  “Better?”

  I grunted.

  “It looks better,” she said softly. “The right side’s mostly closed up.”

  Max’s hands trailed down my back to the newer wound, where they scratched away at the tape until it was free. “Ready?”

  Pursing my lips, I nodded. This one stuck, too, but not as badly.

  Max remained silent, and, with me facing the mirror, she was completely eclipsed behind me. I passed a wad of gauze back. After she draped it delicately over the shoulder wound, I reached for the roll of tape, but she was faster, her arm shooting under mine to grab it off the vanity.

  In doing so, Max’s body brushed my back in a way that I wasn’t completely sure was accidental.

  “Stay still,” she said. “I’ve got it.” She reached around me again, for the gauze this time, but we didn’t touch. I took a long, relieved breath.

  All in your head, I told myself.

  Max covered and taped the second wound so gently, I barely noticed when she was done. Her hands moved back up onto my dislocated shoulder. “What’s this thing called again? Your tattoo?”

  “A DCT.”

  “And what’s it do?”

  “It’s a formula. It helps you take data, like the sounds of the notes you’re singing, and shrink it down into something smaller.”

  “You didn’t tell me why you got it.”

  “I know.”

  “But why? Seriously. Of all the cool things you could have gotten . . .”

  “I used to use that equation a lot. Back when I was an engineer.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So why get it inked? And on your back—you can’t even see it.” Her voice light and teasing, Max left her hand on my neck while dragging a nail from the other hand back and forth beneath the spot where the numbers were.

  I snorted an angry-sounding breath through my nose, buying a second to think about exactly how little I could get away with saying while still putting an end to all this. “It was something I used every day. It was important to me. But when I . . .” I paused for a second, trying to pick just the right words. “When I left that life, I got the tattoo.”

  I stared at my reflection. Hard. Before I could stop it, my mind flashed to Shirley and my godkids. The last time we were together . . . the kids splashing in the pool, us sipping iced tea on the porch.

  “So, it’s like a souvenir?” Max asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  In my head, the picture changed, from a movie of my godkids to a still image of their father. A handsome one of Clarence smiling, oblivious to the heartache that was coming.

  The portrait they’d propped on top of his casket at the funeral because they couldn’t leave the lid open.

  While my eyes bored into their duplicates on the glass, I only vaguely noticed the muscles in my temples flexing as my teeth ground together. “It’s . . . a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  Of Clarence. My friend. The man who’d shot himself.

  “Of . . .” My throat constricted just a little, and I knew I was on dangerous ground. My right hand squeezed the edge of the vanity. “Stuff that’s behind me.”

  “But it’s always there,” she said.

  The words, soft and breathy, were like a swift knee to my gut. The whisper of a ghost.

  I tried not to show it. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I glanced downward. Only to find the SA tattoo on my forearm.

  Sarah.

  “Why’d you leave?” Max’s vo
ice had dropped even farther now, but there was more urgency to it, like she sensed she was onto something.

  My mind registered the words, but heard the voice as someone else’s.

  Sarah’s voice. The angry tone she’d taken the last time we’d seen each other.

  Why’d you leave?

  “Did something bad happen?” Max asked.

  Something horrible.

  All because I left.

  If only I’d stayed. If only I hadn’t gone chasing that madwoman. You’d still be . . .

  I looked up, hoping to find some sort of relief, some sort of forgiveness in my own reflection.

  There wasn’t any.

  “Something painful?” Max asked.

  Painful.

  My brain began cycling between the images in my head, each one dissolving into the next.

  My godkids’ smiles, all teeth and dimples.

  Clarence’s face, naively innocent, half-hidden behind thick glasses.

  Sarah’s eyes, pale blue and white, accentuated by her bronze skin.

  Different people, different places. Exact same result.

  So much pain. So much death.

  All my fault.

  My chin sank to my chest. Although I tried to stop it, to hold it back, my shoulders shook with a single, heavy sob.

  With my one good hand, I gripped the vanity even tighter. Pulling upward with all my might, I tried to tear the counter from the wall. To break it, to smash it.

  Anything to dispel the energy massing inside me.

  But it was too late. All the moisture had vanished from my mouth, while tears began gushing from my eyes. My shoulders heaved. And I gasped for breath in between the guttural howls that rattled in my throat.

  So consumed was I with the pictures in my head and trying to regain control, I didn’t notice Max’s hand moving. Or the sound of the towel crumpling on the floor. I only heard her voice as she cooed, “Did it hurt you?”

  “Yes.” With my throat clenched, the word croaked out.

  “I can make it feel better.”

  Suddenly, all the images in my head, all the pain and the anguish—everything—evaporated. I was instantly aware of Max’s skin, pressed against my back. Her lips grazing my shoulder blade. And her hand, starting to sneak down the front of my jeans.