Storymania - Fatal Flight by Shelley J Alongi

Fatal Flight
Shelley J Alongi

Anne came downstairs and joined her husband in the kitchen. He stood at the stove flipping golden brown pancakes on to a platter. The house smelled of the warm mix of coffee, and bacon.

“Can I help?”

“Syrup,” he said without turning his eyes away from his work.

She went obediently to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of the golden liquid, set it on the table. She drew a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, added cream and sugar, put it at his place. She sat down at the table, taking up an aviation magazine.

He came to the table bearing the platter. The fork he laid across its edge seemed to sound much louder than usual in the silence that hung heavily between them. She looked up, saw Andrew’s eyes; weary, tense, anguished. Wisely, she sat back. She took her plate, took the proffered platter, sat down across from him.

“Does making breakfast help?” she asked gently, drawing him momentarily from his own world.

He drew in his breath, let it out in a deep sigh, as if this released some inner pressure weighing on him.

“A little.”

They sat quietly eating, Andrew steadily avoiding her gaze. He seemed to appreciate the coffee, once he did catch her eye and she acknowledged it. She cleaned her plate, put her hand out for the bacon, and finished her coffee. Then she cleared the table.

She let her hand lie gently on the back of his neck as she passed his chair on the way to the kitchen to do the dishes. He winced as her fingers encountered the knot that had been forming for days. She stopped its movements, gently worked on it, slid her hand to his shoulder and patted it affectionately.

“Nice job,” she murmured in quiet encouragement. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He nodded, turned his gaze to catch hers, saying thank you with his eyes-only.
The silence lengthened as the water ran and dishes clattered in the sink. She went to the refrigerator, let some ice crackle into a glass, pored some ice tea. She took the glass and returned to the table to join the pilot. She looked at his face, not inscrutable to his wife of six years, his expression infinitely sad. He picked up the magazine she had been reading and thumbed through it. She got up, silently refilled his cup. He nodded. He pushed the cup absently away, clearly preoccupied with his own state of mind. He flipped through the magazine, suddenly stopped at a glossy picture of a man standing beside his beautiful Cessna 310 twin engine plane. He stopped, drew it with his finger. He felt the knot tighten in his stomach, his throat closed. Suddenly he rose from the table and went into the living room and stood at the plate glass window that looked out onto the well-manicured lawn with the white and red rosebushes neatly trimmed. Andrew looked up at the sky, noted the formation of ominous rain clouds. He sighed deeply letting his head rest on the cool glass thinking that soon he would be out in the garden checking the roses for whitish leaves, signs of the mildew that could kill them. He squeezed his eyes shut, watched his breath form moisture on the glass blocking his view of the stunningly beautiful gloom. Sun tried to peek through the heavy overcast. It somehow seemed appropriate to the pilot's mood.

His wife came to stand beside him. She put her arm about his waste. He tensed, but did not push her away from him. She let her hand slide along his stiff spine, easing the tenseness in his shoulders.

“Honey, we should go. We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Andrew turned to her, his face a mask of anguish, hurt, questioning. He nodded. He let her ease the tension from his neck.

“I’ll drive if you like,” she whispered.

He gently stepped away from her, turned to go upstairs and get his keys. Silently they left the house listening to the door shut quietly behind them.

Getting into the passenger seat and buckling himself in, he felt his hands unconsciously tensing as if in response to some in-flight emergency. He reached for the map book, spread it out on his knees so that Anne could gage the correct route.

“Thanks, Andrew,” she let her fingers lie on his warm ones, caressed them gently and said nothing. We have one stop before we hop on the freeway.”

He nodded and turned his head to look out the window. The accident had happened a week ago and he had lived his life in a state of numbness all that time. Eric clemmens was dead. It just didn’t seem possible. Blessed relief for the moment came as his mind shut down, temporarily blocked the painful memories. The ever-present thoughts of the student/teacher relationship, which had developed into a professional partnership over twelve years, stood like suppliants wanting entrance. He could not allow it. He remembered meeting the would-be pilot in the small cramped quarters of the ABC Charter Company office, filling out the papers, taking his check, the first tentative flight. Later in his training, Eric had almost gotten them killed in the stall maneuver. He had almost been too afraid to try again, but he had, and after jumping that one hurtle seemed to manage quite well.

He felt the car stop and his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He looked up. They were at a flower shop.

“You want to wait?” she asked, seeing his absorption in his own thoughts.

“No, I’ll go with you.”

The leafy ferns in their greenery met him as they entered the small shop, their beauty and fragrance both disturbing and comforting. This little place teemed with life, life that would be laid atop a box containing the remains of a highly rated pilot. He bit his lip and willed away the images he simply could not let himself imagine.

“We didn’t get roses,” he said, temporarily switching mental gears, helping her pick out some carnations.

She laid the bundles of carnations on the counter and took Andrew’s credit card.

“Yes, we did, honey. I got them. You were upstairs getting dressed. You probably didn’t see me put them in the car.”

Back in the cold, rainy morning, they went to their respective sides of the car, and settled themselves in for an hour’s drive. Their hands met as both of them made space for the flowers.

“You okay, honey?”

Andrew turned his head and caught her gaze, his eyes registering a mixture of anger and anguish.

“Please, Annie,” he choked out the words, “please don’t ask me. Not now.”

How could he talk about losing his first successful ATP Multiengine rated pilot? Eric Clemmens who had defied nature sometimes flying through some very intense skies or who had run around energetically throwing a baseball around with his ten year-old son, who had stayed within FAA safety regulations now had been failed by his plane. Perhaps even if all the proper authorities thought they knew what had happened, perhaps no one would ever know. Vacationing with his wife and child the pilot had gone for a short excursion flight while they lingered behind in the resort shopping and making dinner arrangements. Instead of making dinner arrangements Catherine Clemmens, a stalwart woman, was making funeral arrangements. Andrew clamped down on the tide of sadness about to swell over him. He was going to miss his friend.

They had reached the small church and found a place in the rapidly filling parking lot. Silently the pilot and the teacher got out of the car. He walked to Anne’s door holding the flowers.

“I’m sorry, Annie,” he said meekly, “I didn’t mean to be short with you earlier.”

Anne blinked back tears. She turned her face away not daring to say anything. They had hardly spoken all the way to the church, but how could she be angry. There was simply nothing she could say. She took his hand and they walked slowly into the church, taking their places in line.

Suddenly in the midst of so many who had known Eric Clemmens it was easy to be less emotional; to be more composed, to cope. Anne turned to her husband.

“It’s okay, Andrew. I understand about earlier.” Her voice faultered. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

Their hands touched in sympathy, their eyes met and they moved up in the line.

Anne presented one of the flower arrangements to Catherine Clemmens. Eric’s widow looked very nice in her spring colored dress, her ten-year-old son stood beside her.

“I just couldn’t wear black,” she whispered to Anne, extending her hand for the spray of carnations and roses. “He wouldn’t have liked that.”

“You look fine, dear. Fine.”

Catherine kissed the pilot’s wife on the cheek.

“Thanks for coming.”

Anne moved along and let her husband present Catherine with the rest of the flowers. Catherine took her husbands’ flight instructor’s hand, held it between her palm and the stems of the carnations. Her son silently took the flowers from her, letting her fully keep the hand that had taught his father to do what he loved. Catherine could not say anything. Two tears stood in her eyes. A moment lapsed as Andrew’s gaze locked on her. The line backed up behind him, and then a circle widened as if to give them privacy as word got around that Catherine was talking to Eric’s flight instructor. Catherine wanted to reach out to hug her husband’s friend but somehow the gesture seemed inappropriate. He stood straight before her, shoulders back, devastation in his eyes. Drawing on his obvious discomfort, Catherine suddenly regained her voice, needing to comfort more than to be comforted.

“Andrew, I hardly know what to say. You knew him longer than I did, of course.”

The veteran pilot nodded slightly.

“Perhaps, but you tamed him, Catherine. You don’t know anything, do you?”

“Engine failure, that’s all I know. It’s pretty standard to say that. You know the story, I’m sure.”

He shook his head again.

“How are you, Andrew?” She didn’t care that the line was patiently waiting for this moment to end. Andrew’s face fell only slightly.

“Oh, Catherine, it’s as if I’ve been hit in the stomach. Still haven’t caught my breath.”

“I know what you mean,” breathed the woman, tears dangerously near again. They stood looking at each other again till she gently released his hand and urged him toward his waiting wife.

“We’ll talk more later. I’m sorry for you, Andrew. It’s hard as hell, even for you.”

She turned to the next person and Anne led her husband away to a group of mourners gathering in the rows of padded benches. They took their places quietly among people they knew, and some they did not know: members of the flying club, as well as various church members. Elizabeth and Karl moved silently into the row, the woman holding the hand of her two year-old granddaughter, Beth. Beth spied Andrew and immediately he lifted her onto his knee. No words passed as the mechanic and his wife obediently took their places to the left of the pilot who now held both the girl on his lap and his wife’s hand. Around them, people filed quietly in, the smell of flowers wafted through the small room and voices murmured respectfully, as if the dead might hear them. Beth did not seem to care. Her only concern was Andrew’s shiny wristwatch. Turning his hand in her small ones she stared in utter fascination at the flashing display on the black face. Andrew, sitting between his wife and the man who had helped facilitate their match suddenly felt comforted. There was something about this little bit of life and curiosity in a place where life was being sadly remembered that made the sharp pain of Eric’s loss seem bearable.

Anne thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t think it was from sadness. She knew her husband’s personal struggles even if he was unused to public demonstration. Beth, sitting on his lap through the eulogy and the songs and the scripture reading seemed to ease the strain she had seen building since John had called with the unwelcome news five days ago. The company had not closed its doors and Andrew had used the local flights as a source of stability, collapsing into bed every night, unusually tired and unhappy. Now, she watched the interaction between her husband and the girl and sighed with relief. God had brought something to him which could offer him respite, if only for a few moments.

The reception was at Catherine’s house; a small, quaint historic place set in a yard with no rose bushes, and no fence. Andrew contemplated the offerings on the buffet, and making his selections, made his way to an empty place beside his boss. His wife disappeared into the kitchen to give a hand to Catherine.

The two pilots sat together on the couch, not talking. Beth had spotted Andrew in the milling, moving crowd, and being the only small child in a world of adults, immediately gravitated to him.

“Catherine said they don’t know what happened to the plane,” said the CFI to the owner of the ABC Charter Company, absently pulling the child onto his knee.

“Plane was fine. He flew it down there to Porterville and then it wouldn’t climb. He called for a Mayday, he couldn’t get proper fpm.”

“Why didn’t he land the plane?”

He let Beth play with his watch. He curled his arm about her, noticed in an offhanded way her curls. She was adorable.

“You tell me. Would you have landed?” asked John foster, putting a piece of cubed cheese into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully while Andrew considered his response.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Well, I know, and I would have, too.” John balanced his plate on his knee. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I suppose not. I know how he was, but he was too good. I’ll be interested to know what the NTSB says.”

The two pilots fell silent as Anne came to join them. She noticed Beth on her husband’s lap and smiled.

“You’ve made a friend,” she said, handing the girl a cookie. Beth reached for it eagerly, momentarily diverting her attention from Andrew’s wrist-watch to the treat in her hand.

“Andrew,” continued John Foster, “you need time off?”

“No, I’m okay, John. I think I can manage.”

There was something comforting about work, Andrew thought as he took a napkin and wiped some crumbs from Beth’s face. He held to the child’s hand for a moment. She had curled up and had put her head on his chest. Her eyes drooped.

“What do you do to these people,” teased his boss, “it’s why you’re such a good pilot Andrew, people just trust you! Eric trusted you.”

“Yes, he did,” mused the CFI, “even when I yelled at him for not getting enough sleep. Ironic thing was, this time, he had enough sleep. It was the plane that failed him.”

Catherine and Alex stood on the porch, saying goodbye to Anne and Andrew.

“Thank you for coming. And thanks for helping in the kitchen, Annie, it’s going to be a rough year, I tell you. We’ll manage, though.”

She put out her hand to Andrew. They had not talked since the greeting line at the funeral.

“I’m sorry, Andrew. Eric liked you. You always got on his case for things, he was glad you did. He used to say that you cared about him.”

“Thanks. I was trying to avoid trouble that could lead to an accident.”

Andrew and Catherine understood the irony of the situation. This time in the less formal atmosphere of the cloudy afternoon, and in the continuing need for reassurance, Catherine reached out to andrew and hugged him. He touched her shoulder.

“You guys hang in there.”

Suddenly, waves of sadness engulfed him. He turned to Anne and together they walked down the steps and toward the white, ford Explorer. Anne could see that the carefully controlled façade was about to give way to sudden anguish.

“You want me to drive, honey?” she asked, hugging him at the car. He was quiet.

“Okay, I will.”

Suddenly, Beth, standing with Elizabeth and Karl on the porch, caught sight of them. She shot down the stairs and out across the lawn calling him.

“Bye! Bye!”

He caught her up, held her, buried his face in her curls. He kissed her and she hugged him.

“You coming to my house?” she wanted to know, innocently.

“Not today<” breathed the pilot, “no. Going home to my house.”

She clung to him.

“Bye! Bye!”

Andrew set beth on her feet and turned to get into the car. As Anne put her key in the ignition and the engine purred into life, she saw her husband’s eyes. They were full of tears. She also saw he was smiling. Before she pulled into traffic she laid her hand on his and squeezed it.

“Life is full of ironies,” she whispered.

“No kidding,” he said, his voice breaking.

She directed the white Ford Explorer into traffic, the rain starting again. She turned on the windshield wipers. A sudden traffic jam caused her to stop. Rain sprinkled onto the window, the rhythmic slap slap of the wipers comforting in the cold silence. She glanced over to see him slumped against the window, tears silently mixing with the moisture on the glass. He sighed wearily. She reached over and patted him on the shoulder. He did not look at her. She reached down and turned on the heater to defrost the windows, and moved along till they had cleared the traffic.

She turned down the wet, familiar tree-lined street, one that had seen her so many times starting with the first unfamiliar drive to the house after the accident, and continuing through the times she had checked the mail or had simply come to see him. There was the return from their honeymoon, and so many returns from the middle school after long, hectic days of teaching. There were deeply coveted quiet nights with him beside her after some event, and times spent in tense silence after misunderstandings or disagreements. There were so many different occasions, one street. Today, with the thick, gray clouds hanging around like wet blankets, the rain intermittent or threatening deluge, the sky lent itself to the sadness.

She pulled into the familiar spot in the driveway and cut the engine. They sat quietly, his tears finally running effortlessly down his cheeks. He unbuckled the belt. The wind was cold and wet as Andrew opened the gate and led his wife up the stairs to the porch. They stood in the cold, looking at the roses. Andrew leaned heavily against the thick wooden rail. Anne came up beside him. She turned to face him, hugged him tightly, and then let her arms surround him more gently. She let her hands caress his shoulders, his back, the muscles slowly easing under her hands. Suddenly, standing in her protective circle, feeling the tightness easing from him, he felt himself giving way to the intense sadness of his friend’s death. Deep, stabbing pain filled him and he shuddered.

“Oh, Annie!” he said wearily, “he was such a damn good pilot!”

“I know.”

He laid his head on Anne’s shoulder and finally, easily sobbed out his anguish. Anne thought the temperature dropped three degrees and the air grew heavier as she stood consoling him. The roses huddled against the wet, cold breath of the winter storm, which had chosen today to settle over them. Finally, his intensive grieving eased. Anne wiped his face like a child, held him. Silently he gently disengaged himself and felt around in his pocket for the keys to the house. He opened the door and they entered, met by the leftover aromas of coffee and stale pancakes. Anne followed her husband into the living room where he took a seat on the couch. She sat down next to him, caressed his hand.

“Are you tired Andrew?”

“I don’t know how to be.”

He pulled her onto his lap, holding her, wanting to know that someone he loved and who was warm was near him.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently.

A long time passed between them.

“Did John say anything?”

She could feel him breathing, feel the pressure of his legs under her, the reassuring live flesh.

“He just said the plane didn’t get enough climb. Something with the engine.”

Andrew suddenly seemed resigned to the whole event. It was as if all the energy had gone out of him. He suddenly just wanted to go to bed. His head and his eyes and his heart ached. He lay back wearily and let his head sink into the pillow. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, sighed.

She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, tasting his salty tears. She gently left him and went to the computer. Despite everything she had to grade a paper and it was quiet. She thought it might distract her.

The house grew quiet. As Anne worked, she could hear gentle raindrops splattering against the window. The clock ticked quietly. In the serene silence of the early evening she heard movement behind her. She felt rather than saw him approach her, standing behind her chair, briefly looking over her shoulder to see what was on the screen.

“I’m going to bed,” he said wearily, putting both hands on her shoulders.

She turned and looked into beautiful, sad eyes. Lines of weariness surrounded them.

“Did you fall asleep on the couch, honey?”

“Hmm. Must have. Look at the time.”

She looked at the Flying Fortress clock on the wall. Was it already 8:00?

He squeezed her shoulder. He did nothing to stop the tears from running down his face.

“See you when you come up stairs.”

“Sure, Andrew. I have to finish one paper and I’ll be done.”

He kissed her on the cheek and left her to her work.

In the morning he seemed more at ease. Anne had discovered before they married that he could make the best pancakes. But today she made them. Today she served the breakfast and he went outside to check the roses. They had survived yesterday’s rain. The morning sun shone through the remaining water droplets on the petals. Andrew stood near the rose bed for a long time just letting his eyes drink in such simple beauty. It seemed to bring him solace. He watched a small bird fly from one iron wrung of the fence that surrounded the house and gently light on another one. He breathed in the fragrance of the flowers and the cool freshness of the morning air. Suddenly it occurred to the pilot so shaken by Eric’s fatal flight that just like those roses, Catherine and Alex and even he would go on. Eventually the cause for the accident would be determined. Life would move along, bringing sad days and good ones for all of Eric’s friends. The empty place left by Eric’s death would always be there for his memory. Suddenly reassured, Andrew took one final look at the flowers and walked up the three wooden stairs to the house. He came quietly to the kitchen table and joined his wife for breakfast.