The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  The reporters weren’t the only strangers in town. The promised airline trauma experts, Peyton learned, came in three varieties: white-shirted officials from PanWorld, who grew thinner and paler with each passing day; burly mechanic-types who wore biohazard suits and carried boxes of notepads and disposable cameras out to the crash site; and cardigan-clad counselors. The counselors spoke in urgent whispers and crept through the airport in soft-soled shoes, tissues and Bibles their weapons against grief. While the white-shirts argued at the airport and the biohazard guys snapped pictures on the beach, the counselors sat with weeping family members.

  The most common question, one that Peyton asked herself, was “why?” Within days, the airlines had presented not an answer, but a reaction.

  Julie St. Claire broadcast the official blurb as she stood outside the PW Baggage Claim Office. “Investigators,” she said, steadily eyeing the camera, “have reported that the flight data recorder recovered two days ago revealed nothing unusual. Yesterday the U.S. Federal Agency of Civil Aviation ordered inspections of all Boeing 767 passenger planes belonging to U.S. airlines. An inspection of another 767 had revealed the destruction of three of the four safety bolts holding the engine to the wing. Two-hundred-thirty Boeing 767 airplanes are currently in service worldwide, and one hundred twenty of them belong to eight U.S. airlines. Despite these inspections, the 767 is considered safe. John Hollstrom, an aviation consultant, describes the jet as ‘right behind the 747 as the backbone of the world’s aviation fleet.’”

  St. Claire paused a beat, then continued in a softer tone. “While such news might assure apprehensive travelers who will be flying 767s in days to come, it is small comfort to the grieving families who mourn the loss of loved ones aboard Flight 848.”

  Peyton felt suffocated by secondhand grief. After two days, the counselors moved the grief-stricken families from Airside C to the ballroom of the Tampa Marriott, which reporters referred to as “heartbreak hotel.” PanWorld had devised a formula for arranging food and shelter for the victims’ families—for every passenger, they figured, two to six mourners would show up in Tampa. They grossly underestimated the number. Peyton met one family who brought forty people to claim the body of a woman who had been daughter, mother, niece, aunt, cousin, and beloved friend.

  With a vast host of anxious companions, Peyton felt her heart go numb as evidence of 261 lives began to appear on the shores of Tampa Bay. Photographs, water-logged paperbacks, charred seats, ceiling panels, battered suitcases, knapsacks, and an empty pet kennel either washed up or were brought to the surface by the recovery teams. All recovered detritus was logged in, then either placed in cartons for the airline or carried to the Marriott ballroom. Long rows of tables displayed these personal items, and after every delivery a host of anxious relatives swarmed forward in hopes of identifying a bit of a lost loved one.

  Though reporters were still forbidden in restricted family areas, Peyton saw grieving people everywhere—on the shuttles, walking through airsides, standing at the windows with their hands pressed to the glass. And though she didn’t want to intrude, she often stood within eavesdropping distance to listen. What she heard amazed her. Though many families had been completely shattered, still people spoke of faith, comfort, and love. The trauma counselors, brought in to comfort families, often withdrew from the restricted areas to counsel each other.

  Peyton quietly sat alongside families as they filled out forms for the Hillsborough County medical examiner: Did the deceased have any identifying scars? Do you have access to dental records? Had the deceased, if female, given birth to a child?

  Some of the mourners wore lapel photos of their loved ones. After two days they grew restless, having had their fill of counseling and commiseration. They wanted their loved ones’ bodies, wanted to take them home. Peyton knew of at least two families who flew home to New York in tears, only to return a day later. They could not find peace until they laid their loved ones to rest.

  One woman haunted the halls, refusing to sit and wait in the families-only areas. She wore a voluminous black dress imprinted with some sort of stenciled design, and topped the outfit with a straw hat.

  Peyton first saw her on the shuttle. When their eyes met, the woman’s hand flew to her mouth, then her knees buckled. As everyone around rushed to help, the woman lowered her hand to point at Peyton: “Karen?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  Peyton shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “You look just like her.” The woman leaned heavily on two other shuttle riders, who were now glaring at Peyton as if she’d done something terrible by not being Karen. “My daughter. They haven’t found her yet, you know, but they did bring up her suitcase.”

  Peyton couldn’t get off the shuttle fast enough, and for the rest of the week she kept glancing over her shoulder for any sight of the straw hat, ready to sprint around the nearest corner should it appear.

  On Thursday divers recovered twenty bodies. By Saturday, they had recovered two hundred twenty, with one hundred positively identified, thirty tentatively. The positive IDs were turned over to family members.

  The funeral services began on Sunday. At the Largo Community Church, the forty-eight high school graduates were eulogized in song and poetry. After the service, somber mourners released 213 white and 48 silver balloons into the clear sky while a choir sang about friends being friends forever if they knew the Lord.

  Two hours later, the city of Tampa held another service on the beach south of the airport. Peyton stood with the mourners on the sand and listened as a priest recited ecumenical snippets of Scripture: “When this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’ Oh death, where is your sting? Oh grave, where is your victory? Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory . . . God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind . . . Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

  The minister then switched to a more practical tone. Well aware of the resentment many families felt toward PanWorld, he said, “People on both sides of this tragedy are mourning today. Twenty-four of the two hundred sixty-one who died were airline employees. Common sorrow could do much to reunite those who are bearing this grief. A shared anguish can be a bridge of reconciliation.”

  Peyton watched as family members dropped roses into the waves, then waded into the water, ankle-high, some knee-high, oblivious to the creeping wetness rising up pants and dresses. Through the water, she supposed, the mourners felt a connection to their loved ones . . . and to each other.

  She didn’t think she would ever be able to look at the beach without seeing roses in the wavewash.

  Now, a full week after the catastrophe, Peyton pulled her iced tea glass from her forehead and stared at King, who sat across the booth. She’d run into him at the office, and this time when he wearily suggested dinner, she had accepted, too tired to engage in a mental debate about his intentions.

  He leaned his elbow on the table, his hand supporting his head. His dark hair gleamed in the weak light from the overhead lamp while an aura of melancholy radiated from his strong features like some dark nimbus.

  She couldn’t recall ever seeing him look so defeated.

  “Is it over?” she asked, her voice heavy in the silence.

  He nodded slowly, staring at the menu on the table. “As far as the world is concerned”—he lifted his gaze— “it’s over and done. The families have mourned, the bodies are buried, and the president’s talking about peace in the Middle East. The world is ready to move on.”

  “Are we?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked in an almost-smile. “We’ll move on, too. Tampa doesn’t want to be known as Disaster City. In a couple of days, I’ll be writing about the Bucs’ new defensive coach, and you’ll be telling readers how to get grape juice stains out of white
carpeting. Nora might even urge you to stick to safe, practical topics. We’ve filled our quota of raw emotion. Our readers will want something . . . gentler . . . for a while.”

  Peyton pulled the paper wrapper from her straw, then dropped the straw into her glass. She had written an as-yet unpublished column on Flight 848, departing from her usual format to write a letter to her readers, but Nora wouldn’t run it until after Peyton’s supposed week of vacation. Though only a few days before the editor had been urging her to write with more passion, Peyton suspected Nora might not trust the resident Heart Healer to address a true crisis in the column.

  King frowned at the menu. “What are you going to have?”

  Peyton sipped her tea, then gave him a smile. “Truth is, I’m not really hungry. I think I’m too tired to eat.”

  “Me, too.” He closed the menu with a weary sigh. “How about a snack, then? Feel like having popcorn on my sofa? I’ve got to write about a tight end the Bucs have their eye on, but I haven’t even begun to look at his tapes.”

  Ordinarily, the prospect of an evening alone with King Bernard would have repelled Peyton faster than skunk scent, but the thought of curling up on a sofa and watching mindless football seemed a lot more comforting than going home to her dark house.

  “I’m there,” she said, closing her menu.

  FOUR

  FRIDAY, JUNE 22

  Amazing, Peyton thought, how the newspaper kept prodding life forward. Though the crash of Flight 848 had left an indelible mark on the Tampa Bay community, within ten days the news writers at the Times had moved on to entirely different topics. By the last day of her official “vacation,” the headlines had shifted. Stories about the president’s statements on the national budget dominated the front page, while NASA’s announcement of a manned mission to Mars occupied the space below the fold. Israel and the Palestinians were bickering again on page 2A, and officials from North and South Korea made the right column of the front page when they officially opened the newly rebuilt, 309-mile train track running from Seoul in South Korea to Pyongyang, the capital of the North.

  On the front page of the local section, Florida’s governor awarded medals of valor to the rescue workers who spent hours salvaging the remains of Flight 848, and the ten surviving children of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Wilt offered their inheritance to establish a scholarship fund for needy students who wished to attend Largo Christian School.

  And though no one would ever find the story printed in the pages of the Times, Peyton knew she and King had made news with their renewed friendship. Two nights ago she’d been calmly eating popcorn and vegging out on King’s couch when Carter Cummings stopped by to drop off a pair of press passes to a Lightning function. Though the night had been about as exciting as a worn pair of bedroom slippers, Carter’s eyes had widened and his mouth quirked in a mischievous smile. For a moment Peyton thought about telling him to keep his mouth shut, but that would imply that he had something to keep his mouth shut about, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, going on between her and the sports editor.

  So now she pretended boredom and indifference when she caught winks and twitters from her coworkers. Let ’em talk. They were talking about zilch, zero, zippo. She and King were friends and coworkers, nothing more.

  Besides, she had other things to worry about. As of Sunday, Peyton would return as the Heart Healer . . . for two probationary weeks. She’d had neither the time nor the energy to consider revamping the format, but, remembering King’s comment about a readership weary of despair, she tossed the column she’d written about the air tragedy and pulled a question about finding a lost love from her file of reader mail. Ignoring the feeling of emptiness at the bottom of her weary heart, she explained how the Web could be used to search for lost classmates and childhood friends, mentioned the extensive computerized database maintained by the Latter-day Saints, then ended with a sentimental paragraph about how childhood memories grew sweeter as they grew fainter.

  Sometimes, she finished, we do ourselves a disservice to yearn for what we’ve lost. For if we try to find it again, we might discover faults and blemishes memory has been kind enough to erase.

  Satisfied with the result, she reread the column a second time, then a third, making small edits as she scanned it. When she was certain it could not be improved—at least not by her tired eyes—she marked the column with Sunday’s date, then sent it to the copy desk with a click of the mouse.

  She still had to write a column for Monday, but she could work on that over the weekend and zap it into the copy desk via modem. As a “soft” feature, her filing deadline was usually 11:30 A.M. the day before a column was scheduled to appear. Late afternoon deadlines were reserved for news writers, who presumably needed more time to root around for hard news. Sunday feature columns were due by noon on Friday, because nobody in features—not even die-hards like Nora—wanted to work on Saturday.

  After pulling a couple of interesting letters from her reader mail so she’d have something to consider for Monday’s feature, Peyton spent twenty minutes answering e-mails. Two of them were annoying urban legends demanding “Pass this on to everyone you know!” She was in the middle of explaining that Neiman Marcus had never charged anyone for a recipe (though the attached instructions would result in an excruciatingly delicious cookie), when her phone rang. Anita, the receptionist in the main lobby downstairs, was calling to announce a visitor.

  Frowning, Peyton glanced at her calendar. No appointments. And since she’d technically been on vacation all week, it wasn’t likely that an irate reader had rushed to the newspaper office in a fit of temper. Still, one never knew what sort of person might walk in.

  Lifting her gaze, Peyton peered around the vast newsroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of a giggling prankster, but no one moved among the mostly empty desks. Most of her exhausted coworkers had filed their weekend stories and gone home to crash, and those who hadn’t gone home had gone to lunch. The only sounds were the quiet chatter of Mandi’s keyboard, a distant telephone, and the muffled buzz of an overhanging television. The lull after a storm.

  “Did she give a name?” Peyton asked the receptionist.

  Muffled sounds followed, then Anita said, “Gabriella Cohen. She says it’s very important that she speak to you.”

  Peyton glanced at her watch. Only twelve-fifteen, but she was done with her work, and as soon as she emptied her in-box she was planning to head for home. Moreover, she was bone tired—not quite up to appearing fresh and friendly to an eager reader.

  Peyton strengthened her voice. “Tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t see her today—I’m on my way out. She can leave a message, though, and I’ll try to call her next week.”

  An odd premonition strummed a shiver from her as Peyton dropped the phone back into its cradle. Though most of her mail ranged from sweet to fawning, occasionally she received the odd letter from a nut case. Last year a woman had taken her to task for giving the fictitious name “Birdie” to another reader. I understand why you want to protect the privacy of individuals who write you, she had written. But of all the beautiful names in the world, why did you choose the name Birdie? You might as well have called her Rat, Roach, or Weasel.

  Peyton sighed as she closed her notebook, then slid it in a desk drawer. No one could please everyone all the time, but some people were impossible to satisfy. And if the visitor in the reception area wanted to gripe about a name Peyton had used or a topic she had chosen, well, she’d have to wait. Maybe forever.

  Peyton logged off the computer network, slid the keyboard tray under her desk, and stuffed the last of her notes on the genealogy column into a file, then tucked it into a drawer. After a quick look around her desk to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, she picked up her backpack, called good-bye to Mandi, and headed toward the elevator.

  Nora approached as the elevator doors slid open. “Just the woman I wanted to see,” she said, giving Peyton a stiff smile. “I read your column for Sunday. It’s nice. An
d it’s about time someone pointed out that dwelling on old memories isn’t always good for a person’s mental health.”

  Peyton gave her a frosty smile and stepped into the elevator, then pressed the button for the lobby. “Thanks.”

  Peyton bit the inside of her mouth as Nora followed, and for a moment they waited, the empty air between them heavy and uncomfortable. When the doors closed, Nora broke the silence.

  “I think it’s what people need to hear right now.” Nora didn’t turn, but met Peyton’s gaze in the mirror images on the brass doors. “I think people are still numb from . . . well, you know. You’re encouraging them to look forward, and that’s good.”

  Not knowing what else to say, Peyton murmured another thank you. She didn’t know how these compliments fit into Nora’s plan to take her column away, but appreciation was always nice—even if it was intended to soften a coming disappointment.

  “Have something special planned for next week?”

  The question hung in the air between them, shimmering like the reflection from the brass. Peyton gritted her teeth, resenting the editor’s fishing expedition. She probably wanted to hear that Peyton had something new and improved and exciting in mind, but she’d been so benumbed by the events of the past week she’d scarcely given any thought to her personal crisis. She’d wanted breathing space, but she’d been handed a nightmare.

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said, forcing the words off her unwilling tongue. “I’m taking some reader mail home with me. Maybe something will strike me.” She shrugged.

  “Something always seems to,” Nora said, but the phrase didn’t sound at all like a compliment.

  Peyton lifted her head, grateful that Nora didn’t work weekends. Whatever she scraped up and pasted together for Monday’s column would probably go straight from the copy desk to the pressroom, with nary a Nora to poke and prod at it. Not that it mattered. Monday editions were traditionally light.