Fearless

by Rafael Yglesias

  “Ooops, I’d better shut up,” that voice concluded and the room chuckled.

  “Not really,” Perlman said to the group. “I want you all to talk. But me first.” He smiled and leaned forward eagerly. “You all had a very special experience. I know that sounds funny. It wasn’t good, but that doesn’t make it any less special. You can talk to lots of people about it, you should talk to lots of people about it, but only the people in this room will really hear and understand all of what you have to say. I know it can be tough to stand up and talk to a large group of people. And, of course, you don’t have to say anything at all. You can just listen. There are no rules except that nothing anybody says is going to be repeated outside this place unless they want it to be. You don’t have to be interesting, you don’t have to be funny, you don’t have to be nice, you don’t have to make sense. I know some of you have become friends and shared your feelings with each other but that’s not what this is. That’s the way we handle most bad things that happen in life. We talk with family and friends and maybe ministers or priests or rabbis or shrinks. But that’s not what this is. What we’re doing here today is something as old as humankind itself.” Perlman leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “Before we made all these machines and people spread out into what we call the nuclear family, human beings lived in tribes. White, black, yellow. We lived in tribes. And when a tribe suffered a calamity, a great flood, an exploding mountain, a terrible shaking of the earth, they sat around their fires, under the skies or huddled in caves, and retold the event, the stories of deaths and destruction, of escape and rescue. I’m not sure why that helps us. We’re still just people, I guess. We haven’t invented a new human being to go with all the new machines. I have a lot of theories about why this group talking helps, but they could be wrong. What’s important is that it helps.” Perlman sighed and lowered his eyes, briefly scanning the circle of faces. “If there’s anyone who wants to stand up and say what happened to them we’d like to hear it.”

  Carla did want to hear. She was afraid she would have to talk, but she wanted to listen. She searched for a familiar face. The man who had lost his arm. No. Lisa the flight attendant. No. There was no one she remembered. Maybe these were the wrong survivors.

  “I lost my sister,” a woman said. “I lost my sister and my niece and my nephew.”

  “Could you stand up?” Perlman asked mildly.

  She had blond hair and a deep tan. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. She looked athletic and pretty. To Carla she was the sort of Midwestern American woman who had been a cheerleader in high school. While continuing to speak in a strong clear voice, she stood up: “I was sitting right next to them. Their seats were ripped away. Right in front of my eyes. I’ll never forget it. My sister just—” she gestured into the air, miming something moving off, hovering away, out of reach. “My kids—” she resumed, “my two boys, were on the other side of me. They’re okay—I wish I’d brought them. My mother said no.”

  Somebody laughed for a moment and then swallowed it, embarrassed.

  The blonde answered the laugh: “Well, she thought it would make it worse for them to relive it. I don’t know how to explain to her you can’t stop—you can’t stop reliving—” Without warning she was weeping. She choked on the tears and doubled up, covering her face with her hands. The people seated on either side of her reached out to support her. A man got up to guide her back to her seat.

  Perlman spoke sharply at the blonde: “What’s your name?”

  The man trying to help her back to her seat said, “What!” to Perlman as if he were mad.

  By now the blonde had forced her tears down. She straightened and looked at Perlman, puzzled.

  “Could you say your name, just your first name, and then finish telling your story?” He added quickly to the man supporting her. “You can sit. She’s all right.”

  The woman collected herself. She rubbed her forehead. “ Uh,” she seemed to be concentrating. “I’m, uh, I’m—everybody calls me Jackie,” she flashed a shy smile.

  “Why don’t you tell us about the crash, Jackie, or even about things that happened before anything went wrong? We don’t just want to know who lived and died. We want to know everything. Tell us from the beginning. Tell it all the way through.”

  “Jesus,” a man in Carla’s row mumbled. He stood up and addressed Perlman. “This is going to take forever. I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “What’s your name?” Perlman asked.

  “I’m John Wilkenson.”

  “Why were you flying that day, John?”

  “Pardon me?” Wilkenson had on a gray double-breasted suit. He buttoned the inner flap of the jacket as if preparing to leave.

  “What were you flying to Los Angeles for?” Perlman asked.

  “I was going on business.” Wilkenson spoke matter-of-factly.

  At this answer Perlman tilted his big head. He resembled a quizzical dog wondering if what had been put in his dish was food. He said softly: “You must be very committed to your work.”

  John Wilkenson sat down as abruptly as he had stood up. “I’ll wait,” he said from his chair.

  It was comical, but no one laughed. “Go ahead, Jackie,” Perlman said.

  Jackie told her story. She, her sister and their kids were flying together to visit with their brother in Los Angeles. They planned to see Disneyland. It was the first time all the siblings would have been together since they were teenagers. “Now we’ll never be together again,” she pointed out. Perlman got her attention again with a sharp question and she went on calmly. Carla understood that his behavior was a technique, although she thought it was tricky and unfair.

  If listening to other people’s tragedies was supposed to make Carla feel better, then Perlman’s group wasn’t working. Jackie had none of Carla’s problems. From what she said, going outside didn’t scare her, her husband was great to her, and she and her kids had never been closer. Perlman didn’t seem to appreciate Jackie’s easy adjustment either. He interrupted her and said, “Let’s just talk about things that happened the day of the crash. You said you saw your sister and her kids go flying off. What happened to you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I closed my eyes and then there was incredible noise and I couldn’t see anything. I was choking on the smoke and I heard that man—is he here? Are you here?” Jackie asked the crowd.

  “Who?” Perlman asked.

  “Max Klein. Newstime called him the Good Samaritan. I heard him shouting, ‘This way! Follow me!’ And he was standing—” She stopped talking. Carla knew why. Jackie was remembering the bodies she had passed on the way out: a fast look at the crazy-looking dead, at smashed and mutilated bodies. Jackie came to: “Is he here?” she asked Perlman.

  “No, he couldn’t come,” Perlman said quickly.

  “I couldn’t see anything but him. I only knew my sons were with me ’cause I was holding onto them. That man saved our lives. I came hoping to thank him.”

  “How did he save your life?” Perlman asked.

  “I was so scared. I couldn’t see. And he sounded so normal. ‘Follow me.’ ” Jackie imitated the call and the way the Good Samaritan had raised his hand and waved. “So I went that way even though I couldn’t tell what was the right direction. Then there was this light behind him. I didn’t know if it was the flames. He disappeared into it. I could still hear him. ‘We’re alive!’ he kept saying and so I wasn’t scared. I took my kids in my arms and jumped into the yellow light. It was the sun shining through the smoke. We landed on the corn and we were okay. I was so scared, my kids were screaming, the smoke was everywhere. We might’ve gone the wrong way and choked on the smoke. I came here today mostly because I wanted to thank him.”

  “Same thing happened to me,” someone said.

  “Stand up,” Perlman said. One after another six people got up to tell stories of following the Good Samaritan out. Carla didn’t pay attention to them. She leaned forward to see past the heads at Jac
kie. She wanted to ask her something. Had Jackie searched for her sister and her niece and nephew? Jackie had returned to her seat. Carla moved back and forth to keep watch, in order to see past the shifting heads of the people seated between them. Jackie looked flushed, listening with interest to the other stories of escape. Why didn’t it bother Jackie that she had run away from the plane? She had left her sister and those two children to burn alive. If they were alive. Carla still didn’t know whether Bubble had died from the crash or the fire. She had asked Manny to find out; he came back with the answer that they didn’t know exactly how Bubble had died but they were sure he didn’t suffer. Carla knew that made no sense: how could they know whether he suffered if they didn’t know how he had been killed?

  The woman sitting on Carla’s right stood up. “I’m not one of you,” she said.

  “What?” said a voice.

  “I don’t belong here,” she said. Carla stared up at her. She was a broad-shouldered woman with completely silver-gray hair, although she didn’t look any older than fifty. Her left hand dangled inches from Carla’s face, the fingers clenching and unclenching. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t on the plane. My son died in the crash.” She raised her hands toward Perlman, almost a pleading gesture. “I sneaked in—I don’t belong here.”

  “Why did you come?” Perlman asked.

  The silver-haired woman moved between the folding chairs to get out of the circle. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Wait,” Perlman stood up and pleaded. “I wish you had asked me but it’s okay that you’re here. What did you want from them?” He gestured to the curious faces of the survivors.

  The gray-haired woman noticed the stares of the group. She was pushed back as if the looks were a strong wind. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if anyone had talked to him or knew how it was…” She wound down like a toy with a dying battery and mumbled, “I’m sorry,” and moved back, bumping into the wall.

  “Who was your son?” a man called out.

  “Where was he sitting?” a woman asked.

  The silver-headed woman paused in her retreat along the wall toward the exit. “They said he was in twenty-one C.”

  “That was right behind me.” An elderly man stood up. “Did he have red hair?”

  “No,” the dead man’s mother answered. “Brown.”

  “Kind of a reddish brown?” the old man asked.

  “I don’t know,” she stammered. “It might have looked that way. But it was brown.”

  “Tall?” the man asked.

  “He was six feet tall,” she said with a hint of pride.

  “And he was wearing glasses?”

  A young man fitting that description stood up. “You mean me,” he said. For a moment the trio stood at different corners of the room and looked from one to another in a triangle of disappointment. The gray-haired woman sagged. The old man blinked. The young man shrugged apologetically. “We were on the other side of the plane,” he said to the mother. “I think you’re talking about me,” he said to the old man. “Remember? We met at the hospital.”

  The old man’s head bowed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and sat down.

  Perlman moved toward the gray-headed mother. She continued to leave slowly; she took small despairing steps.

  “Anyone else remember that row?” Perlman asked. “What was it? Twenty-one?” He had reached the woman and stopped her progress.

  In front and four seats to the left of Carla a young woman turned to her companion and whispered: “Twenty-one C was three rows ahead of me. They were smashed flat.”

  Carla’s heart raced. With it pounding so fast, she couldn’t sit and breathe comfortably.

  “Does anyone else have any information?” Perlman said.

  Carla leaned forward to better eavesdrop on the young woman who knew what had happened to the silver-haired lady’s son. Her neighbor, the man she had spoken to, bumped her shoulder: “Go ahead. Speak up.”

  “Stop it!” Carla was on her feet shouting at Perlman. “Let her go!”

  The silver-haired mother was frightened by Carla. She slunk away from Perlman, heading for the exit.

  “Why?” Perlman asked Carla.

  “This isn’t gonna do any good,” Carla said.

  Perlman stepped toward Carla, arguing. “What harm can it do? She just wants to know what happened to her son.”

  “My son died,” Carla said in a clear voice.

  “But you know how he died,” Perlman said. “You were with him.” He turned back to the embarrassed woman leaning against the wall. Her hand searched its surface as if hoping to find a secret exit. “When was the last time you saw your son?” Perlman asked the grieving mother.

  “His birthday. About a month before. I don’t remember kissing him goodbye.” She lowered her head and mumbled. “I know I did. Just can’t remember.” She raised her eyes and seemed to notice Carla. “You’re very young,” she said.

  Carla knew what that meant. Her aunts said it often enough: You’re young—you can have another. As if Bubble were something on sale that had been thrown out by accident and Carla still had time to rush to the store for another just as good. “I’m not young,” Carla said.

  “How old was your son?” the silver-haired woman asked gently.

  “He was gonna be two,” Carla said. She felt ashamed. She wanted to cry, of course, but that was nothing new. The shame was. She had to look away from the older grieving mother. She stared at the blue carpet.

  “I’m sorry,” the silver-haired woman said. “He wasn’t with you for very long.”

  “Jesus Christ!” a man shouted. “This is sadistic! We’re not accomplishing anything.”

  “Who says we’re here to accomplish something?” Perlman answered. “We’re here to talk.”

  The silver-haired woman talked; Perlman answered; there was shouting between some men. Carla couldn’t follow their conversations anymore. She didn’t know, for a moment, where she was or who these people were. They seemed to be memories or nightmares. She knew the facts: she was in a room of survivors and she was one of them; but that was nothing compared to the shriveling feeling that the faces of these people came from a dream or a television show, that none of it was real. I’m going crazy, she thought, and felt the room spin.

  “Manny,” she said in a weak voice, hoping to summon him. He was real and if he appeared, then she was too.

  “Hello,” a woman in front of her said. “Remember me?”

  It was Lisa the flight attendant. She stood right in front of Carla. The rest of the group was silent. What had happened to their conversations? Why was everyone looking at her and Lisa?

  “Sure,” Carla said. She stared at Lisa, registering the changes in her. Without makeup and with her long hair cut as short as a schoolboy’s she looked different. No, not just her face; it was the weight. Lisa had gained a lot, maybe as much as thirty pounds. But she still had her friendly smile, her happy smile of helpfulness.

  “I really wanted to see you. I came mostly to see you.” Lisa put her hands together and seemed to pray for an answer.

  Carla remembered the streak of her smeared lipstick and her gaunt cheekbone as she bent over Bubble. He had kicked out his chubby legs and slid down. The belt tightened on his neck. “Hold him in your lap,” Lisa had said. “He’ll be okay.”

  “I think about you and your baby a lot,” Lisa said. She was smiling. Why was she so cruel? Her smile was mean and got bigger as she came even closer, only inches from Carla. “Remember I tried to help you with the seat belt?”

  “Help me?” Carla said. The strange faces popped, expanding into Carla’s world. They were real, not memories or dreams or television actors. “You told me everything was going to be okay!” She was angry. Her voice filled the room. The friendly survivors shrank away like scolded children. Lisa’s smile was gone. Tears came, pushing Carla’s chin up and clogging her nostrils, but she didn’t lose her voice or her righteousness. “Help me? You think you helped me? Y
ou didn’t help me. You told me to hold him. I couldn’t hold him.”

  Lisa’s smile wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Perlman had moved to Lisa’s side. The big clown had her by the shoulders, trying to back her away from Carla.

  “No—don’t say that—” Lisa begged Carla.

  “Yes!” Carla shot at her, refusing to stop. “You said everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t okay! My baby died!”

  “Okay, okay,” Perlman said. Lisa hid in his chest, sobbing. She wouldn’t smile ever again. “That’s enough,” the doctor said sternly. “You’ve said it. That’s enough.”

  He was full of shit, too. He wanted Carla to talk, but only if she was a pretty blonde who was happy that the people she loved had died, who was going to cry a little and say nice forgiving things.

  “Fuck you,” Carla said. “Don’t tell me when I’ve said enough. I’ll never say enough! She told me it was okay! And it wasn’t!”

  Perlman let go of Lisa and moved at Carla. His spotted and beefy arms reached for her.

  “Don’t touch me!” Carla shouted. Perlman was so startled by her ferocity he came to a halt.

  “If you don’t have anything to say but to blame people then I want you to go.” Perlman was firm. He was a bastard, Carla realized. He pretended to be gentle and easygoing, but really you had to play by his rules or he would get rough.