LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  “Maybe. We’re passing through fifty-three hundred feet. I’m going to concentrate on bringing us in. Get ready to start with the increments.”

  “Roger . . . We’re coming to five thousand feet and I’m completing the checklist.”

  The seconds ticked by, the descent continued. The aircraft bumped through a band of turbulence.

  “Four thousand . . . ”

  Hutchinson took a deep breath. He still outperformed most of the younger guys in the simulator, so his instincts and hand-eye were good. On top of that, he had learned to fly in the old days when improvisation was the rule. If anyone could set this crate down, he could.

  “Three thousand. Aren’t you coming in a little fast?”

  “No, I’m gonna hold it at two fifty to a thousand feet, then start to bleed the airspeed off as we configure.”

  “All right . . . Two thousand feet.”

  Hutchinson noticed his grip on the controls had tightened. He made a conscious effort to relax.

  “One thousand feet.”

  The big jet responded well to the captain’s input. As they entered the low overcast stretching across the water, the airspeed indicator dropped below 200 knots.

  “Go to increments of a hundred. We just might be able to ease this baby in. Give me flaps one.”

  “Eight hundred . . . seven hundred . . . flaps five . . . six hundred . . . flaps fifteen.”

  “Complete the checklist. Lock your shoulder harness. Goddammit, I still don’t see anything.”

  “Five hundred . . . four hundred . . . flaps twenty-five. I don’t know what the altimeter setting is in this area. I’ve kept the altimeters on two-nine-nine-two.”

  “Let’s hope we break through before we hit water.”

  They came out beneath the clouds. They were plunging toward an angry gray sea. Gaines breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Shit,” Hutchinson shouted, pulling up the nose still further. “We’re heading right into the goddamn waves.”

  “Three hundred . . . ”

  “I’ve gotta bank twenty degrees or we’re shark bait.”

  “Two hundred . . . one hundred fifty . . . spray on the windshield . . . watch your wing tip!”

  “We’ve gotta come around, no choice.”

  “One hundred . . . ”

  Almost parallel to the swells, Hutchinson thought. A little luck and he might pull it off. Just gotta come around another ten degrees, just another eight or ten.

  Nose up, slow the descent, keep that goddamn wing out of the water.

  There, there it is, what I was looking for, the backside of a big swell. Soft, smooth and almost parallel. Straighten her out now, Jimbo, straighten her out.

  “Fifty feet. Get the wing up!”

  Hutchinson waited until the last possible moment, then moved the controls to level her out. No good. He had waited an instant too long. He felt the tip of the banking wing catch the water with a ferocious jerk. The 757 cart wheeled wildly. He knew it would all be over before he took another breath.

  ***

  When Hutchinson awoke, he believed he was in the water about to drown. He tried to move his arms and legs. Pain shot through his body. He screamed and gasped. A young nurse tried to calm him down while she called for the doctor.

  As his vision cleared, he saw that he was not in the ocean but in a hospital room. When he stopped trying to flail, the throbbing pain subsided enough that he could tolerate it. He took a quick inventory of his wounds: right leg up in traction, right arm in a cast, bandages everywhere.

  He felt a sudden rush of exhilaration. He was alive! To hell with the goddamned chart. If hurtling into the Pacific from 38,000 feet hadn’t killed him, he would live to be a hundred.

  He was drugged, he didn’t know with what. He drifted back to sleep but awoke when the young doctor came in.

  “Captain Hutchinson, I’m Doctor Gary. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I got run over by a bulldozer. Where am I?”

  “Honolulu General Hospital. You’re a very lucky man. Banged up but lucky. My prognosis is for a complete recovery.”

  “Doctor – ”

  ”Yes?”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You came in last night. Do you remember anything?”

  Hutchinson shook his head. “Nothing from the time we hit the water. How did they rescue me?”

  “Military helicopter. You were fortunate enough to have an aircraft carrier in the vicinity. They stabilized you on board, then sent you on to Hawaii by plane.”

  Hutchinson latched onto the doctor’s arm as his mind cleared. “The others, did they make it?”

  The doctor patted his hand. “Not all of them. It was a bad crash.”

  “How bad? How many survivors?”

  “In addition to yourself, two children.”

  “Two!” Hutchinson felt frantic. His excitement about being alive gave way to an overwhelming dread. He tried to say something but his chin quivered so badly he gave up with a strangled curse.

  The doctor said, “There’s a psychiatrist on the hospital staff who deals with situations like yours. I’ll arrange for him to come by and talk to you. You must not blame yourself for what happened. I was told about the engine failure.”

  “I could have done better . . . I . . . the wing tip, you see, we were just about there when it caught a wave. Don’t bring your goddamned shrink in here. I fucked up. A lot of people died because I fucked up. I don’t want some weirdo telling me it’s okay. It’s not okay, doctor. It is not okay.”

  “Captain, you must remain still. You’ve got multiple fractures and over three hundred stitches. I’m going to have to give you something that will calm you down.”

  The syringe came out of nowhere, a big syringe filled with yellow liquid. Hutchinson was too weak to resist; and glad he hadn’t when the sedative began taking the knots out of his gut.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Steven hadn’t thought of anything but Nicole during his motorcycle trip back to Paris – the first night, the last night, the nights in between. He thought of the days, too, of her laughter and playfulness, and the sense of doom that came over her when they spoke too freely about the future. His love was great and growing; so was his dilemma. But he was having no trouble getting out of bed in the morning.

  As he climbed the worn marble staircase of his old apartment building, he shook the water from the roses he had bought from a vendor on the outskirts of Paris. He had always hated homecomings, but this one promised to be different. There would be no parental judgment, no fraternal scorn, just the warmth and laughter of Soul Mate Number One.

  Sophie opened the door, pulled him inside and gave him a warm hug. “Steven, darling! I’ve missed you. And roses! It’s been years.”

  “They got a little roughed up sticking out of my saddle bags, but they’re still pretty, aren’t they? Jesus, Sophie, what did you get me into? That woman has turned me into a lovesick fool.”

  “You? My hero? Never. But what about our dear Nicole? Has she become your panting slave?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s the other way around.”

  Sophie hugged him again and laughed her husky laugh. He had never seen her look more delighted. She said, “I knew it! You’re the real thing, darling. I’m pretty impressed with myself, too. In the game of human chess, I moved you leap by brilliant leap so close to our subject you’ll soon be ready to whisper father in his ear.”

  “I don’t think so, Sophie. In fact, I think it might be over. Nicole has big fears about seeing me in Paris. She didn’t know I lived here until . . . after.”

  “She’ll be back.”

  “But what if I don’t hear from her? What do I do?”

  “Not to worry, darling, you’ll hear from her. Trust a woman’s judgment. Now come, relax, have a drink and tell me everything.”

  He settled into her big comfortable sofa, vowing to say as little as possible about the more intimate details of his relationship with N
icole. After all, there were some things you didn’t share, even with a soul mate.

  His vow dissolved with the first swallow of pastis. Once he started talking, it was like spending money: he couldn’t stop. He poured his heart out, marveling at how good it felt to have someone he cared about listening to him.

  While he finished his drink, he told her about the incredible first-night encounter with Nicole in the fancy restaurant. When lunch was ready, he and Sophie moved to the dining room. Fueled by the best Coquilles St. Jacques he had ever tasted, and helped along by a terrific bottle of Bâtard Montrachet, he told her about the tennis lessons, the mischievous cousins, the doubles games and the constant laughter. He told how surprised he was that a genuine friendship had sprung up in the unexpectedly fertile soil of a planned deception.

  When she had to interrupt him to serve the leg of lamb and pour from the bottle of Château Neuf du Pape, he felt as if she had stuffed a plug in his mouth to torture him.

  But Sophie soon returned to her listening, wonderful Sophie. He ate lustily and described in excruciating detail their first night of love together, the explosions of passion, her virginity notwithstanding, the laughter, the tears – and how blown away he was that he, a guy with a past that seemed to stretch back to Eve, could feel so utterly in love with a nineteen-year-old girl.

  They returned to the living room for cognac and coffee. He kept on talking, spilling his fears that she would be stolen away from him by tight-assed arguments from her bitchy house-keeper, who suspected something was up, her father, who was intent on selecting her mate, or the clerics who were being summoned in droves to “purify” her thoughts.

  At last he sat back in his chair, feeling depleted. He smiled sheepishly. “I can’t believe it, Sophie. I have actually silenced you.”

  “It was worth it, Steven. What a journey you’ve taken me on.”

  “What about you? I really hogged the conversation. How’s the research on Michelet coming?”

  “Slowly, but it’s coming. I’ve been all over town collecting information.” She glanced at her watch. “In fact, you and I must leave for an interview in half an hour.”

  “What?”

  “Relax, darling. We’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner. You don’t think you’ll ever be hungry again, but this is France and you will. I’ve reserved a table at Dusquenoy, my treat.”

  “No, Sophie, it’s Aunt Janine’s turn. My stay in Nice must have cost you a fortune.”

  “You’re not the cheapest to keep in the field. The best never are. But great things are going to come of your work, I can feel it in these old bones. Therefore, my treat.”

  “Well . . . thanks. So, who are we interviewing?”

  “An old priest who taught French history at Michelet’s high-school – St. Claude, the French Exeter. Father Roget was quite the cultural historian in his day. He wrote an excellent book on renaissance theater.”

  “This is great. I’m really curious about the guy now, really curious. To hell with his politics. What I want to know is how a monumental prick like Michelet could produce someone as perfect as Nicole.”

  “It happens, Steven. This world of ours is a strange place.”

  “No kidding. Sophie, listen, I haven’t been doing my part in this whole thing. I want to apologize. I’ve gotten so caught up with Nicole I haven’t pushed to get to her father, or even to get stories about him out of her.”

  “And I say to that, release yourself from the unbecoming grasp of Puritan self-flagellation. Your job was to maneuver yourself into a position to help me. You’ve performed brilliantly, so brilliantly, in fact, that I’m going to give you a raise. Now, shall we go?”

  ***

  Father Roget lived with his 98-year-old mother in an apartment building in the industrial suburb of Billancourt. He wasn’t more than a few years older than Sophie, but he looked like the product of a different century. The few remaining hairs on his head were wiry and white, as if they had grown on a corpse. His complexion was gray, and he was so stooped his mother could have passed for his wife.

  Sophie knew the secret of resuscitation, Steven thought, watching her greet the cadaver. He would have treated the old priest like a fragile antique vase. Not Sophie. She shook his hand vigorously and thanked him in her fabulous deep voice for the opportunity to chat. When he told her he had read and admired her pieces in Le Monde, and had even been looking forward to meeting her in spite of his hatred of interviews, she threw back her blonde head and filled the drab room with laughter.

  Father Roget’s eyes came alive. His color seemed to improve. Steven could almost feel Sophie’s boundless energy flowing into him. The old man responded with a laugh of his own, a charming, urbane laugh, and the ice that had seemed so thick was broken. He introduced himself to Steven with a firm, friendly grip, whisked his mother into the conversation and went to the kitchen to pour drinks.

  “Monseigneur, I expect you to hold me to my promise,” Sophie said when he returned and passed the glasses around.

  “Please sit down, won’t you? I don’t recall any promises, Madame Marx.”

  Steven watched Sophie sit, cross her legs and push her hair back. It was incredible. She was charming the robes off this priest. If they had met 40 years ago, the guy’s vow of celibacy wouldn’t have lasted as long as Steven’s vow of silence at lunch.

  She said, “I promised, Monseigneur, that I would not press you to answer questions you did not wish to answer. You just have to let me know.”

  Father Roget made a gesture with his hand. His mother looked up from her knitting. He said, “Michelet is in a position to help the Church. He might be in an even better position by the end of the decade. The Church helps millions of people, my people. Now, it so happens that Michelet remembers me fondly as his teacher. It would be unthinkable for me to jeopardize this fine relationship with too much candor.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “Boys will be boys, Madame Marx. There were, of course, some of the usual incidents. However, you have assured me that you are looking for insight rather than vilification. Judging from the high professional standards of your essays, I have no reason whatsoever to doubt you.”

  “Tell me, then. How long did you have classroom contact with Georges Michelet?”

  “Four years, Madame Marx. From the time he entered St. Claude until his graduation in nineteen fifty-three.”

  “He was a good student?”

  “Yes, above average. More importantly, I think, he was a very committed patriot even then. French history – military, cultural, all of it – was his true love. It was amazing to witness how much our national defeats pained him, and how much our triumphs elevated him. One had the impression he was living these events himself.”

  “Did this vicarious participation in his country’s history make him a social misfit? I mean, what about girls? What about friends?”

  Father Roget chuckled to himself and patted his mother on the arm. She ignored the missed stroke he had caused her knitting and smiled at him, a mother who loved her son.

  “He was a born leader, Madame Marx. There is a difference. As for girls, when he came to St. Claude, he was already planning to marry the woman he eventually married then tragically lost to illness, Beatrice Bacault. I remember his talking about her to me, her family, their values.”

  “An arranged marriage?”

  “Semi-arranged in the French bourgeois tradition. The parents knew and approved of each other.”

  “You say he was a leader. Who were the followers? Do you recall?”

  “How could I forget? The two most gifted boys in his class, boys of truly exceptional intelligence. Though they had higher scores and grades, they treated him with great deference, as if he were already head of government. There is a very specific quality Georges Michelet has, Madame Marx, an aura of strength and boldness. He is someone others perceive as being able to get the job done, no matter what.”

  “That’s interesting.”

&n
bsp; “Yes. I remember thinking his tenacity would take him a long way in life, even though his grades in many subjects were unremarkable. Leadership, Madame Marx. It’s a strange quality, easy to identify but hard to define. Your Mr. Reagan, who appeared to us here in Europe more like a comic strip character than a serious statesman, had it in his own country; and Georges Michelet has it here.”

  “You say the two most gifted boys in the class looked up to him, deferred to him. Did anything ever become of those two? Did you manage to keep up with them?”

  “Oh, my. Oh, my.” He gave his mother a double pat, and this time she growled at him to watch what he was doing. Father Roget seemed not to hear her. “Madame Marx, one of them was named Albert Haussmann. You see, it was a good year for us at St. Claude!”