Jake laughed in agreement. “Yes, or break them. Fortunately, I wasn’t the latter. I finished as a petty officer second class.”
“Wonderful. Good for you.”
They felt a sudden lurch as the plane began to taxi away from the gate, and the captain initiated his traditional passenger greeting, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard American Airlines Flight 11, nonstop service from Boston to Los Angeles. This is your Captain, John Ogonowski. I expect our flight to be clear and smooth. We may have a little turbulence over the Rockies, but we’ll take to a higher altitude and see if we can avoid some of that. Our total time in flight is expected to be five hours and forty minutes, but I’m hoping to shave off a little of that. We have been cleared for taxi to the runway. Your flight attendants will now discuss our safety procedures.”
As the flight attendants reviewed the safety protocols, Jake’s mind wandered to his wife and two girls snuggled up in bed together. He could picture them inside the bedroom of his modest home in the Palisades, all tucked in under the plush comforter in the dark. Their home was nowhere near the size of most of the other homes in the area, but it possessed a certain charm and was built on an especially scenic spot bordering the state park where the couple and their daughters enjoyed hiking. Well—all but Sophia, that is. She always ended up being carried around the park on her father’s strong shoulders. The images in his mind’s eye of carrying little Fifi around on his shoulders made Jake smile.
He glanced over at Gwen and saw her looking at him, amused. “Why are you smiling?” she asked.
“I was just thinking about my hikes in Topanga. Rachel and I take the girls there often, but I always end up doing the hiking for both myself and little Sophia.”
“That’s what being a daddy is about, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
Captain Ogonowski’s firm voice came on the intercom again. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have been cleared for departure. Crew, please cross-check for departure and take your seats.”
The plane taxied slowly into the takeoff position. A moment later, Jake felt the thrust as the engines pushed full throttle and began their roll down the runway. The plane shuddered momentarily, picking up speed. He glanced across the aisle and saw a young woman with sandy blonde hair, head back and eyes closed, relaxing. As if sensing Jake’s gaze, she opened her eyes and looked toward him, smiling. “You okay?” she asked.
He returned her smile and answered a little too abruptly, “Yep.”
She smiled reassuringly. “Takeoffs and landings are always the hardest.”
“You don’t seem stressed at all,” Jake stated as if it were a question.
“I’ve got flying in my blood. I’ve been flying since I was a little girl, all over the world—it’s second nature to me. Did I hear you tell that woman you were in the navy?”
“Yes. I didn’t have to fly that much in the navy, though. Navy’s all about boats.” He laughed. “I’m Jake. Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.
She held out her hand in return and shook his. “I’m Heather. The pleasure’s mine.”
The front of the aircraft lifted off the ground, and Jake felt the smoothness of the plane as it became completely airborne, the hydraulics kicking in as the pilot lifted the landing gear.
A few minutes into the flight, Heather reached for a book and began reading. Gwen did the same.
Something to read—I should have brought something to read. He reached into the pocket in front of him and pulled out the latest SkyMall magazine, which he deemed a catalog of things you never knew you needed but that seemed to fill a need, nonetheless. He glanced through the magazine, wishing he had a dog to go with the automatic watering dish or a reason to order the clever little glove warmers.
“Where do they come up with the ideas for these things?” Jake wondered aloud.
“Probably sitting on airplanes for hours on end with nothing better to do,” Gwen retorted.
Jake, Gwen and Heather laughed simultaneously.
Heather looked over at Gwen and Jake. “Are you two related?” she asked.
“Us? No. We just met today,” Jake answered.
“You seem like old friends,” Heather observed.
“We relate well, I suppose,” Gwen replied.
“What’s bringing you to LA?” Jake asked Heather.
“I’m headed there for work. Although I lived there most of my life, we have an office in Los Angeles, so it gives me a chance to go back.,” she replied.
“I live in the Palisades myself.”
Commotion from a man and a woman at the front of the cabin interrupted their conversation. The man was speaking harshly to the woman who, in turn, was clearly distressed, but Jake couldn’t make out the exchange over the noise from the plane’s engines.
Jake looked across the aisle at Heather and then again up the aisle toward business class. He noted that the curtains were now drawn between business and economy class.
“What is it?” Gwen asked Jake, a note of concern in her voice.
“Not sure. Looks like some sense of urgency—maybe someone’s having a heart attack?”
There was silence.
The three gazed at one another for only an instant and then looked around quickly at the other passengers.
“What’s going on?” the brunette next to Gwen asked.
Jake responded tentatively, “I’m not sure—probably nothing.”
Suddenly, the angry man threw open the curtains between business and economy class, tossing a canister that released some kind of smoke into the compartment. He shoved Betty and a male flight attendant forward through the divider and then ordered them to move to the back of the airplane.
Another man near the back of the plane yelled, “Shut up—everyone be calm. Do as I say and no one will be harmed. Get to the back of the plane—now!” Jake noted that the man had a strong accent of some sort.
Passengers began unfastening their seat belts hurriedly, doing as they were told. A few people were coughing from the smoke filtering through the cabin.
The first man shouted to the flight attendants in what Jake now identified as a thick Middle Eastern accent. “You two—get everyone to the back of the plane!” Jake saw blood running down the man’s arm and on the sleeve of his shirt. The man held a small knife of some kind in his hand, perhaps a box cutter—like the type stock boys use at the grocery store.
Jake unfastened his seat belt and helped Gwen do the same while Heather walked into the aisle and started for the back. Jake stopped in the aisle and waited, allowing Gwen to go first. If this deranged man at the front was going to attack them, he would have to deal with Jake first.
Jake paused, looking at the man, who now locked eyes with him. There was a complete lack of fear and feeling in those cold, dark eyes, and in that instant, Jake wondered if he was going to die. “Don’t think about being a hero,” the man spoke coldly to Jake. “Now get to the back.” Jake did as he was told and walked quietly to the back of the plane.
The aircraft’s engines got quiet as the plane leveled off. Betty and the other flight attendant—“Jeffrey C” according to his name tag—escorted people to the back seats and the galley. “Everyone find somewhere to sit against the wall,” Betty said firmly, a sense of urgency in her voice.
Over the intercom came another stern voice. “Everyone, please do as you are told.” The voice unexpectedly stopped but resumed a moment later. “We have some planes. We are returning to the airport. Stay quiet, and you’ll be okay. If you want to use your phones to contact your loved ones, you may do so. But please be quiet.”
“We have some planes—what the hell does that mean?” Jake asked, giving Gwen a troubled look.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Gwen responded.
Jake pulled out his phone to call Rachel—no service. Then he realized he had switched his phone to airplane mode earlier and turned it back on…three bars. He punched speed dial one and a moment later
the phone was ringing.
“Hello?” a still-sleepy Rachel answered.
Jake stifled a cough. “Hi, honey. It’s me.”
“Jacob, did you miss your plane?”
“No, baby. I’m on the plane.”
Rachel sensed something. “What—Jake, why are you calling me in flight?”
“Our plane has been taken by hijackers, Rachel.”
“Oh god, Jake—no! Are you okay?” her voice pleaded, jumping an octave, and Jake knew Rachel was now fully awake.
“I’m okay for now. They’ve moved us all to the back of the plane and set off some kind of a tear gas or smoke bomb between us and them. I don’t know what’s next or what their plan is. Are the girls there in bed with you?”
Controlled fear laced Rachel’s voice. “Yes, honey. Right here next to me.”
“Can you wake them up and put me on speaker?”
“Sure. One sec.”
He could hear Rachel in the background lovingly waking up the girls. “Come on, Sophia, wake up. Your father is on the phone, and he wants to speak with you. Isabel honey, you too.”
Isabel was sleepy but happy to know her father wanted to speak with her. “Daddy—where are you?”
“I’m on an airplane, sweetie. Fifi—you there?”
A soft, less audible voice replied, “Hi, Daddy.”
Jake smiled at the strangeness of this moment, anxious but tender. “Hello, sweetheart. I love you girls—do you know that?”
“I love you too,” all three replied at once.
Jake spoke directly to Rachel. “I love you, sweetheart…my bride.”
Holding back tears, Rachel responded, “I love you too, husband.”
Jake held perfectly still, caught up in the moment when Betty suddenly tapped him on the shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. “Sir, I’m sorry—but can I use your phone?”
“Of course,” Jake said. Then he spoke to his daughters in a kind, fatherly voice. “Girls, someone needs to use my phone. I have to go now. I’ll try and call you back, okay?”
“Okay,” they replied in unison. “Goodbye, Daddy,” Fifi said softly.
“Goodbye, sweet angel,” Jake said softly and pressed “End.” He handed the phone to Betty, feeling a sense of something poignant he could not put into words.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Betty apologized, desperation in her voice. “My phone isn’t getting any service, and I need to try and call our home office immediately.”
“If it means we all come out of this in one piece, you’re welcome to it—I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Thank you,” she said, momentary relief in her voice.
Betty dialed the number and waited briefly. Then she took a deep breath and said in a low, frightened voice, “We’re sitting in the back. The cockpit is not answering. Somebody has been stabbed in business class and…um…I think there’s mace…it’s tough to breathe. Appears we’re being hijacked.” Betty paused briefly and followed with, “Flight 12.”
Jeffrey interrupted. “Betty—it’s Flight 11, not 12, and tell them the guy has a knife.”
“Right,” Betty said nervously, making the correction. She paused again and then replied soberly, “Yes.”
Glancing at Jeffrey, Betty said quietly, “I can’t hear what they’re saying.” She then continued, “We just left Boston. We’re airborne, supposedly headed to LA, but the cockpit’s not answering their phone to confirm.”
Jake looked over at Gwen, who was sitting on the floor against a food trolley locked in place that carried meals they might never eat. She looked frightened. “You okay?”
“Yes…but I admit—this time I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
Jake laid his hand momentarily on Gwen’s shoulder and then reached down to grasp her closest hand, holding it firmly. Heather sat on Gwen’s other side and reached for her free hand. The newly friended threesome felt a sudden surefire bonding, the type formed only by shared trauma.
Betty continued talking with someone on the phone from home office while passengers throughout the plane spoke in hushed, worried tones to their loved ones. One man was crying softly. “I’m so sorry, honey. I love you…” his voice trailed off.
The brunette grasped Heather’s free hand. Soon, nearly everyone in the galley was holding hands. Their eyes looked around compassionately at faces they had never known, seeking solace in their shared fear. Another thirty passengers and crew members at the back of the plane held hands now, too. Neither race, nor gender, nor social standing held any significance here. The only sounds cutting the silence were Betty’s voice and the sound of the plane’s engines, now clearly in descent.
“We’re descending,” Gwen said gravely.
“We have been for a while now,” Heather replied.
“Please tell me we’re landing,” another woman exclaimed in a near pleading voice.
The plane made a sudden jolt, listing from side to side as the person behind the controls struggled to control it.
Betty’s voice, suddenly broken up by the shaking of the floorboards, was heard saying anxiously, “Okay, the aircraft is erratic again—we’re flying very erratically.”
Jake closed his eyes. He envisioned hiking with his girls and wife through the park on a day with a crystalline blue sky—a day exactly like today—the radiant warmth of the bright sun resting on his bare shoulders.
The comforting vision of his family calmed and soothed him. This was Jake’s final awareness as the plane crashed into the North Tower of New York City’s World Trade Center—all other thoughts scattered, just as feathers in the wind.
The ad for submission to the local online paper read:
Handyman needed for elderly home. Should work well with the elderly, be patient, be conscious of budget constraints and be able to perform a variety of tasks. Must provide own tools.
Sarah proofed the ad once more and clicked “submit.”
The small home for the elderly had experienced several problems with its handymen over the past year. The man hired last January was caught stealing from petty cash less than a month after he was employed. Then in late March, Sarah found another man who seemed a good fit until signs of abuse with some of the residents surfaced.
The man brought on after that turned out to be a serious problem, having had a felony conviction and racketeering charges followed by lying to Sarah about it. She had foolishly trusted him enough not to do a background check. Fortunately, a local police officer named Brandon had given Sarah a word of advice after doing his own research. Brandon had a bit of a vested interest because his mother, who turned ninety-two in three weeks, had lived at the house for years.
The Brockman House for the Elderly was just the right size for a community as large as Portage County. It had sixteen assisted living apartments and two hospice units with five rooms each. The house was managed by a staff of twenty (minus a handyman), and Sarah’d had the privilege of being the director of the facility for four years running.
Sarah shut down her computer and headed for bed, hoping she would have a number of choices come morning in her inbox.
Thankfully, the next morning she had two responses. The first, Gilbert Ranquin, looked somewhat promising with twelve years’ experience as a handyman, but he also had very little experience with the elderly. The second applicant, Henry Legna, had fifteen years of experience working in homes for the elderly (though never one the size of Brockman House). He was a licensed plumber, certified electrician and accomplished repairman of appliances. On top of all of this, his writing was somewhat eloquent.
I would be honored to meet you should you choose to select me for an interview.
Kindest regards,
Mr. Henry Legna
Mr. Legna could be the perfect fit if he were as good as he appeared on paper. She phoned him and set up an interview for that afternoon.
Sarah had never seen a handyman show up wearing a tie and sport coat, and she was impressed. Henry Legna was tall and handsome w
ith salt-and-pepper hair. Although he had a modest five o’clock shadow, it was trimmed neatly, and his appearance reminded her of one of her favorite television actors. He did turn out to be as eloquent in person as he was in writing, but what impressed Sarah most was his ability to actively listen. He paid close attention to everything she was explaining without interruption and quickly offered original solutions for issues she brought to the table.
The next morning, Sarah telephoned Mr. Legna and informed him that she would be delighted to hire him if he wanted the job. Without a moment’s hesitation, he responded that he would have to think about it and would get back to her. Sarah was taken aback; it had never occurred to her that he might have doubts about actually accepting the job.
Henry Legna laughed. He had such a genuine, lighthearted laugh. “I would love to work for you,” he replied. “It would be my pleasure.”
Relieved, Sarah smiled to herself and asked him to come by the next morning at eight o’clock to fill out the paperwork.
Later that afternoon, Sarah was sitting in her office working on some of the preliminary paperwork when a tenant named Mr. Phillips appeared at the door. He was seventy-six, unmarried and forever in a crotchety mood. He possessed a tall, imposing stature for someone his age, a dominating presence—and he was clearly annoyed.
“Miss Tradaul, have you hired a new handyman yet?” he asked in his deep, demanding voice.
Sarah forced a smile. “Why, good evening Mr. Phillips. As a matter-of-fact, I hired a gentleman this morning. He starts tomorrow.”
“Good. It’s about time. My shower keeps switching from hot to cold and back to hot. The damn thing can’t make up its mind.”
“Sorry, Mr. Phillips. I will put your shower at the top of our new handyman’s list. Promise.”
“You do that. Good day, Miss Tradaul,” he said and left abruptly.
Sarah rolled her eyes, took a breath, and looked down at the growing list of jobs she was planning for her new handyman. Mr. Phillips’ shower was number two on that list. Annoyed, Sarah scratched it out and moved it to the bottom of the list—number thirty-seven.
Ruins of the Mind Page 2