The Pilot's Wife

by Anita Shreve

  She watched as Robert tucked in his shirt.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said. “And you?”

  “Great.”

  She could see that he had slept in his clothes. He had probably been too exhausted to get undressed, she thought.

  Adjusting to the light, Robert seemed to see her face more clearly.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Kathryn sat forward in the chair.

  “I’m going to London,” she said.

  He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t hesitate at all. “I’m going with you,” he said.

  THE TABLECLOTHS LIE SPREAD ACROSS THE FIELD, a giant’s patchwork quilt. Knots of families sit on the cloths with paper plates or real silverware, iced tea in plastic ther-moses. Small children run along the grassy pathways, sometimes through the middle of another family’s lunch. Kathryn opens the picnic basket, an old pie basket of Julia’s, and takes out grapes and Terra Chips, pita bread and hummus, a wedge of Brie and a small rectangle of something smelly. Stilton, she decides, sniffing the cheese. Not far from her, Jack stands talking with two other fathers. The day is overcast, slightly muggy, and already the blackflies are annoying. Kathryn watches as Jack bends his head and listens to men who are smaller than he is. He has a cup of soda in one hand; the other is in the pocket of his jeans. He laughs and lifts his head, catching Kathryn’s eye. Behind the laugh, she can see the slight strain of sociability, the good-natured question in his eyes: When will this be over?

  Farther across the field, Kathryn spots Mattie standing in a huddle with a group of friends, her arms crossed and wrapped at her sides as if she were cold, which she is not. It is simply being fifteen and not knowing where to put one’s hands. Mattie’s face, which is familiar and yet not to Kathryn, seems a work of art in transition, its shape newly elongated, the mouth no longer pouty from braces.

  — Good turnout, Barbara McElroy says from an adjacent blanket.

  Kathryn takes in the McElroy menu at a glance: fried chicken, supermarket potato salad, coleslaw, Fritos, brownies.

  — Better than last year, Kathryn says.

  — They’ll do the softball game, don’t you think?

  — If it doesn’t rain.

  — Mattie’s gotten taller, Barbara says, looking in Mattie’s direction.

  Kathryn nods. — Is Roxanne here? she asks. And then wishes she hadn’t, for Roxanne, a slender fifteen-year-old with a lip ring, almost certainly wouldn’t be seen at the annual school picnic. Kathryn occasionally speaks to the girl, who is wildly truant and heavily endowed with attitude, in the corridors at school. Barbara will be here then for Will, her seven-year-old, Kathryn decides. Barbara’s husband, Louie, a cod fisherman, is often away, gone for long stretches at a time.

  Like Jack, Kathryn thinks.

  — Your grandmother has a wonderful old pie safe in the window, Joyce Keys calls from the cloth just beyond Barbara’s. Kathryn takes in the Keys picnic as well: curried rice salad, cold salmon, Perrier, Martha Ingerbretson’s konfetkakke. Joyce and her husband, James, are architects with their own firm in Portsmouth. Keys & Keys.

  The whole social history of the town just in the picnics, Kathryn thinks.

  — I haven’t seen it, Kathryn says.

  — Jack’ll play, won’t he? Barbara asks.

  — Oh, I think so, Kathryn says.

  She watches her husband dip his head to speak to Arthur Kahler, the owner of the Mobil station, Jack’s sometime tennis partner. It is why his back so often bothers him, she decides; he’s always bending to listen to others. He has on a white polo shirt, a pair of boat shoes. Another uniform of sorts. He slaps behind his ear, looks at his hand, flicks a blackfly from his finger. He sees her watching him.

  — I’m starved, he says, coming to her and lowering himself to the blanket.

  — Should I get Mattie?

  — No. She’ll come by when she’s ready.

  — You’re going to play softball?

  — I guess so, he says, pouring himself another soda.

  — You always think you’ll mind and then you love it, she teases.

  He runs his fingers up and down her back. The touch is unexpected and delicious. She wants to bend her head forward and close her eyes. He hasn’t touched her in days.

  — Actually, I could use a nice cold beer right now, he says, dropping his hand.

  — At a school picnic?

  — Doesn’t seem to bother Kahler.

  Kathryn glances in Arthur Kahler’s direction and notices now the large red plastic cup in his hand.

  Kathryn hands Jack a half moon of pita bread with hummus inside.

  — Martha said he was going to close the pumps next week. Put in new ones. We’ll have to go to Ely Falls for gas.

  Jack nods silently.

  — But, of course, you won’t be here, Kathryn says, remembering that Jack will be away for two weeks — in London for his twice-annual training session.

  — No. I won’t.

  — You know, I could go with you on this one. School ends next Wednesday. I could fly to London and meet you there. We’d have almost a week together. It’d be fun.

  Jack looks away. The invitation hovers over the tablecloth like cigarette smoke on a wet day.

  — We could leave Mattie with Julia, Kathryn adds. — Mattie would be thrilled to get rid of us for a week.

  — I don’t know, he says slowly, turning back to her.

  — I haven’t been to London in ages, she argues. — And never for any length of time.

  He shakes his head. — You’d hate it. These training sessions, they’re endless. We spend all day in the simulator. We have classes at night. We eat with the British crews. I’d never see you. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.

  — I’m pretty good at entertaining myself, she says. And then she wonders suddenly why she needs to argue this proposal at all.

  — Then what’s the point of going when I’m over there? he asks somewhat dismissively. — You might as well go by yourself.

  Stung, she bites the inside of her cheek.

  — Listen, he says apologetically, — I’d just be frustrated the whole time, knowing you were back in the hotel, knowing we could be doing London together. These sessions are bad enough. I don’t think the extra pressure is a good idea.

  She studies his face. A handsome face, a face people turn to look at when they walk by.

  — I’ll tell you what, he says. — Why don’t you come over at the end of the session, and we’ll go to Spain. I’ll take some time off, and we’ll fly to Madrid. No, better yet: I’ll meet you there.

  He seems more animated now, relieved to have worked out this compromise.

  — We’ll do Barcelona, too, he says. — Barcelona is great.

  — You’ve been there? she asks.

  — No, he says quickly. — I’ve just heard about it.

  She thinks about a trip to Spain with Jack. It would be enjoyable, she knows, but Spain isn’t really what she had in mind. Jack will still be away from her for two weeks, away from Mattie for longer. She wanted to go to London.

  Over Jack’s shoulder, Kathryn can see that Barbara McElroy is watching her intently. Barbara, who knows what it is like to be left for long periods of time.

  — Sounds like a date, Kathryn says, forcing a note of cheer.

  — Hey, Lyons, a voice calls from above the blanket. Kathryn looks up and squints into the glare of the overcast sky. Sonny Philbrick, a man with a pronounced beer belly under his Patriots T-shirt, kicks Jack playfully in the foot.

  — Hey, Sonny, Jack says.

  — So how’s the airline business? Sonny asks.

  — Oh, fine, Jack says. — How’s the video business?

  — Hangin’ in there. So where you off to now?

  Kathryn busies herself with the picnic.

  Jack draws his feet in from the edge of the tablecloth. He won’t stand up, she knows, because he doesn’t want to encourage Philb
rick. Philbrick’s son, who is Mattie’s age, is a slight boy with a pretty face — a chess wizard, possibly a prodigy.

  — London, Jack says.

  — London, huh?

  — London, Jack repeats. Kathryn can hear the effort to be polite in her husband’s voice. They both know where this conversation is going. The same place all of Jack’s conversations with men like Philbrick go.

  — For how long? Philbrick asks, looking straight at Kathryn.

  — Two weeks, Jack says.

  — Two weeks! Philbrick bends backward in mock surprise.

  — You over there with those stewardesses for two weeks, man, you better behave yourself.

  Philbrick winks slyly at Kathryn. Philbrick would have been the class bully in school, she decides.

  — Flight attendants, Jack says.

  — Hey, whatever.

  — Actually, Jack says slowly and evenly, — I try to screw around as much as I possibly can.

  For just a second, Philbrick’s face loosens with incomprehension. Then he grins, jabs the air with his paper cup. He laughs too loudly, causing others to look up at him from nearby blankets.

  — Lyons, you’re something else, you know that?

  There is an awkward pause then. Jack doesn’t respond.

  — Well, see you at the game, Philbrick says. — You’re gonna play, right?

  Jack nods, turns toward the picnic basket as if looking for something inside. Kathryn watches Philbrick walk away.

  — Jesus, Jack says under his breath.

  AT THE GATE, THEY STOOD APART FROM THE OTHERS. Beyond the plate-glass windows, large mounds of improbably still-white snow stood guard over the apron. Robert had his overcoat folded twice and set upon a molded plastic seat. He had put his overnight bag on top of the coat (something a woman never would have done, Kathryn thought), and he was reading the Wall Street Journal. Kathryn held her coat over her arm and examined the plane in front of her, tethered to the gate by its accordion umbilical. The plane was pretty, she thought, white with bright red markings, the Vision logo written in a snappy script. The T-900 was angled in such a way that she could see into the cockpit, could see men in shirtsleeves, their faces in shadow, their arms moving along the instrument panel as they worked their way through the checklist. She wondered if she had ever met any of the crew before. Had they come to the memorial service?

  Her feet hurt, and she wanted to sit down. But to do so would have meant sandwiching herself between two overburdened passengers. In any event, there were only minutes left until they boarded. Kathryn had on her black wool crepe suit, her funeral suit, and she resembled, she thought, more a businesswoman than a schoolteacher. A lawyer, possibly, headed to London for a deposition. She wore her hair in a loose twist, and she had on pearl earrings. She had her leather gloves in one hand and a black chenille scarf around her neck. She thought she looked rather good, under the circumstances, certainly more put together than she had in weeks. But she had lost weight in her face and knew she looked older than she had twelve days ago.

  That morning, after she had told Robert about her proposed trip to London, she had driven over to Julia’s to tell Mattie of her plans. Mattie had been painfully indifferent to Kathryn’s trip. Her only lucid comment, amidst sighs and a muffled groan of exasperation, had been a dismissive Whatever.

  “I’m only going for two days,” Kathryn had said.

  “Cool,” Mattie had said. “Can I go back to bed now?”

  In the kitchen, Julia had tried to explain Mattie’s seeming indifference.

  “She’s fifteen,” said Julia, who had been up for hours. She was dressed for her day in a pair of jeans with an elastic waist and a green sweatshirt. “She has to have someone to blame, so she’s blaming you. I know it’s irrational. You don’t remember this, but for a time, right after your parents died, you blamed me.”

  “I did not,” Kathryn said heatedly.

  “Yes, you did. You never said it outright, but I knew. And it passed. Like this, too, will pass. Right now, Mattie wants to blame her father. She’s furious with him for leaving her, for upsetting her life in such a drastic way. But blaming him is out of the question. She’s practically his only defender. Eventually, Mattie’s anger will slide away from you and find its proper target. What you need to do is to make sure the anger doesn’t come about full circle so that she begins to blame herself for her father’s death.”

  “Then I should stay,” Kathryn said weakly.

  But Julia had been adamant that Kathryn should go. Privately, Kathryn understood that Julia wanted to get her out of the house not for her sake, but for Mattie’s.

  As the widow of a pilot, Kathryn was entitled to fly on a pass wherever Vision went, in the first-class section whenever seats were available. She gestured to Robert to take the window, and she stowed her luggage under the seat in front of her. Immediately she became aware of the stale air inside the plane, with its distinctive artificial smell. The door to the cockpit was open, and Kathryn could see the crew. The size of the cockpit never failed to startle her: Many of them were smaller than the front seats of automobiles. She wondered how it was possible for the scenario suggested by the CVR on Jack’s plane to have taken place. There seemed hardly room for three men to sit, let alone move around and have a scuffle.

  From her vantage point, she could see only the inner third of the cockpit, bits of each pilot in shirtsleeves. It was impossible, gazing at the tableau — the thickish arms, the confident gestures — not to imagine the man in the left-hand seat as Jack. She pictured the shape of his shoulder, the whiteness of his inner wrist. She had never been a passenger on an airliner Jack was flying.

  The captain rose and turned toward the cabin. His eyes found Kathryn’s, and she understood that he meant to express his sympathy. He was an older man with a fringe of gray hair and light brown eyes. He seemed almost too kindly to be in charge. He was hopeless with the condolences, and she liked him for his inarticulateness. She thanked him and even managed a slight smile. She said she was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances, which was all anyone ever wanted to hear. He asked her if she would be traveling on to Malin Head to be with the other family members, and she answered, quickly and perhaps too emphatically, no. He seemed embarrassed for having asked. She turned then and introduced the captain to Robert Hart. The captain studied Robert as if he might be someone he had met before. Then the man excused himself, went back up to the cockpit, and locked the door behind him. For his safety. For their safety.

  The flight attendant collected the champagne glasses she’d brought around earlier, and Kathryn saw to her surprise that she had drained hers. She couldn’t remember drinking it, though she could taste it in her mouth. She looked at her watch: 8:14 in the evening. It would be 1:14 A.M. in London.

  The plane lumbered to the runway. The pilot — the captain with the washed-out eyes? — revved the engines for the takeoff. Her heart stalled for one prolonged beat, then kicked painfully inside her chest. Her vision narrowed to a dot, the way the picture used to do when one turned off the TV. Kathryn held the armrests and closed her eyes. She bit her lower lip. A veil of protective mist dissipated, and she saw all that was possible: Pieces of bulkhead flooring ripped from the cabin; a person, perhaps a child, harnessed into a seat, spinning through the open air; a fire beginning in a cargo hold and spreading into the cabin.

  The plane gathered speed with unnatural momentum. The staggeringly heavy mass of the T-900 would refuse to lift. She shut her eyes and began to pray the only prayer she could remember: Our Father ...

  She had never before known fear on an airliner. Even on the bumpiest transatlantic flights. Jack had always been relaxed on a plane, as both a pilot and a passenger, and his calm had seemed to seep into Kathryn through a kind of marital osmosis. But that protection was gone now. If she had believed herself safe in an airplane because Jack had, didn’t it follow that she could die in a plane if he had? She felt then the shame and revulsion of knowing
she was going to be sick. Robert put his hand on her back.

  When the plane was airborne, Robert signaled to the flight attendant, who brought ice water and cold towels and a discreet paper bag. Kathryn’s body, unable to perceive relief in having made it aloft, rebelled. To her chagrin, she vomited up the champagne. She was amazed at how intensely visceral the fear of one’s own death was: She hadn’t been this sick even when she’d learned that Jack had died.

  As soon as the seat belt sign was turned off, Kathryn rose unsteadily to use the lavatory. A flight attendant handed her a plastic envelope containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, a wash-cloth, a bar of soap, and a comb, and Kathryn realized such kits were kept on hand expressly for physically distraught passengers. Were they for first-class passengers only, or did everyone get one?

  In the tiny lavatory, Kathryn washed her face. Her slip and blouse were soaked with sweat, and she tried to dry the skin of her shoulders and neck with paper towels. The plane lurched, and she banged her head against a cabinet. She brushed her teeth as best she could and thought of all the times she’d felt condescending toward people who were afraid to fly.

  When she returned, Robert rose from his seat and took her arm.

  “I can’t explain,” she said, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same. “I suppose it was fear. I was certain the plane wouldn’t get off the ground and that we’d be going so fast, we’d crash.”

  He gently squeezed her arm.

  She pressed her seat back, and Robert aligned his seat with hers. Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he took a magazine from his briefcase.

  She fingered her wedding ring.

  Over the intercom, the captain spoke with a resonant voice that was meant to be reassuring. Yet flight itself still felt wrong. The difficulty lay with the mind accommodating itself to the notion of the plane, with all its weight, defying gravity, staying aloft. She understood the aerodynamics of flight, could comprehend the laws of physics that made flight possible, but her heart, at the moment, would have none of it. Her heart knew the plane could fall out of the sky.