The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  Oh, boy, Ridley said.

  Well, he asked.

  He sure did.

  Harrison cocked his ear toward the radio.

  Who’s this Carpenter fella? Ridley said.

  Navy guy, Harrison said. Never even been in a fighter squadron. He’s only got two hundred hours; been flyin multi-engine propeller planes! Not that Bonney’s mentioned it, of course.

  And these are supposed to be America’s finest pilots? Ridley said. Wasn’t Cooper in engineering?

  Heh, yeah. He was in Wally’s room for the meeting that night. I think he sees it as a shortcut up the pyramid.

  There ain’t no shortcuts, Ridley said. You either got it or you don’t.

  Shepard’s done good work though, Harrison said. Nothing like the X-series, and he’s never been in combat, but he’s a good guy. I like him. Grissom? Never heard of him. Was at Wright-Patterson, I think, doing all-weather testing. Wally wouldn’t stop goin on about what this thing might do to a man’s career—but there he is—Jolly Wally—not feeling quite so jolly in front of all them reporters. They got one good pilot, I guess.

  Deke?

  Yeah.

  Surprised he volunteered.

  Me too. Lot of people round here liked what he’d been doing.

  Harrison shrugged and turned the volume down.

  How’s Gracie doing? Ridley said.

  Struggling in this heat.

  I’ll bet. When’s it comin again?

  Early May.

  You got the nursery all finished?

  Just about. Air force should be payin me to fix up their property. There isn’t a whole heap of room, but how much space does a baby need?

  You’re askin the wrong fella. Hal pleased?

  All I could do to stop him movin in.

  Ah, he just wants to look after his own little girl.

  We don’t have the space. He’s just been by himself for too long.

  When’d June die? Ridley said.

  Twenty years last fall, Harrison said.

  Hell of a thing, Ridley said.

  Yeah, Harrison said. My old man died when I was five.

  I didn’t know that, Ridley said.

  He worked the railroads; West Virginia mainly—Deepwater, Indian Creek, Greenbrier and Eastern, Kanawha Central. Died of a heart attack, right there on the tracks. He was a big man; strong, shoulders that sloped off him like hills. Only really got one memory of him. I must have been three, maybe four. We were living on this small homestead in Wheeling, up in the Northern Panhandle. His old man had been a coal miner. Tough work. Had to lease his tools from the company, pay them rent, and his wages were only good in company-owned stores; some strange currency they paid. Anyway, I remember this one time a wolf or a hound or something was lyin badly hurt out back of our place. Must have escaped a trap in the woods somehow. His back leg was all mangled up and he’d lost a lot of blood. He was all done howling, poor thing. We spotted him just before sundown. Dad told me to stay inside. Ma must have known what was going on because she told me to go to my room and not come out til she said so. But I crept out of my window and onto the roof. Laid flat on my belly. The animal was right there below. It was a hot night. I saw Dad appear from one of our outbuildings carrying a shovel. He pushed it into the earth alongside the wolf and bent down. He stroked the animal’s head for a minute, whispering in his ear. Couldn’t hear what. Then he stood up and brought the blade of the shovel down hard on his neck.

  Jesus, Ridley said.

  I guess he must have buried it after, Harrison said. I don’t remember. He marked it with a stone; a big blue thing. It stayed there for a couple of years; vanished sometime after that.

  You ever get back out that way? Ridley said.

  Harrison shook his head. Ma was a strong woman. Raised me herself; just the two of us. Never too proud to ask for help if she needed it. That was a good quality. We had a friend, Annie, who lived close by. She was a remarkable woman. She helped Ma out a lot. You want another coffee?

  Nah, I’d better be on my way.

  Sure thing, Jack. I’ll see you.

  Tell Gracie I said hi, Ridley said.

  I will.

  Ridley left. Harrison sat back in his chair and turned the volume up again. On the radio, a reporter said, could I ask for a show of hands of how many are confident that they will come back from outer space?

  Jesus, Harrison thought, lighting another cigarette. What the hell kind of question was that? What a bunch of dopes. Harrison switched the radio off and went down to the hangar.

  It was late, gone midnight, bone-cold. Grace pulled herself from the car, walked slow to the house, holding her back, fighting the wind.

  Real howler, Harrison said as he got out. Wait up, would you?

  If she said anything, he didn’t hear. He went to help.

  Get off, I’m fine, she said, pushing him away.

  You don’t look fine, he said.

  Unlock the goddamn door, she said. I’m freezing.

  Harrison did as she said and shut the door and the desert behind them. He switched on the light.

  I’ll make you a hot milk, he said.

  I don’t want a hot milk, she said. I just want to sit down; my back is killing me.

  You got to stop doin so much, he said.

  Sure, she said, that’s the problem; nothing to do with the other human I’m lumping around inside me.

  I’m just sayin you need to take it easy, he said.

  I don’t want to take it easy, she said. I want this damn baby out of me.

  Well, you’re not due for another week or so, so—

  Thank you for letting me know, she said, because I had no idea.

  Her hair was up; she pulled it down.

  Well, you look good, he said.

  I look like a goddamn mess, she said.

  Hey, I’m just tryin to help, okay?

  Well quit it, would you?

  Jeez, he said.

  And stop complaining, she said. You’re not the one carrying a baby around inside you.

  Her palms cupped around her swollen belly.

  Where’s my milk? she said.

  You didn’t want any! he said.

  Yes I did, she said. I always have milk before bed.

  You’re turning in? he said.

  Yes! That’s why I want my milk!

  I—he said, and stopped. I’ll get you some.

  She sighed, sat down, sank back into the sofa.

  Nice evening, huh? she called out to the kitchen.

  Yeah, he said. Lotta fun.

  She sure can cook, Grace said.

  Sure can, Harrison said. Joe’s a lucky son of a gun.

  How long they been in that place? she said.

  Don’t know, he said.

  I like it.

  What?

  Joe and Gracie’s house—I like it, she said. The kitchen.

  Uh-huh, he said.

  She rolled her eyes but he didn’t see.

  I’m tired, she said.

  I know, he said, walking into the living room with her milk.

  Here you go, he said.

  Thank you, she said. Hey, you okay?

  She stroked his face. He nodded.

  You sure?

  Yeah.

  She kissed him.

  I love you, she said.

  Love you too, hon, he said.

  C’mon, she said. Let’s turn in; I’ll drink this in bed.

  Jim. Jim.

  Uh, he said. What?

  It was dark; he was asleep.

  Jim wake up.

  What? What is it? What’s the matter?

  My water’s just broke, she said.

  Huh? he said.

  Wake up, she said.

  He switched on the lamp.

  Jesus, he said. What time is it?

  Ten to four, she said.

  He rubbed his face.

  We got to move fast, she said.

  How come? he said. You said labor was long. If we go in now, the
y’ll only send us home.

  Yeah, she said.

  That’s what you told me, right?

  Yeah, she said, but I’ve been in labor pretty much since we came to bed.

  What? Why didn’t you tell me? he said. He was sitting up now.

  Didn’t see the point, she said. They told me I had to relax; said that was the best thing I could do. Figured you being asleep would probably help.

  Thanks.

  Looks like I was right.

  Jesus, Grace, he said. Are you okay?

  Uh, they’re getting pretty painful now, she said. Faster.

  What the hell is this? he said, jerking his hand up from the bed.

  I told you, she said, my water’s broke.

  He pulled a face that Grace said was unhelpful and he wiped his hand on the sheet and said, what do we do?

  Get dressed, she said. I got a bag all packed. We need to get to Lancaster.

  He helped her into the car. It didn’t start.

  Too damn cold, Harrison said.

  What?

  The engine.

  He turned the ignition again. The engine chugged then wailed.

  Damn it, he said.

  What the hell, Jim? she said.

  It’s four in the morning, he said. Usually warms up twenty degrees or so before anyone drives it.

  Jesus, she said.

  Don’t worry, hon, he said, we got the motorcycle out back.

  She looked at him.

  The Triumph? she said. Are you fucking kidding me?

  What?

  It’s a wreck!

  I fixed it up pretty good, he said.

  Her hands clung tight to the dashboard.

  Jim, she said, it’s pitch-black, freezing cold and I’m having a baby, and if you think I’m getting on the back of a goddamn motorcycle you’re out of your—

  She yelled out and gripped the dash.

  Hon? Hon? What’s the matter? he said.

  I’m having a baby what do you think is the matter.

  I’m gettin the bike, he said, and got out.

  Jim!

  He ran down to the barn, threw the tarp off the Triumph, got it running.

  All right, he said. He opened the throttle, warmed the engine and drove back to the car. Grace got out.

  Hold tight to me, he said. Use the footrests; you’ll be fine.

  Jim, she said, I can’t … I …

  Yes you can, he said. I got you.

  I’m scared, Jim.

  Nothin be scared about, hon, he said. We’ll be there in no time. Think of it like a horse. Nothin to it.

  She held his back and slowly pulled herself on.

  That’s it, he said.

  She gripped his waist, baby cocooned between them.

  Meant to say, he shouted over his shoulder as they accelerated, light’s bust. Wasn’t expecting to ever take it out at night.

  Her face was pushed hard into his back. She didn’t reply.

  Don’t worry, he said. I know these roads pretty good.

  Grace groaned and hung on.

  They reached the Antelope Valley Hospital in Lancaster thirty-five minutes later. He helped her down from the motorcycle. She began to wander off.

  Grace! he said. Where you goin?

  She kept on walking. He caught up with her.

  We got to go that way, he said.

  She mumbled something.

  What? he said.

  Leave me alone, she said.

  Jeez, he said. Let’s get inside.

  He led her through two heavy glass doors. The lobby was dark. There was no one around.

  Stay here, he said. I need to figure out where we go.

  He found a directory on the wall by the elevators. He went back for Grace but she’d gone.

  Jesus, he said, looking around. He found her wandering down a dark hallway toward Cardiology.

  Where you goin? he said. We need the fifth floor.

  She was mumbling again, head low, gripping the wall.

  C’mon, he said.

  Look, he said. Service elevator. He pulled her gently toward the doors and they rode up to the fifth floor.

  Rows of identical black chairs ran back to back across the room. He sat still, clock thunking on the wall. The waiting room was empty.

  He waited.

  At six-thirty, a man came in, nodded at Harrison, sat down. He was younger, unshaven, large hands thick with black hair and a small tattoo on each wrist. He looked over at Harrison, sighed, said, first? and Harrison said, yeah. The man hunched forward and stared at the floor and sat there for a long time. Then he rubbed his face, looked up at Harrison and said, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.

  Harrison nodded.

  Got three, he said. Handful.

  Harrison didn’t say anything.

  Made sure I had this for the second.

  He brought a small hip-flask from his shirt pocket. He unscrewed the top, took a slug, passed it to Harrison.

  Thanks, Harrison said. He took a mouthful, handed it back. The man drank again, offered more, but Harrison waved it away. The man smiled.

  The door opened and a nurse stepped in.

  Mr. McKay? she said.

  The man stood, tucking the flask into the back of his jeans.

  Everything’s fine, the nurse said. You’ve got a handsome son.

  Well how bout that? the man said, smiling.

  Congratulations, Harrison said.

  Can I see em?

  The nurse nodded.

  Good luck buddy, the man said. He left with the nurse and Harrison was alone again.

  Captain. I’d ask that you mind your language. Please step back outside of this office and try, if at all possible, to put a lid on it. You dislike waiting. You dislike not knowing. You dislike not being in charge. I’ve seen this before, many times. Although this, I have to say, is the first time I’ve ever heard someone offer to help. Your wife is in the advanced stage of a very routine labor. The last thing anybody—including your wife—either wants or needs is a husband thinking he should run the show. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to get used to this, Captain. Now go back to the waiting room, sit down, and wait.

  An hour later, another nurse came in to fetch him. He followed her through a series of swinging double doors into a bright ward of shrouded beds. The nurse led him to a bed at the far end and pulled back the curtain. Grace looked up and smiled.

  The nurse pulled the curtain closed as she left.

  Hey, he said to Grace.

  Hey. Shh. Come see.

  She held a white woolen blanket in her arms, so small; a red face, a knitted blue hat. Harrison went over, kissed his wife and bent down, breaking into a lopsided grin. He touched the baby’s cheek.

  It’s a girl, Grace said. She smiled.

  How you feelin? he said. You okay?

  Hair matted either side of her face, blotched red and white but gleaming; her lips fuller than usual.

  I’m fine, she said.

  You look awful, he said.

  Gee, thanks, she said. You look worse, actually. You been drinking?

  No, uh, no, not really, he said. Doesn’t matter. I can’t believe we have a little baby girl.

  The baby lay silent and still, eyes shut, warm, with a belly full of milk.

  Looks pretty straightforward, he said.

  You should have been here half an hour ago, she said.

  They wouldn’t let me, he said.

  I heard.

  Grace looked at her daughter.

  When can we get out of here? Harrison said.

  I’ll find out, Grace said.

  Can I hold her? he said.

  Sure you can, daddy-o, she said.

  Grace carefully lifted the bundle toward his outstretched arms. He held her gently, his left hand bigger than her head. She coughed. It felt good to know there were doctors nearby. He held her close.

  She smells good, he said.

  That’ll change, she said.

  He walked
around the room with her, feeling her knees press against his rib cage.

  You know, Grace said, Florence isn’t such a bad name.

  Florence, he said. Florence Mayton …

  Mayton? she said.

  My mother, he said.

  Really?

  Yeah.

  No, I mean, do we have to?

  I’d like to, he said.

  Florence Mayton Harrison … she said. Yeah, okay then.

  Yeah? he said. That’s what you want?

  Sure. You?

  He thought for a second then said, yeah.

  Okay then, she said. Here, let me see her.

  He brought her over.

  Florence … Grace said, as Harrison held her up. Florence …

  You’re gonna be a daddy’s girl, aren’t you? he said, bringing her closer to his face. We’re gonna go huntin, fishin—

  Probably catch more than you do, Grace said.

  Well someone’s feelin perkier, he said.

  He pulled over a chair with his foot and sat down, Florence resting across his chest.

  I could still use a sleep, Grace said.

  You must be beat, he said.

  You betcha, she said, already sliding away. Harrison smiled and put his head back, feeling the warmth of his daughter through the blanket, and something in his heart kicked.

  He took a few days from work. Ridley brought them home in his truck; the four of them crammed in the front, the old Triumph laid flat in the back.

  My own bed, Grace said when she saw it.

  Don’t get too comfortable, Harrison said.

  They took Florence to her nursery. It was still unfinished; half-painted, pale green, boxes stacked waist-high on one side, waiting to be stored.

  She won’t notice, Grace said. Or care.

  I’ll finish it, he said.

  The first days passed fast. He learned how to sterilize a bottle, make up formula, wear Grace’s pink gown to keep warm in the kitchen during early feeds. Florence cried hard when hungry and it cut into him; not the volume, or the sound, but the need. And it came with no warning, on no schedule, and took priority over all else. He didn’t like it. What did you expect? Grace said.

  They had visitors. Grace Walker brought a stew, Pancho arrived with whiskey.

  We called her Florence, Grace said.

  Pancho pretended not to hear and complained about a bill she’d got from the vet.

  He took Florence to the base, held her tight against him, this little thing, showing her to everyone.