Your cousin’s family, they helped move you?
Bill and Marcie, yeah, she said, they sure did. You know they met at Annabel’s funeral?
That Bill’s first wife?
Yeah, she said. Marcie and Annabel were old school friends from Pennsylvania.
Guess these things happen, he said. Must have been tough.
Life is long, Annie said.
Sure don’t feel that way at the moment, he said. One minute, I’m sittin in a hot waiting room in Lancaster near-on all night, next Florence is tellin me not to forget my lunch as I head out the door.
Annie smiled.
That’s kids for you, she said. Life happens; sure as hell ain’t gonna hang around for you to catch up. Makes it hard to keep your bearings.
Harrison looked at the table. Then he looked out the window. Then he looked at Annie.
Sometimes I wonder if I should quit the flight test business; do something less likely to bust my ass every day, he said.
I remember you building them little model airplanes, runnin round your backyard, as a little boy. Drove your mother half-mad to keep findin propellers or part of a wing all over the house. She told everyone she met you could fly before you could drive.
He turned an empty bottle of beer in his hands.
Sure miss her, he said.
Think about her almost every day, Annie said. But then, I don’t have kids to worry about.
I haven’t been back there for so long, he said.
Your mother ain’t where they laid her, Jimmy.
He nodded, took a swig from the empty bottle.
Wish I’d written you more, he said.
Jim, you were a young man and young men need to be out in the world doin things; not tellin an old woman what they want to be doin. You wrote me plenty. I enjoyed every letter.
He nodded.
Daddy!
Florence ran over and sat on his lap.
Hey, Duck! he said.
Can I have an ice cream, Daddy?
Please, Grace said, behind her.
Please?
Don’t see why not, he said.
We gonna have ice cream! Florence said to Annie. I like strawberry. Daddy, can I have strawberry?
Sure you can, Duck, he said, nodding to a passing waitress.
Four ice creams, please, he said. All strawberry.
Sure thing, the waitress said.
Annie folded her napkin again, smoothing the crease.
When I was a little girl, she said to Florence, we couldn’t afford ice cream; we didn’t have it. I was sixteen before I ever tasted it. Oh, it was a hot day. My daddy was takin me to see his aunt on a great, long silver bus but none of the windows would open. Took nine hours, forty minutes. Nine hours forty minutes with the sun shinin hard on the windows. We stopped halfway, stretched our legs, while the driver bought tobacco. There was this little hut sellin cigarettes, newspapers, candy; that kinda thing—and ice cream. Well, I begged my daddy. And I got lucky. He’d sweated up a storm in that ol bus too. He bought us one each and we sat out on an old telegraph pole we found lyin by the road and we ate them fast as we could. Best thing I ever tasted, before or since. Now, whenever I have ice cream, I’m sittin on that pole in the heat with my dear daddy and that’s a magical thing.
Harrison took care of the check and they parted, promising to stop by Annie’s place before heading home at the end of the week. Back at the hotel, Florence slept, Grace read on the balcony and Harrison sat on the bed, reading the paper and smoking.
She’s such an incredible woman, Grace said, stepping inside and pushing up her sunglasses.
Huh? Harrison said.
Annie. Amazing woman. Matches?
He tossed her the box.
Woman practically raised me when dad died, he said.
Wish I’d met her sooner, Grace said.
Harrison looked up.
I’m just glad she’s moved out here, he said. She looked old.
She is old.
Older. You know. I guess you read a letter, you hear a voice.
She’s not going anywhere yet, Grace said.
Yeah.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed alongside him.
You okay? she said.
Sure, he said.
You want a drink?
He frowned.
Come and sit outside with me, she said. It’s a lovely day.
The room was gloomy. He looked across to the open balcony doors, the blue beyond the light.
Listen, he said. We’re on vacation. What do you say we eat out tonight? Just us?
What about Duck?
We’ll get a sitter.
In a hotel?
Sure, he said. You know why we’re stayin here and not someplace else, right?
You know the owner.
Right, he said. Sammy. We go way back.
And?
And Sammy’s got a fifteen-year-old girl savin for a record player.
You want the hotel manager’s daughter to babysit for us?
Betty’ll be up around seven, he said.
She smiled. You’ve already arranged it.
It’s done.
Can we afford it?
The sitter? he said.
The meal—we already ate out once today, Jim.
She pulled the sunglasses from her head and placed her hands on her lap.
I’ve been keepin a little back, he said.
She smiled.
Well, aren’t you full of surprises, she said, and kissed him. Thank you. I’ll have to get Florence in bed and asleep before this girl comes though, otherwise she’ll never go down.
Whatever you think’s best, hon, he said.
She looked over to where Florence was sleeping.
I’d better get her up now, then, she said.
I got us a reservation at the Manderville, he said.
Well then, she said, turning back to him. It’s a date.
They went out, dressed smart, had a good time and got back at eleven, a little drunk. Betty had spent the evening reading on the balcony.
Felt like I was on vacation myself, she said as he paid her. She tucked the folded bills into the front pocket of her jeans.
You kids fancy another night, she said, just tell my dad.
Harrison opened the door, thanked her again and wished her good night.
Sweet kid, Grace said. I’m beat.
Me too, he said. Feel like I’ve eaten half a cow.
Come to bed, she said, so he did.
The next morning, at breakfast, Florence asked if they could go to the beach.
Grace looked at Harrison.
Honey, Grace said, I think it’s going to be too hot for the beach today.
I want to go to the beach, Florence said.
It’s very hot already, Grace said, and it’s only just eight.
But I want to go, Florence said.
I know you do, sweetheart; maybe we can go tomorrow.
I don’t want to go tomorrow.
We’ll do something else fun today, and go to the beach tomorrow, Grace said.
I want to go to the beach today, Florence said.
Florence, Grace said. We are not going to the beach today, okay? It’s too hot.
How about a picnic instead? Harrison said.
A pic-nic? Florence said.
In a park, he said. We’ll find one. Get some food, find a nice spot in the shade, maybe there’ll be swings?
Jim, Grace said.
I want to go to the swings Mommy! Florence said.
Well, okay, Duckie, Grace said. We’ll see if we can find a park with swings. But if there aren’t any swings, we’ll just have a picnic, okay?
Okay Mommy, she said.
It’ll be perfect, Harrison said.
We going on a pic-nic Daddy!
Yes we are, Duck, he said. And we’re gonna have to find ourselves a blanket. You can’t have a picnic without a picnic blanket.
The park had trees and the trees had s
hade. There were swings, and a merry-go-round too. The park was neat, quiet, with a large fountain at the center. They found a spot on a slope beneath a gnarled sycamore. Grace unpacked the sandwiches; pickle and cheese, apples, a pie; a can of soda each. When they finished eating, Harrison took Florence to the swings and then to the fountain. He left her scooping the water with her hands, and returned to their spot where Grace was reading.
Is she okay? she said.
She’s fine.
He sat down, took in his surroundings and watched his daughter run about, lost in her own world.
At three, the air cooled as a slight southeasterly roamed ashore as though drunk and looking for a good time.
Let’s head back, Grace said, sit by the pool, cool off. Duck could sure use some quiet time. I don’t think she’ll nap today.
Harrison nodded in agreement and called out to Florence who came running up the slope and tripped and fell on her face. She screamed.
Duck! Harrison said, running toward her. He bent down, pushed the hair out of her face and examined the bump already wide and red on her forehead. She cried hard. He scooped her up and carried her back to her mother.
Mommy! she said when Harrison lowered her into Grace’s arms.
She’s fine, Harrison mouthed to her.
Ooh, Duckie; you had a little fall, she said. Should I kiss it better?
Florence nodded miserably.
Oh, you’ve got a little nosebleed too, Grace said. Here, hold this tissue on your nose, put your head back—that’s it—hold it like that for a minute. It’s okay. Shh. It’s all right. There. Look, it’s stopped already. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
No, she said, quietly.
Now let’s clear up your face and wipe your nose, Grace said. She exhaled and looked up at Harrison, who laughed a little. They packed up the picnic, said good-bye to the park and headed back to the hotel.
Grace drew a bath for Florence at bedtime. Her skin smelled of chlorine and her hair was full of sun lotion. Harrison sat on the balcony, smoking, with a cold beer.
Jim? Grace said from the bathroom. Jim, can you come here a minute?
He frowned, put down the bottle and went inside.
What is it? he said, stepping into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Take a look at Florence’s eyes, would you? she said.
Florence was standing up in the bath, covered in bubbles, head tilted back.
What’s the matter? he said, moving closer to look. You okay, Duck?
I feel sick, she said.
He looked at her eyes.
You see? Grace said.
Yeah, he said. Don’t look right, do they?
Concussion?
I don’t know.
Sweetheart, he said, do you feel sick?
She nodded.
He looked at Grace.
What do you think? she said.
Let’s get her to bed, he said. See how she is in the morning.
Okay, Grace said. It’s all right, honey, she said to Florence, you can sit down now.
Florence sat down and stared at the taps. Harrison watched her.
Maybe we’ll try and see a local doctor tomorrow, he said. Reception will know someplace we can go.
I think that would make me feel better, Grace said.
Right, he said. Okay. Time for bed, Duckie. You’ll feel better in the morning. Sleep well now. He kissed her on the head and went back out to the balcony and sat down and drank his beer and thought about his daughter and stayed there for a long time.
The next morning Florence climbed into their bed at five and vomited. They got the telephone number of a local doctor from the hotel’s receptionist.
Eleven-thirty, thank you, Grace said, and hung up the telephone.
Okay, she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. We’ve got you an appointment at the doctor’s. He’s going to take a look at you. Make you feel better.
Florence looked downcast. She hadn’t been sick again but felt dizzy. Her face was hot. Grace tried cooling her down with a cold wash cloth.
Just after eleven, the family made their way downstairs, out of the hotel, to the doctor’s. It was a ten-minute walk. Harrison carried her.
I don’t like doctors, Florence said into his shoulder as they arrived.
You and me both, Duck, he said.
The doctor examined her.
Well, she’s not concussed, he said, sitting down at his desk. I can’t see anything wrong with her. You’ll probably find Florence feels better in a day or two. She might have picked up a bug. You say you’ve been spending time at the pool?
Grace nodded.
If she’s not better by the time you get home, he said, take her to see your regular physician.
The white fan on his desk oscillated, pushing hot air into their faces.
Enjoy the rest of your vacation, he said as they left.
Outside, Grace sat on the wall of the parking lot and said, now what?
Well, Harrison said, we can either have another day here, maybe stay around the hotel, or we can pack up now and get back. What do you think?
Grace looked at her daughter on the wall next to her, feet dangling down, still.
How you feeling, sweetie? Grace said.
I feel sick, Mommy, Florence said.
Grace looked up at Harrison and said, she’s not right.
Harrison bent down and looked at her eyes again.
What are you doing, Daddy? she said.
Just looking at your eyes, Duck, he said.
It was hard to look at them, rather than into them, but after a minute he stood and said, we should probably get back.
At the hotel, Florence slept on their bed as they packed around her.
We should call Annie, Grace said, tell her we’re leaving. Soon as we get back, we’ll take her to see the pediatrician in Lancaster.
Yeah, he said. We should call ahead, fix an appointment.
I’ll do it, she said.
Thanks, he said. I’ll go settle up downstairs.
It was a three-hour drive home. Florence slept, her head on Grace’s lap in the back. They got back late afternoon. Harrison carried his daughter upstairs and Grace started dinner.
The Antelope Valley Hospital in Lancaster was a dirty white shoebox. Doctor Rivers, Florence’s pediatrician, was thin and tall with a single black eyebrow that reminded Florence of a giant hairy caterpillar.
Look up at me and don’t move, he said.
She stared at the caterpillar as he peered into her eyes with a small flashlight.
Thirty minutes later, he referred them to an ophthalmologist on the third floor. They sat on hard seats in the waiting room for an hour. Florence snuggled into the crook of her mother’s arm. Harrison got up and walked around and looked at the art on the walls.
The ophthalmologist, Peter Sturm, was Minnesota-born and recently hired; facts he presented as they entered. He sat and looked into Florence’s eyes; her head on a chin rest, a metal frame surrounding her head.
Okay, so, seems we do have a problem here, he said, pushing his chair backward and whizzing over to his desk. He collected a file, kicked out a foot and shot back again.
What kind of problem? Harrison said.
To be honest with you, Sturm said, I’m not sure. Yet.
Why can no one give us a straight answer? Grace said.
Honey, Harrison said.
It’s okay, Sturm said. I said yet. I’d like to see Florence again in a few days, if I may? Perhaps Monday?
You’ll know then? Grace said.
Let’s see how she does over the weekend, Sturm said.
What can you see? Harrison said. Is there a problem with her eyes?
Sturm scratched the black hair on his arms.
Yes, he said. Florence’s eyes; they’re slightly misaligned. Although the problem might be something else entirely and this merely a side effect. The misalignment is nothing to be too worried about, but I see from her notes that she had a small
fall recently—is that correct?
Yes, Grace said, we were on vacation, at Long Beach. She tripped and fell in the park on Wednesday.
Sturm unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them down.
Any dizziness? he said.
A little, Grace said. And she had a slight nosebleed. We told all this to Doctor Rivers.
I understand. Is this where she bumped her head?
He pointed to the bruise on Florence’s forehead as he did up his cuffs.
Yes, Grace said.
Florence, head still sat on the black plastic chin rest, was silent.
Okay, Sturm said, pushing back again. Let’s give it the weekend, and I’ll see her again Monday.
He signed a form and passed it to Harrison.
If anything changes, bring her straight in.
Thank you, Grace said.
Thank you, Florence said.
You’re welcome, Sturm said. See you Monday.
The weekend was busy. Harrison went to work, caught up with Ridley. Grace drove to Rosamond with Florence to fetch groceries. In the afternoon, they did chores. On Sunday, to distract Florence, they took her to Patty Keller’s birthday party. Her father, Emmett, was an engineer at the base; Dorothy, her mother, a nurse. Colorful streamers hung from trees in the Kellers’ backyard. The smell of cooked meat floated around the men and women holding bottles watching their children run and scream. The wind was flat and low.
Jeez, Harrison said. Emmett’s got half a damn cattle on there.
He found a tin bucket beneath a dressed-up table and pulled a beer from the cold water.
You want one? he said to Grace, who shook her head. He sighed and pulled the cap from the neck with a nearby opener.
Jim, Emmett said, walking over, bottle in hand.
Emmett, he said. Helluva party.
At least I got to choose the food, Emmett said.
Smells good.
Ten minutes. You hungry?
Sure.
Grace here?
Over there.
Come on, he said. I want to say hi.
They stayed for a few hours, the children wilting in the stifling heat. Everybody knew everybody; the Mojave was big but small like that. The air cooled and the wind picked up. Harrison sat in a chaise lounge and looked at his watch. He was about to get up and find Grace when she came over and said, have you seen Duck?
The Last Pilot: A Novel Page 10