The Last Pilot: A Novel

by Benjamin Johncock

  She’s inside, I think, he said. With that tall kid—Ray?—and Don.

  As Grace walked back toward the house, Dorothy rushed out, carrying Florence.

  Grace, she said.

  What happened? Grace said, running to her. Is she okay?

  Dorothy set Florence down.

  I’ve been watching her for the last half hour or so, Dorothy said. I was clearing up in the kitchen. Florence tripped—none of the boys were near her—so I went over and picked her up. Her eyes looked odd somehow. I couldn’t put my finger on why, so I didn’t think anything more of it. But then she tripped again, a few minutes later, and I saw her eyes, and they were crossed. I sat her up, gave her some water; she said she felt fine. Her eyes straightened out after a minute or so but I think they’re getting worse now.

  Grace bent down.

  Florence, honey, are you okay? she said.

  I feel funny, Florence said.

  Funny? Funny, how?

  I feel funny.

  Okay, sweetheart, she said, brushing Florence’s hair away from her face. Grace straightened up and told Dorothy what had happened on vacation.

  Look, Dorothy said, I’m not a pediatric nurse, but if I were you, I would get her to the hospital as soon as you can, so they can run some tests. Forget about the Antelope. Take her straight to the Daniel Freeman, southwest of downtown LA; in Inglewood. Ask for Burt Lapitus—he’s their senior neurosurgeon.

  Neurosurgeon—Dorothy?

  Get her checked out properly.

  Right now? Grace said.

  First thing tomorrow. And call me after. Let me know how it goes.

  Okay, thanks, I will; first thing tomorrow. Burt Lapitus.

  Come inside, Dorothy said. I’ll write it down.

  A few minutes later, Harrison appeared in the kitchen. Grace looked at him.

  What? he said.

  I’ll tell you in the car, Grace said.

  They put Florence straight to bed when they got home.

  Mommy, Florence said.

  Sleep tight, Grace said, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  She kissed her and stood and turned out the light.

  Downstairs, Harrison opened a bottle of beer from the fridge.

  I’m going to sit down, he said, when she appeared at the kitchen door.

  Grace nodded and he passed. She looked at the time. It was nearly six. She thought about Irving; his gleaming hair, that measured tone. She glanced at the telephone. There was a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table. She picked them up, found some matches and went out to the backyard.

  In the morning Grace drove to Los Angeles with Florence sat in the back, eyes still awkwardly askew. They stopped at Little Sam’s Roadside Eatery, just outside Littlerock, for breakfast. They ate waffles, Grace drank coffee and Florence was allowed a strawberry milk shake.

  Four bucks for some milk and ice cream, Grace said as they left.

  Why we driving, Mommy? Florence said, as they pulled away in the car.

  Because we’re going to LA.

  Why we going to elay?

  To see a doctor to make you better.

  Why we seeing a doctor?

  Doctors make us feel better.

  Why?

  Because that’s what they’re trained to do.

  Why they trained?

  Because they want to.

  Why they want to?

  Because it feels good to help people.

  Why?

  It just does, okay?

  We going to elay, Florence said, sitting back.

  Yeah, Grace said, we are.

  The Daniel Freeman Memorial Hospital was on North Prairie Avenue, near the Inglewood Park Cemetery. Florence was struggling to speak clearly. At the front desk, Grace spoke to the receptionist.

  Hi. I called this morning—early—we’ve got an appointment with Doctor Lapitus at nine-thirty?

  Your name? the lady said.

  Grace Harrison. The appointment is for my daughter, Florence.

  First floor, left out the elevator, waiting room B.

  Thank you, Grace said, heading in the direction the receptionist was pointing. Florence squeezed her hand tight. In the elevator, her eyes started to roll.

  Jesus, Grace said.

  They got off at the first floor and waited to be called.

  Harrison was in the hangar talking to one of the ground crew when the call came through. Ridley, expecting it, yelled down to him. Harrison cut short his conversation and ran up to the office.

  Yeah? he said, picking up the receiver from where Ridley had left it on his desk.

  It’s me, Grace said.

  You okay?

  Yeah.

  How’s Duck?

  She got worse, Jim; on the way over.

  Worse? How?

  She started slurring when she spoke, and when we got here, her eyes, they started to roll—not much at first, but when they called us in, I had to carry her.

  Christ, he said.

  Oh, Jim; you should have seen her. I mean, she’s fine in herself, it’s not like she needs the emergency room or anything, it’s just …

  It’s okay, hon, he said. What’s happening? You see Lapitus?

  Yeah, he’s a nice guy. Gets kids, y’know? He wants to run a bunch of tests.

  Sure, whatever they need to do.

  There’s so many …

  It’ll be okay, hon; these men, they know what they’re doing. These tests; they need to find out what’s going on.

  One of them’s called a Pneumo-cepo-gram? Something like that?

  Okay.

  It’s so they can look at her brain, Jim.

  Don’t worry, listen; everything’s going to be okay, he said. They need to cover everything. Probably doing it because she banged her head, is all.

  Grace sighed.

  I’m right here, he said.

  It sounds pretty bad, the test, she said. They’ve got to do a spinal tap; inject air into her spine.

  She’s a tough kid, he said. She’ll be fine. And you’ll be right there with her, right?

  Grace nodded, inaudible, but he knew.

  Think we’re gonna be here all day, she said.

  Yeah, he said.

  Ridley reappeared in the office.

  Hon, I gotta go, Harrison said.

  Sure, she said. I’ll speak to you later. What time you home?

  Seven, most likely.

  Okay.

  Okay. Call me here if you find out any more. And tell Duck I love her.

  I will.

  Okay then.

  Okay. Bye.

  Bye.

  It was close to four and he had a day’s work behind him. His body was tired. He stood at the sink in the men’s room and ran a little water and it collected in a small pool and he dipped his hands into it and brought it to his face. He looked in the mirror. He had been clean-shaven that morning. There was one more flight scheduled. He and Walker had been pushing the X-15 higher and faster each time they went up. Walker had just set a new speed record of Mach three point three one. If everything went well, Harrison’s flight profile was aiming for an altitude of a hundred and thirty-six thousand five hundred feet, or twenty-six miles up, which would be a new altitude record. He looked at his watch. He pissed, changed into his flight suit, left the locker room. He saw Ridley heading down the stairs toward him. Their eyes met and he knew then that something was very badly wrong.

  Phone call, Ridley said.

  Harrison was alone in the office. He looked at the telephone on Ridley’s desk. The receiver lay on its side like an injured animal. He walked over and picked it up.

  Jim, is that you? Grace said.

  Yeah, it’s me, he said. What’s the matter?

  Oh, God, Jim. She’s got a tumor; a tumor in her brain stem.

  Harrison sat down in Ridley’s chair.

  Jim?

  What did the doctor—what did Lapitus—say?

  I—

  It’s okay, he said. Hon? It’s okay. T
ell me what Lapitus said.

  He—they—said, they came in with a nurse, the nurse said why don’t I take Florence to the rec room to play for a few minutes so you can have a chat with the doctors and I said, okay, and they left, and Lapitus said, we’ve got the results back. And I knew, I knew right then …

  It’s okay, Harrison said, swapping the receiver to his other ear. What did he say?

  He said the X-rays showed Florence has a glioma of the pons, and I said, what’s that? And the other doctor—I can’t remember his name—said the pons was the stem of the brain and a glioma was a malignant tumor.

  Malignant? What is that? Harrison said.

  It means it’s cancerous, she said. They want to start treatment on her straightaway, X-ray treatment, to shrink the tumor.

  Where is she now? he said.

  They’ve got her a bed; she’s sleeping, she said.

  Is she okay? I mean, right now?

  She’s tired. I told her that the doctors have figured out why she feels sick, and they’re going to start giving her some special medicine in the morning.

  Grace began to cry.

  I feel like I’m lying to her, Jim; I can’t bear it.

  You told her enough, hon. I’ll come straight out.

  No sense in you racing to get here tonight—Duck’ll sleep til morning and I’m about to collapse. Go home, get some rest.

  Okay, he said. I’ll be there first thing.

  Okay.

  Hon?

  Yeah?

  It’s gonna be fine; just wait and see. Might be in for a tough time, but she’s a tough kid. She gets that from you.

  I’ll see you in the morning?

  You bet.

  Jim? I love you.

  I love you too, hon.

  He put down the receiver and stood up.

  Ridley appeared at the door.

  All set? Harrison said.

  You all right? Ridley said.

  She fueled?

  Waiting on the main runway.

  Okay.

  Why don’t we call it a day; head over to Pancho’s?

  You got the profile?

  Sure do, Jim.

  Then let’s hit the sky and light this candle.

  The sky bled red and the sullen yellow sun sunk fat and weak. Black Joshua trees cut the sharp horizon. Harrison hung around after the flight. His coffee steamed in the cool air. The base was quiet. The ground crew was finishing up. Ridley stepped out of the hangar and said, well buddy, looks like that’s a new world altitude record. A hundred and thirty-six thousand five hundred feet. Nobody’s flown higher. That’s one magnificent beast.

  A real Black Beauty, Harrison said.

  Pancho’s? Ridley said.

  Gonna head home, Harrison said.

  Sure.

  Harrison drank his coffee. The men stood in silence.

  You need a hand with anything, let me know, Ridley said. Grace, she, well, filled me in on your little, uh, situation.

  Sure appreciate that, Jack, Harrison said. Just got off the phone with the old man; got a week off. Heading down there first thing. I got to pack some bags.

  Well, how you gonna get them there?

  I was gonna see if I could borrow Reggie Withers’s truck.

  Reggie Withers’ll be under a bottle of piss-poor rye by now, Ridley said. Take my car. I got it here.

  How you gonna get around?

  I’ll use your bike. We’ll swap.

  Harrison nodded. Okay.

  Key’s upstairs; hold on.

  Harrison pulled a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and struck a match and lit it and stood and watched the sky and the earth. The world was beautiful. Ridley returned with his keys. They swapped. Harrison said, could you stop by, look after Milo til I’m back and Ridley said, sure.

  Thanks.

  Give Florence a big hug from her Uncle Jackie.

  Harrison nodded.

  I’ll see you, Jack, he said.

  He packed three bags without thinking and collected a few of Florence’s toys together and pushed them into a suitcase and went into the bathroom and vomited. Downstairs, he gave Milo some water, ate a slice of leftover pie from the refrigerator and locked up. He sat up in bed, smoking, reading a little of the paperback on his bedside table, then turned out the light and went to sleep.

  Daddy!

  Well hey there, Duck, he said, setting the bags down at the foot of her bed. How you feelin?

  Better, she said.

  Well, I’m glad to hear that, he said.

  Florence sat up. Small machines sat on blue metal trolleys beside her. The room was bright. A small window overlooked the parking lot, five floors below.

  Hey, you’ve got a great view here, Duck, he said, peering out the window. Think I can see the sea.

  Mommy’s gonna take me to the beach soon and we’re gonna go cause we have to play in the sand, cause we’re going to the beach.

  That right? Harrison said. Hi, hon, he said to Grace. He leaned over to where she sat and kissed her.

  Hey, Grace said. You get here okay?

  No problems, he said. Jack lent me his car.

  That’s good of him, she said.

  Yeah, he said. And Uncle Jackie gives you a big hug, Duck.

  Yeee! Florence said.

  I’m tired, Grace said.

  I bet, he said.

  Thanks for bringing out all our stuff.

  Anything I’ve forgotten, just buy here.

  Can I have another kiss, Daddy?

  Sure you can, sweetheart, he said, and kissed her cheek.

  Daddy! she said. You’re all prickly!

  No time to shave? Grace said.

  Packed my razor, Harrison said.

  Honey, Grace said, turning to Florence. Do you want to tell Daddy your news?

  Florence looked at her for a second.

  You do it, she said.

  What is it? Harrison said.

  Well, Duck has to stay in bed for a while, cause she’s having some trouble standing and walking—isn’t that right, sweetheart?

  Florence nodded.

  Well, okay then, Harrison said. That looks like a pretty comfy bed. Seems like a good place to be.

  You get in with me, Daddy?

  Oh, well, I don’t think there’s enough room for me, he said. And I’m very heavy.

  Daddy’s very heavy, Florence said to Grace, who smiled.

  Grace, want some coffee? Harrison said.

  I’m okay.

  Can I have a coffee, Daddy?

  No you can’t, Grace said.

  Aw, Florence said.

  All right, Harrison said. Be back in a minute.

  Earlier, at seven, Lapitus had stopped by to say good morning. Treatment was scheduled to start at eleven. A nurse called Clara came by at ten and said she’d found a motel with a double room right around the corner, if they wanted it. Harrison, who had just returned with his coffee, said they did and thanked her.

  She’s such a sweet girl, Clara said. She hasn’t complained, at all.

  Lapitus came in a little later. He introduced himself to Harrison, and explained the treatment plan to them.

  We’ll be using radiation therapy, Lapitus said, as you know surgery isn’t an option. We’ll keep her here for a week, then we’ll see her as an outpatient for an additional six.

  And that will get rid of the tumor? Grace said.

  It’s hard to say at this stage, Lapitus said. You will see a big improvement in her symptoms during the treatment, though.

  She’ll be able to walk? Grace said.

  Most likely. I understand Clara found you a motel?

  Yes, Grace said, just around the corner, thank you.

  Our pleasure, Lapitus said. Now, Captain Harrison—

  You can call me Jim.

  Jim. Let’s take a walk.

  Harrison looked at his wife who nodded and he left the room with Lapitus.

  The smell of the hospital gave him comfort. Lapitus led him down murm
uring hallways with vanishing points that seemed to move, across wide atriums and through crowded lobbies. Harrison quizzed Lapitus about Florence’s condition, the treatment, the tumor as they walked.

  Brain tumors in children are rare, Lapitus said. There’s only about fifteen hundred diagnosed a year, but what Florence has accounts for just one in ten of those. They are, as any pediatric oncologist will tell you after a few drinks, dreaded.

  They moved through a busy elevator lobby.

  Jim, Lapitus said, I haven’t told Grace this yet; I wanted to wait until you were here. I’m afraid the prognosis for Florence is not good.

  The elevator doors opened.

  The radiation is likely to improve her symptoms dramatically during and after her treatment but, unfortunately, we tend to find that, six, seven, eight months down the line, the problems usually recur—and progress rapidly when they do.

  Bodies spilled into the lobby.

  Most children die within a year of diagnosis, Lapitus said. It’s extremely unlikely she’ll survive past Christmas.

  The men walked through the crowd and emerged in an empty hallway. Harrison stopped him, turned to him.

  What else you got? Besides the radiation. Don’t hold out on me.

  Lapitus considered him for a moment, looked at the floor, then said, it’s a measure of last resort.

  Harrison held his eye. Sounds like that’s where we’re gonna be, he said.

  Cobalt, Lapitus said.

  Tell me about it, Harrison said.

  It’s new, Lapitus said.

  How new?

  Few years. With X-ray treatment, the X-rays struggle to penetrate tumors that have developed deep inside the body. The cobalt machine uses a gamma-ray beam that’s produced when radioactive cobalt sixty breaks down. It goes deeper. Much deeper. But there’s a cost. The cobalt doesn’t discriminate. It’s very good at what it does—very, very good—it kills cancer cells, yes; but it also destroys healthy ones too. For a child so young, it could be worse than the cancer itself.

  A janitor pushed past with a mop and bucket. Harrison watched him lope along the hallway; his slow gait, the steel bucket, the wooden mop.

  Appreciate you tellin me, doc, Harrison said.

  It’s not something I’d recommend until we’ve absolutely reached the end of the line, and even then, it would warrant extremely careful consideration. To be honest, it probably isn’t even worth mentioning to Grace yet.