Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  “I’ve often had such dreams,” Clarice Stirkham assures him.

  “How awful!” says Howard Q.

  “I once had a dream like that myself,” Neil says quietly.

  “Not me,” says Roxanne. “It must be quite an experience.”

  “It certainly was,” Manning tells the group. “I’ve never paid much attention to my dreams, but this one was so different, so vivid, I wonder if it has a particular meaning.”

  “Dreams can often be interpreted in different ways,” Clarice Stirkham explains. “It depends from which school of thought you derive your analysis. Dreams of flight are a classic example. Some people maintain that the flight represents exactly that—a flight or escape from something, a warning from your sleeping mind that you are in danger or that you need to alter your life in some fundamental way. Others view flight dreams as a kind of psychological overflow valve, releasing the accumulated pressures of waking life through the rapture of self-propelled flight. And then there’s Freud …”

  “Sex, sex, sex,” the law partner interrupts, grinning. “I suppose Freud would say that flight dreams signal sexual repression.” He laughs, and the group chortles with him.

  “Oh, that couldn’t be Mark’s problem,” says Roxanne with a suggestive wink, laughing a low, convulsive sound.

  Manning recognizes the sound—Roxanne has been pounding her cocktails. He lights another cigarette. Having unwittingly put himself “on the couch,” he shifts the course of the discussion. “Mrs. Stirkham,” he asks, “in your dreams, how do you actually go about flying? That is, do you fly … like a bird, flapping your ‘wings’?”

  She blinks, considering his question, and answers, “Well, yes. I wear a long white robe with flowing sleeves—something like a choirgirl might wear. I step to the edge of a cliff and, without hesitation, spread my arms like wings and jump out over the canyon before me. I glide peacefully till I awaken. But then”—her tone turns condescending as she asks the group—“how else would one fly, if not like a bird?”

  “I tried that,” says Manning, deadpan. “It didn’t work.”

  “Right,” says Neil, suddenly animated. “In my dream, I didn’t fly like a bird at all. It was more like Superman—I could leap and soar at will. And I’d be leaving out an important detail if I didn’t mention that the dream was essentially erotic. Not to offend anyone, but it was the only ‘wet dream’ I’ve had since puberty.”

  Clarice Stirkham eyes Neil with the affronted air of having been upstaged. Mary Klein blushes but remains stoically composed. The law partner laughs gustily while muttering, “I knew it, I just knew it.” Roxanne tongues an ice cube from her empty glass, sucks it into her mouth, and cracks it between her molars.

  The group now turns to Manning for his reaction, since it was his own dream that triggered the discussion. He smiles awkwardly, searching for words. “I’d have to say that Neil’s experience sounds similar to my own.”

  “Good heavens,” says Howard Q with a rumbling purr and a toss of his shoulder. “I’ll have to start paying more attention to my dreams. Sounds like you guys have been having a ball up there in the clouds.”

  There is general laughter among the group, though Clarice Stirkham skewers Howard with the betrayed glance of one who has lost an ally.

  A sharp knocking of the door silences the banter, but not the atonal wailing of Roxanne’s progressive jazz, which blares through the apartment. She excuses herself and crosses the room to greet her next guest; there is a wobble to her gait.

  She opens the door. Her eyes meet the smiling features of a rotund middle-aged man who is dressed like a character from a period French farce, complete with cape and walking stick. She’s not certain if the attire is simply in poor taste or if it is meant as a costume, a joke.

  “Yes?” she asks, suppressing a laugh.

  “Miss Exner, I presume? I am Humphrey Hasting.”

  “Oh!” It takes her a split second to connect the name with the Post and its shoddy reporting of the Carter case. Ushering the man through the door, she tells him, “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, but I must never have seen your picture.”

  “Ah, yes,” he moans while removing his cape with a flourish, picking a stray pet-hair from its collar. “Such is the nature of a writer’s fame—to be known solely for his work, his words, his service to the reading public.”

  “Of course, Mr. Humphrey,” she tells him, still flustered, taking his cape and folding it over the back of a nearby chair.

  “Hasting, Miss Exner,” he corrects her with a smile, raising an index finger in mild admonishment.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asks, now totally addled.

  “Hasting,” he repeats. “My name is Humphrey Hasting.”

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” she effuses, grabbing his hand and patting it. She asks herself, Why in hell did I invite him, anyway? She leads him toward the windows, telling him, “Do come meet my other guests.”

  The group turns to behold the new arrival. A saxophone screams from the bookshelves. Roxanne announces above the music, “I’d like you all to meet Hasty Humphries from the Post.”

  Manning stifles a laugh. Neil gapes open-mouthed. Bud Stirkham roars at his old pal, “Howdy, Hump!”

  Hasting stands rigid and trembling while Roxanne makes an awkward attempt to undo her gaffe. A clarinet stutters wildly over her apologies.

  At last a correct round of introductions has been made. Clarice Stirkham latches on to Hasting, and they are instantly in sync, immersed in a dialogue assessing the social role of news writing. Neil leaves for the kitchen to mix Hasting a drink. Manning escapes with him.

  They arrive to find Roxanne downing a quick, stiff refill. She turns as they enter and, anticipating an attack, spits at them, “All right, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s your party,” Manning tells her. “Far be it from me to question your guest list.”

  “Christ, Rox,” says Neil, “how could you invite that… fruitcake? My God, he looks like a wine steward!” He breaks into laughter.

  “I’ve never seen him before.” She’s defensive. “We’ve never met.”

  Neil stops laughing. “Then why’d you invite him?” His voice carries a tone of indictment. “To embarrass Mark?”

  “Why would I do that?” she yells at them, at herself, then takes a deep breath, regaining just enough composure to march out of the kitchen and join her other guests.

  Neil tells Manning, “Guess I’d better get Humpty Dumpty a drink.” His hard features melt into a smirk as he mixes a sweet potion of syrupy red glop and dresses it up with orange slices, cherries, a straw, and a little paper umbrella that he finds in the back of a drawer.

  Neil and Manning rejoin the crowd in the living room. The music convulses hysterically while bursts of laughter punctuate the beat. Clarice Stirkham’s head bobs with enthusiasm as she listens to Humphrey Hasting, who tells her, “I was at a party last weekend with my sister, and we had a little chat with Nathan Cain. He agrees entirely.”

  She responds, “It’s so refreshing—”

  Neil interrupts her briefly as he hands Hasting the drink.

  “My, how pretty,” says Hasting, holding the glass before him as if it contained a rare wine.

  Clarice Stirkham says to Manning, “I was just remarking to your distinguished colleague,” referring to Hasting with a courtly bow of her head, “how refreshing it is to find a journalist with a true and proper sense of social mission.”

  Hasting giggles modestly, his free hand fluttering to straighten a pouffy red velvet bow tie. “I’m not all that progressive, Clarice. I’ve yet to master those damned computers at the office—I still write my stories on an ancient newsroom Underwood. It’s a bit banged-up, but it gets the job done.”

  “Really?” Manning asks him, amused. “Every writer seems to have his quirks. I myself take notes with a fountain pen. I can’t stand using a ballpoint—it’s like writing with a nail.”

  “Even so,” Clarice continues, �
��a great many of the ills facing our woe-ridden masses would be brought quickly into perspective if more journalists could fathom—as our dear Mr. Hasting does—the vast potential of the role they play in our complex social fabric. I shudder to think,” she says, forcing her torso to quiver while the bones of her necklace clatter menacingly, “I shudder to think of the sorry situation that would face us if all reporters limited their practice to … reporting.”

  The music shrieks violently. Then a stunning shard of lightning explodes just beyond the windows. Someone drops a glass. Mary Klein screams. The lights flicker—a momentary outage sufficient to cause the CD player to mistrack, plunging the room into silence.

  As the partygoers exchange disoriented glances, Humphrey Hasting finishes his drink with a burst of suction noises from his straw.

  Friday, October 16

  77 days till deadline

  JERRY KLEIN, CHIEF OPERATING officer of CarterAir, sits behind the big mahogany desk in front of a big window in his big office. The little man rises, curling his lips into a little smile as Manning is escorted into the room.

  The reporter tells him as they shake hands, “I enjoyed getting to know you at Roxanne’s party last week. Thanks, Jerry, for taking time to see me.”

  “My pleasure.” Klein gestures that they should sit. “I’m totally at your service. Anything to help solve this mystery.” Two ornately framed photos—one of the heiress, the other of company founder Ridgely Carter—are conspicuous among the few articles atop Klein’s clean desk.

  Manning settles into his chair, flips open his note pad, and uncaps his pen. He’s had a few days to look into Klein’s background. The Journal’s business editor, as well as Roxanne, confirmed Manning’s impression of the timid man who was a protégé of Ridgely Carter and a close friend to Helena after she was widowed. Klein is regarded as a crack accountant, intellectually well qualified for the position that was thrust upon him, but only awkwardly suited to its trappings. During his seven years at the airline’s helm, he has grown to be an able administrator, but has never donned the mantle of leadership worn so naturally by his charismatic mentor.

  Klein says, “Most folks assume Helena is dead, but you have doubts. I share those doubts, and I’m grateful for your persistence. I’m also sorry that your convictions have put you in such a fix with Nathan Cain.” Klein sees that Manning is surprised that he knows of the ultimatum, so he explains, “Nathan phoned to explain what had happened—he thought I’d be interested.”

  Manning asks, “Do you know him well?”

  “Only through the Carters, and they’re gone, of course. When Ridgely was alive, Nathan was a frequent guest at the estate, as I was, so we became well acquainted. But he’s always struck me as an odd duck, rather cold—not someone I’d choose to spend time with on my own, so we haven’t.” Klein pauses while Manning finishes making a note, then tells him, “Enough of unsavory subjects. We were talking about Helena. Have you learned anything at all that convinces you she’s alive?”

  Manning breathes an exasperated sigh. “I got a fresh lead last week from Father Matthew Carey at Saint Jerome’s in Bluff Shores, but it didn’t pan out. Even though Carey wasn’t entirely forthright with me, I was intrigued by his story of a community of reactionary Catholics—it’s a little desert town called Assumption. Apparently Helena had an interest in this movement, so I did some checking of my own, to see if maybe she had gone there. I phoned Father James McMullen, who runs the town and reports to some cardinal in Belgium.”

  “Cardinal L’Évêque,” says Klein.

  “Right,” says Manning, surprised that Klein would know such a detail. “McMullen seemed flustered by my call, which heightened my suspicions. But when I suggested that he might have some knowledge of Helena Carter’s whereabouts, he got miffed and pointed out that the terms of Helena’s will are well known. ‘Her fortune will go to the mainstream Church,’ he told me. ‘What would be my motive for deception?’”

  “What, indeed …” says Klein, deep in thought.

  “I have to admit, he had me,” says Manning. “His logic was simple and airtight, so I apologized, hung up, and lost the only decent lead I had.” Refocusing their talk, he asks Klein, “How do you feel about the will?”

  “It’s Helena’s money,” he answers with candor. “Personally, I don’t begrudge the Church—or the Federated Cat Clubs—her fortune. As COO of CarterAir, though, I don’t relish the intrusion of new partners in the business. They’ll most likely want to liquidate their assets, which means a public stock offering—and the inevitable complications that go with it.”

  “It’s amazing that CarterAir has managed to remain private this long,” notes Manning. “The company has a long history of innovation and progressive management. I can appreciate your pride in it.”

  “That was all Ridgely’s doing,” says Klein. “He built the company like a loving father. As a result, we’ve always enjoyed harmonious relations with our unions and have rarely been affected by strikes. He was constantly looking for new ways, little ways, to be better; during his last year with us, for example, CarterAir became the first airline to offer public phone service on every flight. Since then, the company has continued to thrive during a period when many other airlines have folded or been forced to merge. I recognize that my role here is essentially a caretaker’s, but I think I can take a measure of pride in knowing I’ve preserved what Ridgely worked so hard to build.”

  “You certainly can,” Manning assures him. Then he asks, “As long as we’re on the topic of the company’s finances, would you be willing to get more specific on a few matters?”

  Klein grins. “I’m sure you can appreciate that I wouldn’t normally be inclined to share a private company’s financial figures with the press. But these are unusual circumstances, and there’s nothing to hide. Even Hank Ferret, a damned tough lawyer appointed by the court to serve as Helena’s guardian ad litem, has been completely satisfied with our accounting. Besides, it seems only fair to supply you with the same information I gave the Post.”

  “What?”

  “Humphrey Hasting was here yesterday,” explains Klein while pulling several bulging files from a drawer and presenting them to Manning for his perusal. Klein guides Manning through the material, pointing out significant documents, answering questions, ordering copies of spreadsheets from one of his secretaries.

  Manning dutifully takes notes and arranges his own file of the copies he is given, but after a half hour of this number-crunching, he needs to come up for air. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Jerry, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on all this. Something is troubling me. Humphrey Hasting—I can’t quite believe that he was actually here doing the grunt work of reporting. Either he’s turned over a new leaf, or I’ve badly misjudged him.”

  Klein laughs, having wondered how long Manning would wait before questioning him about the other reporter’s visit. “The truth is, Mark, that Hasting didn’t give a damn about the financial. He rushed me through my report and shoved the spreadsheets into his briefcase like so much … trash.” Indignation colors Klein’s voice as he taps the folders on the desk. “These numbers represent the labors of thousands of people, spanning two generations, and he showed no interest whatever in the privileged information I offered him.” With uncharacteristic fire, he concludes, “The fat bastard!”

  Relieved and amused, Manning asks, “What was he interested in?”

  “Arthur Mendel, the houseman at the Carter estate.”

  “Ahh …”

  “Hasting kept pumping me for information about the man, regardless of where I steered the conversation. It was clear from his questions that he sees Arthur as a convenient scapegoat—a scheming, demented psychopath.”

  “That sweet old guy?” Manning smirks at the notion, but recognizes that his attitude toward Mendel has been colored by knowledge of the gambling incident.

  “It’s ridiculous, of course. Arthur has been with the Carters longer than I can remember. Hi
s loyalty is transparent to anyone who talks to him.”

  “Hump wouldn’t think of that tactic, so I’d better drive up to Bluff Shores next week and talk to Arthur again myself.” Manning notes it on his pad, then tells Klein, “Hasting may have no appetite for your financials, Jerry, but I do. Shall we get back to them?”

  “With pleasure.” Another half hour of amortizations and accruals, profits and losses, returns on investments—and Manning is fully satisfied with the sound management of both the airline and the Carter estate.

  The secretary enters Klein’s office to deliver one last set of photocopies. “Mr. Manning,” she says, “Roxanne Exner just phoned and asked me to give you a message. She and a friend are scheduled for a social engagement at your apartment this evening, but she has a conflict and must cancel. She’s terribly sorry—and wonders if it’s all right for her friend to come alone.”

  Manning coughs and covers his mouth—to conceal a grin—while saying to the woman, “Could you return a message for me, please? Ask Miss Exner to have Mr. Waite come over around eight.”

  Why in hell didn’t I take care of this earlier? wonders Manning as he struggles to hang a painting that has leaned for months against a bare wall in his loft. It’s an oil—or is it acrylic? Such details are beyond him. In either case, it’s five feet square, and hanging it is not a one-man job, even with a good stepladder. He manages at last to slip the wire over the hook, checks the top edge with a level, then climbs down the ladder and steps back to pass judgment. He’s pleased. The windowless wall is at least twenty feet high. It needed something.

  Manning first noticed the painting in one of the little galleries off Michigan Avenue. Richly detailed, but with a restrained palette, it appealed to him at once. The dealer assured him that the artist was “significant” and that the painting, which would surely appreciate in value, was a wise investment. Now it hangs in its intended spot, lending a note of refinement to its sparse surroundings. “Nice,” says Manning aloud. Glad you like it, he reminds himself—it cost as much as a good used car.