by Jim Craig
Along the road I kept looking up at the fog layer. If it would just lift fifty feet or so I’d be tempted to take off and fly underneath it over to Evans Island. But it wasn’t to be. I could barely see the tops of the trees on either side of me. The wet gray cloud clung to everything in sight.
I could feel sweat in my armpits and dampness on my back as I hurried down the road, but I didn’t care. The exercise felt good. Even with fatigue lurking deep in my muscles, I had enough adrenaline to keep my feet moving just short of a jogging pace.
I felt free again for some reason. Walking like that helped me think. So did the distance away from those people. I thought about Charlie and Greta and the tension between them. And then the kid and the dog. Tambourine? What the hell kind of name is that for a kid? Some leftover hippie crap from the center of strange. I sucked crisp ocean air deep into my lungs and picked up my pace.
I was making good time humping down the road. My shoes scuffled across the gravel slipping once in a while on a muddy section, but at least it wasn’t raining. The familiar scent of spruce surrounded me and when the road came close to the water line salt laden air wafted to me under the thick wall of trees and brush. Sounds were muffled by the thick fog that acted like a blanket of insulation, and it felt like I was walking alone in a huge warehouse only able to hear my own shuffling steps.
I stopped for a minute to catch my breath and listened to the forest. I could sense all the unseen life forms around me. It was comforting and creepy at the same time.
“Focus, Johnny, focus,” I mumbled under my breath. “You gotta get your ass out of here. You got one job to do. Get away and find those troopers. Contact Phil and get back to Seward. Put the airplane away and go get a beer. That’s it.” I went over each step like a mental checklist.
The pep talk was a good idea but doomed. Greta’s eyes kept invading my mind. The blue depth of them. The smell of her, the touch of her hand on my forehead, the sensory overload, the taste of the eggs and coffee, the sound of her voice. And that kiss on my cheek. It was overwhelming. Her curves and the way she moved had me reeling. Something gripped me deep inside and wouldn’t let go.
I’d never known a woman like that. I’d seen some, maybe across the room in the Yukon Bar when the Sunday night crowd came in to see Hobo Jim. But even then it was rare to see such blinding beauty anywhere in Seward. And never close up. And never ever talking to me. She was like a Victoria Secret model on a TV show.
There was no approaching someone like that. Are you kidding me? It was one thing to get shot down by the regular ladies of Seward but a freaking cover girl? Forget about it. You want to pick your bleeding guts off the floor, go right ahead. Not me, buddy.
A friend of mine had an experience like that. I’ll never forget it. Big Ears Eddie hung out with Willie and me sometimes. His real name was Edward something, but his nickname was an obvious choice. Barndoors, you know. He could have been Dumbo.
We were drinking in the Alehouse on a Saturday afternoon last summer when a blond bombshell in a red convertible pulled up to the open front door and walked in alone. Eddie looked up and noticed a huge Doberman sitting in the passenger seat of her car.
As she walked past him at the bar, he said, “Hey,” with a twinkle in his eye. “Is he a good watchdog?” he asked pointing out the door and grinning at her.
“Why don’t you go find out, dipshit,” she snapped with a flash of her eyes, and brushed past him heading for the ladies’ room.
Willie and I looked up from our beers. We were about to bust out laughing, but one look at Eddie silenced us both. He seemed frozen in place, unable to speak. He looked like he’d just been stabbed with a prison yard shiv plunged straight into his heart.
When she came out of the john he’d started to recover from the shock. He waited until she walked past him again, and then he unleashed a stream of profanity and hatred at her back. The venom spewed and followed her all the way out to her car. Willie and I thought we were going to have to hold him back. The woman drove away without a backward glance, but we could all see a mocking smile in her rear view mirror and a middle finger waving in the breeze. Eddie fumed and cursed about it for another hour at least.
Another guy might have just laughed it off. Who cares about an offhand exchange between two strangers? Innocent bar bullshit. It meant nothing. Then again it must have meant something to Eddie. I could see the hurt in his eyes. She’d hit a nerve. She was all blond hairspray and red Corvette. And Eddie drove a delivery truck. Did she have to spit on him?
And what about her? Probably just passing through town. She was uncomfortable, needed to pee and just stopped in for a bathroom visit. She was used to attracting attention. That was obvious. She worked at it. She liked it. Except when she didn’t. Like when it came from someone beneath her. She didn’t have a Doberman by accident.
So she stops in to relieve her discomfort, and she’s instantly confronted with a guy at a bar cracking wise. So, zap. She fends off the approach with a snarky remark that stopped him in his tracks. Then she went about her business. She was in a hurry. Had no time or interest in anything or anybody else at the moment. So, someone didn’t like the ice water she threw in their face? Oh, well. Whatever.
If it had been me, I probably would have just fallen to the floor and bled to death. But then I never would have dangled myself out there in front of a woman like that in the first place. They’re not called bombshells by accident.
Greta had that look about her. There was nothing accidental in the way she looked. No way. She was carefully engineered and premeditated. Everything about her seemed aimed with smart bomb accuracy. So why was she talking to me?
Maybe it was my imposing presence, and I’m sure she was overwhelmed by finding me naked in her basement. Imagine that, a soaking wet bush pilot in her hot tub on a foggy Alaskan afternoon. What woman could resist? Yeah, right.
But still, there she was. Right there in front of me and close. Very close and very friendly. At least, as friendly as a woman like her can ever be. Had I seen something in those eyes? An invitation, a chink in the armor, a hidden vulnerability that might let me in?
Her eyes didn’t give anything away, but who knows? After all, she was with Charlie, and he was no cover of GQ magazine. What was that about, I wondered. He was a big guy. Protection? Maybe. Then I remembered the lodge and daddy’s portraits in the lobby. Money?
Of course. I kicked at the gravel road in disgust. Damn it. I clenched my jaw and felt my teeth grind together. I walked on, realizing that I was almost to the airstrip. The woods were opening up ahead, and I tried to shift my thoughts to the airplane, the fog and the flight I needed to make.
Then I remembered the touch of her fingers on the side of my head, and I was lost again. I knew I had to concentrate, to get busy with something, but it was a struggle. Every time I let myself drift, those eyes came back to me. Hadn’t I seen a softness somewhere in there behind the mask? A place that just might yield to the right words, the right tone, the right touch at the right time. A guy can always dream.
I left the trees then and spotted the airplane sitting next to the gloomy airstrip. I pushed the images away and reached into my jacket pocket for the airplane keys. Fog was still thick in the air and clung to the tree tops all around the runway.
I stopped for a minute to survey the area. A group of seagulls stood in a bunch down near the water. Silent and still, they stood as quiet witnesses staring toward something in the distance beyond my view. I hoped they would get out of my way if I managed a takeoff. They always did.
The Cessna sat quietly right where I’d left her. Damp and dreary in the dim light, she looked cold and stiff. Moisture glistened on her wings, and droplets of rain stood on the windows. The door snicked open with a turn of the key, and the familiar smell of her vinyl, cloth and metallic interior greeted me. There was also the faint comforting scent of aviation fuel and oil. I was back on familiar turf. I took a deep breath and looked down the runway. I could
n’t see past the stand of trees at the end, and I could barely make out the water’s edge just beyond. All thoughts of taking off faded like a raffle ticket fantasy.
I sat down on the black rubber tire and rested my hands on my knees. I had to sort things out. What was I going to do? Above and behind me, the ragged windsock flapped in a half hearted breeze. Its rusted metal ring creaked like a spook house door.
Just then Charlie’s voice ten yards away startled me out of my reverie. “Hey, man. Let's fly!”
I stood up too quick and hit my head on the underside of the wing. But not that hard. Just enough to push my cap down tight over my eyes and knock my glasses half off.
I fumbled to rearrange everything and looked up to see Charlie grinning at me. “Charlie, you surprised me. No, we can't fly anywhere in this crap." I waved my arm in disgust at the fog down on the water and reached up to rub the sore spot on top of my head.
I came out from under the wing and looked at him standing behind the tail section of the plane. He looked frustrated. He had a small pack on his back and his feet stamped back and forth as he studied the air around us.
"When do you think we can go?" he asked. "We really need to get out of here."
"Hell, I don't know. This crap is thick as hell and it ain't moving at all."
He turned to stare down the runway and then back at me. "You don't want to try it?"
"Try it? No way. That's the shit that kills pilots around here. You know that better than I do."
My words seemed to sting him and I felt instantly sorry, but I wasn't budging. Fog was dangerous.
He turned toward me and stared. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and his shoulders hunched up toward his ears. I kept my distance and stayed by the wing. He seemed even taller than before. His eyes bored in at me, and he rocked side to side from one foot to the other as he thought about what to say.
Then I noticed his jean jacket was hanging open in front. There was a bulge under his left armpit, and I could see a leather strap of a shoulder holster crossing his chest inside the jacket.