Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

  “Pretty bizarre that I rescue skiers and climbers now, when I could never have even fathomed skiing or climbing period.”

  “Is that you, Vanilla?” I hear Boomer, uh, boom.

  We turn down the stairs and drop into a rec room of sorts, smaller than the living room, but with the same windowed walls—ones that now frame a brilliant sunset, the clouds turning all shades of cotton-candy pink and crimson. A billiard table occupies the far back corner of the room, around which Boomer, Jack, and Beanie hover, pool sticks in hand. Mojo is curled near a smaller fireplace, lifting his head only for a moment before nuzzling it back under his leg.

  “Ah, so it is!” Boomer says loudly. “Here she is, Jack.”

  Jack leans his stick against the table and walks, gingerly, to me. His head has been shaved, clearing the way for a row of stitches—make that staples—across the left side of his scalp.

  “Alison!” he says, moving past the hand I’ve offered and wrapping me in an embrace.

  “Jack, good to see you, again.”

  “Well, finally!” He pulls back, hands on my shoulders. “I owe you a helluva thank-you!”

  “You’re welcome. Beanie helped, too, of course,” I say with a nod to my lanky crew chief.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard about everything. Thanked him, too!”

  Rough scratches mark Jack’s face, the left side having gotten the worst of it. His skin glows red on that side, like a horrible case of road rash. I point to the staples. “Nice souvenir you’ve got there.”

  “I think I could have done without it, but yes,” he says, grinning.

  “Nah, he looks better that way,” Boomer says, laughing far too hard at his own joke.

  Jack ignores him. “You guys keep playing. I need to speak to this one.” He turns to me. “Mind if we sit down? I’m recovering well and all that, but standing for long periods is still a bit of a chore.”

  He leads Will and me to a couch and chairs positioned against one of the windows. Mojo rises from his spot, checks in with his owner with a quick brush against the leg, then reassumes his position near the fireplace. Jack sits on one end of the couch while I take the other. Will sits in the chair next to me.

  “Alison,” he says, “the docs told me in no uncertain terms that if you hadn’t airlifted me out of there, I wouldn’t be alive today. So, thanks. Needless to say, I owe you one.”

  “You don’t—” I start to respond, but he appears to have moved on, as he looks me over in a studious way.

  “You know what Will said to me that day I met you in Schat’s Bakkerÿ?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Later that night, he said to me, ‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’” Jack lets his gaze slide to Will for a moment before returning it to me. “But I don’t know. I think he was understating the matter.”

  Will’s tanned face flushes cherry red.

  “You said that?” I ask, embarrassed, flattered, shaken, all of the above.

  “Well, I may have mentioned it.” He then looks to Jack. “Thanks a lot.”

  “You know you can count on me, my friend.”

  “Hey, Will!” The shout comes from above. Kevin pokes his head over the stair banister. “Man, you have any more of the Jägermeister?”

  “I do,” Will says. “It’s in the storeroom.” He puts his beer on the coffee table as he stands. “Excuse me,” he says, before bounding up the stairs.

  “So what do you think of him?” Jack says.

  “Uh…” The question catches me completely off guard.

  “He told me you’re engaged. Is that right?”

  “I am. But he did? He told you that?”

  “Well, he talks about you so damn much, I asked why he hadn’t asked you out yet.”

  “He talks about me?”

  “Never heard anything like it from him. I’ve known him for a long time, too.”

  “Sixteen years,” I say. “He told me.”

  “So what do you think of him? You never answered that.”

  “You never gave me a chance.”

  “Ah, you’re right. I don’t think I did. But I’m giving you the chance now,” he says with a smile.

  “Well … he’s…,” I say, rubbing my now sweaty hands together. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

  “And…”

  “And … I like being with him. I’m in a very good place when I’m with him.”

  “But you’re engaged.”

  I nod.

  “Bit of a pickle, isn’t it?”

  Normally, I’d think a conversation like this might be a tad out of line. Heck, I’m not even sure what’s going on, let alone discussing it with a stranger. But oddly, he doesn’t feel like a stranger at all.

  “It is.” I start to take a drink from my beer bottle, but notice Jack doesn’t have anything. “I’m sorry. Can I get you anything? Something to drink? Some water, maybe?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks,” he says, sinking back into the couch. He wears the same weathered lines as Will, but they sag a bit more, the skin around his eyes puffy, his body clearly exhausted. “Considerate of you to ask.”

  “Tired?” I say.

  “Perceptive, too.” He goes into study mode again, and I imagine him ticking off a list of personality traits, wondering when he’ll hit on the not-so-good ones. Maybe I should just go ahead and tell him to get that part over with.

  “And stubborn,” I say. “Really stubborn.”

  Jack breaks into a wide smile, his beautifully straight, white teeth lighting up his olive-skinned yet wrecked face. “Stubborn, huh?”

  “And I’m a terrible swimmer. A lousy bowler. A bit obsessive. Actually, a lot obsessive. And a control freak. That goes with the obsessive part. And, Jack,” I say, leaning forward. “I’m a horrible, deceptive, rotten fiancée.”

  “How so?”

  “How so?” I place my bottle on the table next to Will’s. “Because I’m engaged and … and I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling … with Will, I mean.”

  How am I speaking like this? I’ve met this man only once before, and now, five minutes into our second conversation ever, I’m spilling like I’d spill to my mother. It’s the alcohol. But you haven’t even finished two beers. I push the bottle farther away, anyway.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “What do you mean? I’m engaged, that’s why not.”

  “That’s your head talking. Not your heart.”

  I sit back, staring. “Are you always this forward?”

  “Only if it concerns Will.”

  Again, the pang. What a father would do for his child. Looking out for him. Loving him. And Jack isn’t even Will’s real father.

  “It’s obvious, you know,” he says.

  “What’s obvious?”

  “I’ve seen you and Will together for exactly three minutes tonight, and there’s something very special there. Don’t ask me how I know, but it’s unmistakable.”

  “So are you gonna play or what?” Boomer calls out to Jack.

  Rather than answer Boomer, Jack looks to me. “I suspect you’ve had enough of me,” he says, rising. “I hope you can forgive me. The forwardness and all. I just want what’s best for Will.” He smiles, a comforting smile, before turning.

  As he walks away, I hear it when he says under his breath, “And, truthfully … I think he’s found it.”

  * * *

  Jack, Boomer, and Beanie continue their game, and even though Jack is well older than both of them, he’s easily in the best shape of the three. Granted, he’s injured and moving slowly, but like Will, the muscles in his arms are lean and taut and he moves in a graceful, purposeful way. The longer I watch, the more the differences become pronounced. With Boomer and Beanie, there’s a lot of “extra” going on. With Jack, every movement seems planned, so as not to disturb the air around him.

  I’m stirred from my observations as my phone vibrates in my pocket. The letters on the preview pane seem larger than usual. It’s a
text from Rich.

  I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for having to cancel. Trust me, I was just as disappointed. I’m done for the night, so call if you get the chance. I can’t wait to see you next week! Love you!

  I stare at the message, reading it through again and again, my heart sinking lower and lower. I am indeed a horrible fiancée. A horrible person, in general. I put the phone on the table, lean forward, elbows on my knees, and cradle my forehead in my hands. I stare some more. Between the lines, I read, “I’m sure you’re sitting at home alone now. Missing me. Thinking about me. Anticipating my visit even more. Just like a fiancée should…”

  When I finally look up, Will is standing there, watching. How long has he been there?

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  And Jack thought I was perceptive …

  “Yeah, it is. I, um, I have to get going,” I say, standing.

  “Are you sure? You haven’t even eaten anything.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I slide my phone into my pocket and turn for the stairs. Will follows. At the top, he moves ahead of me to the entryway closet to open it and retrieve my jacket.

  “Would you like to take anything with you? Some water? Food? You have a long drive.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, threading my arms through the sleeves. “I’m good.”

  He opens the door for me, and I step out, met with a rush of cold.

  “Can I walk you to your car?” he asks.

  I notice he doesn’t put on a jacket to walk outside, quick to follow. We move through the grand arch of pine boughs, the only sound the hollow crunch of snow from our footfalls, exaggerating the uncomfortable silence between us. Reaching my car, he steps in front of me, opening the driver’s-side door.

  “I hope everything’s all right.”

  “It’s fine. I just have to go.”

  I move past him, toward the front seat, but stop before getting in. Even with my back to him, I feel him.

  “Alison, I meant what I said tonight on the balcony.”

  I freeze.

  Our interaction on the balcony replays. That look in his eyes, his fingers slipping through mine, my reaction. God, my physical reaction.

  I pinch my eyes shut, Rich’s text so vivid. I can’t wait to see you next week! Love you!

  Gathering myself, I turn to face him. “I’m engaged, Will. What happened … well, it shouldn’t have happened.”

  “But it did.”

  “It won’t anymore,” I say, as sternly as I can muster.

  He stares. I stare. It’s cold. He’s in short sleeves. Not a goose bump.

  “But you felt it,” he says. “I felt it. Why would you—”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Physical attractions happen. It doesn’t mean you have to act on them.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

  His eyes hold mine, communicating a connection I can’t acknowledge.

  “This can’t happen, Will. I’m sorry.”

  I drop into my seat, and turn on the ignition.

  He steps back, closing the door, and remains there, unmoving, as I disappear down the drive.

  18

  “Longhorn Seven, Fallon Tower, you’re cleared to the east, over.”

  “Fallon Tower, Longhorn Seven, roger,” I say.

  I follow Highway 50, passing over a dry lake bed baked with salt so white you could easily mistake it for snow. In front of me, the Sand Mountain Recreation Area, a haven for off-road enthusiasts. The sand dunes glare, much like the alkali flats, peppered with dirt bikes, sand rails, and quads, popping, careening, carving tracks upways, sideways, and crossways through the sand in the early-morning sun. It’s a workday, Monday, but you’d never know it based on the number of RVs and trucks parked out here, like a mini off-road city.

  I glance up at the outside-air temperature gauge. Sixty degrees Fahrenheit.

  Just three nights ago, I needed four-wheel drive to grind my way through June Lake in multiple feet of snow and in subfreezing temperatures. And Will stood in that snow, so still, eyes uneasy, as I drove away.…

  I’ve tried not to think about that, focusing on Rich instead. I called him, talked with him, as I drove home from the party, and again the next day. But it’s no use. Will is in my head. He’s in there, and I can’t seem to push him out.

  “I can’t believe I’m gonna do this,” Snoopy says. “What the hell was I thinking?”

  I saw Snoopy last at the Fallon swimming pool, almost two weeks ago, the day after he arrived for his air wing’s training. Today, he rides in the cockpit in the left seat. He was appointed as the investigative officer for a noise complaint—sonic boom—so I’ve been tasked to fly him to Cold Springs Station, a restaurant, hotel, and RV park located about fifty miles east of Fallon, to interview the complainant and other witnesses. It’s my first flight as an aircraft commander in the H-1; I completed my check flight just one week ago.

  My first flight as an aircraft commander, and I’m about to do something so far outside the rules …

  Snoopy—somehow—convinced me to do a trade with him. When he was here last time, he flew me to San Diego in a two-seater F/A-18—my first and only Hornet ride—for a search-and-rescue model manager conference. He asked if I’d let him fly the Huey if he let me fly the jet. Surely, I thought, this cannot be allowed. But on that blue-sky day at 26,500 feet, I took the controls of an F/A-18, never admitting to him that it was one of the biggest thrills of my twenty-eight-year-old life.

  “So, are you ready, then?” I ask.

  “No,” Snoopy says, laughing. “And Beanie, not a word of this to anyone, got it?”

  “My lips are zipped, sir.”

  “Okay, you’ve got the controls,” I say.

  I take my hands and feet off the controls, and the nose immediately whips to the right. My feet fly to the rudder pedals to stop the yaw.

  I look left. Snoopy has his feet on the floor. He must have pulled up on the collective or something to make the nose yaw like that, but he definitely wasn’t in a position to correct it.

  “Uh, Shane, you need to have your feet on the rudder pedals.”

  “Ah,” he says. He places his feet on the pedals, and I remove mine. The bird is a little wobbly, but straighter now.

  “We don’t really use the rudder pedals,” he explains, referring to flying the F/A-18. “Once in flight, I mean.”

  “I can see that,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

  What a trooper. This guy’s an extraordinary F/A-18 pilot, a bazillion hours under his belt, but he’s never flown a helicopter. For a jet jock, flying a helicopter should be easy-peasy, right? Yeah, that’s what he bragged about in the brief.

  I stifle the giggles as he wrestles with the controls, the aircraft slipping and dipping like it’s teetering on a Bosu ball.

  “Shit! Okay, so I take back everything I said in the brief,” he says, gripping the controls like he’s about to yank them from the fuselage. “And I apologize forever for laughing after your Hornet ride.”

  On that flight, Snoopy let me have the controls for most of the straight-and-level parts both ways. However, once we arrived at the training ranges in Fallon, he took the controls back, so he could “show me what the aircraft can do.”

  Now, I hadn’t done aerobatics in a fixed-wing aircraft since flight school. Barrel rolls, aileron rolls, loops, all of that was ancient history for me. I had forgotten most of it … and so had my stomach. I cringe, even now, thinking of it. The worst part of the whole thing was asking him for the airsickness bag. I remember looking up, watching his head tipped back in laughter. I didn’t get sick in the plane—couldn’t give him the satisfaction—but I did get sick on the drive home. Had to pull over and empty the contents of my stomach on the side of the road in a cow pasture.

  The day after, I was a good girl. I ponied up and admitted it—to more good-natured, raucous laughter, of course.

  “I think you’re getting the hang of it,” I say as
the aircraft begins to smooth. I knew it wouldn’t take long for him.

  “I’ve had night carrier landings that were easier than this.”

  “I highly doubt that,” I say, knowing a night carrier landing would be infinitely more difficult.

  As Snoopy gets a handle on things, I have yet another out-of-body experience, that thing that happens to me on a regular basis since coming to Fallon. Two months ago, when I agreed to the trade, I never thought I’d have to go through with it on my end. First, in what circumstance would I ever be flying with Snoopy? And second, this was me. Give someone who has never flown a helicopter the controls on a flight? Me?

  But now, post–Mount Morrison, post–North Palisade Peak, this does little to register on the “extreme” meter.

  Which sort of blows my mind.

  Snoopy rolls the aircraft to the left, entering a narrow, gently sloping valley that splits two north-south-running mountain ranges, ten-thousand-foot peaks on either side. I’m reminded of the Sierra, because these mountains—at their summits, anyway—remain coated with snow, even on this warm mid-November day in the middle of the high desert.

  “So what’s next for you after this deployment?” I ask.

  “Grad school. I’m going to Monterey to get my master’s. Then a department head tour, and then, hopefully, my XO and CO tours.”

  A man with a plan. Just like Rich. Just like me. Yeah, I’ve thought about that, too, since I last saw Will. “I don’t even know where I’ll be next year,” Will said on the balcony.

  See, this isn’t a fairy tale, Alison. He has no long-term plans. Will might be in your head, but this is reality we’re talking about.…

  “There it is, Shane,” I say, pointing out the RV park. “One o’clock, four miles.”

  “Got it. So are you ready to take the controls back?”

  “You mean you don’t want to try to land?”

  “Are you crazy?” Snoopy says.

  “Just kidding. I’ve got the controls.”

  I land about one hundred yards from the RV park and shut down—yes, I shut down. I remind Beanie that he doesn’t have to mention that part to Boomer.