by Ken Douglas
“I don’t know,” Maggie sobbed.
“Get your mom,” Jasmine said and the other girl left at a run.
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Maggie said.
“You don’t look okay.”
“What’s going on?” A woman’s voice.
Maggie looked into a dark face, knowing eyes, high forehead. “I know you.”
“Of course, I live next door.”
Maggie put her hands to her head, ran her fingers through her hair as she studied the other woman. The Afro was gone, but it was her. “You’re Gaylen Geer.”
“Girls, go next door!” Gaylen had the kind of voice that commanded respect. The girls obeyed. Then to Maggie, “My name is Sullivan.”
Maggie wiped her face with her hands, looked into the woman’s eyes. “No it’s not.”
The black woman met Maggie’s eyes, shook her head, then left.
Maggie closed the door, slumped down on the couch. “Well, you certainly handled that well.” She stretched out. She was so tired. She cried for her sister. She cried for her baby. She cried for Nick, because just maybe she’d found a way to keep her baby and keep her promise to Jasmine, but it meant she’d never see her husband again.
After awhile there were no more tears. She was spent. She stared at the ceiling, imagined stars and planets floating there, imagined herself at peace. She needed to turn off, to rest. In college, when she was up at all hours studying and partying, she’d learned to grab sleep whenever she could and she did it now. She closed her eyes, made her mind a blank and in seconds she was asleep.
Chapter Ten
Horace Nighthyde shut off the engine in the Condor Aviation parking lot. He’d spent the later half of the night at a motel on Lakewood, near the Traffic Circle. Better there than going home. Ma would’ve waited up for her darling. Sometime around 2:30, she’d have started pacing, wearing out the linoleum in the kitchen. He couldn’t bear to see her gnashing her teeth as she worried about Virgil.
It was gonna be hell for her. That was a major downer for Horace. She shouldn’t have to spend the time she had left worrying about a son who was never coming home. But it was better if she thought he ran off with a teacher from Long Beach State, than if she knew what had really happened. Far better.
He got out of the car, slung his flight bag over his shoulder, went to the trunk and got out the bricks, closest thing to cement he could come up with. Not quite the same, but they’d have to do.
“Hey, Horace, how’s it going?” Startled, he turned to see Sara Hackett, the race car driver, getting out of her Jap Jeep. “Going up today?”
“Yeah.” He nodded.
“Bummer.” Sara was taking flying lessons and had rented Horace’s plane through the flight school on several occasions. She liked it better than the others at Condor. Horace didn’t like renting his plane out, but he couldn’t afford to keep it otherwise.
“Sorry,” he said.
“What’s with the bricks?” She was close enough to smell.
“Samples for a friend in Big Bear,” he lied.
“They don’t have bricks up there?”
“At three times the price. I’m driving up in a couple of weeks. It’s a chance to make a buck.”
“So, you’re flying up now?”
“Right.”
“You want company?”
“What?” Did Sara Hackett just ask if she could fly up to Big Bear with him? There and back would take all day.
“I need more cross country time. If you don’t mind riding on the right while I fly. I’d pay, of course.”
Horace bit his lip. She was gonna pay, too. But he shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve gotta stay overnight.”
“I could get a motel, come back with you tomorrow.”
He bit into his lip again, harder. “Sorry, I’d like to, really, but I might need to stay longer.”
“Alright then, some other time.”
“Sure.” Sweat trickled under his arms. All he could do was stand, feet lead, and watch as she made her way into the Condor building to rent somebody else’s plane.
Turning his attention away from Sara Hackett, he looked out at the wind sock. There was a gentle breeze blowing straight down Two-Five-Right. A Piper Cherokee was starting its take-off roll. There were clouds over the ocean, but they were at altitude, no problem flying under them. It looked like a good day for a VFR flight out to Catalina.
He started toward the plane with a brick in each hand. His Cessna was at the end of the line, closest to the runway, farthest from the hanger. At the plane, he set the bricks down and looked around. Nobody within viewing distance. He opened the passenger door.
The smell attacked him first. Meat. Not rotten, but getting there. Steeling himself, he wrapped a hand around Virgil’s wrist. Cold. He gave a gentle tug. Stiff. Rigor.
He picked up a brick. He was loath to touch the corpse again, but he had no choice. The feet were hard to push apart when he moved them aside for the bricks. Once they were in place between the legs, he pulled a couple short lengths of rope from his flight bag and tied one to each ankle. Finished, he studied his work. He was good with ropes and knots, they wouldn’t come loose.
“Best I can do, Virge.”
A fly buzzed by, then another, then more. They went for the eyes. Inside the plane there had been no way for the insects to get at the body. They’d come in droves now, making up for lost time. Horace shooed as many away as he could before closing the door.
He was careful about flying. Usually he did a complete preflight, talking to himself, so he wouldn’t forget anything, as he worked his way around the plane. Not today.
He pulled off the sun protectors, no choice, but he was far enough away from prying eyes. He was just a plane getting ready to go. Satisfied he was safe, he called ground control and got permission to taxi to Two-Five-Right. Then a shudder rippled through him. There was a chance they’d train binoculars on him from the tower. Would they be able to see his passenger was dead?
On the runway, he did his run up, then set the radio for the tower frequency.
“Long Beach Tower, this is Cessna 27 Yankee seeking permission for a straight out over the harbor.”
“Hold, 27 Yankee. There’s a Piper Cherokee on final, another turning base and a Bonanza in the downwind, you’re cleared after the Bonanza.”
There was nothing for it but to sit and wait.
“Damn, Virge, you look bad.” He shuddered at the sight of Virgil’s waxy, translucent like skin. Looked into his sunken eyes. Virgil’s lips were stretched tight, as if he were about to bare fangs. That and the blue hands made Horace think of vampires. He shuddered again. If only he could feed his brother some blood. If only he could make him live.
A couple of flies landed on the dead eyes to lay eggs that would never hatch, because shortly Virgil was going to be resting in the arms of Davy Jones. Horace loved his brother too much to let him become bug food. He waved a hand at the flies, shooing them from the face.
The tower cleared him for take off.
“Here we go, boy.” He taxied onto the runway, turned into position, stomped on the brakes, pulled out the throttle, let the revs climb. Feet off the brakes and the plane started down the mile long runway, Horace keeping it on the center line.
A fly flew into his mouth, down his throat.
He gagged. Revulsion rippled through him as he choked air up from his gut, trying to get it out. Another fly in his eyes. Fuck. He pulled a hand from the controls, swatted it, smacking himself in the face.
“Watch the center line, 27 Yankee.” The voice from the tower jolted Horace. He’d almost revolted himself off the runway. He swallowed the fly and eased the plane back to the centerline.
A quick look at the wind speed gauge. Fifty miles an hour. He’d almost really fucked up.
“You okay, 27 Yankee?”
Horace grabbed the mike, thumbed the talk button. “Swallowed a fly. I got it together now.”
“Yuck,” the tower said. Then
, “You have a nice day, 27 Yankee.”
“You too.” Horace hung up the mike. Speed 70 MPH. He started his takeoff roll, felt the thrill as he did every time the wheels left the ground. At two hundred feet he eased off some of the back pressure on the yoke. He preferred a flatter climb than most. He loved looking out, watching the houses, yards and pools gradually shrink in size. In the plane he was like a kid.
Virgil loved the takeoffs, too. He’d get all excited, pointing out places he knew, the Taco Bell, the car wash, the graveyard by Signal Hill where they’d buried their dad. For Virgil, Dad’s ghost haunted that hallowed ground. Twice, sometimes three times a week he’d take his brother to Dad’s tombstone. Not anymore. Horace would never go there again.
He banked left over Long Beach Harbor, climbed up to five thousand. Over Huntington Beach, he banked right and headed out over the ocean. A slight detour before heading out toward Catalina and as usual a slight shiver shimmied up his back. It happened every time he flew over the water. Blue sea below, white clouds above, but he wasn’t worried about the weather, as the visibility ahead seemed endless.
The weather was the least of his worries. He was flying with a dead man as co-pilot. He grabbed another look at his brother, who believed in ghosts. Horace didn’t suffer that affliction. When you were dead, the light went out. That was it. Nothing, just nothing. No god like Ma said. No ghosts like Virge believed. It was over. Just plain over.
Still, he had to struggle with his nerves when he reached over Virgil’s stiff body and fished around in the pouch on the passenger door. Virge kept a lot of junk in there-cookies, comic books, his juggling balls. Virgil had been slow in the head, but he was agile of body. On more than one occasion Horace had to yell at him to stop the juggling when they were on final. Imagine trying to land a plane with them balls flying around the cockpit. Fingers moving through the crap, Horace found a CD. Music was necessary, Virgil wasn’t going out to the drone of a prop.
He shoved the disc into the player. Bruce Springsteen filled the cockpit. “Born in the USA.” Horace screamed along with the Boss. Virgil loved that song. Horace hit the repeat button. It would play for him for the duration of his last ride.
Billowy cumulus clouds loomed ahead. Shit, where’d they come from? Horace wasn’t instrument rated, but it looked like he could skirt them. He made a slight turn to the right. More clouds. “Born in the USA,” Horace ranted as he climbed to avoid them. Turbulence shook the plane, cloud vapor wisped by, cotton trails blurring his sight. Then he was up and over, still climbing, still banking right. More ahead, darker, grey. Storm or squall, Horace didn’t know, didn’t care. He just wanted to get over it.
Dancing around clouds was something he enjoyed, was good at. More turbulence, there was plenty of rain in them. Still in the right bank, he saw a hole and climbed up through it and found Heaven. Blue sky above, rolling white cotton below. He hung in the air as if suspended by the hand of the god he didn’t believe in.
A quick look at the altimeter, Eighty-five hundred feet. He’d climbed farther than he’d thought. There was a cloud bank ahead. More Cumulus fluff. He checked the oil pressure, the compass, the radios, the VOR needles. Off course, but he knew that.
He was cold. The sweat under his arms, chilly rivulets dripping under his shirt. His teeth chattered. “Born in the USA.” He leaned over the body, pulled off the harness and seatbelt. He unlatched the door. Still leaning, he pushed on the body’s shoulder with the palm of his hand. Virgil tumbled sideways, half in the plane, half out. The plane went into a downward right turn, the open door acting like flaps.
It was the rigor. Virgil had dropped onto his right side. His body from the waist up was outside the plane, but his legs were still bent, like he was sitting. He couldn’t fit through the doorway.
Horace pulled the wheel to the left, countering the drag on the right. He checked the altimeter, he was losing altitude. The cumulus in front didn’t seem so innocent now. The sweat under his arms seemed frozen. Icicles stabbed his heart.
He pulled back on the wheel, added power, slowed the descent and grit his teeth as the plane slipped into the soup. He was flying blind, still losing altitude. The stall warning sounded, buzzing loud. He pushed the nose downward to avoid the stall. He had to get the body back in the plane.
With his left hand on the controls he stretched, grabbed onto an arm and tried to pull it back in. No joy, it was stuck in place, and the altimeter said he was dropping at two-hundred and fifty feet a minute. He had to get Virgil gone.
He pulled off his harness and seatbelt. More cold sweat. He took his feet off the rudder pedals and the plane turned more to the right. He spun around in the seat. Using the door on his side as a back brace, he pulled his feet up onto the seat, planted them on Virgil’s ass and pushed.
Nothing. Virge was wedged in. Back solid against the door on his side, Horace tucked his legs to his chest, then lashed out, slamming his feet into his brother’s rear end. Movement. Some. It was gonna work. He pulled his knees back again, slammed them into Virgil’s rear again and Virge moved a little more, but he was still stuffed tight in the doorway.
Breathing hard, head spinning, fighting panic, Horace pulled his knees to his chest, grabbed a great breath, heaved it out, screaming like a kung-fu fighter as he hammered his feet into Virgil’s rump.
Virgil popped out of the plane like a Champagne cork, pulling the bricks after himself as he disappeared into the clouds. “Born in the USA.” And Horace slid after, his feet dangling out of the plane. He spun around, hands flaying for something to grab onto. Frantic fingers found the seatbelt. He grabbed onto it. The plane was in a spiraling descent now, any second it was going to go into a spin.
Horace felt his hands slipping from the strap, but a quick vision of an uncontrolled plunge into to the water below gave him the extra strength he needed to pull himself up toward the seat. He grabbed onto it, pulled more, got his legs out of the sky and into the plane. He grabbed onto the wheel, turned it to the left as he struggled into place. Panting, he got a foot onto the left rudder peddle as he pulled on the seatbelt.
“Holy shit,” he muttered over and over as he tried to find the right combination of rudder and aileron to take him out of the turn. If he wasn’t careful, he’d pull the wings off the plane. He eased back on the wheel, sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes. He blinked it away. He was still going down, still in the soup, still blind, but he was out of the rotation.
He reached over, latched the door, checked the level control. He’d done some flight time under the hood, all he had to do was concentrate. He could get out of this. He could.
The altimeter said sixty-five hundred feet. He had the wings level. He eased back a bit on the wheel, stopped the descent. But now he had other problems. Up or down, back the way he’d come, or continue on toward Catalina?
He cursed himself for not getting the morning’s aviation weather. Really dumb. He’d never flown without it before. “One fucking time,” he muttered. He hit the button on the player, popped out the CD. Between the Boss and Virgil, his thinking got so messed up he almost went out the plane, too.
He decided to drop under the cloud cover. Keeping his eye on the gauges, he tried to pretend he was back with a flight instructor doing his instrument training. Halfway through, he’d dropped out. Who wanted to fly in bad weather anyway, he’d reasoned. But he’d learned enough not to panic.
Using the gauges, he kept the wings level as he trimmed up for a controlled descent at a hundred feet per minute. Then he set the auto pilot for Catalina and took his hands off the controls.
The altimeter said he was flying at forty-five hundred feet. He was tense, almost frightened. It was important he calm down, so he snaked an arm back in the pouch on the passenger door and came out with a couple more CDs. Billy Joel, Goodnight Saigon, Virgil loved that one, but it was guaranteed to heighten Horace’s apprehension. The other, Mozart’s Concertos for French Horn. He popped it in, turned up the volume. Now it was j
ust him and the master till he broke through the clouds. His fate was in Mozart’s hands now, Horace wouldn’t be touching the controls till he saw the water below.
At three thousand feet, he closed his eyes as a horn solo soared through the cockpit. This was what made him exceptional, the ability to remove himself, to take himself away till the crisis passed. If there wasn’t anything he could do, then there was no reason to stress himself out. He pictured Sadie in his mind. Sexy Sadie. Would she remember him if he called? No woman had ever affected him like that and he’d only spent a couple of dances with her, knew nothing about her.
He felt the light and opened his eyes to a bright sun. The cloud mass was behind, the altimeter said seventeen hundred feet. Catalina was dead ahead. He set the autopilot for straight and level flight. He’d always been lucky. He hummed along with the horn.
Then he thought about the old woman he was coming in to do. It was typical Striker. Getting someone to behave the way he wanted by attacking his family. Horace bit his lip, chewed on his tongue. It didn’t seem right, the poor woman probably never hurt a fly and she was gonna get killed just for being some asshole’s mother. It was as if someone was gonna kill Ma because they were pissed at Horace.
It wasn’t fair. But that Kenyon bitch killing Virgil wasn’t fair either. Also it wasn’t fair Ma sitting blind in her rocker, a tumor swelling in her brain, while cancer ate up her body. No, life wasn’t fair. It sucked.
He heard some chatter on the radio and it jerked his mind back to the controls. He took the plane off auto and flew it himself. The small airport on Catalina Island was atop a mountain. The wind sock told him he had a slight headwind. Piece of cake landing.
On the ground, he took a cab down to Avalon. It was after 10:00. He was hungry enough to eat raw fish. Fortunately, he was able to get a quick burger and fries at one of the many seaside restaurants. He would have liked to linger, to watch the girls stroll by, but he had a job to do, distasteful as it was, and he wanted to get back to the mainland before dark.