Flying Blind

by Howard Hammerman

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. We’ll talk again when you have a clearer head. As far as I’m concerned, we’re not married anymore. I need to leave. I’ll be back on Friday.” She put her purse down and came close to the head of my bed.

  “You took me on quite a ride. You hardly talk to me all week, a week when your daughter was in the hospital. Finally, on Friday, you tell me to buy steaks. You said you were coming home early with a new contract. But you never came home. The girls saw you on TV with another woman! Our friends saw you. My parents! Can you imagine how I felt?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck you and your sympathy. The only bright spot came Saturday. When I heard you crashed at sea. I got to be the grieving widow for four or five hours. Then I found out you’re not dead — just half-drowned in Pennsylvania. You couldn’t even die right!”

  She walked to the window and looked out. She blew her nose using tissue from the box by my bedside.

  “How could you be so stupid?”

  “I wasn’t stupid. It started out when I gave a friend a ride and then —”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.” She picked up her purse again.

  I closed my eyes, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. Instead, she shook the bed. “Who’s the woman?” she demanded.

  I opened my eyes. “Her name’s Maria Sanchez. I saved her life on Friday. She saved me from drowning on Saturday. Did they find her body?”

  One of the machines near the head of my bed started to beep. A nurse walked in and adjusted something.

  After the nurse had left, Beth said, “No one told me anything about a body.”

  “Maybe she got away.”

  “You still didn’t tell me who she was.” She closed the door to the hallway and lowered her voice. “Did you have sex with her?”

  “Yes, at first it was a kind of accident …”

  “Bullshit! Stubbing your toe is an accident. Crashing your car is an accident. Did you have an accidental erection?”

  “I was drunk and — “

  “Shut up, I don’t want to hear about it.” She raised her hand, but the slap never came. “I’d slap you if I thought it would do any good.”

  She paced back and forth, holding up her hand as a signal for me to stay quiet.

  “One question, then I’ll leave. Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love your children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love her, your Maria?

  “Yes.”

  “You fucking idiot! You think you can have us all, don’t you? Grow up, Dan. It doesn’t work that way.”

  I said nothing. She was right. Maybe some men could do it, not me. I suddenly realized that was the big lie I was telling myself.

  “I’ll be back on Thursday. We’ll have a lot to talk about.” She left.

  ***

  I spent the rest of the day napping and watching television. I called my voice mailbox several times in the vain hope Maria left a message.

  I know she’s alive. She’ll contact me soon enough.

  Representatives from the FAA and the Pennsylvania State Police arrived after breakfast the next day. The man from the FAA spoke first. “We diverted some scheduled flights and grounded others so you wouldn’t hurt anyone besides yourself. You created air traffic delays throughout the entire eastern part of the United States. Thousands of passengers were inconvenienced.”

  “Sorry,” I said trying to insert a mournful tone into my voice.

  His face turned red. “We revoked your pilot’s license yesterday. You’ll never fly again, in the United States. Expect a hefty fine.” He gave me some official looking papers and left.

  The state trooper closed the door after his colleague. “That man needs to calm down, or he’ll have a heart attack.” He put a small recorder on my bedside table. “Why don’t you tell me what happened. Start with Ms. Sanchez. How do you know her?”

  “I met Maria at the hotel, last Monday. We had an affair starting on Wednesday. I thought it had ended, but she stopped me just when I was about to fly home and begged me to take her with me.”

  “That was last Friday at the Gaithersburg airport, right?”

  “Right. We spent the night in Cumberland, Maryland and were on our way to New York, when the FAA ordered us to land. Instead, we headed out to sea and dumped our luggage to make it look like we crashed. On the return, we ran out of fuel before I could find a safe place to land.”

  The lieutenant took notes during most of my rendition. “We’ve checked with the authorities in Cumberland, and they confirmed you and Ms. Sanchez landed there. We know that you spent the night at the Hilltop Motel using aliases.” He smirked, “John Katz and June Satin, really?”

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  He shook his head. “The airport manager said you were the only person he saw when you returned the loaner car on Saturday. Later that day he reported the car missing. The police found the car in the long-term parking lot at the Pittsburgh International Airport late Sunday night.”

  The Lieutenant paused. “Do you have anything to add?”

  “It must be a coincidence.”

  “The FBI will be here to talk to you next. Don’t run away,” he added with a chuckle.

  More comedy, just what I needed.

  He left as the lunch tray came in. I couldn’t eat. The life I’d built and nurtured during my adult years was over. After the heartache, training, and sacrifice, I no longer had a pilot’s license. My marriage was all but over. I was heading to prison.

  Out of the emptiness came a certain sense of relief. All these identities that defined me — pilot, husband, father, professor — were like weights around my neck. I could feel them dropping away, one by one, like a snake shedding its skin. I felt scared, vulnerable and, in a weird way — free.

  Janice Joplin once sang, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” I felt myself moving closer and closer to nothing.

  ***

  Three FBI agents, two men and a woman, entered my room at the end of the day.

  “Daniel Goldberg, you are under arrest for intentionally violating restricted airspace, reckless endangerment, disobeying ATC orders and flying an airplane without the use of proper equipment. The charges are detailed in these papers.”

  “Do you wish to make a statement?” the lead agent asked.

  “No. I already gave a statement to the State Trooper.”

  “We would like to ask you some questions, but first I need to read this.”

  He read the Miranda warnings from a card. I recited the same story I told the state trooper. I never mentioned Richard or the flight to New Jersey.

  They ended the interview after an hour, suggesting I get a lawyer.

  ***

  On Thursday, Beth entered, dressed in a black suit, white silk blouse, and pantyhose. I could tell she had a prepared speech.

  “Good morning, Dan. Here’s how we can put this behind us. You had a stupid obsession with flying, but that’s over. Your airplane’s sitting at the bottom of a lake. You’ll never be a pilot again. You had a stupid affair —” She stopped to wipe away a tear.

  “Beth, I’m sorry — ”

  “Don’t interrupt me! Damn it, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”

  I handed her the box of tissues.

  “Okay, you humiliated me. I can handle that. Here’s what I’m trying to say — I’m willing to put your affair behind me for the sake of our children.”

  Tears covered her face. She went into the bathroom and returned even angrier.

  “My father thinks you’ll be in prison for at least three years. I want to put our house on the market and move closer to my parents. I need you to sign the listing forms.” She handed me a stack of legal-sized papers from a new Coach briefcase.

  “Nice briefcase.”

  She handed me a pen. I added my signature on each page.

  “Dad is buying me
a small house in White Plains, about ten miles from where they live. The girls aren’t happy about changing schools, but they’ll adjust. Dad will take care of the girls and me financially until I get a job.”

  “Your father’s a very generous man.”

  “He’s doing it for his granddaughters. He’s disgusted with me for putting up with you all these years. My mother pities me. You’re an embarrassment to the family.”

  She took a sip of water from the cup on my nightstand.

  “Dan, I can wait three years. I’ll even visit you in prison once in a while. I’ll put up with the dirty looks from my parents, relatives, and neighbors. But for that to work, you need to promise me you’re done with your obsessions — all of them. You need to promise me that you’re done with Maria or any other woman. Can you be a faithful husband, loving father, and respectful son-in-law?” She took a breath. “I need to know that you’ll never do anything like this again.”

  It was my turn to talk. I knew that I should beg for forgiveness and say “yes.” The next words out of my mouth would determine my future. Similar to the moment at the stoplight in Cumberland, I held my future in my hands.

  I had to promise to be three things. Each one subtracted from the freedom I’d started to feel.

  The week taught me there was more to me than my resume. Again and again, I pitted myself against the unknown and, in one way or another, I survived. I felt more alive during the previous week than I had ever felt before. I wasn’t ready to give it up.

  “I’m not the man you married.”

  “I know that. We all change as we get older.”

  “I’m not sure what kind of person I’ll be when I get out of prison. I can’t make the promises you want me to make. Actually, I don’t want to make them.”

  “Fuck you. Your Maria is dead or gone. What are you telling me?”

  “I can’t make these promises. I’m a different person than I was last week.”

  “Fuck you and your hippy-dippy philosophy! Fuck you and your precious Maria. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  ***

  That night Richard came to me in my dream. Hey, Daniel, my man. Dey treating you okay? Didn’t I tell you dat woman be trouble? You take care of youself.

  I woke up in a cold sweat. If only Maria would visit. Why didn’t she call?

  Beth arrived Friday morning wearing her business suit and a new, short hairstyle.

  “What’s this?” She pulled an envelope from her purse. It was the one I sent on Saturday.

  “It’s a letter and a key to a safe deposit box.”

  “What’s in the box?”

  I lowered my voice, “Money, lots of money.”

  Beth adjusted her volume to match mine. “How much?”

  “About $600,000. Enough to send both girls to college.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  She thought for a moment. “This has something to do with drugs and the Cartel you’ve been talking about, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to know, and I don’t want the money. Take it.” She pushed the envelope onto my chest.

  “What about college?”

  “It’s not worth it. I don’t know what you’re involved in. I want no part of it.”

  “Beth, I’m — ”

  “What? You’re sorry? It’s too late for remorse. I asked you for three promises. Do you have anything more to say about that?”

  “No.”

  “Goodbye, Dan. You’ll hear from my attorney.”

  ***

  They moved me to a rehabilitation hospital the following week. A week after that, Beth’s lawyer, an earnest young man, presented the divorce papers. That same week, deputies wheeled me into a courtroom. With the help of the lawyer from the public defender’s office, I pleaded guilty. The judge sentenced me to six years at the Frostburg, Maryland minimum-security prison.

  My lawyer told me I could get out in three years with good behavior. I looked forward to jail. I was destitute, homeless, and about to be incarcerated, but in my mind — I was free.

  Epilog

  Frostburg Federal Minimum Security Prison,

  Frostburg, Maryland

  August 1, Two years in prison

  Two years have passed. My leg healed, and I walk the prison yard every day. On a good day, I can do a mile. Surprising to say, I’m enjoying my time in jail, and with good behavior, I’ll be out in twelve months.

  My companions are all white collar criminals. Each one has an interesting past. Each crossed the line separating right from wrong, legal from illegal at some point and they all had good, “higher” reasons for doing so. We talk about this in our group counseling sessions. The counselors want us to confront our mistakes and resolve to do better. We’re all convinced our biggest mistake was getting caught.

  I dream about my twin passions — flying and Maria. The two are inseparably linked. On some nights I can almost feel Maria sleeping beside me. On other nights, I’m back with Richard, flying in the rain.

  When I’m outside, I listen for the sound of a single-engine plane, and when I hear one, my heart skips a beat.

  My daughter Amy hasn’t forgiven me and wants nothing to do with me. I wasn’t there for her when she broke her arm. She never writes or visits. Sara comes when she can and writes often. Recently, she told me Beth is dating a nice man, a lawyer. He’s one of her father’s associates. I’m happy for my ex-wife.

  ***

  Two years, two months in prison

  Another two months have passed. Ten months until my release. I have no idea of what I’ll do when I get out.

  ***

  Two years, five months in prison.

  Seven months until my release.

  Today everything changed. After breakfast, I went to my mailbox hoping for a letter from Sara. Instead, I found a picture postcard. The front of the card showed a beach scene with palm trees and a grass shack. It was a standard tourist postcard with the imprinted words, “Negril, Jamaica.” On the back, I found the words, “Wish you were here,” in a woman’s handwriting. The letter “M” had pride of place below it.

  Underneath the M were the words, “Relax Mon” in a man’s heavy handwriting signed with the letter “R.”

  The End

  (Maybe)

  About the Author

  Howard Hammerman grew up on a farm not far from New York City. His love of flying started, when, as a youngster, his father bought him a 15-minute ride on a bi-plane. Many years later he became a private pilot (instrument rated) and owned his own Cessna Cardinal. His fascination with people and the choices they make in their lives started in college Sociology courses. He taught college then became an analyst with the US government hoping to make a difference in the world.

  He has been a freelance statistical consultant since 1990.

  Howard, his artist-wife Helen and their dog traveled the country for several years in their motor home before settling in Sarasota, Florida, where they enjoy the support for creative arts of all types.

  Flying Blind is his first novel.

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