So Many Stars

That doesn't happen all the time; in fact it's really quite rare for someone to come to the upper deck before we open the door, and Ainley looked at me, I looked at André -- who looked weird in his hooker makeup -- and I decided to go to the door and check out the view through the peephole.

"Man in uniform," I said. "Military, I think."

The man knocked again, a little more insistently this time. "Open up, please," the man said. "I have a priority dispatch for you."

I unlocked the door, not quite ready to believe Sheep Shit Airways had a priority re-tasking from the Saudi military, and opened it slowly. "Howdy, Tex," I said, hiding my disbelief as best I could, "what's on your mind?"

The man, a full bird colonel in the Saudi Air Force, handed me the paper in his hand and I read it, shook my head then handed it to André. The colonel was staring, wide-eyed, at André, and he was -- I feel sure -- not quite ready to believe he was looking at a four-striper wearing heels and make-up, then he turned to me again. "Fuel trucks are on the way," he said. "How soon can you depart?"

"That depends on how many rules you want me to break."

"Yes," he said, "the hours involved put you over the clock. Still, a hefty bonus has been paid, and the King would very much appreciate this."

"No doubt," I said, stifling a yawn, thinking of dinner and and a movie -- in bed.

"We have filed a preliminary flight plan," the colonel added helpfully, handing me another sheaf of paper.

"Swell," I think I added. "Y'all don't have something you could handle this with?"

"No, nothing. Not even Emirates. Again, the King would very much appreciate this..."

"Gotcha. Well, about a half hour to get loaded, so I guess as soon as Texaco gets over here and puts some gas in this thing we can skedaddle."

"What?"

I shook my head. "We should be wheels-up in 45 minutes, give or take."

The colonel smiled, seemed very relieved and shook my hand, then ran down the stairs and disappeared.

"Seems like somebody's ass is in a wringer," I said -- to no one in particular...

"I'd like to put his ass in my wringer," André said, licking his lips.

I don't know. There are some days when weird just seems to be the new normal...know what I mean?

+++++

When I left the navy I got on with Northwest Orient and went straight to 747s. Enjoyed the training, the somewhat less regimented atmosphere in the cockpit, but it was the stewardesses that got -- and held -- my attention those first few years. The girls were a revelation back then too, and I don't want to seem too sexist here, but after six years in uniform they were just sexy as hell and their "come fly me" persona came close, on more than one occasion, to driving me right out of my skull.

Minneapolis Tokyo, Tokyo Minneapolis, like a Duncan yo-yo doing end-over-end loops on my way to infinity, the only social life I had revolved around layovers in Japan. That is to say, I had a lot of fun with stews, and I think I came to be known as the kind of happy-go-lucky type, always ready to go out for drinks and dinner, and, I assume, could be counted on if one of the girls wanted to get laid. The reputation stuck, too. I never took these relationships seriously, and the girls I was with never did, either, and as a result I was happy as a clam -- and I became a dedicated, completely confirmed bachelor. I didn't want to get married, had no desire to have kids or a dog; I wanted to be free of all attachment, free of commitment, free of house payments and most of all, free of the specter of divorce lawyers and alimony.

It seemed to me, back in the 80s and 90s anyway, that every couple I knew was in a marriage that lasted about five years. I didn't meet many who were happy, even before their marriage came apart in balls of flaming wreckage, and all that misery took me back to my parents.

What I remember most when thinking about my parents is that they should've gotten a divorce long before I came along. Dad was away a lot of the time, making runs to West Texas or Louisiana, and my mother started drinking when he was away. Then she started drinking all the time, and as if that was just a prelude to the main performance, she started fucking all the time. And not fucking my father, if you know what I mean; then the rumors started, all the sidelong glances and whispered accusations -- and in a small town that's lethal. When dad was home he was sullen, then increasingly angry, but dad was a Marine and the word Duty was always up front and center in his mind. Divorce wasn't an option, so I grew up on a battlefield, the engagements playing out in slow motion, the wounded carried off to mend -- so they could live to fight another day. Some days I came home from school and found mom in bed, fucking her brains out with some engineer or truck driver passing through town; other days I found her passed out on the kitchen floor, and empty bottle of bourbon by her side. I'd get her to bed and cook dinner, do my homework and watch some TV, going in to check on her from time to time.

But some nights she'd get weird. I go into her room to check on her and she'd sit up in slurred delirium and reach for my belt buckle. A sudden gush of filthy expectation would spill out over my world and I could see into her heart, see her broken dreams then, and a part of me wanted to hold onto her, tell her everything was going to be okay...

But I couldn't. Not really. Because I wasn't sure, not in the least, that anything would ever be okay in our little corner of the world.

Then one night I was checking on her when dad came home unexpectedly; he helped me tidy her up and we talked about things for a few hours and the next day when I went to school he drove her into San Antonio and checked her into a hospital. When I came home I found him on the sofa in the living room, a pistol in his hand.

"What's that?" I said as I looked at the stainless Smith & Wesson, suddenly feeling more than unsure about life and love and the meaning of existence, but it was the look in his eyes that got me. Faraway, distant and unfocused, like he'd seen a great truth -- and didn't like the view. He put the pistol back in it's box and looked up at me, said something about going to the Dairy Queen for dinner, like nothing unusual had just passed between us. But something had changed, something big and dark, a shadow lurking in the night between us and things were never the same after that.

+++++

I could see a convoy approaching the left side of the 747; Hummers broke off and surrounded the aircraft -- then the loading operation was underway. Fuel bowsers were hooked up, and once anti-static leads were confirmed, Andy went aft to supervise the refueling. André and I entered data for the run to Stuttgart into our flight management computers, and a half hour later I looked down to check on progress -- only to see a stretched Mercedes S600 -- black, of course -- as it pulled up ahead of the wing. The door opened and all I saw was leg, and even from up in the cockpit I could tell I was looking at an extraordinary, world class leg, a drop-dead gorgeous leg, and when the second slipped into view...okay...I was well and truly impressed. The rest of the woman attached to the legs was pretty nice too, in an upscale, sunglasses and Hermes scarf sort of way, and I watched her black dress ascend the exterior stairs and disappear -- and curious now, I shook my head and wondered what the hell was going on.

"What next? Kangaroos?" I sighed.

"Oh, you'll get used to it," André chuckled. "One of the benefits of the job."

Now just what the hell did that mean? A woman hadn't been mentioned in the dispatch. No, not a word, and yet André's words seemed to imply this was a more than regular occurrence...

Oh, joy. What the hell had I gotten myself into this time?

+++++

I'd been flying for Northwest about ten years when life presented one of it's first 'Payment Due' reminders, and everything about the next few years caught me off guard. Unprepared, clueless even.

I'd just bought a small condo in downtown Minneapolis, a fun place, visually interesting. An old railroad warehouse, huge but strong as hell, the building had been converted into lofts and I bought a two bedroom unit. It was located near the Mill District, looked out over the river -- well, it was just my cup of team. Brick walls, hardwood floors, tin ceilings so high you could barely see 'em, and soon enough I was bringing stews home or meeting gals downtown and all in all life was pretty good.

Then I got a call from mom.

"I need you to come home," she said -- and my heart sunk.

"Is dad okay?"

"Yes, he's fine, strong as a ox and twice as stupid, but he's fine."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not going to talk about this over the phone, so just come home, Jimmie. As soon as you can."

"Mom?" I said, hating it when she called me 'Jimmie.' "Is it an emergency, that kind of 'come home' thing. If it is I can ask for leave, if not..."

"It is. Get down here as fast as you can."

Four hours later I was in coach, sitting in the back of an ancient 727 as it taxied for the active, wondering just what the hell my mother was drinking.

+++++

Another knock on the cockpit door; I see Colonel Smiling Face standing there with Madame Hot Legs in the shadows. Open door, do my best not to appear annoyed, am utterly unsuccessful when I try not to stare at Hot Leg's legs.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"You're new to this, Captain Stewart..."

So, he knew my name. What else did he know?

"...so let me explain." He handed me a manilla envelope. "This is your passenger's passport and a ticket to New York. See that she gets off the aircraft in Germany with as little interference as possible; after that she's of no interest to us anymore." He seemed to pause and turn his head a little, as if he was speaking for the woman's benefit, not mine, then he handed me three more envelopes. "For your trouble," he said as he turned and walked back down the staircase.

Each envelope was labeled -- with three names, mine included -- and when I looked inside mine I whistled.

"See," André said, grinning like a snake, "you get used to it."

+++++

It's about a thousand miles from Minneapolis to Austin-Bergstrom International, call it two hours and some change, and home is not quite 50 miles from the airport. Hop on Highway 71 and head ESE for an hour and you're there, Deep in the Heart of Texas, land of chicken-fried steak -- smothered in cream gravy -- and dilly bars. Highest cholesterol levels on the planet are found in East Texas, and it may just be a coincidence, but perhaps that's why most of the best cardiologists in the world work in Houston. Quite a monkey dance, ain't it?

Home, such as it is, didn't look too different these days, either. The high school wasn't where it was supposed to be, yet something new had sprung up west of town to take it's place, something really big, a sprawling thing you could look at and be forgiven for thinking it was a prison. The Dairy Queen was gone, but there were a couple of smart looking coffee places on the main drag, and yes, the railroad was still there, splitting the town in two -- kind of like a stake driven through a vampire's heart.

There was a fresh coat of paint on the house, and the yard had recently been mown. The pecan trees seemed fatter, more lush than I remembered and, indeed, the landscape I saw seemed a little more alive than the last time I saw it.

Yes, call it seventeen years since I'd left, seventeen years since I'd seen my mother.

Dad?

He came to my graduation in Austin, and again, after I finished my jet transition training program at Pensacola. We kept in touch, in other words, and he filled me in things going on around town. He would always love my mother, or so he said, but here and there, in between the lines I caught wisps of that lingering, smokey anger in his words. I pulled up to the front of the house and looked around, looked around the houses and trees as a dusty parade of unwelcome memory began, a marching band of hopes and dreams that somehow always passed me by.

Then the front door opened. The same front door my great grandfather used to open on his way to work. That I had walked through coming home from school, when I found that other parade marching by, strangers in my father's bed, doing things to my mother I'll never forget.

And my father was standing in that doorway, looking at me. Just staring, clearly at a loss, like I'd been gone for a few hours and was late for supper.

I remember thinking this, and only this: 'Why am I here? What did I do to deserve this?'

The door closed behind him and he walked out to the door and I rolled down the window. He stuck his hand in, his right hand, and I looked at it, wondered what to do.

"Hey, boy. You gonna stay out here all day?"

I left his hand hanging there and got out of the car, walked around and gave him a hug. It didn't feel right not to -- and I figured if I hugged him he wouldn't be too upset if I ignored mom.

"Got a bag?" he asked.

"Yeah, Pops. I'll get it."

We went in and mother was sitting there -- and on the sofa across the room?

Nancy-Sue Travis. She of long walks under starlight, my playmate of the mouth. Sitting on the same sofa my mother used to pass out on, sitting under an afghan mother'd knitted for my seventh birthday, her feet curled up under all her naked fragility. Her skin was gray, eyes sunken into her head, and her hands and feet were orange, around her eyes, too.

And for once, I had just enough sense to keep my fucking mouth shut.

+++++

The flight director said it was 2457 nmi from King Khalid International to Stuttgart, not quite six hours to the threshold. We'd fly over Damascus, Nicosia, Sarajevo, transfer to EuroControl as we approached Zurich and, assuming no change in the weather, make a straight in approach to runway 25.

Our cargo?

A 1955 Mercedes 300SL, the mythical, so-called Gullwing model, silver with a red interior. The King's favorite, now due for an oil change. Yes, that's right. Twice a year, whether needed or not, this car was hauled to the airport and flown to the factory -- for a little TLC -- and then back home a week or so later. It was tied down now over the main wing spar box, and there wasn't one speck of dust on it. Anywhere. I know, because I checked.

Our passenger?

One Miss Samantha Taylor, US citizen, born and raised outside of Fresno, California.

After I went down to drool all over the King's Gullwing, I stopped off and introduced myself.

"Jimmie Stewart?" she said, laughing. "You're not serious?"

"I am."

"You're not, like, related, are you?"

"Yes, he's my little brother."

She laughed, again. Everyone does every time I crack that joke.

"And yours is Samantha?"

"No, it's really Kate, Katherine Hepburn," she feigned.

"Ah, so Tracy it is. And where is C K Dexter Haven?"

She smiled at me when she heard that. "I bet not many people get that one," she said, then she crossed her legs and I tried not to stare. So of course she caught me staring.

"Well," I said -- blushing madly, "the colonel seemed kind of happy to see you leave. What's the story?"

She looked away, sighed. "You want the short version?"

"I've got to get back to the cockpit in a half hour. If I don't reset the autopilot we'll crash."

"So, you're a smart ass, too? Gee, this is going to be so much fun."

I took the hint and nodded, stood to leave and she looked away, out the window and into the night.

"Sorry we don't have meal service, but I'll try to check in with you in about an hour." I turned and left her in the gloom, but I heard a mumbled "Don't bother" and decided to take her at her word.

+++++

Mom and dad left us alone, left Nancy-Sue on the sofa and me standing there -- clueless. Again, as always.

I wanted to ask her how she was doing, what was happening with her, all the usual questions you'd ask someone you'd loved once but turned away from, but all her answers were right there in front of me, staring me down, daring me to ask.

She pointed to a space next to her on the sofa, so I came over and sat.

The first thing she did was take my hand in hers, and kiss the tips of my fingers. She was crying when she did, and I felt lost, bereft in that moment -- because I knew she was saying goodbye, and I knew something had gone terribly wrong with my life when I stopped caring for her, and in that moment we were back out under the stars. Walking along, alone in the moment, just the two of us.

It had been all so clear to me, my life, the way it had been mapped out for me. I was supposed to have graduated, gone to work for the railroad and come home to her every night. Live the life my mother and father never had, find the goodness they'd never shared. The life I'd wanted for them, for us. For me. I had to make things right, that had been my charge, and I'd turned and run away. I'd run away from Nancy-Sue, and all that was supposed to go right in life.

And the first thing she said to me?

"God, how right you were to leave this place, to get away from all the lying and hating and cheating..."

I didn't know what to say.

But she did.

"I wish I'd had the strength to leave when you did." She squeezed my hand just then, and she looked away for a few minutes, then turned back to me and said: "I should have gone with you, you know...I should have..."

But no, I thought, she'd have never made it out there, she had been better off staying with the familiar, surrounded by the people and places she'd grown up with. I knew I'd been the one to break the faith, that 'home' was never going to be right for me -- because mine never had been.

And I tried to tell her, but in the end there was no way I could say something like that to her. And even if I had, I doubted I could make her understand -- because I wasn't sure I did. Not then, anyway. I sat there thinking about all the 'what ifs' and 'might have beens,' yet the simple truth of the matter was simple, so very easy to see: I could not -- or would not come to terms with the anger that still defined my feelings about this place, and I never would until I could look my mother in the eye and tell her how much I hated her, how much I resented what she did to all our lives.

Then Nancy-Sue pulled my hand to her face and kissed it again. I could feel it then, the illness running wild under her skin. I turned to her and held her close, and for a few minutes I wanted it all to be okay. The way it might have been, should have been...

And then she whispered in my ear...

"I want you to meet somebody."

Her name was Alice, and she was seventeen. She was, it turned out, my daughter.

+++++

About halfway through the flight to Stuttgart, somewhere over Greece, there came a knock on the cockpit door and André walked over and unlocked the door. I heard him talking to Samantha -- I assume asking for a few pointers on how to apply eye-liner -- then I felt her behind me, peering over my shoulder -- trying to look out the windshield.

"I've never seen anything more complicated in my life," she said. "Are you sure you know what all these buttons and things do?"

"No, not really, but I carry one of those Idiot's Guides with me...you know, How to Fly a 747 Without Really Knowing How To Fly? I can get you a copy from Amazon, if you're interested."

"Asshole."

"Yes, I've got one. I'm sure you do too. At least you give every indication of having one." Then I turned and looked at her.

Nope, she wasn't having any of it...any of my bullshit. She was just looking out the glass, staring at the night sky from seven miles on high. A grain of sand skimming along a rock hurtling through space.

"God, there are so many of them...?"