The Secret Life of Wings

"Is that the way you remember it? Really?"

"Yup."

"I was scared as hell, dad. And I thought you were halfway out of your mind to just sit there..."

He chuckled when he heard that. "I had that old Smith & Wesson sitting in my right hand, was kind of hoping that snake'd do something stupid so I could shoot it's silly ass."

I shook my head. "But you said..."

"I know what I said, and I meant it, too. I was saying that for Sumner's benefit, but it's something to keep in mind. I guess you did, too, over there. You gotta follow your training when things start to go bad, but that'll only take you so far. Instinct counts most when things are really circling the drain, and that's what always impressed me about you. You got a lot of that from me, but more from your mother."

"Mom?"

"Yes! Mom! That's the best woman that ever lived out there, and don't you ever forget that. Turned her back on her country to come live with me, on everything she knew. She built a home full of warmth and love, for me, and, well, all of us. Sumner would have never had the time with me he had if it hadn't been for your mother. She insisted..."

"She...what?"

"That's right, Ben. She – insisted. She found out somehow – I never asked – but she was the one who told me I'd had a boy with Mrs Tennyson, and that it was my duty to help raise my son. She told me I had to do everything in my power to help that boy make his way in the world. And I tried, Ben. I really did. But I should have never encouraged him to fly. He just didn't have it in him to be a pilot..."

"But...what about 'the secret life of wings?' The laughter?"

"Oh, I don't know, but you see...I told him about that once, about how it happened to me, and I did that before I ever took him up. I think, maybe, he read something into that, that he'd fail me in some way if he didn't hear all that stuff. Maybe when I told him that I laid the foundation for what happened over there..."

"That's not my take on things, dad. He'd made exec of his squadron by the time I was there, and everyone thought he'd make CAG in a few years. He was..."

"A mediocre pilot, son. Smart as hell, a good organizer, straight A student from the day he was born, but he was never half the pilot you were. You were always..."

"Dad, what's all this got to do with tomorrow? I mean, why talk about all this right now?"

"I figured, well, we haven't talked much...you and I. It always seemed to come hard for us..."

I looked down – because I knew exactly what he meant. Even that hilarious night down in Mexico: I'd wanted to ask him about how he knew about that place; how many times he'd been there; how many times had he cheated on mom? Yet the thing was, I simply couldn't. We didn't have that kind of relationship, and I thought about that as I looked at him – laying in that creepy hospital bed. By the time I knew him well enough to ask about these kind of things, I'd assumed a sort of supplicant's role to him. He was the Naval Aviator and I was in so many ways his student, and while I could ask him questions – all those queries had to be focused on the matter at hand. Academic things, mostly, then flying as we grew into one another. I admired him not as a son admires his father, but rather as a pupil regards his professor. Respectfully, I suppose, and never once did I, or even could I have questioned such received wisdom. Maybe all this sounds odd, but consider he was in effect my flight instructor – even before he really was – and that what he taught me, the instincts he passed on to me were vital, indeed life saving skills. Reflecting on this as he lay there, I wondered what he was trying to teach me now.

+++++

He lay there sleeping in the CICU, rows of monitors whirring and chirping to an unseen cadence, and all of us watched as one of his colleagues pulled the sheet down and showed us the taped wound that ran down my father's sternum. Mother and Mrs Tennyson left the room when they saw that, but Tracy leaned over and looked, all the while asking questions and looking very professionally engaged. I, on the other hand, saw something very disturbing, and after a few minutes had to leave the room.

I saw, you see, mortal frailty for the for time, as I looked at a respirator doing the work of breathing for my father, and at the dry, loose skin on his hands. Those hands that had pushed a smoking Corsair through the skies off Japan, the immense skill required to sink submarines and shoot down an insurmountable number of aircraft, then land on a carrier – all right there for the world to see. There was an IV taped to the top of his left hand now, clear tape holding it in place, his blood caught between his skin and the tape, and when I saw that blood my world reeled out of control. My father, I could see clearly now, would die someday, and the world had no idea what it would lose. The skill he brought to flying, and to war, then the skills he had harnessed to turn and engage a new enemy: human mortality. He was a fine surgeon, and had brought about a world of good through his efforts, yet one day all his flesh and blood would simply cease to be.

Why? Death was simply absurd, and I hated death as I looked at him.

I went out and sat between my mother – and my brother's mother, and they looked at me, intuitively knowing what I had just seen. Women, I suddenly realized, were the heart and soul of humanity; civilizations for good or ill had flourished – or perished – by the voice given to the needs of a woman's heart. I sat between them, took their hands in mine and closed my eyes. I felt someone daubing tears from my cheeks a few minutes later, and opened my eyes to see Tracy standing there looking very concerned.

"He wants to talk to you," she said, and I went in.

"Looks like Mexico is going to have to wait a while, son."

"Well, I ain't goin' without you, so you'd best get on getting' better."

He laughed. "Ought to be good to go in a few weeks. How're the women?"

"Rock solid."

He nodded his head. "That's the beauty of this life, son. We carry on so, do all the heavy lifting and think we're the bedrock of civilization, but it's the women who carry the real load." He chuckled again, took a breath and winced, then looked out to the waiting area where Tracy and my mother sat. "Mrs Tennyson? She doing okay?"

"She is, but it's hard, dad. Looking at her, knowing she loves you as much as mom."

He sighed. "You know, we were never together after that once. I never wanted to, and I don't think she wanted to, either, but that's the funny thing. We had a child together, and I love her for that. I always will, too, but not like I love your mother..."

He talked about the little things he wanted me to help his mother get done before he came home; a way to move about the house in a wheelchair for a few weeks, a hospital bed rented and put in his study...that kind of thing, and I watched him issuing orders like he might to any cadet – or unwary ensign – and I had to laugh.

"What's that about?" he asked.

"You, Captain. Still giving orders, aren't you?"

And he laughed too. "Guess I always will, son. At least until you do."

I nodded my head. What else could I say?

"So, when are you two going to get around to finding Sumner a little brother?"

"Oh, we're working on that, dad. As much as we can, as a matter of fact."

He lay there, looking out the door at Tracy, and he sighed again. "Funny how things work out, isn't it."

I turned and looked at my wife – at 'the brother I never knew I had's' wife, and I could only agree.

+++++

Dad went home a few weeks later and life returned to something like normal – for a while, anyway – but to me it felt like an uneasy truce had been hastily arranged. Between my father and death, you might say. The burden of living seemed to shift to my mother during that time; dad was uncharacteristically depressed those first few months at home, but she told me that it was fairly routine for post-cardiac patients to hit the skids when they came home from hospital. She said it had something to do with coming to terms with their past, and the changes needed to carry on. New routines: a new diet, no more cigars, no smoking his beloved Meerschaum pipes in the backyard.

And he said it best: "It's all 'no this' and 'no that' and who the fuck wants to live like that!"

My usual reply went along the lines of: "Well, I'd kind of like to see you hang around a while longer..."

He'd grumble on hearing something like that, then start talking about flying down to the Tennyson ranch and driving the old FJ down to Boy's Town, but the uneasy truce held. I'd go back to work and he'd sneak out into the backyard and sit under his favorite pecan tree, listening to limbs swaying on a summer breeze – while he looked over his shoulder and pulled out his favorite pipe.

Two Christmases later we came to their house with Sumner's new little brother in tow, yet their's was still a full house. Mrs Tennyson, as always, came up for the festivities, and now my dad's mother was living with them. He was working again too, but not as before; he was instead teaching full time at UT Southwestern, yet even so spent most of his time perfecting new heart-lung bypass machine technology in there labs. 'Little' Sumner was five that year, and Tracy was in the middle of her first year of med school, so my mom was doing daycare at their house, taking care of two kids and an almost ancient in-law. She was making a highly unorthodox Christmas dinner too, at least by our family's standards: turkey and dressing (no oysters), green bean casserole and some sort of canned cranberry goop (no whiskey added) and while Sumner finished ripping through his presents dad asked my to join him in his study. When he closed the door behind us my heart sank – over the years only the worst news was delivered behind closed doors, and I assumed nothing had happened to change all that.

"Can you get a few days off next week?" he asked as he sat behind his mahogany desk.

"Well, I'm off through Tuesday, then gone Wednesday and Thursday, back on Friday, off again Saturday. What's up?"

"Some kind of lesion under my tongue, in the gums too, I think. My guess is it's squamous cell, and I've got an oral surgeon lined up Monday to do the biopsies."

"Is that bad stuff?"

"It ain't good."

"Mom know?"

"Nope, and let's keep it that way – for the time being."

"Understood."

"Pick me up Monday morning, would you? Say around 0300. We should be home be eight." Both hands patted the arms of his chair and he looked satisfied, still in control of his world. "So, how're they treating you at work...?"

And so began dad's last, most furious battle.

+++++

I was with him again that next Friday, Tracy and mom too, and he read the pathology report to us in his study. At certain key passages I heard my mother's sharp intake of breath, and by the time he was about to read the conclusion my mother got up and left the room.

They'd best remove the tongue as soon as the procedure could be scheduled, and lymph nodes in the neck biopsied at that time. A further surgery, to remove half his lower jaw, should be considered at this time, as well. This second procedure would, the report advised, necessitate a bone graft from the hip, to replace the excised jaw and provide structural rigidity for further tissue grafts...

When he finished he looked up, rubbed the bridge of his nose as he coughed a little, then he looked at me. "Of course, I'm not going to do any of that shit."

"What?" His daughter-in-law (times two) cried. "What are you going to...?"

"Nothing. Not a goddamn thing."

She didn't understand, not at all – but I did. He'd been doing thoracic surgery for thirty years, and that had included more than his fair share of oncological cases. The bottom line? He knew the score and had absolutely no intention of being hacked away piecemeal...a jaw here, a tongue there...until the cancer spread into his spine and lungs. He told us that he'd probably have two to three months of a relatively pain free existence...then?

"And then what, dad?"

"Oh hell, maybe I'll take up skydiving, or underwater balloon racing..."

Neither Tracy nor I laughed at this gallows humor, but his eyes were clear and his smile bright, and it was New Year's Eve after all, and there was a baby-sitter on board to handle the domestic chores while we slipped out and brought in the New Year together. A friend of his, the president of a bank downtown, had invited us up to The Petroleum Club, a somewhat exclusive (ahem) two story affair on the 50th floor of his building. We were invited to have dinner and dance away the evening with the city spread out below – like amber-hued diamonds on a vast carpet of black velvet, and while I listened to dad talk about the night ahead it was all to easy to think that this was just another Friday night.

But of course it wasn't.

True to form, my mother carried the load that night – as she would for the next few months – and I'll always remember their dance. A jazz trio of some repute – piano, upright bass and drums – set the mood, and after dinner he took her out for a spin on the floor. We watched for a while, then I stood and took Tracy out there too, and after a few numbers together we changed partners.

Mother's eyes were alive – yet worn and full of concern – and I could feel an almost frantic energy in her hands and arms as she clung to me, yet she never said a word about what was dancing in the air all around us. She never gave voice to her fear – or her husband's choice, but at the end of our dance together she kissed me on the cheek and whispered "Thank God you're here..." before she stepped back into my father's arms.

I held Tracy close as we walked over and looked out the curtain of glass. A heavy snow was falling, wind-driven ice pellets slamming into the glass and I don't know why but I thought of that night over Kamchatka...of ice on the wings and the canopy, and really, just how close to death my own little world came that night.

I saw Tracy's reflection in the glass, saw tears streaming down her face, and for a moment I thought I saw Sumner there in the glass, asking me to take care of his wife.

+++++

"Why don't you take the left seat," he said – and I didn't know what to say. This was a first, for in all our years flying together I'd never once flown left seat. That was the pilot-in-command's seat, the captain's domain, and this left seat was, and had always been – his, and his alone.

"No, that's alright dad. I'm used to flying right side these days. Go ahead, you go up first."

I followed him up onto the wing and into the old Baron, helped him get his seat belt fastened, then I called out the checklist while he got ready for take-off.

"One-niner golf, ready to taxi," he said – and how many times, I wondered, had I heard him say those exact words over the years. There was a symphony of memory in his voice, countless hours flying all over the country embedded in those words, and yet I knew this was going to be our last trip together. The last time I'd hear him speak those words.

"You take it, son," he said, and I taxied out to the active, did the engine run-ups and told the tower we were ready to go.

"You want to take it, dad?" I asked as I looked at him, but he was looking out at the left wing and I saw him shake his head. Pulling out on the runway I advanced the throttles and watched our instruments as we gathered speed, and as we climbed into a crystal clear March morning I could hear his laughter...

"Do you hear them?" my father asked me, but I had to turn away from him just then, because it's so damn hard to smile when you're crying.

+++++

Once upon a time, seven years after my father passed, I took my sons and daughter up for the first time in that old Beechcraft. Sumner was up front of course, by my side now, while Scout and Jim sat behind me looking excitedly out their windows at the wings that would carry us up into the sky. I buckled them in and pulled out the checklist, the same checklist I'd used for decades, the fading laminate now yellowed and peeling in places, and I started down the list checking off items one by one. When the engines were running and we were ready, I got on the radio...

"One-niner golf, ready to taxi," I said, and Sumner was looking at me intently as I spoke those hallowed words. I smiled at him as I advanced the throttles and taxied for the active, then focused on the way ahead.

"One-niner golf, you're clear for an immediate take off," the tower advised, and I turned onto the runway and ran the engines up for a quick check before I eased off the brakes. The old Baron ran down the runway and I pulled back gently on the yoke, then with a gentle lift she climbed back into the sky once again.

I heard my children laughing while the gears retracted, then Sumner turned away from looking at the wing out his window, and he looked right at me.

"Did you hear that?" he asked me, the huge smile I saw in his eyes now so familiar face. It was so easy to see in this light; his face was my father's, his seeking eyes were as easy and clear.

"Oh? What did you hear, son?"

"I'm not sure, but for a moment it sounded like Grampa Goose."

I nodded my head, because I'd heard him too, just as I looked over the wing out my window. The sun was bright that morning, and for a moment I saw my reflection in the glass, but then I saw another face in the glass, my dad's laughing eyes – up to face an endless sky once again.

(C)2016 Adrian Leverkühn | abw