The Pilot's Wife (21 page)

She tried the fourth number again.

“Hello?” the same woman said.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Kathryn said quickly, before the other woman could hang up. “But I’m trying to locate a Muire Boland.”

Eerily, there was a similar silence to the first. Something was in the background. Music? A dishwasher? And then Kathryn heard a small sound from the back of the woman’s throat, like the beginning of a word that might be spoken. Followed by another silence, shorter this time.

“There’s no Muire here,” the voice said finally.

Kathryn thought there might have been a delay between her thoughts and her voice, because by the time she opened her mouth to speak, the line had gone dead.

When Robert found her in the morning, she was sitting at the table in the front room. The sun had come up, and the snow outside the windows was so blisteringly bright Robert had to squint to look at her. In the glare, she could see every line and pore on his face.

“It’s bright in here,” he said, turning his head away. “Sometimes you need sunglasses in this room,” she said. “Jack used to wear them.”

She watched as Robert tucked in his shirt.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “And you?”

“Great.”

She could see that he had slept in his clothes. He had probably been too exhausted to get undressed, she thought.

Adjusting to the light, Robert seemed to see her face more clearly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Kathryn sat forward in the chair.

“I’m going to London,” she said.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t hesitate at all. “I’m going with you,” he said.

T
HE
TABLECLOTHS
LIE
SPREAD
ACROSS
THE
FIELD
, a giant’s patchwork quilt. Knots of families sit on the cloths with paper plates or real silverware, iced tea in plastic ther-moses. Small children run along the grassy pathways, sometimes through the middle of another family’s lunch. Kathryn opens the picnic basket, an old pie basket of Julia’s, and takes out grapes and Terra Chips, pita bread and hummus, a wedge of Brie and a small rectangle of something smelly. Stilton, she decides, sniffing the cheese. Not far from her, Jack stands talking with two other fathers. The day is overcast, slightly muggy, and already the blackflies are annoying. Kathryn watches as Jack bends his head and listens to men who are smaller than he is. He has a cup of soda in one hand; the other is in the pocket of his jeans. He laughs and lifts his head, catching Kathryn’s eye. Behind the laugh, she can see the slight strain of sociability, the good-natured question in his eyes: When will this be over?

Farther across the field, Kathryn spots Mattie standing in a huddle with a group of friends, her arms crossed and wrapped at her sides as if she were cold, which she is not. It is simply being fifteen and not knowing where to put one’s hands. Mattie’s face, which is familiar and yet not to Kathryn, seems a work of art in transition, its shape newly elongated, the mouth no longer pouty from braces.

— Good turnout, Barbara McElroy says from an adjacent blanket.

Kathryn takes in the McElroy menu at a glance: fried chicken, supermarket potato salad, coleslaw, Fritos, brownies.

— Better than last year, Kathryn says.

— They’ll do the softball game, don’t you think?

— If it doesn’t rain.

— Mattie’s gotten taller, Barbara says, looking in Mattie’s direction.

Kathryn nods. — Is Roxanne here? she asks. And then wishes she hadn’t, for Roxanne, a slender fifteen-year-old with a lip ring, almost certainly wouldn’t be seen at the annual school picnic. Kathryn occasionally speaks to the girl, who is wildly truant and heavily endowed with attitude, in the corridors at school. Barbara will be here then for Will, her seven-year-old, Kathryn decides. Barbara’s husband, Louie, a cod fisherman, is often away, gone for long stretches at a time.

Like Jack, Kathryn thinks.

— Your grandmother has a wonderful old pie safe in the window, Joyce Keys calls from the cloth just beyond Barbara’s. Kathryn takes in the Keys picnic as well: curried rice salad, cold salmon, Perrier, Martha Ingerbretson’s
konfetkakke.
Joyce and her husband, James, are architects with their own firm in Portsmouth. Keys & Keys.

The whole social history of the town just in the picnics, Kathryn thinks.

— I haven’t seen it, Kathryn says.

— Jack’ll play, won’t he? Barbara asks.

— Oh, I think so, Kathryn says.

She watches her husband dip his head to speak to Arthur Kahler, the owner of the Mobil station, Jack’s sometime tennis partner. It is why his back so often bothers him, she decides; he’s always bending to listen to others. He has on a white polo shirt, a pair of boat shoes. Another uniform of sorts. He slaps behind his ear, looks at his hand, flicks a blackfly from his finger. He sees her watching him.

— I’m starved, he says, coming to her and lowering himself to the blanket.

— Should I get Mattie?

— No. She’ll come by when she’s ready.

— You’re going to play softball?

— I guess so, he says, pouring himself another soda.

— You always think you’ll mind and then you love it, she teases.

He runs his fingers up and down her back. The touch is unexpected and delicious. She wants to bend her head forward and close her eyes. He hasn’t touched her in days.

— Actually, I could use a nice cold beer right now, he says, dropping his hand.

— At a school picnic?

— Doesn’t seem to bother Kahler.

Kathryn glances in Arthur Kahler’s direction and notices now the large red plastic cup in his hand.

Kathryn hands Jack a half moon of pita bread with hummus inside.

— Martha said he was going to close the pumps next week. Put in new ones. We’ll have to go to Ely Falls for gas.

Jack nods silently.

— But, of course, you won’t be here, Kathryn says, remembering that Jack will be away for two weeks — in London for his twice-annual training session.

— No. I won’t.

— You know, I could go with you on this one. School ends next Wednesday. I could fly to London and meet you there. We’d have almost a week together. It’d be fun.

Jack looks away. The invitation hovers over the tablecloth like cigarette smoke on a wet day.

— We could leave Mattie with Julia, Kathryn adds. — Mattie would be thrilled to get rid of us for a week.

— I don’t know, he says slowly, turning back to her.

— I haven’t been to London in ages, she argues. — And never for any length of time.

He shakes his head. — You’d hate it. These training sessions, they’re endless. We spend all day in the simulator. We have classes at night. We eat with the British crews. I’d never see you. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.

— I’m pretty good at entertaining myself, she says. And then she wonders suddenly why she needs to argue this proposal at all.

— Then what’s the point of going when I’m over there? he asks somewhat dismissively. — You might as well go by yourself.

Stung, she bites the inside of her cheek.

— Listen, he says apologetically, — I’d just be frustrated the whole time, knowing you were back in the hotel, knowing we could be doing London together. These sessions are bad enough. I don’t think the extra pressure is a good idea.

She studies his face. A handsome face, a face people turn to look at when they walk by.

— I’ll tell you what, he says. — Why don’t you come over at the end of the session, and we’ll go to Spain. I’ll take some time off, and we’ll fly to Madrid. No, better yet: I’ll meet you there.

He seems more animated now, relieved to have worked out this compromise.

— We’ll do Barcelona, too, he says. — Barcelona is great.

— You’ve been there? she asks.

— No, he says quickly. — I’ve just heard about it.

She thinks about a trip to Spain with Jack. It would be enjoyable, she knows, but Spain isn’t really what she had in mind. Jack will still be away from her for two weeks, away from Mattie for longer. She wanted to go to London.

Over Jack’s shoulder, Kathryn can see that Barbara McElroy is watching her intently. Barbara, who knows what it is like to be left for long periods of time.

— Sounds like a date, Kathryn says, forcing a note of cheer.

— Hey, Lyons, a voice calls from above the blanket. Kathryn looks up and squints into the glare of the overcast sky. Sonny Philbrick, a man with a pronounced beer belly under his Patriots T-shirt, kicks Jack playfully in the foot.

— Hey, Sonny, Jack says.

— So how’s the airline business? Sonny asks.

— Oh, fine, Jack says. — How’s the video business?

— Hangin’ in there. So where you off to now?

Kathryn busies herself with the picnic.

Jack draws his feet in from the edge of the tablecloth. He won’t stand up, she knows, because he doesn’t want to encourage Philbrick. Philbrick’s son, who is Mattie’s age, is a slight boy with a pretty face — a chess wizard, possibly a prodigy.

— London, Jack says.

— London, huh?

— London, Jack repeats. Kathryn can hear the effort to be polite in her husband’s voice. They both know where this conversation is going. The same place all of Jack’s conversations with men like Philbrick go.

— For how long? Philbrick asks, looking straight at Kathryn.

— Two weeks, Jack says.

— Two weeks! Philbrick bends backward in mock surprise.

— You over there with those stewardesses for two weeks, man, you better behave yourself.

Philbrick winks slyly at Kathryn. Philbrick would have been the class bully in school, she decides.

— Flight attendants, Jack says.

— Hey, whatever.

— Actually, Jack says slowly and evenly, — I try to screw around as much as I possibly can.

For just a second, Philbrick’s face loosens with incomprehension. Then he grins, jabs the air with his paper cup. He laughs too loudly, causing others to look up at him from nearby blankets.

— Lyons, you’re something else, you know that?

There is an awkward pause then. Jack doesn’t respond.

— Well, see you at the game, Philbrick says. — You’re gonna play, right?

Jack nods, turns toward the picnic basket as if looking for something inside. Kathryn watches Philbrick walk away.

— Jesus, Jack says under his breath.

A
T
THE
GATE
,
THEY
STOOD
APART
FROM
THE
OTHERS
. Beyond the plate-glass windows, large mounds of improbably still-white snow stood guard over the apron. Robert had his overcoat folded twice and set upon a molded plastic seat. He had put his overnight bag on top of the coat (something a woman never would have done, Kathryn thought), and he was reading the
Wall Street Journal.
Kathryn held her coat over her arm and examined the plane in front of her, tethered to the gate by its accordion umbilical. The plane was pretty, she thought, white with bright red markings, the Vision logo written in a snappy script. The T-900 was angled in such a way that she could see into the cockpit, could see men in shirtsleeves, their faces in shadow, their arms moving along the instrument panel as they worked their way through the checklist. She wondered if she had ever met any of the crew before. Had they come to the memorial service?

Her feet hurt, and she wanted to sit down. But to do so would have meant sandwiching herself between two overburdened passengers. In any event, there were only minutes left until they boarded. Kathryn had on her black wool crepe suit, her funeral suit, and she resembled, she thought, more a businesswoman than a schoolteacher. A lawyer, possibly, headed to London for a deposition. She wore her hair in a loose twist, and she had on pearl earrings. She had her leather gloves in one hand and a black chenille scarf around her neck. She thought she looked rather good, under the circumstances, certainly more put together than she had in weeks. But she had lost weight in her face and knew she looked older than she had twelve days ago.

That morning, after she had told Robert about her proposed trip to London, she had driven over to Julia’s to tell Mattie of her plans. Mattie had been painfully indifferent to Kathryn’s trip. Her only lucid comment, amidst sighs and a muffled groan of exasperation, had been a dismissive
Whatever
.

“I’m only going for two days,” Kathryn had said.

“Cool,” Mattie had said. “Can I go back to bed now?”

In the kitchen, Julia had tried to explain Mattie’s seeming indifference.

“She’s fifteen,” said Julia, who had been up for hours. She was dressed for her day in a pair of jeans with an elastic waist and a green sweatshirt. “She has to have someone to blame, so she’s blaming you. I know it’s irrational. You don’t remember this, but for a time, right after your parents died, you blamed me.”

“I did not,” Kathryn said heatedly.

“Yes, you did. You never said it outright, but I knew. And it passed. Like this, too, will pass. Right now, Mattie wants to blame her father. She’s furious with him for leaving her, for upsetting her life in such a drastic way. But blaming him is out of the question. She’s practically his only defender. Eventually, Mattie’s anger will slide away from you and find its proper target. What you need to do is to make sure the anger doesn’t come about full circle so that she begins to blame herself for her father’s death.”

“Then I should stay,” Kathryn said weakly.

But Julia had been adamant that Kathryn should go. Privately, Kathryn understood that Julia wanted to get her out of the house not for her sake, but for Mattie’s.

As the widow of a pilot, Kathryn was entitled to fly on a pass wherever Vision went, in the first-class section whenever seats were available. She gestured to Robert to take the window, and she stowed her luggage under the seat in front of her. Immediately she became aware of the stale air inside the plane, with its distinctive artificial smell. The door to the cockpit was open, and Kathryn could see the crew. The size of the cockpit never failed to startle her: Many of them were smaller than the front seats of automobiles. She wondered how it was possible for the scenario suggested by the
CVR
on Jack’s plane to have taken place. There seemed hardly room for three men to sit, let alone move around and have a scuffle.