Uncontrolled flight, p.22
Uncontrolled Flight, page 22
November is no one’s favourite month in this city, and Sharon, who can apply no superlatives to the west coast, understands why. It’s the overcast, humid days like this one that push young fortune seekers and white-haired retirees back to their former homes in Edmonton or Ottawa or the sun-kissed prairies, where for the rest of their lives they proclaim that Vancouver is beautiful but unliveable.
Haywire, wonky, topsy-turvy. Outdoors, too, the world feels off. The damp air cools her skin and carries a bite, like chilled fruit, yet she moves through it like a sleepwalker. Three times she rounds the park at the end of her street, past the pond with its shooting fountain and the tall grasses that shush in the breeze. Three times she passes the secluded corner of the park where, under the spreading arms of a red oak, one week before he died, Rafe asked to come home. She dreams of this oak tree from time to time, on her worst nights. She dreamed of it during this morning’s fitful sleep.
That July day was sweltering, even in the shade. The wind picked up enough to rustle the leaves but not enough to stir the air around them. It was humid, Toronto-hot; Sharon’s hair hung limp under her straw hat, and rivulets of sweat trickled between her breasts. In the end Rafe begged her to take him back, his shoulders straining with effort. “I’ll do anything,” he said. “I’ll give up firefighting, go back with the airlines so you’re not alone so much. We can go back to Toronto, we can go home.” Good. She wanted him to beg. After what he’s done, he owes me, she thought. She was still furious that day — it is obvious to her now — furious that he had left her, furious at the how and the why. And yet. Twenty-three years she had spent married to this man, more than half her life. After that much time together, how can you just walk away? So much pleading under this oak tree, so many promises, and when she finally told Rafe yes, he wept.
Today, standing across from the shady oak, she is no longer flayed by the loss of a future that never came. The pangs have settled into a dull and steady throb. Today she tries out an idea that has formed since Will’s visit, an idea that is simple but changes everything: Rafe intended to come back to her all along. It is the best and perhaps only explanation for why he kept their separation from Will. Not telling others at work she understands: they had agreed not to advertise the decision, besides which, Rafe would never willingly announce to his co-workers that he had failed. But to hide it from his partner? She has examined the facts every which way and she is certain of it. He would pretend with Will only if deep down he knew their split was temporary, if he meant from the outset to come home.
He meant to come home. The ramifications of it open her ears, at last, to what Rafe said over and over under the broad, leafy tree: that he loved her, had never stopped loving her. He had lost sight of his feelings, but they were always there. She was his one true love and she always would be. Her acceptance of his declarations, her belief in them, warms her on this chilly, wonky November day. Rafe never fully left her.
The realization is a gift from Will. He has, without knowing it, returned Rafe to her. So to Will, who also loved Rafe, Sharon will give the gift of omission. She will preserve for him the Rafe he knew, noble and loyal. She will never tell him everything.
* * *
By three o’clock she has pulled herself together: showered, fixed her hair, done her face. Slipped on a pair of low-slung, slim-legged jeans, a rose-coloured cotton vee-neck, and a flared black cardigan. From a dresser drawer, where she stuffed them under the turtlenecks so useless here on the mild west coast, she unearths the garnet earrings Rafe gave her on her fortieth birthday. Looping around her neck a crimson scarf shot with silver, she rechecks the mirror. How would a stranger rate her? Acceptable, she decides. Not striking, never beautiful, but presentable.
By three o’clock she has also read a chapter of her library book, a thriller set in working-class Edinburgh that she cannot follow. She has boiled the kettle so it will reheat quickly later on; scrubbed the toilet in the main-floor powder room; synchronized her watch and all the clocks with the time on her cell phone; smoothed lotion onto her hands, frowning at freckles that suspiciously resemble age spots; and picked up and put down the cruise brochures, no closer to a decision about Christmas.
Even though she is waiting for it, the peal of the doorbell startles her. Get a grip, she tells herself. Her heart beats so rapidly that she worries the movement will show, like the twitching of a nervous bird.
“Hello,” she says at the same moment Will says, “Hi.” They laugh.
“Come in,” she says.
“Thanks for inviting me,” he says at the same time.
She steps aside to let him into the narrow vestibule, along with the crisp cologne of autumn that comes with him. As he passes, his arm brushes her shoulder. She feels it in her stomach.
He peels off his jacket as he enters the living room and sits again in Rafe’s chair, the jacket on his lap. In the space of two weeks he has undergone another transformation. His reddish-brown hair is inches shorter and neatly combed. The scruffy beard is gone, a hint of stubble in its place. She notes an absence of stains on his jeans and red golf shirt, and although his clothes still fit loosely, his bare arms are ropy with muscle, the short sleeves riding up over rounded biceps. A faint smile eases the lines on his face and he looks almost handsome again. Heat flares inside her and she worries she is blushing.
“Can I hang that for you?” she asks, afraid that he will say no, he’s not staying.
“Um, sure.”
She carries his jacket to the front closet, grateful for a moment to steady herself. The fleece zip-up is charcoal-coloured, soft to the touch, the sleeves far longer than the arms of her coat next to it. She quickly closes the closet door to shush the message of the touching coats: she and Will are together.
Don’t be ridiculous, she tells herself. He is Rafe’s partner; that is the only connection. He’s practically a boy, and she is a drifting widow with no desire, just empty hours and a head full of memories.
Back in the living room, she sits on the edge of the sofa and tries to think of one sensible thing to say. The coffee table is scattered with brochures. Will notices. “Taking a cruise?”
“No. I’m not a fan of cruises.”
“That’s a lot of literature for someone who’s not a fan.”
“I guess.”
“You ever been on a cruise? I don’t remember Rafe talking about one.”
“No, never. He wasn’t a big fan either. He was probably more of a not-fan than me. I mean, he was less interested than I was. Am.” She looks up to find Will’s light hazel eyes on her and instantly drops her gaze. “Ready for some tea?”
“Sure. Let me help this time.”
“No. Absolutely not.” She hurries out before he can protest.
In the safety of the kitchen she switches on the kettle, gets down the cups and saucers, pours milk into a small pitcher. Her hand trembles and Will’s cup makes a tinging sound against the saucer. For God’s sake, she’s as skittish as a schoolgirl. On tiptoes, she tries to extract the tray from the cupboard above the fridge.
“Here, let me get that,” she hears behind her. She comes down off her toes, starts to twist toward him, and puts too much weight on one side. As her knees buckle, strong hands grasp her upper arms from behind. “Steady there. Were you into the strong stuff before I got here?”
Will’s grip melts her last shred of composure. From her mouth comes a soft bleat, a sound she has never heard before this day and would give her left foot to take back. If it were a hundred years ago she could end her humiliation by collapsing in a faint, but being a modern woman and not prone to unconsciousness, she simply stands there, back turned, as his hands slide off her.
“Here.” He reaches over her and takes the tray down, so close that his smell of soap and sweat and warm cloth tickles her nose. She prays that she might remain silent.
Will sets the tray down beside the kettle. “So were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Into the strong stuff. Before I got here.”
“You got here at three o’clock. I’m not that far gone.”
“What, it’s against the rules to drink before three?” A dimple dents his cheek.
“A widow drinking alone in the afternoon, yes, I think some rules might be broken. There would certainly be cause for concern.” She is aware of how prissy she sounds, the stereotypical finger-wagging librarian. “Why? Would you like a drink? Stronger than tea, I mean?”
“Only if you’ll join me.”
Her stomach flutters in a way it hasn’t in years, maybe decades. Maybe not since her first taste of something stronger at the grade nine winter carnival, gym awash in paper snowflakes, when Keegan Banks, the boy she liked most, tipped a pint of lemon gin in her direction. Several sips later, when the first slow song drifted across the gym’s hardwood floor, he asked her to dance and she grew up by years. She could still taste the bitter citrus as he bent to kiss her later, in a dark corner by the lockers. Whatever happened to Keegan? They dated for a few months until his family moved to Wisconsin, and that was that. She hasn’t thought of him in years. How can someone who was once at the centre of your life vanish? Someone whose lips touched yours, whose tongue traced your collarbone?
She accepts that her mouth has gone dry in a way no tea will rectify. “I don’t have much to offer,” she says. “Some white wine, maybe a little rum from Christmas.” She bends down and rummages in a cupboard. “Oh. It seems there is scotch.” She holds up a bottle of Glenlivet 15.
His eyes crinkle. “Quarter past three. Are we allowed now?”
It’s good that he is teasing her. So much better than being scoured out with sadness like last time. She hands him the bottle. “It’s the drinking alone part I’m concerned about. If you’re here I’m not alone, am I?”
“There’s one or two people might disagree with you. But technically, yeah, you’re off the hook.”
Sharon points to the cupboard that holds the glasses, and Will pours two astonishingly large drinks. “Good lord.” She gets the ice tray from the freezer. “Better throw a few cubes in mine. Girls?”
“Sorry?”
“The people who might disagree with me, are they girls?”
Will smiles as he cracks ice into their drinks. “Well, women.” He hands her a glass.
“Women, girls. At your age either one fits.”
“What do you mean, at my age?”
“I mean … at your age. I’m never sure what to call females under, say, twenty-five. Girls is too juvenile, like kids with dolls, not to mention demeaning to some. But women sounds too old.”
He regards her quizzically, as if she were a not-too-bright pupil. “I’m not in my twenties. I was Rafe’s partner for a decade and I had a career before that. It’s not like I was flying as an infant.”
Sharon tilts her glass. The scotch sears her throat, and she coughs and sputters and remembers why she never drinks the stuff.
“So I’m a kid? Who here can’t handle the grown-up drink?”
“This is why I prefer tea. It’s a nice, dignified beverage.”
“Single malt is dignified. It’s the drink of princes.” As if to illustrate, he swirls the scotch before taking a long, slow, noiseless sip.
“Tea is the drink of princes. At least the British ones.”
“Tea, scotch, Ovaltine, Dubonnet. They’re not fussy. They drink whatever’s lying around the palace.” Will sets down his glass and leans against the counter. His legs are long, she notes, longer than Rafe’s.
“Dubonnet? There’s a strange choice.”
“One of Her Majesty’s favourite drinks. Dubonnet-and-gin cocktail.”
“You’re making that up.” Sharon tries another taste, barely moistening her mouth. Her lips tingle.
“Google it. You figure a child like me wouldn’t know anything about our sovereign lady?” His cheeks dimple again.
“Okay, I give up. I didn’t mean that you’re young like a child. Just young er.”
“I’m thirty-six. Not much behind you. You’re forty-three? Forty-four?”
“Forty-four. How do you know?”
“I was with Rafe when he bought those.” He nods at the garnet earrings that dangle below her upswept hair. “In Prince George. He couldn’t make it home for your fortieth so he wanted to get you something extra special. He looked at every pair in the store before he picked those. Guess it was a big deal, the big four-oh.”
A very big deal. She says nothing.
Will misinterprets her silence. “Summer’s a bad time for a birthday if you’re married to someone in our line of work.”
She lets out her breath, unaware that she was holding it. “He did his best. We celebrated whenever he got time off. It was fine.” She picks up her glass. “Let’s sit down.”
She feels Will behind her as she heads back to the living room. The afternoon has dimmed the corners enough that she switches on a table lamp. They take the same seats as before, Will in Rafe’s armchair, she on the sofa, but this time she chooses the end farthest away from him.
What is with her? Why is she sitting way over here? It will look ridiculous if she moves now, so she will have to stay put, even though it means practically yelling to be heard. Her body is behaving without input from her brain; she has no idea what she is doing. She readies herself for anything, an anthropologist observing an unknown tribe.
“That was Rafe’s chair.” She says it too loudly, misjudging the distance, and the comment hovers like an accusation.
Will scoots forward on the seat. “Sorry, I didn’t know. Should I sit somewhere else?”
“No, no. Please don’t. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looks uncertain. “Really. Don’t listen to me. Half of what comes out of my mouth these days makes no sense, not even to me.”
He settles back tentatively and sips his scotch. With his other hand he feels the arm of the chair, the gold-coloured fabric smooth from use. “It’s a comfortable seat. I can see why he’d like it.”
“It fit him well. He wanted something that didn’t make him feel like a giant on a toadstool. His words.” She smiles, remembering the dozens of armchairs Rafe had sat on, leaned back in, and pronounced too puny. “That was a long time ago. Back in Toronto, when we bought our first house.”
“So he was … built up back then?”
“Oh, yes. He lifted weights before I ever came along.” She remembers the shadow Rafe cast over her car the afternoon they met. “It was like a religion for him. He never missed a session. If he had early or late flights — this was when he was on a regular schedule with Canadian — he’d go to the gym either first thing in the morning or last thing at night. He even worked out when he had a cold, not that that happened often.”
Will nods. “There’s a gym at the Kamloops fire base. More like a storage closet and a few weights. That’s where you’d find Rafe when we weren’t in the air. Not like the rest of us, reading books, playing cards, shooting the shit, what have you. When we were away in the field, he always used the motel gym. He’d get so mad if we were in a place that didn’t have a fitness room.”
“Tell me about it. Wherever we travelled, we had to stay somewhere with a gym. If there wasn’t one, say we were at some inn or B and B, he had a routine. As soon as we woke up he’d pile the bedcovers on the floor, like a mat, and he’d do a hundred push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, and a hundred leg lifts on each side. And he’d be cranky all day because he didn’t get a proper workout.”
Will chuckles. “He lifted people sometimes. There was this camp cook for the ground crew in the Kootenays, a French girl from Quebec. Every time we crossed paths with them Rafe would lift her right over his head. He’d do sets of ten and she’d count in French. God, we laughed at that.” He gazes out the window, the dusky interlude before the streetlights blink on. “He used to cart me around too. Put me in a fireman’s carry and jog up and down the runway. He was one strong guy.” He tips his glass for the last amber drop.
Sharon stares at the warm pool beneath the table lamp, the only light in the room. Whether it’s the scotch or the solace of reminiscing about Rafe, her restlessness has finally subsided.
“I miss him,” Will says softly.
She curses the distance she has created by sitting at the far end of the sofa. “I know.” Again she berates herself for having forgotten about Will all these months. “I should have been in touch long ago. You were such a good friend to him. I think … I was so busy missing him that I never thought about you. That’s no excuse. I’m sorry, Will.”
“God, don’t be sorry. Not you. You’re the one whose life totally changed. You were together so many years, half your lives. What I am —”He stops and massages the area between his eyes. “It’s nothing compared to that.”
“Will.”
“I’m not looking for sympathy. That’s not why I’m here.”
“I know that. But you have every right —”
“No!” It comes out strangled. “I have no right. None at all.” He rubs the arm of the chair again, back and forth, as if sanding rough wood.
Abandoning decorum, she moves down the sofa to sit nearer. “Why would you say that? He was your partner, your friend. Of course you have a right to miss him.”
When he finally looks at her, she sees the toll of his attempt to stay in control. The cheerful mask is gone, the tormented man revealed. “You don’t understand.” He bites his lip, waits a beat. “That morning, when he came into sight, there I was in the cockpit, watching. Same routine we do every time, every day. He dipped a bit low, but he did that, you know? Just to show you he could. Then all of a sudden he nosed down. Just touched the trees, barely touched them, but that’s all it took. It was over. Just … over. And what did I do?” He looks at his hands, clenched in a knot. “Nothing, that’s what. It’s like it was on TV or something and I was … in the audience. Through the whole thing, the whole goddamned thing, I just sat there and did nothing. I let it happen.”
