Closer All the Time Read online

  I light up, blow smoke toward the wind sock.

  The owl hangs around; nobody scares him off, which is good, because it gives me something to think about besides failed flying careers, or old failed romances. It works sometimes, anyway.

  Other times I can’t help myself, like when I find out Katie and her husband bought the farmhouse out by the old quarry. I have to wonder if living there ever makes her think about me. See, we hung out there some. There was a sandy place behind an outcropping where we’d put a blanket down. I’d lay my hand on her ribs, move it up. She’d hold her breath. It got her going, making out in broad daylight, even if hardly anybody ever showed up besides us and the Russians who used to live over there.

  But our big romance only lasted a couple of months. When I went to Florida to get my twin-engine rating, everything changed. Like, out of sight, out of mind. First, she stopped taking my calls at home. Then she quit work, so I couldn’t call her there. Finally I got the note that said straight out she was now in love with Chris Cousins.

  Not only that, they were getting married.

  “I’m so sorry,” she wrote. “It happened so fast. I’ll always remember this summer, though.”

  How about that for a kick in the ass? I quit the course cold, checked out of the motel, and drove straight through to her parents’ house, twenty-three hours. I banged on the door, but Katie wouldn’t open it wide enough to let me come in.

  “Oh, Russell,” she said. “It’s not like I planned it or anything.”

  “Chris Cousins?” I said. “The old used-car king?”

  “He sells new cars, too,” she said.

  The family mutt tried to bust past her to see me, but she blocked him with her hip and closed the door so all I could see was her eyes and nose. I heard the mutt go clicking off over the hardwood floor.

  “Are you going to dress up funny and go on TV with him?”

  “Please don’t be bitter.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I hoped we could still be friends.”

  I laughed. Then I shook my head.

  “What the hell,” I said. “When’s the wedding?”

  “Please, Russell,” she said, and eased the door shut.

  The next time I saw her was at the damn wedding. That was the last time, too.

  At least it was memorable. Their little faces turned up like sunflowers, the minister first, then Katie and Chris Cousins looking over their shoulders, and then everybody else. Then they all hit the deck. I must have come within fifty feet of them before I banked up and around the church steeple and roared off down the river.

  Shortly thereafter I started my little trek across the country, getting work here and there, leaving and moving on, heading west, finally making it all the way out to Alaska.

  I never did get my twin rating.

  The kid’s young wife shows up one night. She blushes and looks down when he introduces us, before hustling her into the commuters’ back room.

  I sit down at my counter and listen to the metal Avis sign squeaking from its pole on the roof. It’s gusty, and I wonder suddenly if the owl is okay. Then I wonder what exactly brought him here in the first place. Drought? Famine? Fire? A broken heart?

  I laugh and walk over to the other side of the room and put my ear to the door. The kid’s talking low to the girl.

  I think about them getting married so young and wonder about Katie, who wasn’t a whole lot older when she took up with Cousins. He had her by at least ten years, which was another thing I could never figure. It did me good to catch him on TV one night and see how his age was starting to show. He was sitting on an elephant, joking about trunk space, and he’d put on weight and his hair had thinned.

  I still didn’t get it. Katie loved to go flying with me. When it was nice we’d head down the river and swoop over the islands with their spiky firs and white beaches. The water would look like a heavy wet fabric in the sun. Katie would clap her hands at the view. But then I went to Florida, and she fell in love with Chris Cousins.

  Maybe she just liked luxury sedans better than high-wing Cessnas.

  I walk away from the kid’s door and look through my reflection at the wind sock. I see the plowed runway and the snowbanks and the white fields and the trees. It looks like Alaska now even without the owl, and after a moment I wonder how old Dora’s doing. I picture her stomping around the yard, feeding the birds, and after a bit I follow an impulse to give her a call and tell her about my visitor. I forget that it’s still the middle of the night in Nakasuk, but Dora never worried too much about sleep anyway.

  I bring up the owl right away. “He’s been around almost every day.”

  “Huh,” she says. “Funny, I had one here too, but he took off.”

  “Maybe it’s the same one.”

  “Well, listen,” she says, “find your own damn owls.”

  I laugh. “How’s everything else going?”

  She briefs me on how so-and-so was back in jail. How such-and-such was running for state legislature. How what’s-his-name married that Inuit girl he’d knocked up.

  “And Strnad was asking about you,” she says.

  “Where’d you see him?”

  “At the snowmobile race.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “To see if you wanted to do some scenic flying.”

  “Kid stuff,” I say.

  “Different insurance, he says. It could get you going again, maybe.”

  “Maybe.”

  Then there’s one of those awkward pauses.

  “Well,” I say, “probably should let you get back to sleep.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Good night, then.”

  “Don’t work too hard.”

  We have some mild weather, but just when I’m starting to think about spring, a couple of storms blow through and knock us right back where we started. The snowbanks rise and the woods are deep and quiet.

  At work things slow down to a crawl. There’s still the commuter flights, though, and I empty the ashtrays and mop the floor and rent the occasional car. I prep the 206 for Lambert’s charters and stay around to work the radio when he comes back late.

  One morning he calls me at work and says, “So you comfortable flying the two-oh-six?”

  “Got a thousand hours in them.”

  “I know, but you ain’t flown them much lately.”

  “Because you’re a stick hog.”

  “It’s just that they’re used to me.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “I’m good to go.”

  “I don’t need it racked up.”

  I don’t even bother responding to that. Frigging Lambert.

  “Okay, then,” he says. “There’s a trip popped up for this afternoon. I’ve got my father moving in with us today, and there’s no way Susan can handle that by herself and watch Tomi and Little Roger at the same time.”

  “No sweat,” I say. “Where am I going?”

  “Portland,” he says, and now there’s something funny in his voice.

  “What?” I say.

  He laughs. “It’s your old buddy.”

  I think a minute. “Cousins?”

  “He’s doing a new commercial down there. Can you handle it?”

  “I can if he can.”

  After he hangs up I walk out from behind the counter and over to the window. It’s gloomy and gray and looks like snow again. The owl’s back on the pole, but he’s lost some of his white because of the warm spell, and now he looks a little out of place.

  “Chris Cousins,” I say. “How about them apples?”

  The owl ruffles his feathers, leans off the pole, and takes a turn over the field.

  I imitate his flight with a hand, banking it through the lobby air, letting it lift and stall. I feel the kid watching from his counter, and can almost see him shaking his head and rolling his sleepy eyes.

  At two o’clock I taxi the 206 out of the hangar. It’s been snowing lightly, and I leave precise tracks
on my way to the intersection. I thump down the runway, yank myself into the air, bank into a turn for Portland.

  I’m in the stuff the whole way, flying instruments. It’s a headwind, too, which slows everything down. Finally I descend into Portland, breaking out well above minimums. I land and taxi past the main terminal to the little brick General Aviation Terminal and see the bulky shape of Chris Cousins, standing at the edge of the ramp, hands in the pockets of his long coat.

  Just as I cut the engine a woman walks out of the terminal to join him, all bundled up in a winter coat and hat. It’s Katie. There’s no mistaking her gait: slow, with her shoulders back, like she’s inspecting the troops. I guess Lambert forgot to mention that she’d be coming along.

  I take my headset off and hang it on the yoke, slide my seat back, pop the door, and climb out.

  Cousins sees me and points, and they head over across the ramp.

  Katie passes under the wing before she looks at me. Snowflakes are preserved on her black hat, and her cheeks are pink from the cold. She looks pretty nice; a bit of a double chin, some new crow’s-feet, but nice. She looks good enough that my old heart starts to thump.

  Her own gaze is friendly and impersonal; she’s just looking because I’m not who she expected. Then her eyes open wide.

  “Russell?” she says. “Oh my God!”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Lambert couldn’t make it.”

  “I didn’t even know you were back in town!”

  “I’ve been trying to keep a low profile.”

  She laughs, puts her hands on her hips, and stares at me. Her pocketbook slides from her shoulder all the way down to her wrist.

  She turns to Chris Cousins. “Do you have any idea who this is?”

  Cousins makes a how-would-I-know face.

  “This is Russell Barnes!”

  Cousins still doesn’t get it.

  “Our wedding!” Katie says.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “That was you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  He looks at Katie and back at me. Then he grins.

  “Well, what the hell,” he says. “Long time ago. And we did get a good story out of it! Katie still tells everybody she meets about the poor brokenhearted pilot who buzzed our wedding!”

  “I do not!” Katie says. But she smiles.

  Cousins winks.

  “It was pretty damn creative, at least. And you just did your thing and left, you didn’t hang around like somebody else I could mention.” He nudges Katie. “Remember the Swede, honey?”

  “Oh, Lord,” she says.

  “Who’s that?” I say.

  “I forget his name. Some townie. Lumsden?”

  “Lunden,” Katie says.

  “Yeah, Lunden, but we called him the Swede. Lived up over the hardware store. We’d see him looking out the window all the time. Rode this old Scout around. Katie was nice to him once or twice, and he never got over it. He’d sit across the road and watch the house. If we went somewhere, he’d follow. We’d look in the rearview mirror and see that damn fool on his bike.”

  Suddenly I remember the Indian, coming out of Katie’s road. An older guy, maybe Lambert’s age. A guy I’d seen roaming around other places, one of those loser types you see in every small town. He’d give me a grin and a little salute as we passed one another, and I used to wonder about that.

  “You sure could pick ’em, honey,” Cousins says.

  “Christopher,” Katie says.

  “Present company excluded!” Cousins says quickly.

  “Don’t worry about it.” There’s a gust and I feel snow on my face. I squint up into it. “Well,” I say, “we should probably get moving.”

  “Is it bad?” Katie says.

  “Just a little snowy.”

  “Is it going to get worse?”

  “It’s supposed to get better.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Cousins says. He wags a finger at me. “No dive-bombing, though!”

  “You got it.”

  We all laugh very congenially and Katie holds out her hand. I take it and put my other hand on her back and brace her while she steps up into the plane. It takes a little more effort than I expected. But I get her in, and she squeezes behind the pilot’s seat and moves over. Then Cousins grabs the strut and hauls himself up beside her.

  I wait until they snake their seat belts into place, climb in, shut the door, and look over my shoulder.

  “We ready?” I say.

  “Roger Wilco!” Cousins says.

  I fire up the engine, and as we taxi out toward the runway I go through the standard briefing about exits, seat belts, and unlikely events. I don’t know if they’re listening or not. I’m barely listening myself.

  We’re in the weather again and it’s like the trip down: gloomy, a little bumpy, nothing but slanting snow. We drone along and I listen in the headset to Cousins and Mrs. Cousins talking about all the excitement they had in the big city. I keep an eye on the instruments and think back about Katie and me.

  I think about our brief romance and the letter I got, and remember how I drove straight through to try and talk her out of getting married. I remember the poor dumb mutt who still loved me. And then buzzing the goddamn wedding.

  I realize that it doesn’t feel quite so devastating anymore. I think about the Swede and the two of us coming and going, and Cousins lurking around, and who knows who else, and my perspective keeps shifting until it actually starts to hit me funny. I mean, here we all are now, jammed into this little Cessna! I think about shoving Katie up into the plane, and Cousins squeezing in beside her, and the old Swede riding around somewhere with her initials probably tattooed on his ass.

  Right after that’s when we bust out on top of the clouds. We’re sailing along through bright sunshine under a brilliant blue sky, with the clouds rolling away beneath us like snow-covered foothills. A few minutes later they start to break up too, and I can see the pine forest encircling white meadows and stark little towns.

  I smile back at my passengers and point out the window. I give them a thumbs-up and turn back to the yoke, and after a bit I’m close enough to Baxter to call in on the Unicom frequency.

  The kid answers, sounding sleepy as always. “Nobody’s talking. I guess it’s all yours.”

  “How about the owl?” I say.

  “He’s not talking either.”

  “You’re funny,” I say. “Seriously, is he around?”

  “Ain’t seen him all day.”

  “Good,” I say. “Ten minutes out.”

  “Roger Lambert,” he says, and we both laugh.

  I swing into a turn over the bay and fly up the river. It narrows under me and twists and turns through the woods. I line up over Primus Blake’s old red-roofed barn and head northwest, and thirty seconds later pick up the runway, an incongruously straight swath through the trees west of town. I pull back the power and take us on down.

  On short final I look around for the old boy, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Just in case, though, I touch down at the very end of the runway: a perfect soft landing.

  “Nice job,” Cousins says through the headset.

  We taxi in to the terminal and park in front of the hangar, and I get out and chock the nose wheel.

  Cousins grunts, wriggling out of the backseat. Katie holds her hand out and he takes it this time and helps her thump down. Then they both turn and look at me.

  “It was nice to see you again, Russell,” Katie says.

  “It was lovely,” I say.

  “No hard feelings, eh?” Cousins says.

  “Nary a one.”

  Cousins smiles and takes Katie’s arm. She flutters her fingers at me and they turn and walk toward the terminal, Katie with her slow general’s gait, Cousins sort of waddling beside her. I feel the smile stretching back onto my face, and I watch until they’ve gone through the fence gate into the parking lot. Then I march over to the hangar door.

  Inside I go to the workbench, check my watch, pick up the phone.<
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  “Hey, Potato Face,” I say when she answers.

  It’s just before dawn on the morning I leave. We’ve had a week of thaw and the snow’s all melted away. Roger Lambert helps push the 180 out of the hangar and tries one last time to get me to stay on. I tell him I’m sorry to leave him in the lurch, but I just can’t do anything about it right now.

  “Tell me it’s not that Katie Jones business,” he says.

  “Not the way you think.”

  He shakes his head and limps out of the way. I look into the lobby, see the kid watching through the plate-glass window. I give him a salute, climb into the craft, and fire up the engine. It roars and smooths, and I feel the slight lift of its backwash.

  I nod to Lambert and motor out, watching the rpms and the oil, setting the altimeter. I swing onto the centerline, check how the compass lines up. Everything’s perfect, and I make my call and push in the throttle. I feel a bump, the tail lifts, trees blur by. I pass the wind sock and nose away from the ground and I’m free, rising and dipping a wing to turn. I cross the river and swing back over the town. I come around past the steeple, head her northwest and look down at my shadow, fluttering over the landscape below.

  Roger Jr.

  Roger Jr.’s grandfather never said a word until they passed the lot where the old train station was coming down. Then he leaned sideways and snapped, “Arrêtez!” so abruptly and commandingly that Junior’s father hit the brakes. Tires screeched behind them and he quickly took his foot off the brake and yanked them over to the curb.

  A Buick skinned past with a woman’s red face in its window. Junior’s father threw the gearshift into park and stared straight ahead.

  “It’s all right, Roger,” Junior’s mother said.

  His father kept staring. Junior could hear him breathing.

  Beside Junior the old man pointed shakily at the lot, where a big wrecking crane was slinging a heavy leaden ball into the clock tower.

  “Là-bas!” the old man said. He never spoke English anymore.

  Junior’s father worked the gearshift and pulled ahead, so they were better aligned against the curb. There was a bang and everybody looked as the clock tower fell in on itself.