| Short Stories |
| Stories From a Childhood in Maine |
| Essays |
| Poetry - Haiku |
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...continuedAlvin thought of his father and it felt good, and it hurt, and it felt a hundred other things. He missed him already and it had only been three hours since he left home. In the rear, seated by himself, McChesney tried to think calm. The motion sickness medicine worked but it didn't lessen his fear. The fear waited like a cancer, eager to escape and overwhelm him. McChesney hated the fear more than the plane. There was a jerk, then the plane moved slowly back from the building and turned to face the runways which were becoming less and less visible. All the noises of the airplane were magnified by McChesney's fear. Each separate bang of the struts over the uneven cement apron, the rumble of the tires, the whine of the engines, were alien and dangerous. To Alvin Thomas, it was music. This was escape, excitement, adventure, freedom from the overpowering shadow of his older brother, David, who had already been everywhere, done everything. FLT 402 took off and climbed steadily into the rain and darkness. Meteorology said the ceiling was fifteen thousand feet, so Captain Duckhorn had requested nineteen thousand for the flight. When they reached nineteen thousand they were still in the soup. He turned to First Officer Neilsen, who nodded his head up and down sadly, as if he expected it all along. As storms go it wasn't bad. Mild turbulence, visibility nearly zero, but no pilot is ever really comfortable flying blind, and despite their understanding of the electronic gadgetry that penetrated the darkness, they preferred to see with their own eyes. "Neil, call sector control, see if you can get us more altitude." Duckhorn adjusted the weather radar. "Ask for twenty two thousand. It didn't take long to get clearance and they finally broke free into a clear sky lit by a pale three quarter moon on the rise. To the west the storm clouds were painted by the setting sun in a dazzling display of extraordinary beauty. In the rear of the plane, Prince T. McChesney saw none of this beauty. The first thing he'd done when he sat down was close the window shade. He sat rigidly, hands clenched in his lap, eyes closed, hating the plane and especially people who pretended to like flying. He tried every mental trick he could think of but the fear was primal, beyond understanding. He desperately wanted Sherry to sit with him and talk. If they talked maybe he could forget about being thousands of feet above the ground in a frail device that might crash at any moment. But he couldn't ask. He wanted to, but he couldn't. As soon as the seat belt sign went off Sherry went forward to check on Alvin and Mr. Genoa. The old Italian was reading a travel guide to the state of Washington. She knelt effortlessly by his seat. Her movements were neat and graceful. Alvin wondered if they taught her how to do that. "How are you doing, Mr. Genoa?" She had a genuineness that made the old man feel as if she was really interested. Genoa was a New Yorker with a finely honed sensitivity to insincerity. Nowhere else, except perhaps Paris, are men and women more uniformly mean spirited, insensitive and ill-mannered. Tony Genoa was from a country and a generation that understood and appreciated good manners. Living in New York hadn't made him forget. "I'm alright, Miss. You're very nice...it helps." "Thanks." Her smile repaid the compliment. "Are you going to Seattle to visit?" "I wish I were. No, I'm going to live with my eldest son." "You don't want to do that?" Genoa laughed harshly. "No, I don't. Don't get me wrong, my son is a fine man, but a doctor in New York," his voice was filled with bitterness, "said I couldn't work anymore. Bum ticker," he tapped his chest. "That must be hard." He nodded. "Yeah, I had the nicest little delicatessen in the Bronx...had it for forty five years. Made a nice living, all I ever wanted to do. Sons don't want their father hanging around, getting in the way." "How does your son feel about it?" "Oh, well, he's been asking me to come for years, says the shop is...was too much work." He looked down at his worn and gnarled hands. "It wasn't too much work to me!" She smiled, touched his arm. "I understand, I really do. There's nothing better than having your own thing." He patted her hand. "I believe you do. Not to worry. It's like Pinochle, you have to play the cards you're dealt." "I hope it works out for you, Mr. Genoa. Can I get you anything to drink, a snack?" "No, no, maybe later some fruit." Sherry pivoted and moved to Alvin's seat. "And what about you, Mr. Eagle Scout?" He smiled shyly. "I'm not an eagle scout yet." His hands kept moving, working the pieces of rope even as he talked. "Do I call you Alvin, or would you prefer Al?" "My friends call me, Al." "Okay, Al. How do you do that?" Alvin had tied an elaborate knot without looking. "Practice. My father says I have more energy than a squad of marines. I like to keep busy." "Why are you going to Seattle?" "I was chosen to be in the `Best Scout In The West' competition." "Tell me about the competition." "Do you really want to know?" "Sure. My brother was a scout, but I was in high school then and I wasn't really interested." She laughed. "All I cared about was boys, clothes and music." "Well, they have it every two years. Guys from all over the Western States go, four from each state. They have a whole bunch of tests, you know, woodcrafts, survival, camping, ecology..." he looked down at the rope, "knots and hitches, you know stuff like that." "Are they all your age?" "No, I'm the youngest," he was very shy. "Wow, did you hear that Mr. Genoa?" Across the aisle, Genoa nodded seriously. "Age and size don't mean much. Getting the job done does."
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© copyright 2003 Donald P.Ladew All Rights Reserved
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