Some Things About Flying (18 page)

It wasn't, she supposes, more ridiculous than other rituals of hope. Even heading for this flight, she was considering small events in a similar light, little moments of good fortune signifying much larger, far-flung fortunes. And look how that is turning out.

When she was little, she hunted four-leaf clovers, extremely rare and lucky to find in her father's immaculate lawn. She had no idea then what real good luck was, or real bad luck.

Real bad luck would have been to enter the world in a more brutal, unjust time or place. To unkind parents, or in a bleak location lacking shelter or food, or to a culture which required her feet to be bound, or her body mutilated, or one in which she would cook but never read, and certainly never teach the beauty of words, or anything else. What good luck, to have been able to eat, say, wear, do, possess, think, and love, more or less, within reason, what she desired. There can't be much more to ask of fortune; although she would now extend her hopes to not dying this way.

“My god,” Tom says, “this is torture.”

The level of movement and noise is rising again. Like him, people are regaining their voices, and what comes out once again is fear. Or maybe not, maybe she's wrong and it's regret, or despair. It's vigorous, at any rate, and feels volatile. “Sit down,” Sheila commands, patrolling the aisle. “Take your seats. Nothing is happening, so just take your seats.” She is no longer, Lila notes, saying “please,” and is even touching some people rather roughly to force them back, or down.

How can they believe someone who says nothing is happening? How are they supposed to have faith in someone who has to push for obedience?

Whatever will happen, it's taking too long. Tom's right, it's excruciating, waiting and counting the notches carved into her life. “I wish,” she says, trying to sound jaunty and brave, “we'd had our two weeks. If we were on our way back, I might not have minded so much.” In fact, she might have been seeing other pictures entirely.

He fails to look charmed. “Can you feel that?” he asks urgently, clutching her hand.

Putting words into the air is not always wise. Unformed, unprepared ideas too easily vanish in speech; or the reverse: spoken aloud, they become too real, and unavoidable. Tom's anxiety, spoken aloud, makes Lila shiver.

What if she fell apart, broke into fragments of fear—how willing would he be to comfort and try to put her back together?

A terrible question to ask at this stage.

Everything is slippery and unfinished. Nothing she thought she had a grip on is firm. That should be appalling.

It almost feels hopeful.

Everyone, even those still flailing in their seats, or weeping, must be learning so much so fast—what a better teacher Lila would have been, if she could have stimulated this kind of desperate urgency in the classroom. “Learn or die,” she could have commanded. “Understand, or you won't get out of this room alive.” That would have sharpened them up, all right.

Oops. “Lila!” The plane lurches again to the right, cries and screams rise higher and Tom whispers, “Sweet Jesus.” Lila didn't know he had this streak of fundamentalism—next he'll be speaking in tongues.

But she, too, is again saying prayer-like words to herself: “Oh no, please no.” If civility is thin, so, apparently, is much else.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” they hear. This time there's no warning of the voice. The movie continues its westward way on the screen, but abruptly without sound. “Ladies and gentlemen this is your co-pilot, Frank McLean, again. We regret if any of you have been alarmed by our most recent manoeuvres.” The awful grinding hardly sounded like a manoeuvre to Lila; it sounded more like metal on the very edge of falling apart.

Christ, she's boiling in this sweater—to think she wore it so her skin would be able to breathe. She plucks at it, to unstick it from her skin. Tom has a little dip at the base of his throat where sweat is starting to pool. What a
moist
man he has been at times today.

“We want you to know that we remain on our course and are making good progress. Within the next few minutes, we expect to reach the coast of England and be very near our destination.”

“Nearer My God To Thee”—that's what they sang on the
Titanic
, isn't it? Or is that only a fable of courage?

“In order to maximize our position, we are advising you of an action we have undertaken which will cause some inconvenience when we arrive. To lighten the aircraft and facilitate our landing, we are releasing cargo while we are still over water. We have almost completed this process. When we arrive, therefore, passengers will find themselves—yourselves—without luggage. Obviously we regret the loss of any items of value, and the inconvenience. However, the airline accepts responsibility, and claim forms and some emergency supplies will be available for you at our destination.”

Oh, isn't that heartening—they'll know they're safe when they start filling out forms.

Lila wonders what she would miss, which items sea creatures would enjoy, or be puzzled by, as they hurtle into that dark world. Lace and cotton, even one new dress of extravagant silk—she packed, she remembers, with an eye to the creation of appealing memories.

Let the sea have them; if only it doesn't get her skin and bones.

She is astounded to hear some grumbling, people cranky about their possessions counting and mourning their losses. “I am sure,” the voice goes on smoothly, “that you will all consider this a small sacrifice in comparison to the increased safety it provides.”

On the movie screen, two men face each other down: a long, dark look exchanged. One of them, presumably, will shortly die. The film plays like white sound, a frivolous alternative vision.

“As to your carry-on luggage, you will not be able to exit the plane with it, but airport crews will retrieve it for you as soon as possible after we've landed.”

Lila supposes he has to speak as if these things will actually occur.

Who knows, perhaps they will.

Tom will have to leave behind not only the bag stored beside hers overhead, but his precious briefcase with his precious letter. Still, if they were to land safely, he wouldn't need it, would he? He wouldn't even want it, explosive, haunting evidence.

People stick all kinds of things into carry-on luggage, now waiting above to roam bullet-like around the cabin. Random injury or death may come from inside, just as well as outside. At least this isn't a hijacking; although if it were, there'd be a dramatic focus instead of this terrifying empty waiting. People could try talking to a hijacker, however unbalanced and unpredictable. There's no arguing with metal, or fire, or air, or, for that matter, fate.

“Again, we regret the loss of your belongings, but we are otherwise doing well and have every confidence in a safe arrival. You can expect to be not only on the ground, but sorted out and relaxing, in well under an hour.” That brings hopeful gasps—so soon! As if safety is merely a matter of time.

“We are continuing our descent to lower altitudes and again require you to remain sitting with your seatbelts fastened. The aircraft is experiencing some decreased stability due to wing damage, as well as fluctuations in air pressure. We are doing everything possible to compensate, but there may be occasional discomfort as a result, and we ask you not to be alarmed.”

The voice brightens. “And by the way, ladies and gentlemen, we are just now reaching the coastline and from here on will be flying over southern England. For your information, we're advised there are mild temperatures and a light rain awaiting us on our arrival. See you at Heathrow!”

And on that cheery note, the sound system clicks off.

How has the high-pitched pilot been occupying himself while the co-pilot speaks? Do his fingers fly from button to button and lever to lever as he dodges disaster? Did he grin or grimace at the sight, at last, of coastline? He must be concerned about the landing, if they get that far. Lila knows she is.

She now sees him less as a scrawny man than a wiry one. The mellifluous Frank McLean she imagines as broad-shouldered, broad-chested, slim-hipped, long-legged, blandly handsome. Those two men, along with whoever else may form a cockpit crew on a plane like this—are there others, or only computers?—must, like Sheila and the other flight attendants, have been looking forward to something at the end of the day. Lila hopes it's something wonderfully compelling.

“Looks good,” Tom says. “Don't you think?”

Well, just how does it look? Impulsively, Lila half stands, reaches across the window seat to the shade, lifts it slightly, peers out. “Jesus, Tom.”

The world out there is almost entirely, beautifully, gloriously dark. The remaining tracings of light are from faded sun, faint clouds. Not fire. The wing is somewhat charred and cracked and curled, but “My god,” she says, turning towards him, “it's out.”

He regards her with wild hope. She can smell his slightly acrid sweat, and it seems to her the scent of being alive.

Neither of them speaks further, and blinds are still down, the movie still running, but once again news spreads mysteriously. Around the grey cabin, faces light up and voices brighten. A few shades are lifted on this side of the plane, and on the other side a group of people move into the aisle and dance in a cramped circle, holding hands and whooping. Sheila, on this side, frowns at that side.

Again the whole space overflows with too much raw emotion. Fear and hope jostle, poking out in bursts of wild raucous laughter and sobs. Imagine living! Lila is dazzled. She feels like an angel—a benevolent, weightless, silver-winged creature floating above all previous understanding.

Surely they are each bound to feel, from now on, every second of being alive. They'll be like old fabulous paintings, crusted with grime, restored to their glowing, mysteriously intended, original brightness. What a surprise, what a shock!

She stretches and arches, and even her scalp feels alive, even the soles of her feet. “I think,” Tom says, “I'm going to have a heart attack from the relief.”

“Please,” Sheila is calling, “keep your seats.” As if, Lila thinks, their collective helium joy could lift and tilt the plane off its frail course.

There is some slight weight, though, in the air and in Sheila's voice. Lila tilts her head to listen for something rumbling beneath the tears and jubilation.

What a lovely word, jubilation: all bells and laughter.

“Maybe,” Tom glances at his watch, “in a couple of hours we'll be in the hotel bar drinking champagne. Or in bed drinking champagne. Celebrating being alive. Making a toast to going on, same as ever. Do you think?”

What she hears coming out of her mouth is, “I hope not.”

Another surprise.

No time to think what she meant, Christ, the plane is dipping, its joints seem to shudder, it veers to the right, and down. “Jesus!” Tom cries, and Lila cries at the same instant, “No!” and they reach for each other. In Tom's eyes, Lila sees a renewal of terror; he must see the same in hers. There are dreadful sounds all around them.

They are going to die now, together, in grim, fleshy, bone-crushing catastrophe—Sarah, Adele, Jimmy the Web and Mel, Susie and her mother, the big guy by the emergency exit, Tom, herself—all locked spinning in an awful, intimate orgy of death. How fragile skin is, after holding everything together for so long.

Lila's eyes fly upward to where oxygen masks are waiting, but not descending. Perhaps they're useless anyway, or would only prolong the torment. In all the flights she has taken, she has never actually handled an oxygen mask. Nor has she been in a dark cabin with only those lines on the aisles to follow to safety—how does she know if they actually show up, or if they would be discernible beneath stampeding feet? And even if it's possible to get to an emergency exit, shove past the big man, push open the door, what then? A step into cold, diminishing space.

The plane is slipping, dropping, tipping, sliding sideways, like a car hitting ice. Lila faces head on into nothing—what a strange, breath-holding day, now a pinpoint of a moment.

She isn't afraid, exactly. She does feel in whole, intimate sympathy with this machine, this apparatus, this great, struggling metal being. Any shift of vibration under her feet, any alteration of pitch to her ears—it's like listening during those three terrible days to little Sam's heartbeats, taking any tiny movement or change as a sign of life, or of death. She feels the plane straining, the striving beat of its remaining engines, the tenderness of its skin. Like herself, it is a container for everything essential and perishable.

She urges it on with a kind of love for its brave, stubborn effort: go, go, you can do it. She wants to rock in her seat in encouragement, but also doesn't want to make it take into account any small, unbalancing movement.

It levels out, steadies, takes a deep breath. So does she. She pats an armrest, taps a foot: good plane, nice going, keep trying, you'll make it, hang in there.

Other people are swearing, praying, battling as if the plane is their enemy. Rebelling against the nature of the beast. Never mind, she tells it. Keep your eye on desire.