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Words formulate in her mouth, but nothing comes out. There is so much she wants to say, but this is the wrong time. In addition to the noise of the engine, he is wearing a headset, further blocking his ears.
“Did you say something?” he asks, lifting the right earpiece to hear her better.
She shakes her head no. Relieved, she feels like someone who has stumbled on a precipice but miraculously regains her balance. Her heart is racing, her palms are sweaty. Nothing has changed.
“Do you want to try it?” he yells, indicating the controls in front of her.
“What? You mean fly the plane?”
“Sure, it’s easy,” he shouts. “Put your hands on the controls. It’s not like a car. The tiller controls the altitude, which means it lets you go up, down, left, and right. If you pull on it, the plane will go up. Push and it goes down, get it? The throttle controls acceleration. See that? That’s the altimeter. It tells you how high you are. Keep at one thousand feet. That’s your airspeed indicator. You’re going about a hundred and fifty-five miles an hour now. And see that little instrument that looks like a plane? That’s your attitude indicator. Keep it level unless you turn. Okay?”
“What should I do?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have my hands on my controls the whole time. Just go ahead and take your controls. They won’t bite.”
She puts her hands tightly, too tightly, on the tiller. The vibrations from the engine course through her. The plane bucks slightly, and she jumps. “Not so tight,” he says. “Relax.”
“I’ll try.” She inhales and exhales quickly several times and then resumes her grip, this time lighter, on the tiller.
“Good. Now just keep her level.”
He lets go of the tiller. “See? You’re flying the plane now.”
“Oh my god. That’s amazing.” She is giddy. She can’t believe how easy it is.
“Want to try a turn?”
She has to strain to hear him. She yells back, “Yes. What do I do?”
“Turn the tiller slightly to the right and then straighten out.”
She does, and the plane turns but begins to drop.
“Pull up a bit—but not too much.”
She does and the plane levels out again.
“Very nice. Now just keep heading on this course. See over there? That’s our airfield.” When they get closer, he yells, “You better let me take over now.”
He contacts the tower, tells them they are approaching, and receives permission to land.
He reaches out his right hand and points. “We’re going to pass over our house. We’re right on the flight path. Look down.”
She cranes her neck. Below is the house, like a diorama in a museum, a microcosm. She is a giant. He begins the landing, flaps down, reducing airspeed. The treetops rise up to meet them. Objects become larger again. They touch down with a slight shudder and a bounce as the air pressure resists the wings. He taxis to his parking spot and kills the engine.
“Not bad,” he says, looking at his watch. “And it’s not even noon yet.”
“Thank you so much. That was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done,” she says.
Her eyes sparkle. Descending from the cockpit, the rest of the world feels flat and ordinary. She wishes she could return to the clouds.
On the drive back Claire, emboldened, now a risk taker, a conqueror, asks, “What happened to Johnny? I mean, his scar. Walter said he had an operation when he was younger.”
“That’s right. He was born with a congenital heart defect. A hole in his heart.”
“Oh my god. What did you do?”
“There was a series of operations. We took him to the Children’s Hospital in Boston. The first time we were up there for months. He could have died.”
“How old was he?”
“The first was right after he was born. The last when he was four.”
I remember sleepless nights in the hospital, the monotonous beeping of the monitors, concerned surgeons in blue scrubs, the small, deflated, unconscious form beneath a transparent shield. It was hell.
“Is he all right now?”
Harry rubs his forehead. “I don’t know. I think so. The doctors are optimistic he’ll be okay. It’s been a long time since we had a scare, thank God.”
“He doesn’t seem sick. He seems like an ordinary healthy boy.”
“It’s been hard. He tires easily. And Maddy watches him like a hawk. She’s always on the lookout that something might be wrong. We’ve had some false alarms, but we can’t be too careful. Even if he looks like an ordinary healthy boy, he’s not.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No reason for you to be sorry. We give him love and confidence and try to make his life as normal as possible. He could live another six years or sixty. It’s impossible to know. It’s hard for him at school, though. He can’t play sports. Children can be cruel.”
“It must be very hard on you. I mean on you both.”
“At times it is, but he’s a great kid. He knows what we’re up to, and he tries to make us feel better. He’ll say things to Maddy like, ‘It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t feel sick. Don’t worry about me.’ But you just can’t help feeling so goddamn helpless sometimes, you know?”
“I’m sorry. He’s a lovely boy. He’s such a wonderful combination of Maddy and you.”
They pull up to the house. The boy comes running out. “Daddy, Daddy,” he shouts as the tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. I am sitting by the window, reading the newspaper.
“Hey, sport.”
“Daddy, there was a telephone call for you. From Rome. Mommy took the message.”
“Thanks, pal. Tell Mommy I’m back, okay?” The boy trots back inside.
To Claire, “Got to make a call. Glad you could come along.” He gets out of the car.
“No. Thank you for taking me. When can we do it again?”
“Maybe not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks at her, a bit puzzled. “I thought you knew. That’s what that call is about. Maddy, Johnny, and I are leaving for Rome in a week. I have a grant to write there. I’ll be working on my new book.”
“No. No, I hadn’t heard.” She feels like she is going to be sick. “How long will you be gone?”
“Almost a year. We’ll be back next June. For the summer.”
“Oh, I see.” And then, “You must be very excited.”
“We are. An old friend of mine found us a place to stay near the Pantheon.”
“What about Johnny? Where will he go to school?”
“There’s an American school. And we have the names of good doctors there.”
“Oh good. I’m so happy for you all.” She tries to make it sound like she means it.
“Thanks. It’ll be a lot of fun. I’ve always wanted to live in Rome. So has Maddy. As you can imagine, she’s very excited about the food. She’s already enrolled in both a cooking and an Italian class.”
“I’m going to miss you.” She throws her arms around his neck and pulls him to her, his cheek next to hers.
He pats her on the back and uncoils himself, smiling at her. “Hey, we’re going to miss you too.”
“Thanks again,” she calls after him as he heads into the house. “I had a wonderful time.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You were very brave. Not everyone likes to fly in small planes.”
“I loved it.”
He smiles and walks inside the house. She does not notice me and I watch her standing there for a long time after he is gone. Finally, she turns and leaves. I am sorry to see how sad she looks.
I FIND HER SEVERAL HOURS LATER. SHE IS SITTING AT THE end of my dock, staring out over the pond, her feet dangling in the water. A family of swans swims by. A pair of Beetle Cats, the small, gaff-rigged sailboats popular with residents who live on the pond, tacks in the distance. It is very peaceful.
“Where have you been?” I ask. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re going to play tennis.”
Yes, I have a tennis court too. It’s an old-fashioned clay court. I know a lot of people prefer acrylic these days, but I actually still enjoy rolling the court. The preparation as important as the play.
She looks up. Surprised at first and then disappointed, as though she were hoping for someone else. I am in my ratty old tennis whites.
“I’m sorry, Walter. I needed to be alone for a while.”
“Everything all right?”
“Did you know that Harry and Maddy are going to Rome?”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know.”
“You have something against Romans? Did a principe ever break your heart, or did you trip and fall on the Spanish Steps?”
I am trying to be light, but I can tell, too late, she is not in the mood.
She shakes her head silently.
“Anything I can do?”
She shakes her head again.
“Right. Well, I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”
“Thank you, Walter. I just feel like being alone. Maybe I’ll wander up later and see how the tennis is going.”
“I hope so. You owe me a rematch.” She manages a smile at that. The week before she leveled me, 6–4, 6–4.
We don’t see her again until evening. After tennis, I tiptoe up to her room and see that her door is closed. At seven she comes down. I am in the kitchen, putting hamburger patties into a cooler. We are going to a cookout on the beach. It’s a Labor Day weekend tradition. There will be about fifty people there. Ned, Harry, and I had gone to the beach earlier to build a bonfire, digging a pit in the sand, filling it with driftwood.
“Sorry I didn’t make it to tennis,” she says as she enters. “I wouldn’t have been any fun.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, thanks.” She looks beautiful. A low-cut pink dress. She is not wearing a bra. The sides of her breasts peeking out from behind the fabric. I try not to stare.
“You look lovely, but you might want to bring a sweater or something,” I suggest. “It can get pretty cold on the beach at night this time of year.”
“I could really use a martini, Walter. Do you think you could make one for me?”
“With pleasure,” I say, washing my hands and going to the bar. It is a form of communion. I drop the ice cubes into an old Cartier silver shaker that belonged to my grandfather. Add Beefeater gin and a dash of dry vermouth. I stir it, twenty times exactly, and pour it into a chilled martini glass, also silver, which I garnish with a lemon peel.
“Hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I want to pace myself.”
“Oh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy, Walter.” She takes a sip. “Perfect.”
Ned and Cissy come in. “Priming the pump, eh?” says Ned.
“Want one?” I ask.
“No thanks. Plenty to drink at the beach.”
“Sorry not to see you at tennis today,” Cissy says to Claire. “Everything all right?”
She nods her head. “Yes, thanks. Just a bit tired, that’s all. You know how it is.”
“Just as well, I suppose. You missed seeing my man get his big butt kicked by Harry.”
“Harry had a hell of a serve today,” I put in. “He could do no wrong. Don’t feel too bad, Ned. Pete Sampras couldn’t have beaten him today.”
