A Pilot's Wife

Rain

At the gate, they stood apart from the others. Maybe because they were off duty cops, or maybe because she was the most publicized person on the news right now. Elliot had his overcoat with him, even though it was hitting eighty outside. London was apparently rainy for the week, but humid, high sixties. It was folded twice over a plastic seat. He had put his overnight bag on top of the coat, something a woman never would have done, Olivia thought, and he was reading the Wall Street Journal. Olivia held her coat over her arm and examined the plane in front of her, tethered to the gate by it's accordion umbilical. The plane was pretty, she thought, white with bright red and blue markings on it, the American Airlines logo written in bold script. The Boeing 777 was angled in such a way that she could see the cockpit, could see men in shirtsleeves, their faces in shadow, their arms moving along the instrument panel as they worked their way through the checklist. She wondered if she had ever met any of the crew before. Had they come to memorial service?

Her feet hurt, and she wanted to sit down. But to do so would have meant sandwiching herself between two overburdened passengers. In any event, there were only minutes left until they buried. Olivia had on a fitted black skirt, stopping mid calf and a black long sleeve knitted shirt, framing her nicely. She wore black boots with thick three inch heels to them. Black nylons covered her legs, keeping her to herself. Her her hair was in a loose twist, falling to frame her face. She thought she looked rather good, under the circumstances, certainly more together than she had in weeks. But she had lost weight in her face and knew she looked older than she had. Elliot wore black pants and a deep forest green dress shirt, almost black, with a black tie.

That morning, after she had told Elliot about her proposal trip to London, she had went up to Margaret's to tell her of her plan. Margaret had agreed to taking care of Julia. Olivia had told Julia when she was half asleep, and all she had said was "can I go back to bed now?"

As the widow of a pilot, Olivia was entitled to fly on a pass wherever American Airlines went, in the first class section whenever seats were available. She gestured to Elliot to take the window, and she stowed her luggage under the seat in front of her. Immediately she became aware of the stale air inside the plane, with it's distinctive artificial smell. The door to the cockpit was open, and Olivia could see the crew. The size of the cockpit never failed to startle her, many of them were smaller than the front seats of automobiles. She wondered how it was possible for the scenario suggested by the CVR on James' plane to have taken place. There seemed hardly room for three men to sit, let alone move around to have a scuffle.

From her vantage point, she could only see the inner third of the cockpit, bits of each pilot in shirtsleeves. It was impossibly, gazing at the tableau-the thickish arms, the confident gestures-not to imagine the man in the left hand seat as James. She pictured the shape of his shoulder, the whiteness of his inner wrist. She had never been a passenger on an airliner James was flying.

The captain rose and turned toward the cabin. His eyes found Olivia's and she understood that he meant to express his sympathy. He was an older man with a fringe of gray hair and light brown eyes. He seemed almost too kindly to be in charge. He was hopeless with the condolences, and she liked him for his inarticulateness. She thanked him and even managed, a slight smile. She said she was doing well as could be expected under the circumstances, which was all anyone ever wanted to hear. He asked her if she would be traveling on to County Clare with the other family members, and she answered, quickly and perhaps to emphatically, no. He seemed embarrassed for having asked. She turned then and introduced the captain to Elliot. The captain studied Elliot as if he might be someone he had met before. Then the man excused himself, went back up to the cockpit, and locked the door behind him. For his safety. For their safety.

The flight attendant collected the champagne glasses she'd brought around earlier, and Olivia saw to her surprise that she had drained hers. She couldn't remember drinking it, though she could taste it in her mouth. She looked at her watch, eight fourteen in the evening. It would be one fourteen am in London.