Before the Fall(110)

“You’re saying the only time you saw her outside of the market or a coffee shop, the kids were with her.”

“Yes.”

Bill makes a face to indicate maybe he thinks that’s bullshit.

“Some of your work could be considered pretty disturbing, don’t you think?” he says.

“For children you mean?” says Scott. “I suppose. But the boy was napping, and Rachel wanted to see.”

“So you let her.”

“No. Her mother. It wasn’t my—and it’s not like—for the record—the pictures aren’t—graphic. It’s just—an attempt.”

“What does that mean?”

Scott thinks about that, what he’s trying to say.

“What is this world?” he says. “Why do things happen? Does it mean something? That’s all I’m doing. Trying to understand. So I showed them around—Maggie and Rachel—and we talked.”

Bill sneers. Scott can tell that the last thing he wants to do is talk about art. In the cacophony of time he is sitting in a television studio, but part of him is still in his car, driving into the city—the wet road smeared with the red trails of taillights, and he is also somehow sitting on the plane, trying to get oriented—a man who minutes earlier had been running from the bus stop.

“You had feelings for her, though,” says Bill. “Mrs. Bateman.”

“What does that mean, feelings? She was a nice person. She loved her children.”

“But not her husband.”

“I don’t know. It seemed that way. I’ve never been married, so what do I know. It’s not something we ever—she was very comfortable, it seemed, as a person. They had fun, her and the kids. They laughed all the time. He worked a lot it seemed, David, but they were always talking about him, the things they’d do when Daddy got there.”

He thinks for a moment.

“She seemed happy.”

*



Gus is on the Long Island Expressway when the calls comes. The flight recorder is fixed. There is some degradation, they tell him, but it’s in the quality of sound, not the content of the recording. His team is about to listen back and does Gus want them to wait for him?

“No,” he says, “we need to know. Just put the phone up to the speaker.”

They hurry to comply. He sits in his brown government vehicle in stop-and-go traffic. He is mid-island, past LaGuardia, not yet to Kennedy. Through the car’s speakers he can hear hurried activity as they prepare to review the tape. It is a record of another time, like a jar that holds the last breath of a dying man. The actions and voices of the tape are secret still, but in moments they will be out. The last unknown thing will become known. And then everything that can be clear, will be clear. Any other mysteries are there for the ages.

Gus breathes recycled air. Rain dots his windshield.

The tape begins.

It starts with two voices from within the cockpit. The captain, James Melody, has a British accent. Charles Busch, the copilot, has a Texas drawl.

“Checklist, brakes,” says Melody.

“Are checked,” responds Busch after a moment.

“Flaps.”

“Ten, ten, green.”

“Yaw damper.”

“Checked.”

“Little crosswind here,” says Melody. “Let’s keep that in mind. Flight instrument and annunciator panels?”

“Uh, yeah. No warnings.”

“Okay then. Checklist complete.”

Traffic lightens ahead of Gus. He gets the Ford up to twenty-six mph then slows again as the line of cars ahead of him constricts. He would pull over to the side of the road and listen, except he’s in the center lane with no exits in sight.

The next voice is Melody’s.

“Vineyard flight control, this is GullWing Six Thirteen. Ready for takeoff.”

A pause, and then a filtered voice comes through their radio.

“GullWing Six Thirteen, cleared for takeoff.”

“Thrust SRS. Runway,” Melody tells Busch.

He hears mechanical sounds from the tape. The phone relay makes them hard to identify, but he knows that techs in the lab are already making guesses about which ones are yoke movement and which are increases in engine rpm.

“Eighty knots.” Busch?

More sounds from the tape as the plane leaves the ground.

“Positive rate,” says Melody. “Gear up, please.”

ATC comes over their radio.

“GullWing Six Thirteen, I see you. Turn left. Fly the Bridge. Climb. Contact Teterboro departure. Good night.”

“GullWing Six Thirteen, thanks much,” says Melody.

“Gear up,” says Busch.

The plane is in the air now, on its way to New Jersey. Under normal conditions it is a twenty-nine-minute flight. Less than a short hop. There will be a six-minute lull before they are in range of Teterboro ATC.

A knock.

“Captain.” A female voice comes in. The flight attendant, Emma Lightner. “Can I bring you anything?”

“No,” says Melody.

“What about me?” asks the copilot.

A pause. What was happening? What looks were being exchanged?

“He’s fine,” says Melody. “It’s a short flight. Let’s stay focused.”