Before the Fall(31)

“No. You’re a hero because you acted heroically. And I brought you out here because that means something to me. To all of us.”

Scott tries to remember the last time he ate.

“Hey, what did he mean?”

“Who?”

“In the hospital. When the guy from the feds said Boston played last night. The guy from OSPRY said something about baseball.”

“Right. Dworkin’s at bat. He’s a catcher for the Red Sox.”

“And?”

“And on Sunday night he broke the record for the longest at bat in baseball history.”

“So?”

Gus smiles.

“He did it while you were in the air. Twenty-two pitches in just over eighteen minutes starting the moment you took off and ending within seconds of the crash.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Longest at bat in baseball history, and it lasted the exact length of your flight.”

Scott’s eyes return to the water. Heavy gray clouds are massing on the horizon. He remembers a game being on, that something remarkable seemed to be happening—at least the two other guys on board were getting worked up about it. Take a look at this, hon, and Can you believe this f*cking guy? But Scott was never one for sports and he barely looked over. Now, though, hearing the story—the coincidence of it—he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. Two things happen at the same time. By mentioning them together they become connected. Convergence. It’s one of those things that feels meaningful, but isn’t. At least he doesn’t think it is. How could it be? A batter in Boston fouling pitches into the stands while a small plane struggles through low coastal fog. How many millions of other activities begin and end at the same time? How many other “facts” converge in just the right way, creating symbolic connectivity?

“Early reports on the pilot and copilot look clean,” says Gus. “Melody was a twenty-three-year veteran who flew with GullWing for eleven years. No black marks, no citations or complaints. Kind of an interesting childhood, though, raised by a single mom who took him to live with a doomsday cult when he was little.”

“Like a Jim Jones Guyana cult?” asks Scott.

“Unclear,” says Gus. “We’re doing some digging, but most likely it’s just a detail.”

“And the other one?” asks Scott. “The copilot?”

“A little bit more of a story there,” says Gus. “And obviously none of this is to be repeated, but you’ll probably see a lot of it in the press. Charles Busch was Logan Birch’s nephew. The senator. Grew up in Texas. Did some time in the National Guard. Sounds like he was kind of a playboy. A couple of citations, mostly for appearance—showing up to work unshaven. Probably partied too hard the night before. But no red flags. We’re talking to the airline, trying to get a clearer picture.”

James Melody and Charles Busch. Scott barely even saw the copilot, has only a vague memory of Captain Melody. He tries to commit the details to memory. These are the people who died. Each had a life, a story.

Around them the sea has turned choppy. The Coast Guard cutter ramps and banks.

“Looks like a storm is coming,” says Scott.

Gus holds the rail and stares out at the horizon.

“Unless it’s a class four hurricane,” he says, “we don’t abandon the search.”

*



Scott has a cup of tea inside while Gus manages the search. There is a TV on in the galley, pictures of the ship he is on from a news helicopter, the search in progress live. Scott feels like he’s in one of those mirrored rooms, his image reflecting off into infinity. Two sailors on break drink coffee and watch themselves on TV.

The image of the search party is replaced by a talking head—Bill Cunningham in red suspenders.

“—watching the search as it progresses. Then at four p.m. don’t miss a special broadcast, Are Our Skies Safe? And look—I’ve held my tongue long enough—but this whole thing smells more than a little fishy to me. ’Cause if this plane really did crash, then where are the bodies? If David Bateman and his family are really—dead—then why haven’t we seen the—and now I’m hearing, and ALC broke this story just hours after the event, that Ben Kipling, the notorious money manager rumored to be on board the flight—that Kipling was about to be indicted by the Treasury Department for trading with the enemy. That’s right, folks, for investing money illegally obtained from countries like Iran and North Korea. And what if this disaster was an enemy nation tying up loose ends. Muzzle this Kipling traitor once and for all. So we have to ask—why hasn’t the government characterized this crash for what it is—a terrorist attack?”

Scott turns his back to the TV and sips his tea out of a paper cup. He tries to tune out the voices.

“And just as important, who is this man? Scott Burroughs.”

Hold on, what? Scott turns back. Onscreen is a photo of him taken sometime last decade—an artist portrait that accompanied a gallery show he did in Chicago.

“Yes, I know, they’re saying he rescued a four-year-old boy, but who is he and what was he doing on that plane?”

Now a live image of Scott’s house on the Vineyard. How is that possible? Scott sees his three-legged dog in the window, barking soundlessly.