Falling(7)

“He’s a little shy,” the man said. “But he loves planes. We park by the airport and watch them take off and land all the time.”

“The lot by the burger joint just off the north runway? My son and I did that a lot when he was this guy’s age. Still do from time to time.” Bill made a mental note that he should take Scott after this trip. “Would you like to know what some of these buttons do?” Bill asked the child before starting a tour.

A few minutes later, Jo poked her head in the cockpit as the last two passengers boarded behind her. “All set, Bill,” she said, handing him the final paperwork.

“Well, I guess we better get to work. Thanks for coming up. Would you like a pair of wings?” Bill reached into his messenger bag that sat to the left of his seat, producing a pair of small plastic wings. Removing the back with an official flourish, he stuck it to the boy’s T-shirt. The child looked down at the shiny wings, his head rising a moment later in a peal of laughter before burying his face in his dad’s leg. Bill smiled with a nostalgic pang, thinking of Scott when he was that small, a time that now felt so long ago. The two left to take their seats, the father mouthing his thanks.

Souls on board, Bill reminded himself as he double-checked the numbers on the load sheet. Signing off, he passed it back to Jo, who handed it to the waiting gate agent. A moment later, the aircraft door closed with a heavy thud as passengers ended phone calls and settled in.

“?‘Before start’ checklist to the line, Bill?” Ben said.

Bill’s phone lit up. Expecting a text from “Carrie Cell,” he frowned at finding a promotional email from his gym instead.

Behind them, Jo pulled the cockpit door out of the magnetic latch that held it open.

“Cabin ready for pushback,” she said, waiting. Bill turned in his seat with a nod and thumbs-up. At that, she shut the door and the two men were alone.

Bill turned his phone to airplane mode, shutting Carrie out. She’d known his time was limited; she knew once they took off he wouldn’t really be able to talk, what with Ben sitting beside him. It was childish for him to be annoyed. But he was. If she’d wanted an apology she should have called him back on the ground. He’d text her once they were at cruise, but that was the best she would get until they landed in New York.

“Okay. ‘Before start’ checklist to the line, please,” Bill said.

Ben pulled out the laminated checklist. “Logbook, release, tail number…”



* * *



Reaching up, Bill flicked the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign off. The plane had leveled off and now floated eastward, a mass of humanity hanging in limbo.

“Coastal four-one-six, contact LA center one-two-niner-point-five-zero,” the squawk of the air traffic controller rang throughout the cockpit.

“Coastal four-one-six,” Bill identified, “LA on one-two-niner-point-five-oh. Good day.”

Ben reached to his left and pushed a knob on the lower console control panel. Turning it counterclockwise, yellow digital numbers descended toward the new frequency. The controller who would answer the other end of the line would guide them through his jurisdiction before handing the plane off to the next sector’s en route controller. Like that, all the way across the country, the plane’s communication to ground would be passed off like a baton.

Bill waited until Ben stopped at 129.50 and pressed the transfer button. “Good afternoon, Los Angeles center,” he said into the mic, studying the panel indicating their altitude, direction, and speed. “Coastal four-one-six checking in at flight level three-five-zero.”

“Good afternoon, Costal. Maintain three-five-zero,” responded the controller. Bill holstered the mic and punched a button on the console in front of him. A green light lit up above the label “AP1,” confirming the autopilot had been engaged. Releasing the shoulder straps of his five-point harness and reclining his seat, Bill settled in for the cruise.



* * *



“Sir?” Jo said. “Sir?”

The man stared at the seatback TV in front of him. Jo wiggled her fingers in front of the screen, his eyes darting up as he hastily removed his headphones and accepted the glass of wine she held out.

“Sorry,” he apologized, returning to the screen.

“Big game?” she asked, passing a seltzer no ice off her tray to the college-aged girl in the first-class seat next to him.

“You kiddin’?” he said, with a thick New York accent. “Game seven of the World Series? Yeah, it’s a big game.”

“I’m assuming you’re rooting for the Yankees,” Jo said.

“Since the day I was born,” he replied, putting his headphones back on to hear the pregame coverage. Next to him, the girl sent a text to her boyfriend. We land at 10:30. Can you pick me up? She watched his three dots at work, smiling when his text came through.

Four rows back in the main cabin, a man turned the page in his book. The beam of the overhead light irritated the guy in the middle seat next to him who was trying to sleep. Across the aisle, a woman pressed “Send” on her laptop, the email arriving seconds later in her boss’s inbox back in LA. The guy by the window squirmed in his seat, wondering how long he could wait before he’d have to ask the row to get up so he could use the bathroom. Behind him, neck arched, mouth agape, a loud snore came from the “passenger of size” who had asked the flight attendants for a seat belt extender during boarding. A toddler ambled down the aisle past them all. His mother held on to his raised hands, steadying the child in the plane’s gentle rock.