Her Last Flight(19)

First, no matter how much you’re tempted, do not have to do with married men.

Second, never allow a male member indoors unless it’s properly dressed.

Third, you may lease your body to whomever you fancy, and insist on your pleasure as a condition of same, but whatever you do, in whatever bed or sofa or sunlit meadow, for God’s sake keep your heart to yourself.

In time, I was to break all three of those rules, although not at the same time. We are only human, and our miseries take on infinite form.



Now, why have I told you this sordid, unhappy story, this stale tale already told a million times by a million other women, when I have not told another living soul? Because I think you should know that I am not so invincible, not so hard and so careless as I sometimes seem. I have been na?ve. I have behaved stupidly, even culpably. I have sinned and repented, I have deceived others and been cruelly deceived myself. I have been wounded so deeply I wanted to die.

But I did not die. I am Perseverance, remember. I am Survival.

And I am not so callous that I don’t feel a bone-crushing remorse at the sight of that airplane wreckage and a shudder of fate repeating itself and finally a sense of loss that almost brings me to my knees, because in my grief and my outrage I’ve destroyed something important. I have caused this nightmare that is my own worst nightmare.

All these thoughts bear down on me in a series of instants, and in the next instant I leap forward to help with the water tank, because I don’t do so well with the blood, and anyway Olle seems to be performing every necessary thing.

The slender man at the caisson must possess some superhuman strength, because he’s almost reached the wreckage. In seconds, I hurtle to his side and grab the yoke and together we haul that tank the last fifty yards. The fellow drops the yoke and thanks me, reaches for the hose and tells me to man the pump, and by God I nearly lose my mind.

“You! I thought—I thought—”

“You’re an idiot, Miss Everett,” yells Mrs. Lindquist as she drags the hose from its spool. “Now pump!”



As it turns out, the pilot’s not dead at all. He has a broken ankle and a great many cuts and bruises, and Olle suspects a collapsed lung caused by a possibly broken rib. His name is Kaiko, and he’s apparently Olle’s brother-in-law. Olle was married before, it turns out, to a Hawaiian woman who died some time ago, and Kaiko is her brother. Everybody’s related to each other in Hanalei, Olle explains.

I’m in Lindquist’s yellow truck with Olle, driving back into town, because Lindquist is flying Kaiko to the hospital in Honolulu in her own private airplane. Olle doesn’t trust the tiny hospital here on Kauai. Some fellow from the junkyard on the other side of the island is coming later to pick up the remains of the machine itself, which seems precipitate to me. I ask, Don’t they want to find out what caused the accident? and Olle looks at me like I’m crazy.

“What caused the accident is that Kaiko is a terrible pilot,” he says. “He came in to land too slowly and stalled. Now he’s learned his lesson. Thank God he had no passengers.”

“Does he usually? Have passengers?”

“Sometimes. When we’re short of pilots.”

“Oh, that’s just terrific. And people wonder why I won’t get on an airplane.”

“You don’t fly?”

The wind billows in drafts through the open windows, smelling of brine, whipping my hair around my head. I make some attempt to tuck it behind my ears. “Never ever,” I tell him. “By land or by sea, that’s my motto. It takes longer, but you see more, and you generally stay in one piece.”

Olle starts to laugh. I have the feeling he’s just relieved Kaiko isn’t dead, and sometimes relief finds expression in hysterical laughter. I saw a lot of that kind of thing in Europe, believe me.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You. Fixated on my wife, and you don’t even fly.”

“I’m not fixated on your wife. I’m fixated on Samuel Mallory. He was the better pilot, after all.”

That sobers up Olle. “He was better at some things, maybe. But which pilot is still alive?”

We reach the inn a few minutes later. Olle seems to have forgotten that he doesn’t like me, or maybe my heroic efforts at the water pump have atoned for my sins. He stops the truck and frowns at me.

“I still want you on the next boat to Oahu,” he says. “You upset Irene.”

“If I’m on the next boat to Oahu, the next boat back will be carrying several members of the press. It’s your choice.”

He bangs a hand on the steering wheel. “Why? Why did you have to find us?”

“Because I want to know, that’s all. I want to know everything. I can’t rest until I do.” I sling my pocketbook over my shoulder. “And I think your Irene wants to know too.”

“Irene knows everything she needs to know.”

“Are you sure of that?” I open the door, slide out, and slam it shut again. The window’s open. I lean my head inside. “Good-bye, Olle. Tell your wife she knows where to find me.”



The desk clerk can’t suppress a smirk when I walk inside. “Miss Everett! Here you are at last. Have you enjoyed your stay with us?”

“Positively delightful, thanks.”