Her Last Flight(59)

But all that is history. My point is this. As you might have deduced already, I’m fascinated by the subject of sex in general, and infidelity in particular, and have been ever since my father deserted my mother for another woman. In my one year of college, I studied some anthropology and some psychology in an attempt to understand this concept of monogamy and why most human beings will stake their all on one mate, will find themselves cruelly disappointed when that mate proves untrue, when most animals will happily mate with whomever they want. When a stallion, for example, will impregnate every mare in the herd because he has won the right to deposit his superior seed wherever he sees fit, and nobody blames him for it. He’s a stallion, for God’s sake.

Then I parted ways with college, as you know, and pursued my studies elsewhere, but when the fate of Samuel Mallory began to intrigue me, when I decided I wanted to learn more about this fascinating public figure, I couldn’t help searching for clues about his relationship with Irene Foster. If you plunder the newspaper archives for all the articles and interviews covering the Flying Lovebirds’ rescue from Howland Island—and there are many, believe me—you’ll find that neither Foster nor Mallory lets drop a single hint about the nature of their personal relationship, and yet it stands to reason that a healthy, attractive, red-blooded male would naturally want to fuck a healthy, attractive, red-blooded female, if they were given a chance like Howland, a chance in a million. Stands to reason Mallory would forsake the forsaking of all others and betray his wife; stands to reason Foster would be unable to resist a strapping young demigod like that.

But I want to hear it from her mouth. I want to hear from Lindquist what they did, and when, and how often, and whether they gave a damn about poor Mrs. Mallory, left at home with that innocent towheaded tot. I want a real answer. Because nobody’s going to read a book about Sam Mallory unless that answer lies inside, right?

Only Lindquist won’t answer the question.

She points to her ears. “Can’t hear you so well with this racket. We’ll talk after we land.”

“How long will that be?”

“Not long. It’s only about thirty miles away. I’ll have us there in a jiffy.”

I sit back in my seat and stare at the metal wall. She’s got a point, after all. Call me stupid, but I never considered that an airplane would be so damned noisy inside. I guess I just imagined the silence of death. But believe me, those propellers don’t just whirl around quietly. The pistons of those engines don’t thrust without friction. The noise goes on and on, and for the first time I wonder how she and Mallory didn’t go crazy, listening to that racket for twelve or eighteen hours without pause.



Twenty minutes later, the engines change pitch, and gravity pulls us downward. I still haven’t looked out the window, and I don’t intend to. What’s there to see, anyhow? Down we plummet, down down down while my stomach drops in pursuit, my head gets all dizzy, the black spots appear before my eyes. Lindquist, perhaps sensing my decline, glances back over her shoulder and points at my seat. I look underneath and find a paper bag. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to breathe into it or vomit, but my stomach decides for me. Luckily there’s not much, just coffee and Scotch. What a waste.

Because I’m not looking out the window, the landing surprises me. We’re rattling along, and then bump, and then another bump, and then the continual bumping of wheels on turf.

“Here we are!” Lindquist says cheerfully. She brings the airplane to a stop and I sit there awkwardly with my bag in my hands. The bottle fell out of my lap some time ago and rolled down the aisle to the tail. I unbuckle my straps and stagger after it. Bottle in one hand, bag in the other, I ask Lindquist where I can dispose of my little problem.

“You’ll just have to hold on to it until we get back,” she says. “There’s nothing else here except us.”

Naturally I think she’s kidding, but when she opens the door and the fresh air rushes inside, I see nothing but green grass and jungle, and the ocean off to the right.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Lindquist says. “I come here when I want to be alone. That’s the best thing about flying. It gives you the freedom to leave the rest of the world behind you. Hop down, now. I’ve packed a picnic for us.”



My legs are wobbly and something seems to be wrong with the way my head is attached to the rest of me, but I hold myself upright and follow Lindquist along the grass and scrub, through some trees, until we emerge on a cliff above a flawless white beach. A large wave thunders onto the rocks below. Lindquist sets down the picnic basket and puts her hands on her hips. She’s wearing her usual uniform of tan slacks and white shirt; she’s taken off the navy jacket and the gloves and put a straw hat on her head—to save what’s left of her skin, she says, as if she weren’t just the kind of irritating woman who can carry off a wrinkle or two and only look more alluring.

She turns her head to me. “Well? What do you think?”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to surf, that’s all.”

“Of course not. Only a daredevil would surf this wave. Give me a hand, will you?”

I help her spread the blanket and unpack the sandwiches and the bottles of lemonade and the orangey-pink fruit she calls papaya. She removes her hat and eats in silence, legs tucked up against her chest, watching the waves form offshore. The sun is hot, but there’s enough breeze to keep us comfortable. When we’ve finished the sandwiches and the fruit, Lindquist tells me there’s a cake inside the basket, and could I fetch it out and slice it up with the knife. I do as she asks. As I sink the blade through layers of frosting and sponge, I feel as if she’s watching every movement, every tiny gesture, like this is a test of some kind. I hand her a slice. We eat. I say this would be a grand time for a cigarette.