Heaven's keep

SIX

Day Two, Missing 26 Hours

Cork spent the early afternoon on the phone, frustrated and angry, talking to a number of airlines. He was hanging up a final time when the boxy green Honda Element pulled into the drive. Through the window above the kitchen sink, he watched Mal and Rose get out and begin to unload luggage. They worked together easily, touching often. Before she fell in love with Mal, Rose had been a stout woman. As far as Cork knew, she’d also been a virgin, deeply devoted to her Catholic faith. He’d never thought of her as pretty, but she’d always been beautiful in an ethereal, spiritual sort of way. Her marriage had changed that in ways that were both obvious and subtle. She’d lost weight and dressed to show it. There was a beauty in her face now that had an appealing earthy quality to it. It seemed to Cork that in marrying a man who’d worn a collar, she’d lost none of her faith but gained a very different and human kind of wisdom.

Cork went to the side door and greeted them. Rose’s face wore a worried look, and she gave him a prolonged hug. “It’s in God’s hands,” she whispered to him. “It’s always in God’s hands.”

Mal hugged him, too. “What’s the news from out there?”

“The snow’s stopped, but blizzard conditions continue across a lot of the area. Airports are closed. Planes are still grounded. They think the wind’ll let up later this afternoon. Even then it’ll take them a while to clear the runways.”

“Where’s Stevie?” Rose asked.

“In his room.”

“I’m going up to see him.”

Rose headed directly toward the stairs. Mal set the two suitcases in the living room and came back to the kitchen.

As a priest, Mal Thorne had been a tortured man. The competing pull between his duty to the Church and his attachment to the world had nearly torn him apart. He was a decade older than Rose, and when he’d fallen in love with her, he’d seemed wrung out by life, thick in the middle, and often rheumy-eyed from booze. His marriage had changed that. He now looked trim and happy. He was fond of saying that in opening his arms to the earthly love of a woman, he’d found his way back to God, and the happiness had healed him. He was still a man of great spiritual depth- once a priest, Cork thought, always a priest -but, like Rose’s, his wisdom was broader and his embrace of life much gentler. In Chicago, he ran a shelter for the homeless. Every day he helped people face bleak odds and tried to point them toward hope.

“If I made coffee, would you have some?” Mal asked.

“Yeah, thanks. But I can make it.”

“Sit down,” Mal said. “I know where everything is.”

The room was full of afternoon sunlight. Silver darts shot off the stainless steel sink faucet and handles. A gold rhombus lay across the floor, stamped with Mal’s shadow as he stood at the counter grinding beans and measuring into the filter. All day the room had felt close and stuffy, but Mal and Rose had brought in with them the perfume of the late autumn air.

“Mal, I’m going out there.”

His brother-in-law hit the Brew button and turned back to Cork. “Seems reasonable to me. When?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been on the phone talking to airlines all afternoon. The storm’s wreaked havoc the whole length of the Rockies. A lot of flight cancellations, and none of them can get me a seat until tomorrow night. At the moment, it looks like I’ll fly to Salt Lake and catch a connection to Cody first thing the following morning. It’s the best they could do.”

“Going alone?”

“That’s my plan. I can’t sit here doing nothing.”

“Of course you can’t. And don’t worry about things here. We’ll hold down the fort.”

“Thanks.”

Rose came downstairs from Stephen’s room, followed by Trixie. The dog padded directly to Mal, who bent and gave her a good long petting.

“How’s he doing?” Cork asked.

“For one thing, he’s not Stevie,” she said. “He’s Stephen.”

“Yeah, I should have warned you. He’s kind of sensitive about it.”

“He’s also scared and angry,” Rose said. “But he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“You were up there awhile.”

“I was doing most of the talking. I asked him if he wanted to pray with me. He told me he doesn’t believe in prayer. If there is a God, the bastard never listens anyway. Direct quote. Since when has he been like this, Cork?”

“New development. Like the name thing. We haven’t been pressing him on the issue.”

She sat down at the table. It had been a long drive to come to a place full of despair. “That coffee smells heavenly,” she said, and Mal reached into the cupboard for a mug.

“Cork’s going to Wyoming,” Mal said.

He handed Rose a mug of coffee, then gave one to Cork.

“Will that do any good?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know,” Cork said, “but I’ll go crazy if I have to sit it out here.”

“When do you leave?”

“At the moment it looks like late tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you going alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Do the kids know?”

“Not yet. It’ll be tricky, especially with Stephen. He’ll want to go.”

“Why not take him?” Mal said.

“Too many problems with that.”

Mal shrugged, but it was clear he didn’t necessarily agree.

“Maybe they’ll find Jo before then,” Rose said.

“Either way I want to be there.”

Rose nodded. “We’ll stay and cover here for as long as you need us.”

Cork leaned to his sister-in-law and put his arms around her and laid his cheek against her hair, and for a long time they held each other.

“We argued before Jo left,” Cork said, battling tears. “We were so angry that we didn’t even say good-bye. Christ, what was I thinking?”

“That the next day would be like that day and the day before and you would have forever to make things right,” Rose said. “You didn’t know any of this was going to happen, Cork.”

“I could’ve told her I love her, Rose.”

She looked with great compassion into his eyes. “Oh, Cork, you think she doesn’t know?”

The phone rang. Mal looked at caller ID. “Owl Creek County Sheriff’s Office.”

“I’ll take it.” Cork wiped at his eyes. “O’Connor,” he said, and then he listened. “Thank you.” He returned the phone to its cradle. “The wind’s quit. Once the runways are clear, they’ll have planes in the air.”

His daughters arrived near dinnertime, pulling up to the curb in Jenny’s old Subaru Outback. They hurried up the walk in the blue of twilight, and Cork greeted them at the door with his arms wide open. It felt good to hold them.

They were different from each other in many ways. Jenny was a scholar and a scribbler, in her senior year at the University of Iowa, where she hoped, on graduation, to be accepted into the Writers’ Workshop. She had her mother’s beauty, the same ice-blond hair and ice-blue eyes. For Annie, studies had always taken a backseat to athletics. While she was growing up, her big dream had been to be the first female quarterback for Notre Dame. That hadn’t happened, but she’d been offered a scholarship to play softball for the University of Wisconsin. Tragedy in her senior year of high school had altered her life course dramatically, and she’d declined the scholarship in favor of enrolling in a small Catholic college in northwest Illinois, where she was preparing herself in all the ways she could for a life that would be devoted to serving God and the Church. Annie wanted to be a nun, which was the other dream she’d had since childhood. Physically, she looked more like Rose, with hair the color of a dusty sunset and freckles. And, like Rose, she had something calm in her eyes that made people trust her immediately.

They stood on the porch in the dying light. “Has there been any word?” Jenny asked.

“The weather’s finally broken and they’ve started the search,” he said. “So that’s good.”

“But they haven’t found anything?”

“As far as we know, not yet.” The evening air was cool, and Cork said, “Let’s get inside and we can talk more. Rose and Mal are here.”

“Where’s Stevie?” Annie asked, looking past him into the house.

“It’s Stephen these days,” Cork said. “He took Trixie for a walk. He needed to get out for a while.”

“Stephen?”

“He’s been reinventing himself lately,” Cork said.

“How’s he doing?” Jenny asked.

“Not good. But then who of us is?”

Inside, Rose and Mal hugged them both, and they all said the things meant to bind them in their mutual concern and to offer comfort.

“It smells wonderful in here.” Annie looked at her aunt. “Chicken pot pie?”

“Bingo. Get your things settled. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Jenny paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Dad, we heard on the radio that the pilot had been drinking.”

“At the moment, it’s only an allegation. We’ll know the truth soon enough.”

It was dark by the time Stephen came home from walking Trixie. Cork had begun to worry and was watching the street from the living room window. He saw his son shuffling along the sidewalk, head down, face in shadow as he passed under the streetlight. Stephen paused at Jenny’s Outback, but the prospect of seeing his sisters didn’t seem to raise his spirits at all. Even Trixie, often a little too exuberant to suit Cork, seemed to have been infected by Stephen’s mood, and she walked subdued at his side. They mounted the front steps, and Cork opened the door.

“I was beginning to get a little concerned,” he said.

“What for? I was just walking,” Stephen said.

“Dinner’s been ready for a while.”

“You could’ve eaten. I wouldn’t care.”

“Stevie!” Annie shouted, coming down the stairs. She threw her arms around her brother.

“It’s Stephen,” he said in sullen reply.

Jenny came from the kitchen, where she’d been helping Rose. “Stephen,” she said and hugged him with a purposeful courteousness.

Cork’s son suffered their attentions grudgingly and was clearly relieved when they both stepped back from him. Trixie was much more enthusiastic in her welcome, and she danced around the girls in a joyous frenzy of barking and tail wagging that got her tangled in her leash.

Stephen freed her. “I thought it was time to eat,” he said. He turned away and went to the closet to hang his jacket.

Dinner was an odd affair, surreal. So much family gathered, and still the dining room table felt empty. Cork left the television on in the living room, tuned to CNN in case there were any new developments. They tried to carry on conversation in a normal way. Then Cork made a mistake, though he didn’t think of it that way at the time. He asked Annie a simple question about her faith.

“What I see when I look at the world, Dad, is challenge and opportunity. Everywhere I turn I’m confronted with challenges to my faith. And at those same places I’m given the opportunity to be an instrument of God’s truth.”

Without looking up, Stephen, who sat slumped over his plate, said, “That’s such bullshit.”

“Stephen,” Cork said.

“So what’s the big holy truth in what’s going on with Mom?” he said. “Why did God do this to her?”

“You think God struck her plane out of the air?” Annie asked.

“Well, he sure as hell didn’t keep it from falling.”

“We don’t know what’s happened with her plane,” Cork said.

“I do,” Stephen shot back. “I checked out plane wrecks on the Internet today. I know exactly what happens when a plane slams into a mountain.”

“Why are you so certain that’s what’s happened?” Jenny asked.

Stephen aimed at her the dark fire of his eyes. “Am I the only one who sees things the way they are? If the plane didn’t crash, we’d have heard from Mom by now. If it did crash, it crashed in those big fucking mountains and ended up in little fucking pieces, and if anybody survived they’re fucking Popsicles by now.”

“Watch your language, Stephen,” Cork said.

“My language? Mom’s dead and you’re worried about my language. Jesus Christ.” He yanked his napkin from his lap, threw it on the table, got up, and left. Trixie, who’d been lying nearby, rose as if to follow, then seemed to change her mind. She simply watched him stomp up the stairs toward his room.

“He’s scared,” Annie said.

“And he’s thirteen,” Jenny added.

Cork slid his chair away from the table. “I’m going up to talk to him.”

Upstairs, he knocked on Stephen’s bedroom door.

“What do you want?” his son called from inside.

“To talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“We need to. Open up, Stephen.”

The wait was long and Cork was beginning to think he’d have to assert his parental authority to barge in, but Stephen opened the door at last. He turned away immediately and went back to his desk. The only light in the room came from the computer monitor, which was full of pictures from a website, images of a plane wreck.

Cork sat on Stephen’s unmade bed. “I can’t imagine that’s pleasant,” he said.

“It’s not supposed to be pleasant.” Stephen looked at the monitor. “Did you know that they’ve changed the instructions for crash position? They don’t want you to stick your head between your legs anymore. Know why? It’s not because you have a better chance of surviving but because there’s a better chance of keeping your teeth intact so they can use dental records to identify the remains.”

“You found that on the Internet?”

“Yeah. And worse.”

“And you believe it. And you think there’s no hope.”

Stephen pointed to the monitor. “You think there’s any hope in that?”

“When my father died, I was thirteen,” Cork said. “I was sitting at his bedside. Your grandmother was there, too. We watched him go. The doctors who attended him never gave us any hope. Because they were so sure, I didn’t even pray that he wouldn’t die. I just let him go. And you know what? I’ve always regretted that I didn’t pray my heart out trying to keep him with us. I wonder to this day if it might have made a difference.”

“What? Like a miracle or something?”

“Yeah. A miracle or something. Look, Stephen, nobody really knows what’s happened out there.”

Stephen said quietly, “I do.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

“Because I dreamed it,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

The light from the monitor lit Stephen’s face, giving his skin a harsh, unnatural sheen. For several seconds he didn’t speak, and his lips were pressed into a thin, glowing line. “There was this dream I used to have when I was a kid, I mean really little. I was in a big yellow room and Mom was there but way on the other side. I was scared. I think maybe there was something or somebody else in there with us. I don’t remember that part so well. What I remember is that I tried to run to Mom but she disappeared through a door and the door slammed shut when I tried to follow her. The door was white like ice. I pounded on it but it wouldn’t open. I screamed for her to come back.”

“Did she?”

“I always woke up then. You or Mom heard me crying and came in and the dream was over.”

“You used to have a lot of nightmares,” Cork said.

“I had this one a bunch of times. It stopped and I pretty much forgot about it. Until today. Dad, it had to be about this, right? I mean, it is this. Only why did I have it so long ago when I couldn’t do anything about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was there something I could’ve done to… I don’t know… stop it? Is there something I should do now? I don’t understand.”

Tears gathered along the rims of Stephen’s eyes. Anything still unbroken in Cork’s heart shattered, and he reached out to his son, but Stephen shrank away.

“I want to understand,” he pleaded.

“Why don’t we talk to Henry Meloux?” Cork said. “He’s the only man I know who understands dreams.”

“Henry,” Stephen said, and the dim light of hope came into his eyes.

“Not tonight though. It’s late. First thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Stephen said with a nod.

They sat for a while, silence and the distance of their great fear between them.

“Feel like joining the rest of us?” Cork finally said.

“Yeah, I guess.” Stephen turned off the computer and followed his father out of the room.

Downstairs, the faces of the others were turned to the television screen.

“Dad,” Jenny said, “check this out.”

Cork stood behind the sofa and watched the CNN report. A small, energetic woman with black hair and dark, angry eyes stood talking with another woman, a reporter. She wore a leather vest over a western shirt. When she gestured, which was often, silver bracelets flashed on her wrists. She stood in front of a tan brick building that was bright in the sun and surrounded by an apron of snow. She squinted in the sunlight and spoke into the microphone the reporter held toward her.

“Do you think,” she said, “that if this had been a plane full of white politicians these people would have waited so long to begin searching for them? But it was full of Indians, so who cares?”

“Who is she?” Cork asked.

“The wife of one of the men who was on the plane with Jo,” Rose said.

“Our own people have taken up the search. And we will find them,” the woman said emphatically.

A caption appeared under the picture on the screen: “Ellyn Grant, wife of Edgar Little Bear, a passenger on the plane missing in the Wyoming Rockies.”

The reporter, a blonde in a long, expensive-looking shearling coat, asked, “I understand one of the Arapaho has had a vision that may indicate where the plane came down.”

“Will Pope,” Ellyn Grant replied. “Our pilot is looking in the area Will’s vision guided us to, a place called Baby’s Cradle. We’ve asked for help, but so far the authorities out here have given us nothing.”

“Would you comment on the allegation that the pilot of the plane had been drinking the night before the flight?”

“I don’t know anything about that. Right now, all I care about is finding the plane and my husband.”

The segment that followed dealt with the charter pilot, Clinton Bodine, who’d allegedly been drinking the night before. A reporter in Rice Lake, Wisconsin, where Bodine lived and operated his charter service, told viewers that he’d obtained information indicating the pilot was a recovering alcoholic. Accompanying the report were pictures of the hangar at the regional airport that he used for his small enterprise. There was a brief statement by one of the officials at the airport who said he’d known Bodine a long time and he was surprised to hear about the drinking allegation. There were shots of the pilot’s home and of his wife, a young woman holding the hand of a small boy, hurrying from her car to the front door to avoid reporters.

Mal said, “Why do I think that if they could they’d follow her into the bathroom?”

“Brace yourselves,” Cork said. “Our turn may come.”