Flight

Fifteen

JIMMY WANTS TO DIE.

As he stands there and stares at the pistol in his wife’s hand, Jimmy realizes he wants her to pull the trigger.

Jimmy wants his wife to kill him.

That’s crazy.

But it happens all the time, right?

Strangers hardly ever kill strangers. All over the world, thousands of times a day, husbands and wives kill one another.

It’s mostly husbands killing wives, I think.

But sometimes a wife will kill a husband.

Like, right now, as Linda points a pistol at Jimmy and pulls the trigger.

Click.

Jimmy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.

“I took the bullets out,” Linda says. “I just wanted to see you shit your pants, you bastard.”

But Jimmy is strangely disappointed. He wants to be punished for his crimes. I want to be punished for my crimes.

“Why are you just standing there?” Linda asks. “Aren’t you going to say anything to me?”

“I wish there were bullets in the gun,” Jimmy says.

“You’re sad,” she says. “You’ve always been so sad.”

I can feel his sadness. It feels like he’s wearing a sad coat with rocks in his pockets.

“I’m going to my mother’s,” Linda says. “And when I come back, I want you and your shit gone. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Okay,” Jimmy says.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asks. “Okay? That’s all you’re going to say? Married for twenty years and all you’ve got for me is okay?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says.

“Fuck you, Jimmy.” She walks over to her little car and drives away.

Jimmy looks around his yard. A few neighbors are watching. They’ve heard the fight. They’re not surprised. They expected this to happen someday.

Jimmy thinks he should clean up the yard. He thinks he should throw everything into the back of his truck and drive away. And he does start the cleanup. He picks up a broken model plane, a DC-10. It’s snapped in half.

He carries the broken plane into the house and sits in his chair in the living room.

He sits there alone and quiet for a long time.

He stares at the blank television.

And then a memory comes to him. And me.

That memory plays on the television.

It’s a home video of Abbad. He’s speaking directly to the camera. And then he’s shouting in a foreign language, his language. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s angry. Furious.

Then another home video, shot from a boat in the harbor, of a passenger airplane falling from the sky into downtown Chicago. An explosion. Flames rising.

Then a photograph of Abbad, his wife, and his baby.

Then a news reporter speaks.

“Late this afternoon, in Chicago’s Midway Airport, Abbad X and his wife and baby daughter boarded a commuter flight along with thirty-six other passengers. Shortly after takeoff, it appears that Abbad took over the airplane. The details are not clear at this time, but it appears that Abbad and his wife somehow disabled the passengers and crew. Abbad then took control of the airplane and crashed it into downtown Chicago during rush hour.”

More video of cars and buildings on fire. Fire trucks, ambulances, police cars.

“All passengers on the airplane died instantly, and it appears that dozens of people on the ground have been injured. Police won’t speculate on the number, but initial estimates are that at least nine people on the street have been killed.”

A video of a little boy, weeping and wailing, as a fireman carries him through the smoke.

Jimmy taught Abbad how to fly a plane. And once you know how to fly a plane, you also know how to crash it.

Jimmy sits in his chair and stares at the blank television.

Oh, Abbad, you are a murderer. Oh, Abbad, you are a betrayer.

Furious, Jimmy stands and throws the pieces of his model plane across the room. They crash into a wall and break into more pieces.

How can Jimmy ever be aerodynamic again?

He runs out to his truck, jumps in, and speeds away.

He remembers the reporters who came to his door. The first one, a woman, promised to be fair.

“Jimmy,” she said. “What can you tell us about Abbad?”

Jimmy could not answer the question. He didn’t want to answer the question.

“Jimmy,” she said. “You taught Abbad how to fly a plane. How did it make you feel when he used that knowledge to kill dozens of people?”

He could not answer that question. He didn’t want to answer it.

“Jimmy,” she said. “Do you want to defend yourself?”

He could not defend himself. He didn’t want to defend himself. He was guilty. He had not murdered anybody. He had never wanted to hurt anybody. But it was his fault. He had trusted Abbad.

Jimmy races his truck back to the airport. He pulls into the parking lot, jumps out, and runs into the hangar.

Helda is gone. Linda is gone. Abbad is gone. Everybody is gone, gone, gone.

Jimmy climbs into his airplane, starts it up, and taxis onto the runway.

He takes off, lifting his plane into the sky.

The clouds are the ceiling, the ground is the floor. Everything is green and golden.

Flight is supposed to be beautiful. It’s supposed to be pure.

“Okay, Abbad, are you ready to take the controls?” Jimmy says.

Abbad materializes in the next seat.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Abbad says. “I don’t think I’m ready to do it alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Jimmy says. “I’m right here.”

“Okay, okay, just give me a moment. I’ll be ready in a moment. Just give me a moment.”

“I’m right here, Abbad. Just trust me, okay? Just trust the plane. She’ll take care of you.”

Abbad reaches out and takes the controls. The plane feels lighter than it should.

“Okay, you have the helm,” Jimmy says. “You have control.”

Abbad flies the plane. He’s smiling. And then he laughs.

“I’m flying!” Abbad screams.

“Yes, you are,” Jimmy says. “How does it feel?”

“It’s beautiful, it’s so beautiful. Nothing is as beautiful as this.”

Jimmy laughs at Abbad’s poetry. He has heard it before. All first-time pilots have this moment, when they see the face of God in the sky ahead of them.

“Ah, fuck the birds!” Abbad shouts. “Fuck them, they get to fly like this whenever they want!”

Yes, Jimmy thinks. Yes, fuck the birds and their fucking wings.

Jimmy remembers Abbad’s first landing, how they skidded to a sideways stop.

“Jimmy, I almost wrecked your plane,” Abbad said.

“It’s okay, first landings are always rough,” Jimmy said.

“What would you have done if I wrecked your plane?”

“I would have killed you.”

They laughed.

Jimmy remembers getting drunk with the less than devout Abbad later that night. In celebration.

“To Abbad!” Jimmy toasted.

“To flight!” Abbad toasted.

They drank whiskey and wine and good beer and cheap beer. They talked about sex and love and marriage and planes and religion and politics and both kinds of football.

Too drunk to drive, they walked back to the airport and fell down on the hangar floor beneath Jimmy’s glorious airplane.

“To your plane!” Abbad toasted.

“Her name is Linda!” Jimmy shouted. His plane and his wife. Jimmy’s two loves shared the same name.

“To Linda!” Abbad toasted.

“To Linda!” Jimmy agreed.

Lying on the floor, Jimmy reached out and grabbed Abbad’s hand.

“You are my best friend,” Jimmy said.

“You are my brother,” Abbad said.

Oh, Abbad, you are a murderer. Oh, Abbad, you are a betrayer.

Alone in his airplane, Jimmy flies. I am with him. Jimmy flies out over the water, over the great lake, until the blue of the water and the blue of the sky are the same blue. He flies until he cannot see any land. Then he pushes down on the controls and sends the plane plummeting toward the water.

As we fall, I think about my mother and father. I think about the people I loved. I think about the people I hated. I think about the people I betrayed. I think about the people who have betrayed me.

We’re all the same people. And we are all falling.

I close my eyes and pray.

Jimmy stays silent all the way down.