Among the Dead (19 page)

Is that all to say? What else?

She hung up. What was she telling him right now? Why did I call? I should have had someone else call. My voice, I was a ghost to her.

He felt a smile growing. This is fun, he thought. This is actually quite amazing. This will be legend. Who else can I scare? He got out of bed and went to the door, to see if the hotel had left a courtesy copy of the newspaper outside. They had, but not the
Los Angeles Times,
only the stupid local paper. The crash was the only news on the front page, with four pictures; the largest was an aerial view of the burned-out blocks, and the other two were of children crying at the neighbourhood's high school, because a favourite teacher had been killed. The third was titled ‘
CRASH INVESTIGATORS SEARCHING THROUGH THE RUBBLE
'. The fourth picture was of Lonnie Walter, the former airline employee suspected of causing the crash. The photograph had been taken when he had been given his job for the airline. Frank could tell nothing from his expression. He wore a white shirt and a tie, but no jacket. He was forty-five. The article said that little was known about his background, beyond a few dates. He had been born in Texas, and the family had moved to Los Angeles when he was seven. He was divorced. He had a son. And he had been fired by the airline a few days before the crash, by Nick Burdett, an operations supervisor who was on his way to Acapulco to a meeting there at the airline's aircraft-maintenance centre. Walter had left a note at home, for his ex-wife, telling her that he was never coming back. Well, that was true. Frank could
not connect the man's face, or his story, to the death of his family. He closed the door and looked for the list of the dead.

The airline, or the newspaper, divided the dead into categories under three headings. The first heading was ‘passengers'. The second heading was ‘
FLIGHT CREW
'. The third heading was ‘on the ground'. The paper cautioned readers that the lists were incomplete. The flight crew list separated the
‘Cockpit Crew'
, the pilot and first and second officers, from the
‘Cabin Crew'
. Frank could further break the passenger list down by nationality, since a third of the names were Mexican. The rest were tourists or people going to Mexico for business, but that distinction was harder to read. He could separate all single men from the list and assume they were on business, perhaps all single men over forty. How many fifty-year-old men would go to Mexico for a vacation by themselves? But then, how many of them were attached to women whose last names they did not share? For example, Anna, who had kept her maiden name, was separated from Frank on the list.

Between Fogel, Mark and Gallegos, Luisa B. were:

Gale, Frank

Gale, Madeleine

Then, down the list, between Levy, Lawrence and Keith, Darnelle was Klauber, Anna. Someone reading the list with an eye towards solving the puzzle of the relationships would assume that Gale, Frank and Klauber, Anna were strangers to each other. If that breakfast-table detective tried to dissect the list for all the single men and women, to stack them together again in couples, he might put Levy, Lawrence with Klauber, Anna, but it was also possible that he would create for himself an Anna Klauber heading for Mexico to drink margaritas at lunch and fuck the cabana boys. He would follow this Anna down in flames to the ground, thinking of her underpants, her bathing suit, her vagina.

The list of the dead on the ground was short, only twenty, but the police had not yet notified all the next of kin, which might take days. The police expected the list to grow to at least a hundred.

He picked up the phone. Who to call? He could call Lowell, but if his brother was annoyed with him for last night's stunt, then why call him unless he meant to apologize? And if he apologized, would that give Lowell the power to bring frank to his senses?

Now with an apology, Frank would have to admit that he'd been out of control.

And with that, Lowell would trundle him out of the hotel, bring him to his house, and help Frank to put the tragedy behind him.

It was too soon for that. He called his mother instead.

Lowell had already told her about the arrest, which meant that he was awake and had called them early, or had called them last night.

‘Your father and I couldn't sleep last night.'

‘Is he OK?'

‘We'll never be OK.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You're not supposed to bury your children or grandchildren, that's not the way God wants things.'

‘He wanted it this time.'

‘Don't be bitter.'

‘Mom.' He said this quickly.

‘What am I saying?' she asked. ‘Be bitter. Be as bitter as you want. It might be good for you. You could stand to cry. Have you cried yet?'

‘Last night. I cried when I got home.'

‘What were you doing out there? They could have shot you, for looting.'

‘I wasn't looting. I was looking.'

‘And what did you hope to see?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I do. And I shouldn't say this, because I know what kind of pain you're in, but you were hoping to see their bodies, Frank. That's what you wanted to see.' The way she had said this, the words she had chosen, the comma after bodies and then his name, and the quick, short sentence after that, told him that she had gone too far, and knew it, and wanted to negate the first intention, which was to brutalize him with the strength of her insight, her honesty, to show off that she knew things about him to which he was blind. She was punishing him with his own motives.

So why didn't I tell her the truth? he asked himself. Why not just come out and admit that I wanted to see their bodies on the ground? Because I did not want to shock her. But she knew anyway.

How much had she known about me when I was growing up? How much had she withheld from me, how many of her insights did she keep to herself? And do I wish she had been truthful, or am I glad that she let me be? Or was she afraid of telling the
truth, for fear that I would turn around and make her suffer the indictment her son had crafted for a lifetime?

‘Yes, you're right,' said Frank. I wanted to see the bodies. I needed to know for myself that they really are dead.'

‘
THE GUILT OF THE SURVIVORS
,' she said.

There was a knock on the door. ‘Frank?' It was Lowell. ‘Frank, if s me.'

Frank called out to him, to wait a second, and then his mother said, ‘What?'

‘Lowell is here.'

‘Let me talk to him.'

So she wanted to talk to Lowell about the problems baby brother was having, how to take care of him, how to help him get over this.

Lowell was there with a brown paper shopping bag. Frank saw a few bagels, and a plastic container with cream cheese, and a plastic bottle of fresh orange juice. He told Lowell that their mother was on the phone, and that she wanted to speak to him.

'I didn't want you to have that shitty hotel food. Let's eat this.' He handed Frank the bag, in a gesture that meant: accomplish this small task, the setting of a table, and re-enter the world of the living. Your therapy begins now. But the effort to so quickly help him deal with the pain only pushed him further away from Lowell, since he was expected to start his recovery. He opened the bag and put the bagels on the round table near the balcony. There was nothing to cut the bagels with, only plastic knives for spreading the cream cheese. He tore an onion bagel in half and daubed the cut ends with the cheese. While Lowell talked to their mother, Frank went to the bathroom for the drinking glasses, and poured the orange juice.

On the phone Lowell assured their mother that Frank looked fine, Frank was going to be fine, and that he, Lowell, was fine. Then his mother said something to Lowell, and to respond he grunted a few times. She was telling him something, and she didn't want an articulate response. What was she saying, that she was worried? Maybe she was talking about their father. No. She's telling him something about me, thought Frank.

Lowell offered the phone to Frank. ‘Dad wants to say something.'

Frank took the phone. His father's voice was heavy, wet. ‘I'm going to temple, Frank. I'm going to say Kaddish today.'

‘Thanks, Dad.'

‘You should too.'

‘I'll think about it.' He didn't want to pray, or he did, but he didn't want to go to temple, he didn't want to have to park his car, think about finding a space, or reach for his keys when the service was over.

‘Your mother wants to go to San Diego. The airline says there's going to be a memorial service, and they think it's going to be in San Diego, because of the people on the ground. There may be a service in LA, though. We'll go to them all. These things, these prayers, these services, that's why we have them, to help us through the hardest times.' Frank could detect, in his father's gush of sodden theology, the notes of capitulation to reality that, transposed to the sphere of business, became the shudders of doubt that made him pull short of what he was afraid to do, and brought his business down.

The phone call ended. ‘Do you know anything about this memorial service?' he asked Lowell.

‘There may be something in a few days, The airline is setting it up. I hate to say this,' said Lowell, and then stopped.

‘What?'

‘Well, it's a publicity stunt, it's the airline managing the news. They'll come across as the chief mourner, they'll set up something in the public's mind, so that juries will feel sympathy for the airline, so it'll be harder to get a big judgement against them. For the money. We have to find a good lawyer. I don't know whether we join a class-action suit, or if we do this alone. Maybe we can find a few other people and sue with them.'

I could sue my limo driver for getting me to the airport late.'

Lowell used a laugh at this to pull up a chair and tear apart a bagel and drag the cut end through the cream cheese, piling it against the leading edge. ‘Let's go back to my place.'

‘No,' said Frank. ‘I want to see Bettina Welch. I want to find out what else they know.'

‘I'm not going to say that I know how much pain you're in. But I am going to say that you're only going to make that pain worse.'

‘If what?'

‘By hanging around here waiting for whatever it is you're waiting for.'

‘Where should I go? What should I do?'

‘We should go home.'

‘But what about the bodies? I don't want to go home without the bodies.'

‘We'll stay here until we can bring Anna and the baby home. I promise.' He always called Madeleine ‘the baby'. Frank thought it was because he wasn't quite sure of her name.

For the second time in two and a half days, they left a hotel room to see Bettina Welch.

She was in the conference room, on the phones. The airline representatives all wore identification tags, with their pictures. The photographs were of the same dull style as the picture of Lonnie Walter, a head-shot in front of a cream background. A few of the other survivors who had been in the hotel in Los Angeles were there, getting breakfast from a buffet table. The spread was not so lavish as in Los Angeles, three steam trays, one chef, a few bus-boys. There were eggs, sausages and pancakes. Beside them, on large plates, were cereals and breads, and then a few pitchers with orange and tomato juice, and milk. The coffee cups were small.

The woman with the copper-coloured hair sat at a table, reading the paper, while her husband brought her a plate of scrambled eggs. A Mexican family ate sausages and drank orange juice.

Bettina Welch left her table. She approached Lowell with her hand out, because he had been so difficult in Los Angeles, and she had to win him over. He took her hand as she said, ‘Hello again, Mr Gale.'

‘Lowell,' he said.

She gave Frank another official hug. ‘How are you feeling today?'

‘I don't know yet.'

‘We have to talk. Can I get you something to eat?'

Frank wanted a pancake with syrup, but said nothing. She took him by the arm and they sat at a table away from the others.

‘Frank,' she said, and he knew there was trouble. ‘The press found out about you.'

‘What did I do?'

‘Two things. You weren't on the plane. And then the arrest last night. They want to talk to you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you weren't on the plane. They say it's everyone's nightmare.'

‘Not dying on a plane?'

‘Missing a plane that crashes. I don't know why. People have such horrible things, sometimes.' Have things. What things?

Lowell put himself between Frank and Bettina. ‘Listen to me. I don't want the press bothering my brother, do you understand that?'

‘You know, Mr Gale, you're also suffering through this.'

‘Is that supposed to make me happy, your concern for me, Miss Welch?' Nothing had changed. Lowell would never try to be nice to her. Lowell blamed her for the crash.

Frank put a hand on Lowell, the familiar way to bring him back from his rage. ‘We just won't talk to them. Thaf s all. I just won't talk to them.'

‘We need a lawyer,' said Lowell. ‘We need a lawyer today.'

‘Let's wait,' said Frank.

‘No,' said Lowell. ‘And we're not going to join anybody else's suit. I want to make a separate case out of this.'

‘Do we have to talk about this now?' asked Frank. ‘Can't we wait until after the funeral?'

Bettina Welch interrupted. ‘There's going to be a memorial service for everyone in two days, here in San Diego. We'll have limos to take you.'

‘Limousines. As if that helps,' said Lowell.

‘We're trying.'

‘Bettina,' said Frank, ‘my brother is very upset.'

‘I know that. And thank you. And now I have to get back to work.'

‘What next?' asked Frank.