In the Unlikely Event (47 page)

“I've lived there since I was fifteen. My children grew up there.”

“And they turned out okay? Because my dad thinks it's not a good place to grow up.”

“They're fine.” Well, she thinks, two of them are anyway, but she's not getting into that.

“What were you doing in New Jersey?” Lily asks.

“Visiting old friends.”

“Was it fun?”

Miri thinks before answering. “In a way it was. Yes.”

The flight attendant stands at the front of the cabin. “May I have your attention?” She demonstrates the proper way to fasten your seat belt. Then she says, “In the unlikely event…”

Lily leans close and says, “This is the part I don't like. Why do they have to say that?”

“It's just a safety rule,” Miri tells her, trying to sound as if she means it.

“Are you scared?” Lily asks.

“No. Why would I be scared?”

“You're digging your fingernails into your armrests.”

Miri tries to laugh. “Just an old habit,” she tells Lily.

But Lily can see right through her. She reaches for Miri's hand. “Will you hold my hand until we're up?”

“Sure,” she says. Lily reminds her of Fern on their first flight to Las Vegas. But she doesn't tell her that. Instead, she says, “I have a daughter. She's fifteen. Her name is Eliza.”

“Do I remind you of her?”

“A little.”

“Is she dead?”

“What? No! Why would you say that?”

“Because you seemed sad when you said her name.”

“I'm not sad. I just miss her. She's at school. I'll see her next weekend.” Miri closes her eyes. Who is Lily, really? What are the odds that the two of them would be seated together on this flight?
In the unlikely event…
she hears the flight attendant saying in her head. Life is a series of unlikely events, isn't it? Hers certainly is. One unlikely event after another, adding up to a rich, complicated whole. And who knows what's still to come?

Lily looks out the window, then back at her. “My dad says unlikely events aren't all bad. There are good ones, too.”

“Like meeting you on the plane,” Miri says, making Lily smile.

DAISY SPENDS TIME
with Dr. O every day. An hour here, an hour there. Sometimes they tell each other jokes. Sometimes they reminisce. Other times they're quiet. He sleeps, she reads. Rusty says it's such a help to be able to call on her, to count on her. She still goes to the office three days a week. She still looks good, maybe because she gave up smoking when she moved to Las Vegas, maybe thanks to her condition. Who knows? That was so long ago.

She can't imagine life without Dr. O, her oldest, dearest friend, more than fifty years of working together, fifty years of friendship, of knowing everything about the other, except for one—she never knew, she never guessed about Dr. O and Rusty. How he managed to hide that from her she doesn't know. Proves that everyone, even the person closest to you, can have secrets.

RUSTY
'
S LET
her hair grow and doesn't color it. She wears it in a braid hanging down her back. There's something about her still-lovely face, silver hair and clear eyes that makes people turn and stare, the way they did when she was in her prime. She's a western woman now, though she's never felt comfortable on a horse, or driving long distances on her own.

When Miri and Christina ask if they can plan an early eightieth
birthday celebration for Dr. O the last weekend in March, she gives her blessing. That's five weeks from now, she thinks. Who's to say what will happen in the next five weeks? He's made his wishes clear. No more treatment. Palliative care only. Don't try to extend his life. He's had a good run.
Thirty-five fantastic years with you, my love
. When he says that, she dissolves. She can't bear the idea of losing him.

“You're strong,” he tells her.

“Not anymore.”

“I need you to be strong.”

She nods. For him she'll do anything. If he needs her to be strong, she'll be strong.

“I never expected to make it to eighty,” he says. “And I'm not talking about cancer. I expected God to strike me down for wanting you.”

She smiles. “Arthur, you're becoming religious in your old age?”

“I've always been religious deep down. I never wanted to hurt anyone, not even when I was drilling a tooth.”

She kisses him. “Is it any wonder I love you?”

“No funeral,” he reminds her for the tenth time.

NONE OF THEM KNOWS
if Natalie will show up for his early birthday party, but at the last minute, she does. She brings fifteen-year-old Ruby with her, the youngest of her three children, each by a different father. She's never seen the point of marriage. They stay in a two-bedroom suite at Caesars Palace, arranged by Christina. A car and driver are at Natalie's disposal, delivering her and young Ruby to Miri's house for Dr. O's party. It's a sunny afternoon, warm enough to set up the buffet on the deck.

Eliza hits it off with Ruby Renso. “What exactly is our relationship?” Miri hears Ruby ask Eliza.

Eliza answers, “Well…your grandfather is married to my grandmother. That must make us something-in-laws.”

“Yes,” Ruby says. “Something-in-laws.”

Before sunset Eliza and Ruby come to her. “Mom,” Eliza says
with more enthusiasm than Miri has heard in ages, “Ruby's invited me to Santa Fe for the summer.”

“Actually,” Ruby says, “we live on a spread in Tesuque, outside of Santa Fe.”

“Can I go?” Eliza begs. “Please…”

Miri has to think fast. “Let me talk to Natalie about this and see what we can work out.”

“Does that mean yes?” Ruby asks Eliza.

Eliza says, “It means
We'll see
.”

“Great!” Ruby says. “At least it doesn't mean no!”

Miri laughs. So do Malcolm and Kenny. “She's going to be okay, Mom,” Kenny says of Eliza.

“I hope so,” Miri says.

“At least we didn't give you any trouble,” Malcolm says. “Right, Kenny? We were perfect children.”

Ha! Miri remembers the pot plants in the closet, the acid trip to the mountains, the fake IDs falling out of Kenny's wallet when they were stopped by the police on their way to hear the Grateful Dead. But they've made it through. They're good young men.

When the trio begins to play “It Had to Be You,” Dr. O gets up with help from his and Rusty's sons, and he and Rusty slow-dance. Their grandchildren circle around them. They end with a kiss and immediately the trio plays “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.” The other guests get up to dance, led by Miri and Andy. She's felt closer to him since the trip to Elizabeth, more appreciative. If he's noticed, he hasn't said anything. He looks down at her and smiles. “Nice party.”

Tears spring to her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Love you,” he says.

“Love you, too.”

NATALIE ASKS
for time alone with Dr. O the next day. Can she be trusted not to upset him? Miri wonders. Not to accuse him? Is it any of her business? She checks with Rusty, who asks Dr. O, who says yes, whatever Natalie has up her sleeve he can take it.

Twenty minutes later Natalie comes out of his room. Miri is waiting.
“Thanks for encouraging me to come now,” she says. “I needed to apologize to him. Instead, he apologized to me.”

Natalie hugs Rusty for the first time since she was a young girl. “Thank you for making my father happy.”

Rusty breaks down.

CHRISTINA ARRANGES
for the plane to fly Natalie and Ruby back to Santa Fe.

At the airport Natalie looks hard at Miri, then hugs her. “So long, cowgirl,” she says softly. “I'll see you in my dreams.”

“Not if I see you first,” Miri whispers into Natalie's hair.

Natalie strides out to the plane with Ruby. She turns back once and waves. Miri returns her wave.

“You okay?” Christina asks, as the plane takes off.

“I'm good,” Miri says, then adds, as if the thought has just popped into her head, “I think I'll take a leave from the paper.”

Christina looks at her. “This is sudden.”

“I'll be able to spend more time with Andy, meet you for lunch.”

“And…” Christina says.

“Maybe I'll write a book. I might have a story to tell.”

“It's about time,” Christina says.

As they lock arms, starting back to the car, Miri begins to sing.
“Somewhere there's music, how faint the tune…”

Christina joins in.
“Somewhere there's heaven, how high the moon…”

“Or maybe we can put together a sister act,” Christina says. “I know a guy who knows a guy who owns a hotel with a lounge in Vegas.”

Although this book is a work of fiction, and the characters and events are products of my imagination, the three airplane crashes are real. I grew up in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and was in eighth grade during the winter of 1951–1952, a student at Hamilton Junior High, so I have firsthand memories of that time and place.

I have tried to depict the crashes as accurately as possible and for that I have depended on reports in two now-defunct local newspapers, the
Elizabeth Daily Journal
and the
Newark Evening News
, to supplement the official investigative reports of the Civil Aeronautics Board. I have drawn heavily on the colorful writings of the reporters for these newspapers, freely adapting some of their descriptive phrases—a plane that falls “like an angry, wounded bird” and another that has “broken cleanly in half like a swollen cream puff.”

My thanks to Irvin M. Horowitz, Melville D. Shapiro, Earl K. Way of the
Elizabeth Daily Journal
, and to that newspaper's editorial writers. Also, to Angelo Baglivo, Joseph Gale, Joseph Katz, Albert M. Skea, Arthur Swanson, Frank Eakin, Alfred G. Aronowitz, Armand Rotonda, and Cortlandt Parker, Jr., of the
Newark Evening News
.

I feel as if I know these reporters and am ever grateful for their stories. I like to think their combined DNA has seeped into my hero, Henry Ammerman. At a time when television was still new it was up to print journalists and photographers to paint a picture for us, to tell the stories not only of the crashes, but of those who were on the planes, and those who were left behind.

Thank you to Mary Faith Chmiel, director of the Elizabeth Public Library, and to Nancy Smith, senior reference librarian. Thanks also to the Newark Public Library and its interlibrary loan staff. To Robin Henderson, reference librarian, and Christine Bell, assistant, at the Monroe County Public Library in Key West, all of them helpful and resourceful. Thank you to Tom Hambright, who runs the history room at the Key West library. He set me up at a microfilm reader and warned me to take cover whenever he opened the door to the dusty closet where he kept his treasures.

Thank you to Tom Meyers, Fort Lee Office of Cultural & Heritage Affairs for information on the Riviera nightclub, including the New Year's Eve, 1951, dinner menu, and Pupi Campo's Riviera Latin band.

I worked on this book from January 2009 to November 2014. During that time I was inspired by books, articles, and blogs.

Replacement Child
by Judy L. Mandel is a book I recommend to anyone curious about the true story of one family who was caught up in the tragedy of the second plane crash.

But He Was Good to His Mother: The Lives and Crimes of Jewish Gangsters
by Robert Rockaway.

Notorious New Jersey: 100 True Tales of Murders and Mobsters, Scandals and Scoundrels
by Jon Blackwell.

Viva Las Vegas: After-Hours Architecture
by Alan Hess.

Thanks to The Mob Museum in Las Vegas for a fascinating tour, and to Steve Franklin, our guide to the neighborhoods of '50s Las Vegas.

Diane Norek Harrison for her blog post: “Elizabeth Memories: Elmora Avenue in the 1950s.”

Nat Bodian for “Looking Back at The Tavern: A Great Newark Restaurant” in Old Newark Memories.

Stu Beitler for his submissions to the GenDisasters website.

Thank you to the friends and family members who listened and shared memories while I went on and on about my story. I didn't keep a running list, so forgive me if I've left out any of your names:

Pamela Chais for coming up with the title (before she ever read the book).

Corky Irick for bringing me a Speed Graphic camera like those used by news photographers of the time.

Jim Ackerman for sharing a family story that inspired the character of Mrs. Barnes.

Myrna Blume, who reminded me about the La Reine Hotel in Bradley Beach.

Joanne Tischler Stern, who has the best memory of all my school friends and who enthusiastically answered my questions.

Myrna Seidband Watkins, Mary Weaver, Roz Halberstadter, Ronne Jacobs, Robert Silverman, David Hofmann, ReLeah Lent.

Bob Kallio, who lived at Janet Memorial Home during that time, for the scrapbooks he donated to the Elizabeth Public Library.

And to David Kaufelt, my Key West bro—who was in seventh grade at Hamilton when I was in eighth. How great to find a boy from long ago and become good friends in Key West fifty years later. I miss you.

To my family—my brother David, who spent twenty years in the Air Force and has never lost his fascination with planes. My daughter, Randy, who became a commercial airline pilot and was my go-to source for questions about how planes and navigation systems work. My cousin Josh Rosenfeld. To Larry, Amanda and Jim, and to Elliot. All of them patient, encouraging and loving. At the end of the day, these are the people who know me best and nonetheless still care about me.

To my assistants in Key West, Patricia Bollinger, Joanne Brennan and Marianne Noordermeer—I couldn't do any of it without you.

And thanks to so many at Knopf, but especially: the production and design team—Maria Massey, Cassandra Pappas and Kelly Blair, who designed a jacket that captures both the time and the story; Anke Steinecke, for her legal expertise and Ruthie Reisner, for dedication above and beyond the call of duty. And to the publicity and marketing group who make it sound like fun (even though I know better)—Paul Bogaards, Josefine Kals, Danielle Plafsky, Nicholas Latimer and Maggie Southard.

Thank you to Sonny Mehta, who was my publisher in London in the seventies. We meet again and I couldn't be more thrilled.

To my agent, Suzanne Gluck at WME, who waited and waited, never pushing (and yes, she's really a fabulous agent).

And to my smart, funny, generous editor, Carole Baron. For five years we chatted about the book I was writing (though I wouldn't show it to her or anyone) over long breakfasts at Sarabeth's whenever I was in New York. We'd reminisce about the fifties, the Jewish gangsters our fathers knew, the music we danced to, what we wore, what we read, what was going on in our worlds. This was truly a collaborative effort. Carole and I worked for nine months after I finally sent her the manuscript. Without her, I'm not sure I would have finished this book. For this one and for
Summer Sisters
, thank you, Carole. You are my sister.

Finally, to my loving, supportive husband, who has been there for me for thirty-five years. When the deadline loomed, he “stepped up to the plate” and said,
I can be your Henry Ammerman
. He took the stories in my research notebook and reworked them. I was a tough city editor, but he came through every time, always in good humor. Without his months of work, his dedication to Henry, the story and to me, you probably wouldn't be reading this book for another five years, if then. He is my “Henry” and my everything else. How lucky I am to have him in my life.

P.S. from “Henry Ammerman”—I'd like to throw in a thanks to what William Gibson calls the “global instantaneous memory prosthesis.” When you need it quick the Internet
knows
, like The Shadow from the radio show of our youth.