Survival (36 page)

Two days later an impassioned editorial from the nation’s highest medical authority argued for greater investment in mental health, using the professor’s last act as a cautionary tale about the risks in ignoring a problem that could affect anyone, at any time.

It was, as were all such editorials, routinely ignored by a populace weary of being taxed to death by an administration as profligate in its waste as it was larcenous in its diversion of funds to cronies and pet causes.

A week later, the incident had been forgotten, and another scandal involving a porn starlet and the president occupied the front page, the passing of an academic lacking the necessary weight to warrant a more than transient position in the news.

FOUR

Flight Redux

Jeffrey’s remaining time at the office was a blur of apologies to his coworkers and condolences from the law firm as he scrambled to hand his work off to others in preparation for catching a plane. This was one of the times that his eidetic memory came in handy – he had photographic recall of every document and detail that he had in process, and so was able to delegate the minutiae on the most important projects with digital efficiency. It had been a part of him since birth, and he’d long ago moved from embarrassment over what he viewed as his freakish gift to acceptance. But he still didn’t share the fact that he could recall everything he memorized to the tiniest detail, preferring to avoid calling attention to himself – although he’d won his fair share of bar bets during his college days using it to his advantage.

Becky had told him that a memorial service was planned for the following day, graciously organized by Keith’s employer, the equivalent of a funeral when there was no body to inter. He’d checked flights and could get an afternoon non-stop if he hustled. She’d offered to postpone the service for another day, but Jeffrey, in a state of shock and operating on automatic pilot, had assured her that he could make it.

He ground to a halt after twenty minutes of triage on his open files. Realizing that he’d done all he could, he opened an internet browser and pulled up the news coverage on the crash. The accounts were interchangeable, long on speculation but bereft of facts. What he learned was that the plane had taken off on time, climbed per the flight plan, that the communications with the tower were routine, and that sixteen miles east of Long Island the plane disappeared, with no warning or hint of anything amiss. A big weather front had been pounding the coast, but the jet had been above the clouds by the time it dropped out of the sky. Theories abounded, but they were nothing more than hurried ad hoc rationalizations for a mystery. The plain truth was that nobody knew why the plane exploded – and that it had exploded was now confirmed by the Coast Guard and search boats, which had found the debris.

He shut down his computer and estimated his timing. He’d have to leave the bike there and take a cab home, spend no more than ten minutes packing an overnight bag, and then haul ass to the airport if he was going to make it onboard. With the security screening procedures, it was an easy two-hour delay once at the airport, and he was quite sure that after a plane had gone down for no good reason the mood wouldn’t be relaxed.

Jeffrey threw three fat files into his satchel, usually left in the office on bicycle days, and then pulled on his backpack. With a final glance around his modest space he moved to the door and then stopped, a sudden bout of dizziness throwing him momentarily off-balance. He took several deep breaths and the disequilibrium subsided – probably a combination of shock and a blood sugar crash from the commute; he’d skipped his post-ride breakfast bar, Becky’s call having thrown his morning into disarray.

One of the senior partners met him in the hallway, a somber expression on his wizened face, his polka-dotted red bow tie a jaunty nod at what passed for creativity in the stodgy offices, and stopped in front of Jeffrey, managing to block the way with his small, wiry frame.

“Jeffrey. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you in person – you have the full support of the firm. Take as much time as you need,” he said, his eyes revealing the lie as his lips formed the words. Every day Jeffrey wasn’t working, every hour, a client would go unbilled, and money made the legal mare run. It was the lifeblood of all firms. Billable hours. A grieving sibling out of the office for days, or God forbid, a whole week, was cataclysmic. Clients paid through the nose for Jeffrey’s expertise because they expected timely results, not excuses for non-performance laced with personal problems.

None of which he said. He didn’t have to. Both he and Jeffrey knew the game.

“Thank you,” Jeffrey said, glancing at his watch in what he hoped was an obvious manner. “I’m on my way to the airport right now. I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Anything you need, you can rely on us for.”

“That’s comforting, sir. I appreciate it. Now, not to be rude…”

“Go do what you need to do. I just wanted to convey my deepest condolences. I’ve lost as well, so I know what it’s like.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that, so Jeffrey nodded in what he hoped was a suitably grateful manner and averted his eyes – the bow-tie trembling ever so slightly from the partner’s breathing was suddenly irritating beyond belief, and he was afraid to speak in case he fell apart. His older brother was dead, blown to bits over the Atlantic, and this pseudo-academic mouthed shallow aphorisms, expecting him to be appreciative? He was suddenly enraged, but choked the sentiment down. He wasn’t thinking clearly. The little man was just trying to show that the firm cared. Obligatory, perhaps, but a kind gesture nonetheless.

The partner stepped out of the way, belatedly realizing that he’d delayed the young associate at an inopportune time, and Jeffrey pushed past him, trying to cover the ground between his office and the elevators without any further interruptions. He could feel the eyes of his coworkers boring into him as he passed, the news having obviously spread on the office tom-toms almost as soon as he’d called his boss. Nothing was quite as fascinating as tragedy, and Jeffrey was as close as you could get without being on the list of victims. He did his best to ignore the scrutiny and muttered a silent thanks to Providence when the elevator pinged and the highly polished stainless steel doors opened to admit him.

After a brief talk with security about his bicycle, he practically ran out the front entrance and waved to one of cabs rushing down the street. The taxi pulled to the curb a few yards past him with an almost comic screech of rubber, and Jeffrey jerked the rear door open and shouted his address as he slid onto the cracked vinyl seat.

Finally immobilized, with no more distractions, the harsh reality of his brother’s death slammed into him with the force of a sledgehammer. He and Keith had been close growing up; his older sibling had been his best friend throughout their school years, when he’d guided Jeffrey and acted as a father figure when theirs had died when Jeffrey was nine, the victim of a massive coronary. Over the years they’d grown apart, a casualty of living on different sides of the country as well as both their schedules growing increasingly hectic, with Jeffrey in law school and then pulling long hours paying his dues as a freshly-minted attorney, and Keith busy building a career with the State Department. The trip to D.C. where Jeffrey had met Becky had been the first time he’d seen his brother in three years, since their mother’s funeral. Long years of closeted problem drinking had finally caught up to her in the form of massive hemorrhaging, and she’d died alone, too weak and drunk in her home in Santa Cruz to get to the phone to call for help.

And now Keith was gone. Forever.

He watched as they rolled up Lombard on the way to Van Ness, groups of homeless junkies loitering on the sidewalks only steps from some of the most impressive edifices in the Bay Area, and he shook his head, hoping to clear it. In his mind’s eye the same scene kept replaying over and over – his brother’s silent scream as he plummeted thousands of feet to his death in the shattered fuselage of the plane, the end of his life a foregone conclusion, but taking endless seconds to drop to the frothing surface of the cold ocean below. It was a hellish image of his own devising, the very worst-case scenario. For all he knew everyone had been killed instantly, no awareness at all that their existences had just reached an abrupt conclusion, one moment alive and fiddling with laptops and pillows, the next simply…no longer of this world.

But the certainty that the lingering horror his imagination had created for his personal viewing enjoyment was the truth wouldn’t be banished to the recesses of his mind. The vision of Keith’s mouth, forever frozen in a panicked O as he freefell to certain death in the towering waves below, skittered through his consciousness like an errant pinball. He closed his eyes and moaned, then opened them with a start as the driver, a turbaned immigrant who’d seen everything, by the look on his face, glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” he called out. The heavy Plexiglas barrier between the front seat and the rear muffled his voice, but his accent still made the second word sound like “body” to Jeffrey.

Jeffrey wondered what film the driver had picked up the seemingly obligatory cabbie phrasing from, but quickly lost interest.

“Yeah, sure. Just a bad day, is all,” he said with a look that ended further inquiry.

When they reached his building, he paid the fare and told the driver that he’d want a ride to the airport in ten minutes – with his mind somewhere else, the last thing he needed was to get into an accident on the way, which was a possibility given how his morning had gone. They agreed the taxi would wait for him off the clock, and Jeffrey thanked him as he hopped out of the car and trotted to the front door, keys in hand.

Packing was easy, if morbid – a black suit, an overcoat and some underwear, along with a change of casual clothes. He still had the somber outfit from his mother’s funeral, and after a quick trial of the pants to confirm that they fit, he quickly folded the garments and put them into his bag. His loafers clicked on the dull hardwood floor as he moved to the bathroom and retrieved a shaving kit, and when he stepped into the living room, ready to leave, the clock on the coffee machine confirmed he’d only been there for eight minutes.

Traffic to the airport was light, most of the cars headed the opposite direction, and Jeffrey busied himself with answering his email on his phone – mainly expressions of sympathy from his colleagues, with a few instructions from clients peppering the stream. Although he kept drifting back to the image of his brother dropping from the sky, he forced himself to respond to everyone, welcoming any diversion from his nightmarish replay.

A flock of starlings winged by overhead as the car took the airport off-ramp, the sun now out in force, glistening off their ebony feathers as they defied gravity. The driver was mercifully silent, having lost any enthusiasm for interaction, and contented himself with a dissonant tape of atonal music that most closely resembled a phalanx of car horns honking arrhythmically while a woman yowled over the din.

A sea of brake lights greeted them as they rounded a long curve, and they stopped at a hastily erected checkpoint manned by highway patrolmen with long faces and nervous dispositions – no doubt in response to the accident that had taken Keith’s life, which struck Jeffrey as simultaneously typical and depressing. Never in the history of air travel had any terrorist event been foiled by police staring into cars and randomly pulling people over to search them, and yet that was unhesitatingly one of the useless responses any state of alert was met with. Because those chartered with protecting the population had to appear to be doing something, even if it was wholly pointless.

Eventually they reached the terminal. Jeffrey pushed a wad of dollars through the Plexiglas receptacle and eased out of the taxi, pulling his bag with him. Inside, a pronounced armed presence announced itself as officers with bomb-sniffing dogs moved through the lines of passengers waiting to check in. A particularly exhausted-looking beagle brushed by him, and for a moment Jeffrey and the animal locked eyes, the dog’s baleful gaze resigned to a thankless shift sniffing for something it would likely never find. The sense of futility was palpable, and then the beast was past, moving to the next line, its heavily armed minder scanning the throng like he could spot trouble on looks alone.

Jeffrey swiped his credit card at the automated ticket machine, selected a seat, and collected his boarding pass, and then moved to the counter to have his ID checked. The ticket agent was courteous but mechanical as she tapped at her terminal with the warmth of an animatronic figure at an amusement park, and Jeffrey wondered whether she despised her job or was merely heavily medicated. He had watched her process the person in front of him, the transaction as impersonal as feeding change into a parking machine, and he was struck by how many interactions he had with that same dynamic. What was it that drove people to take jobs they disliked so profoundly that their only recourse was to treat their charges like objects, a subtle but unmistakable slight that was obvious yet completely deniable?