The Magical Stranger (16 page)

At first, I tried to maintain my dignity, but our
good-bye was more Rowlands and Cassavetes than Hepburn and Tracy. I was fine for
a while and then flopped on the kitchen floor, bawling uncontrollably. My wife
wondered whether she should call the paramedics.

Finally, I gathered myself and drove away. Five
minutes later she called me.

“Aha,” I smirked. Second thoughts already.

“You forgot your laptop.”

That was basically the end. Eventually, I wrote an
essay about moving to New York as a newly re-singled man and mentioned our
divorce in a setup paragraph. There were no names. She read it and never took
another call of mine. In a way, she enacted my most primal fear from childhood:
someone I desperately loved walking away and slamming the door shut.

My reaction to the silent treatment was less than
manly. I left begging messages. I implored friends to intercede. I made her a
mix CD. Then I turned comically thuggish. I read about how the Romans handled
the Carthaginians and toyed with driving to Nahant and spreading Morton's salt
over her beloved tomato garden. A friend convinced me that might be a
felony.

A year or two passed and I avoided Boston at all
costs, turning down assignments that brought me anywhere near the so-called Hub
of the Universe. But I had an accountant who took profoundly liberal deductions
for me. She'd done my taxes over the phone for two years after I moved because
of my begging, but then insisted I come and do them in person if I wanted to
keep using her. I had to do it. My whole personal financial system was built
around her visionary use of the home office deduction. I made plans to stay with
friends in Nahant, just two blocks from my former home.

I got drunk with a couple of friends in Manhattan
the night before my trip. Around closing time, I proclaimed that maybe it would
be a great idea if I toilet-papered my old house the next night. Everyone agreed
this was a splendid idea. We all stole rolls of toilet paper from the bathroom
at Lucky Strike, a SoHo bar I cherished like an old friend. We crashed back at
my place and built a tower of stolen toilet paper on my Danish modern dining
room table, the one cool thing I'd claimed in our divorce.

It seemed like a less good idea the next morning. I
hit a baseball game at Shea Stadium for work and then drove up to Nahant that
afternoon. I had dinner with my friends and their kids. Still hung over, I
turned in early and fell asleep.

I woke at 3:00 a.m., wide awake. I knew what I had
to do. I gathered up two rolls from the guest bathroom and threw on a black
jacket. I headed out in my socks—better not to leave shoeprints, I thought. I
crossed a cemetery and tripped over a headstone, doing a face plant into some
kind of animal feces.

Now covered in shit, I trudged on. A few minutes
later, a police car drove by making his nightly rounds. I dove behind a shed
into a pile of moldy two-by-fours festooned with rusty nails. Dodging lockjaw, I
tiptoed the last block. I saw the old house, an unassuming sky blue Cape Codder.
It still made me shiver a little. I looked around and saw that the coast was
clear. I tossed a roll into a pear tree that used to carve scratches on my arms
when I tried to mow around it. I did it one more time. Then I got the hell out
of there. It was such a pathetic job that I'm not sure my ex ever noticed; or
she may have just blamed it on neighbor kids. She was much too cool a customer
to let on either way.

I was now two years older than Dad when he died. He
commanded men and flew off carriers. I was TP-ing my ex's house. The comparison
was not flattering.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
flew off on the COD the morning before the Black Ravens so I could get to Whidbey in time for the fly-in. The
Nimitz
had tracked north toward home and the water temperature was below 60 degrees, so all passengers had to wear fluorescent orange cold-weather suits. The suits would keep you alive in the water for three hours, but how you were supposed to survive a crash was another matter. The COD only had a hatch up top; there was no way to bail out. We would all be riding that sucker into the water in case of emergency.

The guys convinced me that wearing civvies under the cold-weather suit would be uncomfortable, so I put my flight suit back on. We shot off the
Nimitz
's catapult and I thought of Dad being launched from that same catapult when I was a little boy.

We flew two hours to McChord Air Force Base just outside of Tacoma. I meant to change into my civvies right after we landed, but I wanted to share a taxi to Sea-Tac with a Hornet pilot so there was no time. We then sat in I-5 traffic for forty-five minutes. I was bone tired by the time we arrived and just wanted to get on the road before Seattle's nightmare rush hour. I started wandering the frequent-renter row of National Car Rental trying to choose between a Ford Fusion and a Chevy Malibu. I was in full option paralysis when a middle-aged man in a National windbreaker ran up to me. He stuck out his hand.

“We want to give you a free upgrade.”

I shook his hand, but I was confused.

“For your service. To welcome you home.”

I guess I sort of looked the part. My hair was fairly short and I had a three-week cruise 'stache going. I thanked the man and slid into the leather seat of a maroon Volvo.

I kept driving until I pulled into the parking lot of the Best Western on Whidbey. I didn't have a reservation, but the clerk said they had plenty of rooms. I'd left my wallet in the car and started back for it. The clerk told me not to worry about it.

“You're okay. You're getting the government rate. Your flight suit is your ID.”

I just smiled, trudged to my room, and thought, “Well, you took my father when I needed him most, so I might as well save twelve bucks a night and get a comfy car.” Sometimes, loss can be glib.

I went to my room and collapsed on the bed, just undoing the laces of my flight boots. I reeked of aviation fuel and desperately needed my first real shower in a month. But I didn't want to take my flight suit off. I knew it might be for the last time. Shedding the suit would make me lose Dad again.

T
he next morning, I put on the uniform of the marginally employed American man—khakis and a dress shirt. Back on the
Nimitz
, Tupper looked like shit. He sat through the morning brief and tried to listen, but halfway through he excused himself and puked in a garbage can outside the ready room.

The Black Ravens just looked at each other and shrugged. Getting all the Prowlers airborne was going to suck in the best of circumstances, and now their skipper was barely walking. Doc asked Tupper if he was okay to fly. He lied and said yes. No one said anything. In a way, it was a mirror image of Doogie's fly-off, the one Tupper screamed had been “unsat.” Here was Tupper jumping into the cockpit massively dehydrated and with a fever. No one could really blame him, but it was “Do as I say, not as I do.”

On the flight deck, mechanics in other squadrons placed bets on whether VAQ-135 could get all their Prowlers airborne. The consensus? No chance. They had watched the Black Ravens struggle all cruise with the Midway fiasco, the Headden accident, and the Crapper screwup. The
Nimitz
senior staff rolled their eyes last week when Tupper gave his bone-tired sailors twenty-four hours off against the recommendation of CAG. Tupper had made a simple deal with his guys: “I'll take care of you, but you need to take care of me and the squadron by getting these jets airborne.” The salty old dogs on the
Nimitz
thought it was all so very heartwarming, but that was twenty-four hours to work on ancient planes the squadron wouldn't get back. There was no way they'd all get airborne.

But then Tupper launched first. The rest of the planes followed, even the Hangar Queen getting up without a hitch. It took less than fifteen minutes. The old-timers back on the
Nimitz
admitted maybe they had sold the Black Ravens a little short. The squadron Tupper had preached about, the one he'd always wanted, had come through for their skipper at last.

In the cockpit, Tupper allowed himself an instant of triumph while keeping an eye on his puke bag. He wanted to do a flyover of the
Nimitz
for the sailors of 135 still onboard, but the skies were soupy so the Black Ravens gave it a pass, preventing Tupper from giving the finger to the tower as they passed by at 450 knots. Instead, the Prowlers hit their tanker and then rendezvoused a few miles behind the boat. They were just sixty minutes from home.

I drove over to the base around the same time. I passed by Clover Valley Elementary School, where Timmy Newman had told me about his daddy's crash. I looked at the “Welcome Home Ravens” signs that lined the road to the main gate and thought of Mom and understood better why she had to get out of there. It was thirty years on and I still felt the twinge that everyone else's father was coming home, but not mine.

I walked into the Black Ravens' hangar and watched from a distance. The wind whipped at American flags and the skirts of wives determined to dress sexy no matter how glum the Whidbey weather. I recognized them from the pictures that hung in the ready room. They were all young, beautiful, and nervous.

Their kids whipped around the hangar, nearly toppling a table full of beer. Many of the little boys wore miniature flight suits, their hair slicked back. Chicken's kid came up to me, stopped smartly, and gave me a salute. For a moment, I was a child again. Mom was there too, licking her fingers and trying to tame my cowlick. She's telling me to calm down.

Here, Beth Ware ran the show and did a quick head count. Stonz's wife was running late. Beth knew Tammy Tornga would be ashamed if her husband landed after eight months gone and she was still in the parking lot. Beth called the tower, who relayed the message to Tupper. He understood. So he took the Black Ravens on one more lap around Whidbey.

Fifteen minutes later, the Prowlers came in low over the airfield, their Pratt & Whitney engines screaming. Everyone clapped while a Seattle TV station filmed the scene. The Prowlers then separated and peeled off one by one, landing two minutes apart. The planes then taxied across the runway slowly, a last few minutes of torture for the families.

The engines grew even louder. Moms slapped disposable earplugs into their kids' ears. Then the engines were cut. Canopies popped open, and aviators began climbing down. Decorum vanished. Wives sprinted in high heels across the deck and threw themselves in their husbands' arms. Vinnie gave his wife, Marci, a peck on the cheek and she handed him his boy. He kissed Henry on the cheek tentatively; it was hard to go from carrier deck to a new life so quickly.

Tupper climbed down last. Beth and the girls didn't run at first, but then Brenna sprinted toward him. Caitlin followed. They group-hugged and Tupper wobbled for a moment. But he managed to keep his feet, a boxer staggering back to his corner. Commodore Slais offered a handshake and welcomed him home. Tupper gave the TV station a sound bite about what an honor it was to serve his country and how good it felt to be back in the USA. Then his path crossed with Crapper, his two sons looking smart in their flight suits. There was a momentary pause and then Tupper stuck out his hand.

Twenty minutes later, everyone was gone. Gone to catch up with their kids. Gone to fuck their wives' brains out. I thought about going across the street to the Prowler memorial and putting my hands on Dad's plaque, but it felt like an empty gesture. I watched kids and dads pile into their cars. I headed back to my motel room, picked up some Chinese takeout, and watched sitcoms for hours.

S
herm wasn't on the fly-in. One officer had to stay onboard and supervise the load-off of the squadron's gear the next day when the
Nimitz
pulled into Bremerton. Sherm volunteered; he had joined the cruise late, and besides, he reasoned, there was no one waiting for him. He needed a ride home, so I drove down the next morning.

Around 11:00 a.m., the
Nimitz
gracefully slid into its berth. A band played while mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, and sons and daughters cheered and wept. The gangway dropped; and first-time fathers were allowed to disembark first regardless of rank. Tupper was there, still pale in a ski cap and a Carhartt field coat. He shook the hand of each Black Raven as their feet touched back on American soil.

The pier was deserted by 1:00 p.m. Sherm was supposed to be done by two o'clock, but this was the Navy, so the paperwork slid to three and three slid to four. The last papers were finally signed, and we took the ferry across to Seattle and made the long drive north. He called his wife and they talked for a few minutes, but all hope was gone; their marriage was finished. We pulled into his driveway in Anacortes just as last light was fading.

“Let's get this over with,” said Sherm in a soft voice.

He took a breath and got out of the car. He turned the key and opened the door. The house was giant and modern, a Pottery Barn showroom after closing time. But there was no sign of life. His kids' closets were bare except for some sad, stray reminders. Trent's Mickey Mouse Halloween costume hung alone in the boys' bedroom. A child's finger-painting had fallen off the refrigerator and was curled up on the kitchen floor.

Sherm didn't say anything. His blue eyes were unreadable. We made a run into town and bought a pizza and some more beer. Back at the house, Sherm wanted to show me something. It was a cruise video from his time flying Prowlers over Iraq during the second Gulf War. He popped the DVD into a giant plasma-screen television downstairs in his living room. Between the television and leather couch was Trent's circular Fisher-Price train tracks complete with a ride-along engine and caboose. It had been too big to pack. Sherm turned up the sound.

“This was one of the greatest moments of my life. I want you to see it.”

He fast-forwarded through port calls and onboard pranks. Soon we were over Iraq in the first days of the air war. Sherm was filming it all with a hand-held camera. For the air attack on Iraq, the Prowlers, usually unarmed, were fitted with missiles specifically designed to destroy Iraqi radar stations.

“Watch this. We track on a Iraqi missile site. Then we fire a HARM missile.”

On the screen, Sherm's Prowler jumps a bit and a speck of white light fires off from the left wing. Back home, Sherm laughed and pointed at a darker speck on the screen.

“We locked in on an Iraqi radar station. So we fired a missile and we didn't see this B-52. And for a second we thought, ‘Oh, shit, we're going to hit the B-52.' But it went way over the B-52's head. And then it went down and it did its job.”

Sherm rewound the DVD. We watched it a few more times. Then he told me something I already knew.

“I love what I do for a living. I just love it. It's my life.”

He stepped over the train tracks. For a second, I thought he was going to connect the dots between the train tracks and the missiles fired over Iraq, about the cost of the life he had chosen. But he just clicked off the television and got us each another beer.

A
bout a mile away, Tupper had company in the master bedroom bathroom. He'd rushed home from Bremerton to hear Caitlin's piano recital, falling asleep as she played “Edelweiss.” That night, he and Beth had just gone to sleep when Caitlin barfed in her bed.

Tupper had been home a little more than a day and he'd already given his youngest the flu. They took turns in the bathroom. He'd throw up and then she'd throw up. Tupper told her he was so sorry that he had made her sick. But Caitlin didn't mind. She brushed a stray hair off her face, gave him a weak smile, and held his hand.

“That's okay, Daddy. I'd rather be sick with you here than be better without you.”

I
left Tupper and Sherm in Anacortes and headed up to Mount Baker two days later. I rented a condo in Snowater, the same complex where my family had come as a boy. The next morning, I drove up the mountain and sat in the same lodge where I waited for Dad to ski his last, icy run of the day. I had not been there in thirty years.

I'd turned the tables, or so I thought. Not long after he died, I happily gave up skiing and devoted my life pursuits to things where I had a baseline of competence. But then a funny thing happened. I missed it. I started skiing a few times a year in my thirties in Park City while covering the Sundance Film Festival and with my sister at Mount Bachelor near her home in Bend, Oregon. I wasn't good, but I'd become proficient, dreamily content to carve down the same blue run off Park City's Thaynes lift for hours and days.

I headed up to Baker with a specific goal. I wanted to ski down a run off the Shuksan lift that I remembered Dad skiing the winter before he died. Back then, we rode the chair up together and Dad tried to talk me into following him. But I was too scared. He went left off the lift and skied through the trees. I took an easier green run. I remember him arriving at the bottom with a big smile creased across the five o'clock shadow he allowed himself on weekends. I remember wishing I had the courage to go with him.

Today I was going to try. It was an idyllic spring afternoon, temperatures in the high forties and the mountain blissfully deserted. After a couple of shakedown runs, I jumped on Shuksan. I went left off the lift in search of a trail whose name I didn't know and a route I was trying to conjure out of memory.

Baker is a tough guy's mountain and prides itself on its lack of signs. I decided to go by feel. This was the first in a series of mistakes. The terrain grew steeper and narrower with every turn of my rental skis. The voice of reason told me to head back or at least ask one of the dwindling numbers of skiers for guidance. I did neither. Instead, I went farther until I found myself surrounded by a glade of trees on my left and an out-of-bounds sign on my right.