“I spoke with T.S. last night. He will have the plane out of the hanger and the rear door of the Beech open when we get there. I told him not to tell anyone we were coming, that you didn’t want others around, but, you know T.S., so if people are there, try to be nice. They all think you’re a hero,” Rocky said.
Hanley said nothing. He didn’t talk much anymore, some days more than others, some less. He was getting a headache. There seemed no avoiding it. Beyond the trees lining the road, the fields were a mixture of dull brown cornfields, strewn with the detritus of the last harvest, shards of corn stalks and tattered leaves covered the ground in shades of yellows and gold, and bright green, the weeds and grasses, vying for space and life. He saw nothing that interested him.
There was some excitement to this trip, a feeling he tried to suppress; he wasn’t up for enthusiasm, didn’t trust it, knew it wouldn’t last. No matter how he felt about seeing the Beech, he couldn’t climb in and fly off to somewhere else. All he had to do was look down at the wheelchair and he was slammed right back to earth, to his shriveling legs, his constant shoulder pain, his frustration and embarrassment. Back to the shitty life he made for himself.
The arrival of the plane in mid-March was a bitter experience for him. Greeting the Campbells from a wheelchair, seeing the look on their faces, concern and discomfort, the bottomless cup of pity he sipped from each minute they spent together. When he did speak, he apologized, hating the necessity. Even though the Campbells said they loved the trip, the time spent together, the adventure, as Sophie called it, he still felt they were the victims of his whim, unwilling players in the story of his stupidity, his tale of startling self-absorption.
Nearing the airport, Rocky said to him, “I thought we’d go to lunch after we see the plane. There is a new cafe in town. Good, I hear. Not just for the quiche-eaters. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see how it goes,” he said. “Listen, you don’t need to do this, chauffeur me around. You have other things to do, I know that. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you do, I do, but we both know this is not changing. I won’t get better, I’ll probably only get worse. It was me, my need, and you shouldn’t be punished for it. It was my stupidity, my mistake, my problem.” While saying this, Hanley stared at his dead legs, couldn’t bring himself to look at Rocky, afraid of her face and the expression on it. Nothing was said for a few moments, Hanley relieved there was no response, silence from others his preferred interaction.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
Seeing the airport tripped open his trapped emotions. With short breaths, he tried controlling his racing heart. A growing pressure behind his eyes brought tears. This could be the last time I’ll come here, he thought, no matter what happens. Turning to the window, he tried to mask the emotion, scratching an ear and then wiping his eyes at the same time, not fooling her, he knew. Turning in the main gate, Rocky followed an access road leading to the private hangers. Hanley’s was at the end, the largest in the row, well-maintained, white metal siding, trimmed in a teal green, the roof a shallow pitch, enough to hold the snows of northern Indiana.
“I’ll be the one that decides if I stay with you, not you,” she said, turning in her seat. “You made the decision to fly to Africa, ignored me and your family. Well, it’s my turn. When I’m ready to leave, trust me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“All right,” he said.
He saw the Beech the moment the Lexus made the turn north onto the road fronting the hangers. It shone brightly in the sunshine, polished, perfect. T.S made certain of that, he knew. Rocky slowed the car, giving him more time to look at it, he thought. She’s forcing me to look at it, in case I ask her to turn around and leave. Hangars faced the road from each side, some of the doors were open, the snouts of planes facing the air, metal dogs in their metal dog houses, chained to the ground, wanting out, wanting to run through the air, chasing time, engines barking at the sun, the moon at night if they could find it, but not with him, not again.
T.S. was there and no one else. He was sitting on a folding camp chair, the normal dark green color, a cup of coffee on the ground beside him, steaming into the morning air, disappearing before it reached his elbow jutting out over the cement. A magazine lay open in his lap, part of it hanging over his leg, something red, a block, perhaps with an ad printed across it visible to Hanley as they neared the hanger. T.S. looked up when he heard the car approach, a smile spread across his face as he struggled, wiggling, face turning red, from the chair.
“He’s alone,” she said.
“Yeah, good,” Hanley said, shifting his dead legs to the right, feeling like he was pushing thin sacks of sand tied in an unwieldy bundle. Moving his legs this way was and would forever be odd, thinking of his useless legs as something apart from himself, getting them out of the way, as he would a box in the trunk of his car, blocking access to something he really wanted. He thought about having them amputated, but put that thought aside. He would carry them
