Up In The Air – One Last Time

D'Angelo came back back to her house a few minutes later.

"That dude is a strange-ranger. Has a few pictures of you on his bedroom wall, lots of other women too, bunch of underwear and shit. Might be yours, maybe not. Who knows? Anyways, gonna need you to come down today or tomorrow, try and identify the stuff, make a statement, all that bull."

"Okay," Evans said.

"Say, yous okay?"

"I saw you get shot, I was terrified."

"You saw it?"

"Oh, yeah, bet your ass I did."

D'Angelo got on her radio, called her supervisor, asked her to come to Evans' house.

"This could be a long night, Miss Evans. You wanna call someone?"

____________________________________________

Overton walked into the house in Glen Cove, into the preternatural emptiness that had occupied the place for months. He walked in, into that withering past, and looked around the living room, the kitchen, only now the presence of two women hovered in the air. He felt locked inside some kind of vast conflict, a fight with no known boundaries, no objective, yet part of a war between souls, a battle beyond any simple denial of history. One soul having moved on, true, only now it was a memory fighting against time, fighting to remain in the mind of one so long loved. The other soul a living, breathing human being, one fighting for recognition against time and memory.

A living soul longing for a place by fires banked down for so long that only the faintest embers remained.

He walked into the house, into the memory of sounds that lingered like an echo, shadows of laughter and sorrow fading from his mind's eye. In the kitchen, in the little niche beside the 'fridge, a covey of photographs -- and he turned away from them as though there was nothing more he could see in the images but the sorrow of her passing. He walked through the house, through fogs of lurking memory, pausing to look at the porcelain figurines she'd collected on their trips together, then at the exorbitantly-priced fabric on the re-covered sofa she'd simply had to have, yet everywhere he looked he saw her shadow, always hanging back in the shadowlands of memory. He found himself wondering if ghosts were real, and if she was still here.

He walked up the stairs to their room and went to her closet, opened the door. He'd not once looked in this sacred space in all the months since, and the smell of her -- the smell of lingering perfume and the cold leather of her shoes -- danced along the byways of memory, drawing him inward. He closed his eyes as waves of other nights washed over him, and suddenly he felt a longing for her touch, a visceral longing he'd denied himself in the countless nights since . . .

He sat in the little overstuffed chair in the little study tucked neatly off the side of the bedroom and looked out windows at summer's leaves waving in the twilight, and he felt his eyes filling with tears. He gripped the arms of the chair, tried to hold it back just a little longer, but it was no use. He started to cry, gently at first, but soon he was overcome with a sorrow bourn of what now felt like impulsive guilt. He felt like he had betrayed his wife.

First, he'd slept with a stranger, perhaps he had fallen in love. He looked away into the gathering darkness, thinking that he'd come home today and given away her car. Then, driving home from the dealership, he'd been overcome with the intense need to sell the house, to get rid of every remnant of their past, and finally, to turn his back on Peggy once and for all time. To simply move on.

Then...

Opposing tides pulled at him, and now caught in the rip he struggled to breathe.

He thought about the afternoon, about how he'd asked himself, when he turned down their street once again, how do you turn away from the past without sacrificing your humanity, even who you are? How do you turn away from memories so vast and -- uncontrollable? How do you turn away from your soul-mate, and then have the audacity to dream of any other future? Would Peggy always be there, he asked himself as their house hove into view, would her memory always be waiting for him in the shadows, always waiting to push aside whatever happiness he dared stake-out as his own?

Now, in the gathering darkness, he knew his first impulse had been the correct one, at least for him. He'd have to sell the house. Call Peg's brothers and sisters and have them come claim any memories they wished and cart them away, then broker off the rest and be done with it.

A clean break. That's what it would take to move on, and he knew it in his heart even as tears coursed down his face. She'd never leave him if he stayed here . . . she was everywhere in this house. Waiting around every corner, waiting to seduce him once again, pull him into the tender warmth of what had now become a fatal embrace. She'd always be in this house, watching -- and waiting --

He went to his closet and took out a large duffel and began putting clothes in it, then moved to his toiletries. He filled another much smaller duffel with vital papers and mementos of his flying career, then carried the lot down to the garage and the little silver SmartCar waiting there, and there he dumped the stuff, in the tiny space behind the seats. He plugged his phone into the charger after he started the car's tiny motor, and opened the garage door, then backed down the driveway. He stopped and looked at the house again, seeking validation perhaps, or at least understanding, but all he saw was her shadow lurking in an upstairs window, her face looking down at him, laughing as he backed out of the driveway.

His phone pinged when he stopped to shift into Drive, and he saw that it was Evans calling.

"Yo!" He said.

"Paul?"

"Yo!"

"Paul, something's happened over here, I need you to come over."

"Gimme an address," he said, firing up the little car's GPS NAV system and entering the information on the touchscreen. "Inwood? That's not too far. Maybe a half hour, depending on traffic."

"Good, see you in a few." The line went dead.

"Something's happened?" he said to himself. "That doesn't sound good." He put the little car in gear and took off, chasing directions the NAV system spat out. Jamaica Avenue to the Cross Island Parkway...and about forty minutes later he pulled onto Donohue and saw a dozen police cars in front of her address.

He jumped out, ran to her door -- which was open -- and dashed inside.

"Denise, what's going on?" he said when he saw her sitting on a sofa in the living room.

"Better come here, take a seat," she said, noting he hadn't changed out of his uniform yet. Every eye in the place was now focused on the four stripes on his sleeves.

It took a few minutes, but Evans told him what had greeted her when she'd arrived earlier that afternoon, and all the events that followed.

"So what about this creep?" Overton asked one of the sergeants in the room. "What happens to him?"

"Depends on how good his lawyer is. He could be in juvie hall for a while, or he could be home tomorrow. You never know. Depends on who the judge is, and how much money his dad's got."

"Swell."

"That's the reality, Captain. Ain't no more illusions these days. Perps got money, sooner or later they walk. Perps don't got money, they're going up river. Simple as that."

"What's his name, background?"

"A kid. Teenager, name's Alex Popov, Russian, his dad is, well, we're kind of shady on the background, but my guess is he's in the rackets."

"Swell. You'd better come with me," he said to Evans. "Not sure you should be staying here, at least until all this boils over."

She nodded her head. "Not sure I want to stay here."

"We're though here, Miss Evans, but that's good advice. Not sure about these people, or how they might react." one of the sergeants said. "And again, you really ought to consider an alarm system."

"Okay, I hear you. Will you let me know how Officer D'Angelo is?"

"Sure thing, and thanks for being on the ball, for calling it in."

She nodded, then turned to Overton. "I think the glass guy is just about finished back there. Let me pack up a few things, then maybe we can get out of here." They walked back to her bedroom, found the glass installer putting putty around the sash and getting his equipment together, so she went to her closet and began packing some things. "You live far from here?" she asked.

"Little less than an hour. Near Glen Cove."

She shivered, looked at the glass, then at the house across the way. "Not a real good afternoon, if you know what I mean?"

"I can only imagine. Let's go."

The light was fading when they got out to Overton's car, and Evans pulled up short when she saw the thing. "This your car?" she asked.

"Yup, got it today, on the way home."

"Really? Why? I mean, what's it gonna be when it grows up?"

"Hah. Mileage is decent, and besides, I just got rid of one car."

"Oh, have another? A real car, by any chance?"

He shook his head. "Come on, let's get out of here."

She nodded her head. "Crap, Paul, there are already bags back there, where am I going to put these?"

He opened the hatch, shoved things around. "There. Will that do?"

Soon they were moving northbound across Long Island in heavy traffic, then fog started rolling in as they approached the north shore and soon they were rolling along at five miles per hour.

"You know, it's really not that bad," she said, indicating the car. "It's kinda like a Chihuahua. They grow on you."

"A Chihuahua? Gee, thanks. I think."

"So, where's your house?"

"Glen Cove, but I walked out of there earlier and never want to go back."

"Oh? Well then, where..."

"Just hang on a minute. We're almost there."

"There?" she said. "I don't see anything but water."

"Uh-huh." He made a few more turns, then pulled into a parking lot.

There was a thin layer of fog over the marina when he came to a stop, and from their vantage in the parking lot it looked a lot like a sea of masts planted on a field of misty snow. The boats were simply not visible in the clinging mist, only a glade of pale tree-like masts hovered in the distance, dancing silently above an unseen sea.

Denise unfolded herself from the tiny car and looked out at the luminous landscape. It seemed a little unreal to her, decidedly unfamiliar, too. A silver moon hung over Long Island, just visible through the fog, and with the moon above and fog obscuring the view ahead, everything about the scene reminded her of the view out the cockpit at night, flying across the Atlantic. Except here she was, her feet on the ground, her roll-on bag in the back of this ridiculously impossible car, and now she was looking at a sea of sailboat masts.

And Paul Overton had just said he was not going back to his house again, which could only mean that he was going to live down here -- down here on a boat. They got out and he grabbed their bags and started off into the fog.

Not knowing what else to do, Evans followed her Pied Piper down to the water.

"Paul?"

"Yup?"

"Paul? I've never been on a boat before, any kind of boat, in my life."

"Yeah? So?"

"Yeah? So? Well, for starters, I can't swim."

"No shit? Well, cool. I'll teach you."

"Paul, is there any problem you feel you can't handle?"

He wound out onto a pier, stopped at a long, green hull and dropped the bags, fished around in a coat pocket for some keys, then he hopped aboard, clambered into the cockpit and fumbled around with a key. "I don't know, Denise. I think if you're patient enough you can find a good solution to just about any problem, but often the answer is right in front of your face, and always has been. I think we get into some lousy habits as we get older, and those habits obscure the answer." He turned and looked at her from the cockpit, looked at her standing there in the pale, misty moonlight, the cool seaborne breeze drifting through her hair, and there it was . . . The solution was so simple. This woman was so . . . right.

"I kind of thought you'd say that."

"So, you've never been on a boat? Ever?"

"Paul, I grew up on a cattle ranch outside of Alpine, Texas. The closest water, I mean not counting the bathtub, was the Rio Grande River."

"I guess that could make a difference." He chuckled as looked at her. "Well, anyway, some boats are better than others for living aboard."

"I'll have to take your word for that." She sounded dubious, so she turned on the concrete walkway and looked, really looked, at the sleek dark green hull, the name on the side -- 'Peggy Sue' -- clearly visible in the moonlight.

"Paul, this thing is huge!"

"Yeah?" he said as he fiddled with a lock down in the darkness. "Peg always said I was over-compensating, you know, for having a little pecker."

"You call that thing 'little'?" She heard him cursing, then a lock opened and he was moving boards of some sort, sliding a hatch open.

"Well, I guess 'little' is a relative term?"

"Relative to what?" she said quietly, far too softly for him to hear. She heard his footsteps going below, switches being flipped -- turning on lights -- and a warm glow filled the space down below -- visible behind dewy port-lights, then a light halfway up the mast popped on and the scene around her filled with milky white light.

"Oh, come on. It ain't that big!"

"You heard that?"

"Hey, fair warning. Sound carries in fog." He came back up on deck, grinning. "Hand me the bags, would you?" He took them from her and put them in the cockpit, then came back and reached down for her: "C'mon, it's pretty slippery up here. Better give me your hand."

She reached up, took his hand, felt herself stepping into a strange new landscape of compound curves and awkward handholds, narrow decks littered with a million things to trip over. The dark planks underfoot were wet with dew; everywhere she put her hands she felt water. She followed Paul over the coaming, into the cockpit, and he stopped and held his hand out again until she was safely over the coaming, then he disappeared below. She stepped down into the cockpit, following him -- at least until she could see the interior of the boat from the companionway -- and she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Holy cow!" she said as she looked uneasily below. "This place would give termites a wet-dream!" She looked at the huge expanse of woodwork as she climbed down below. "What kind of wood is this? They must've chopped down whole forests to make this..."

"Cherry. Except the sole, uh, the floor. Those are teak planks."

"No kidding? And, uh, where are you?"

"Aft."

"You mean there's more? Just how big is this thing?"

"Told you. It's an overcompensation problem. Through the galley. Follow my voice!"

Evans walked through the galley and into a huge cabin in the very rear of the boat. "Sheesh, Paul, that bed's bigger than the one I have back, uh, well, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry you had such a rough time."

She walked over and sat on the edge of the bunk. "This your room," she asked.

"I guess it is now."

"You and Peggy spend a lot of time down here?"

"Not as much as I wanted, but she was a good sport about it. Loved to just sit in the cockpit, soak up the sun. Anyway, I just moved it here from Mystic. Closer to Kennedy, so I can stay here now."

"Did you say sun? You mean...there's sun down here?"

"Yup," he laughed. "Not the best way to introduce you to the old girl, I guess." Overton looked at Denise, noticed a trembling lip and quivering eyelid -- all the classic symptoms of stress, and he reached for her, took her in his arms. Her hair in his face once again, he breathed her in, took in the scent of her and drifted back to Half Moon Street -- and the frank improbability of their coming together.

He ran his hands down her back, drew closer still and whispered "I love you so much" into her ear.

She pulled back a bit, looked at him through smiling eyes. "You do, huh? Sure it's not just an infatuation?"

"It doesn't feel that way to me. I reckon you'd better get used to the idea."

"Paul, I don't ever want to get used to it. If I get used to it, I'll begin to take it for granted. And I don't ever want that to happen."

He nodded, brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips.

"Anyway, before I forget to say it, I love you too, Paul Overton."

Now it was his turn to smile. "That feels good. Hearing that word."

"Now, don't take this the wrong way, but the last time we showered was in London, and that was, like, twenty years ago. I stink, and I need a shower. I don't suppose there's one on this tub, is there?"

"Tub? A tub? You calling my baby a tub?"

"So. There's not, huh?"

"Well, no. There are two."

"Shit."

"And one is a bathtub."

"Double-shit."

"Well yeah, if you need to. There are holes for that, too."

"Paul?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Before or after?"

He smiled, began unbuttoning his shirt but she stopped him, and moved for his belt.

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She seemed better after one night aboard, less rattled and more sure of herself, but still he could see that yesterday's violation had gotten to her. While he cooked breakfast she more spoke gently but with assurance that things were alright, that the darkest part of the storm had passed, yet Overton felt some holding back, some reluctance within her words and movements. He felt a sharp chill while he watched her dress, and she was quiet the rest of the day.

She seemed much better the next morning, yet the drive to JFK passed in near silence, and her mute depression during their briefing in the dispatch office had not gone unnoticed. That was cause for no little concern by itself, especially after the dispatcher pulled him aside and asked him about it.

"I think her house was broken into, some stuff with the police followed, and there was a shooting involved."

"Oh, that stuff over in Inwood? Read about it. So, that was her?"

Overton shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure, didn't read the papers yesterday."

And there it was, because there were policies about conduct in the cockpit that reached well beyond the confines of their time on the job. Simply living together now was in violation of about a half dozen company rules, and any actions they took that implied an improper relationship would be dangerous for them both. Marriage was out of the question unless one of them wanted to look for a position with another airline. Maybe, Overton said to himself, that was what was bugging her.

_______________________________

"United Two Three Heavy, taxi to position alpha and hold short of the active."

"Two three heavy -- holding short." Paul Overton backed off the throttles and tapped the brakes with his toes, and the 747 slowed to a stop. He watched as an American 767 charged down the runway, leaving swirling clouds of rain-borne mist in it's wake, then marveled as he always did when the Boeing's wing's loaded and the jet leapt into the sky.

It was late that Tuesday afternoon when they pushed back from the gate, so United 23 was caught in the usual rush-hour pile-up of ground traffic waiting to take-off; now, after waiting for almost forty minutes on an unusually hot September day, Overton was as ready as this old Boeing to get the show on the road. And for this early autumn, mid-week flight, the old girl was less than a quarter full, and Overton enjoyed taking off under these conditions. So lightly loaded, these old 747s seemed to want to physically leap into the air and climb away from the restraining gravity of the earth -- and at nearly impossible angles. It was as if, he sometimes felt, these old birds wanted to get back into the currents that would carry them around the earth at will.

"Checklist complete," Evans said, her voice flat and dull, as if the words she spoke were full of hidden fear.