The Letters (18 page)

I found Merton’s prayer on that trip, and I used to say it every day—and I find myself saying it now, as I fly west toward you and Paul, toward Mrs. Kilkenny’s secret, toward Alaska. It’s almost Christmas. All these people are flying there for a special holiday event—they want to see the Aurora Borealis on Christmas Eve. Something like the star, I guess.

I love Merton’s words—about trusting God “though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.” It speaks to worst fear. The dread, the demon, the darkness, death itself—everything we fear most. That’s where we’ve been, in the shadow of Paul’s death—all three of us. You, me, and Paul. But we’re not now. We’re not now.

Soon we’ll be together.

The little boy with the seat over the wing just ran up the aisle—he’d gone to the bathroom with his father. The seat belt sign is still on, but the flight attendant let them get up, and even though the plane is bouncing like a ship on high seas, the boy seems so happy. He loves flying, just like Paul did. Remember when he was in second grade he read about flight, became obsessed with airplanes? We had to take him to the Outer Banks, to Kitty Hawk, to see where the first flight took place, and that was the year he named the chickens Wilbur and Orville. Two of the best laying hens we ever had…

He didn’t die in a plane crash. He didn’t, and you’re with him now, and I’m halfway there, and soon we’ll all be together.

H.

December 23

Dear Sam,

Am I a fool? I guess maybe I am. How can I look you in the eyes next time I see you? Now that we’re both in Alaska, you might well ask why I’m writing you this letter instead of sitting at your bedside, bringing you tea and asking you to understand. Not that you blame me, at least not outwardly, and not that you want me to feel guilty. I’m doing that all on my own.

Seeing you yesterday, after traveling all day…maybe I wasn’t at my best. Especially seeing you so sick. You completely played down how ill you are—I should have known from your letters, the fact that you’d checked into that motel, settled in really, when you had planned to be on the move. At least you were at the doctor’s yesterday, getting some heavy-duty antibiotics, fighting him for wanting to put you into the hospital for a few days of IV treatment. You have pneumonia, an infection, and all I can think of is Jim Henson, the guy who invented the Muppets. How he got an infection and was
dead
in days. But you have a reprieve from my hovering because I was—and still am—completely blinded by the news about Paul.

I didn’t want to fight with you yesterday—not after all we’ve been through, and not seeing you that way—and I know you want me to believe what you saw in Mrs. Kilkenny’s character (or, as you say, lack thereof ). I realize you think it’s saving me, us, future heartache. But…I’ll get to that in a minute.

First, you. Seeing you after so long apart, I felt such a surge of emotion, of happiness, it nearly knocked me down. I can’t believe you met my flight. When I told the motel manager my arrival time, it was just to give you fair warning. I really never meant for you to come to the airport, but I’m moved beyond words that you did.

That hug you gave me. Do you know, I can still feel it? I’ll try to describe it for you. I came through the gate, tired and disoriented, bedraggled as hell after a day that started by crawling behind the woodpile to scoop up Cat—try catching a feral cat who doesn’t want to be caught—then delivering her to Turner and Rosie’s, crossing Muscongus Bay in near-gale conditions, continuing at that pitch the whole way to Alaska…

Arriving in Anchorage, looking around the baggage area for signs to ground transport, instead I saw you—gazing at me from across the floor, as if you’d held back a minute to watch me, maybe decide whether you wanted me there or not. I saw, and at first I thought it was hesitation, but then I realized it was something else—that smile of yours always gives you away. You were taking me in, the way I’d have done to you…you walked toward me, and the smile got bigger, and your eyes were gleaming. I guess I dropped my bags because my arms were suddenly open, and you were in them, and I felt your beard against my cheek, and I was afraid to turn my head because I didn’t want you to know how much I wanted you to kiss me, but I didn’t have to worry because suddenly I didn’t have to think about anything, you were doing it all, kissing me. Holding me, and there we were, just rocking back and forth in the concourse of the Ted Stevens International Airport, and the hug was so deep I felt your heart against mine, and I felt your warmth in my bones.

Feel it still, I do, I do. In spite of how angry you are at me right now. Back to that in a minute.

You’re so thin. I was shocked, once the reality of having your arms around me began to sink in. You were whispering to me, and I did hear what you said—and let me say right now, I felt and feel exactly the same way, even though I was too stunned or whatever to actually reply in words.

Your body felt lean and strong, and I know it’s from mushing through the wilderness on the way to the crash site. You’re all sinew, there’s absolutely nothing extra, and that’s what’s got me crazed with worry right now. What are you living on? That cough is terrible, and so is the fact that you can’t eat, and stop telling me you don’t believe it’s anything serious. I know you do. And as soon as I get back to Anchorage, I’m bundling you up and making you nothing but chicken soup.

For now I’m trusting that you’re still in bed, where I left you. I still believe the adjoining rooms are best—we’re both overwhelmed with the situation, and I don’t want to confuse matters even more than they already are. But I slipped in this morning, curled up next to you, pressed against your back, trying to decide what to do. You were so mad last night, when I insisted that we pursue this thing—and I know you think you’re right. But lying there in bed with you, for the first time in so long, I felt surer than I have about anything in years.

By now you’ve probably read the note I left you on the pillow…so you know I was on my way to Kilkenny Charter Company. The cabdriver seemed oddly silent when I told him where I wanted him to take me. I pressed him, and he just said, “There are other charter companies if you want to go to Denali.” When I asked what he meant, he just shook his head. Suddenly we were there—I saw the ghost letters on the side of the silver Quonset hut, and I stepped out of the car and felt the coldest wind I’ve ever felt in my life, and then he drove away and left me there.

And here I sit right now—waiting for someone to come to the desk. I’m in the room you described in your letter. There’s the woodstove, right there. Crackling and spitting away, throwing very little heat. The place has an almost-abandoned feel. You did say Mrs. Kilkenney is selling the business—maybe that’s done. But then why is the stove burning? I sit here on a torn black vinyl chair waiting to find out. And writing to you, hoping you’re not too upset. And that you’re feeling better…

Sam, I have so much to tell you. It’s two hours after I wrote that last part, and the entire world has just changed. First, oh help me, Paul is alive. I’ll tell you all the details, but I’m on my way to him now. I am in stunned, overjoyed awe.

After I had waited for about twenty minutes, Eileen (that’s her first name, Mrs. Kilkenny) walked into the office. I was pacing around, shivering, the woodstove barely throwing any warmth at all, and I could see my breath. She looked straight at me. This is the spookiest thing, and I can’t possibly do it justice, but she knew just who I was.

“Mrs. West,” she said. She had a glint in her eyes, and she said, “That day I met your husband, he said how much you loved your son. That’s what he said. And I knew that meant you were coming. I knew you would have to come and hear what I have to say.” Then she gestured for me to sit down, which I had to, because my knees were buckling.

I told her I was sorry about her husband, and she shrugged and pointed at a picture of him on the wall—you probably saw it. A cowboy, leaning against the strut of his plane—Stetson and all, and weathered face with the greatest grin ever, as if he loved being in the sky and was just raring to go up for another visit. I liked him. And in spite of your instincts, which are usually pretty dead-on, I liked her.

She poured me some strong coffee, offered to add a shot of Irish whiskey “for some holiday cheer.” I said thanks anyway, but that she should go ahead—which she did. She told me to call her Eileen, and I said I was Hadley, and she said I was lucky to have caught her. She was just getting ready to clear out. Just as you said, she sold the business, and she and her daughter were heading to Idaho to spend Christmas with her sister.

I asked her to tell me everything she could about Paul. You’re right about her being evasive. She talked around and around. How he’d been carrying too much stuff for the plane, they were over on the weight and he had to leave two bags behind.

And Sam, how at the last minute he was uncertain about leaving his luggage—so he changed his mind, let some other young man take his place. She said that during the busy season it’s so hard to get a flight, the charter companies are booked up weeks, months in advance, and people jockey for planes.

I asked her what other young man, asked her to show me the manifest. That’s when I saw the dishonesty you picked up on—she looked down, away, anywhere but at me. But then she stared straight into my eyes, dug into a box of papers she’d already packed. She pushed the register toward me and said,

“Your son’s name is on the manifest, but he wasn’t on the plane.”

And I looked, and there in his handwriting was his name, Paul West…I nearly sobbed at the sight.

“That’s why I need the money,” she said. “Because…well, everything in this office hasn’t always been so aboveboard. Let’s say that not everyone who flew on a Kilkenny Charter filled out the proper paperwork. And once your son made up his mind not to fly, there was someone ready to take his seat…”

I came right out and asked her. “Drug dealer?”

She just shrugged again. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Then she grinned, said we both—you and I, that is—must like mysteries, she could tell by the questions you’d asked as well. I couldn’t respond because all I could think of was that Paul hadn’t gotten on the plane, soon I’d know why and where he was, soon I’d be hugging him the way I hugged you this morning…

I heard her saying something about how she was going out on a big limb to tell me this, reveal the fact she’d broken federal aviation law by not filing proper documents…she’d reported Paul’s name after the plane crashed, and she’d go to jail if the truth surfaced. I gather it wasn’t the company’s first offense.

So…that’s when I called my lawyer. He started to try to talk me out of it, at least until we investigated further, but I wouldn’t let him. It’s the holidays, and everything will be closed, and besides—Eileen’s flying down to see her sister. So he asked for her routing number, and I had him wire the money. Five thousand.

I still owe her another five, but she said she could tell I was good for it. In fact, she said the two payments would work out in her favor—apparently any financial transactions ten thousand dollars or more are automatically reported to the IRS. She said she likes being “under the radar.”

Okay, Sam. She didn’t just tell me something—she gave me something. One of the bags that wouldn’t fit on the plane. At first my heart sank—because I thought, well, if the reason Paul didn’t get on the flight was because his baggage wouldn’t fit, why wouldn’t he have taken the bag? But she said it was because he had to hitchhike to where he was going, and he didn’t want to carry it with him. He told her he’d be back.

She led me to the storage room—amazing what people leave behind. She said she’d sold most of it on eBay, but there were still a few things left. An old golf bag containing a few battered clubs, a fishing creel, a wicker picnic basket, a child’s tricycle. And Paul’s backpack. His faded purple one, Amherst colors, with the little orange key ring clipped to the strap. I could barely breathe, thought I might pass out. Eileen started to support me, but I gestured her away. I wanted to be alone with his things…

I opened it up—felt as if I were standing underwater. Pulled out his Block Island sweatshirt, a pair of worn-down Nike sneakers, a book of Gary Snyder poetry and Ken Kesey’s
Sometimes a Great Notion
, and three
Sports Illustrated
s, each issue featuring an article by his father. Including his favorite, your interview with Muhammad Ali, where Ali repeated that quote: “Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth.” He’d said it once before, in a different interview, but you got him to explain his philosophy in a way that never stopped resonating with Paul. That underscored why he came north after losing the baby, why he was on his way to the village—he knew he had to serve others for a while.

There were other things—a notebook, a picture of Julie, one of me. One of Boing’s fur mice. Did Paul really take that mouse with him, or did you stick it in as a joke for him to find later?

I admit being thrown by the fact he hasn’t returned to Kilkenny’s to pick up the pack, but wait till you hear where he went. You’re not going to believe it—I’m in complete shock myself.