In the Unlikely Event

  After the wedding cake was presented, after Leah fed a piece to Henry, and Henry fed a piece to Leah, and the couple were toasted with Champagne, and the photographer, Henry’s friend Todd Dirkson, captured it all, it was time for Leah to turn her back to the crowd and throw her bouquet over her shoulder. Rusty and Miri stepped out of the way. The bouquet landed in Irene’s hands, who treated it like a hot potato, quickly tossing it toward Leah’s friends, where Harriet Makenna caught it and promptly passed out. She was rescued by the photographer, who had met her when he’d covered the holiday party at the Elks Club.

  Once upon a time Miri had planned to wear her bridesmaid dress with its detachable organza overskirt to the ninth-grade prom, but she’d decided against going. When her friends saw the depth of her sadness they accepted her decision. In the same once-upon-a-time she’d thought she’d wear the dress to Mason’s junior prom, at Jefferson. She wondered if he’d go without her, if he’d go with someone else? She doubted it. Or maybe that was just what she was hoping. She couldn’t imagine ever wearing the dress again.

  Mason

  Polina kept her job working in the kitchen at Janet, but Mason avoided her like bad food. The kid, too. He was done with all that. No more girlfriends. They wanted too much from you. They expected you to make them happy. Even when they said they wanted to make you happy. Maybe someday he’d feel ready to see Miri again but he couldn’t think when that might be. He’d fucked up big-time. He didn’t expect her to forgive him. The question was, could he forgive himself?

  Jack wouldn’t let it go. Begged him to come with him and Christina to Las Vegas. Mason finally said, “Don’t ask me again, Jack. I’m staying here, at Janet. I’ll be fine.”

  “At least come with us for the summer.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got a job. You know that. You’re the one who set me up with your old boss. He’s going to train me to be an electrician. Just like he trained you.”

  “He’d understand.”

  “No.”

  “Mason—you can’t live your life avoiding Miri.”

  “Don’t say that name around me. And yes I can. And I will.”

  “There’ll be other girls, believe me.”

  “Cut it out, Jack, because you don’t know.”

  “I know you’re seventeen.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit.” He hoped Jack wouldn’t cry. He looked like he might. So Mason gave him a bear hug. That way they didn’t have to look at each other. Jack patted his back for too long.

  “Hey, brother,” Mason said, to get Jack to let go. “I’ll write.”

  “Every week,” Jack said, sniffling. “I need you to promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “And I’ll call every two weeks,” Jack told him. “On Sunday nights.”

  Mason nodded. Then he asked what he’d been thinking all along. “What about 1-A, Jack?”

  “No word yet. I’ll see you for Christmas, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, Christmas.”

  Steve

  The morning after graduating from Jefferson High, Steve went downtown to the army recruitment center on Elizabeth Avenue and enlisted. He filled out all the paperwork, set up an appointment for a physical that afternoon, and he was in. It was that easy.

  Phil was apoplectic. “Are you crazy? We’re going to Lehigh, not Korea.”

  “You’ll have to go without me.”

  “Steve—come on!”

  “It’s done.”

  “Do your parents know?”

  “They will.”

  “They’re going to go ape-shit!”

  Steve shrugged.

  He told his father first. He went to his office hoping to catch him before he left. His father was staying at the Elizabeth Carteret hotel these days, in the same room where Joseph Fluet, the guy who’d investigated the airplane crashes, had stayed.

  “Hello, Steve,” Daisy said. “Congratulations on your graduation.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have something for you.” She pulled out a package wrapped with manly paper and tied with a brown ribbon. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, Daisy.”

  “He’s with his last patient of the day,” Daisy said. “I’ll tell him you’re waiting.”

  When the last patient left, his father joined him in the waiting room. “How about supper at Three Brothers?” his father said. “I’ve been eating there a lot lately.”

  “Your girlfriend doesn’t cook for you?” His father gave him a sad smile. So Steve said, “Sure, I like their burgers.”

  Steve waited until his father finished his moussaka, then the baklava he’d ordered for dessert. He’d never seen his father eat Greek food. Steve didn’t like baklava—too sticky for him. He was off desserts anyway, trying to get into shape before basic training. When he broke his news his father didn’t take it well.

  “Now?” he said. “You’ve enlisted now, when we’re still fighting in Korea? No, son. I’m not going to let you do this.”

  “Too late, Dad. It’s done.”

  “I’ll get you out of it. I’ll tell them you’re not yourself.”

  “But I am myself.”

  “No, Steve. You haven’t been yourself in a long time.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I know my son.”

  “Not anymore. You don’t have any idea who I am.” Steve stood up. “Thanks for supper.”

  “Sit down,” his father said. “We’re not finished.”

  “I’m finished.”

  His father grabbed his arm. “You can’t tell your mother about this.”

  “Says who?” Steve shook off his father, saluted him, then marched out of the restaurant. Hup two three four…hup two three four.

  His father followed him out the door and down the street, calling, “Steve…I mean it, don’t tell your mother. Not now.”

  Steve stopped. “You’re not going to be able to fix this, Dad. I’m telling her.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” his father said.

  “That should make Mom happy.”

  —

  HIS MOTHER WAS in the den, sitting in her favorite chair, working on a needlepoint canvas. What was she making this time? A pillow for him to take to college? Fern was on the floor in front of the television watching Hopalong Cassidy. Natalie was probably locked in her room.

  “Hey, Mom…”

  “Steve! I thought you and Phil were going to a graduation party tonight.”

  “I had something more important to do.”

  His father stepped into the den.

  “Daddy!” Fern ran to him, jumped into his arms.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” his mother said to his father. “Steve…I’d like to talk to you privately,” his father said.

  “Sorry, Dad.” He faced his mother. “I have some big news…”

  His mother’s face changed. Was she scared or expectant?

  “I’ve joined up.”

  His mother put down her needlepoint. “Joined what?”

  “You’re in the army now,” he sang, marching around the room. “You’re not behind a plow, you’ll never get rich, diggin’ a ditch, you’re in the army now.”

  Fern laughed.

  “What is he talking about?” his mother asked his father.

  “He enlisted,” his father said.

  His mother jumped up and lunged at his father. “You put him up to this!”

  “Corinne…” his father said, setting Fern down.

  “He’s supposed to go to college, not the army,” his mother shouted.

  Natalie appeared in the doorway. “This sounds interesting.”

  “Did you know?” his mother asked his father. “Did you?”

  “I just found out,” his father said.

  “He can’t do this. He’s a boy. He has no experience.”

  “Take another look, Mom,” Steve said, pulling himself up to his full six-foot height, shoulders thrown back, eyes straight ahead.


  “No!” Corinne cried. “I won’t have him throwing his life away.” She ran out of the den with Steve’s dad right behind her. A door slammed. Voices were raised.

  “Nice going, Steve,” Natalie said.

  “I figured you’d appreciate the drama.”

  “Will you wear an army suit?” Fern asked.

  “It’s called a uniform,” Steve said. “And yes, I will.”

  “Will we have a cake to celebrate?”

  “I doubt it,” Steve said.

  “How about a gun?” Natalie asked. “Will you get a gun?”

  “Everybody in the army gets a gun.”

  “Don’t bring it home.”

  —

  LATER, when he unwrapped Daisy’s graduation present he found something that looked like a handmade book, with long pages covered in red construction paper and black letters spelling out Player Piano by Kurt Vonnegut. Behind it was an old issue of The New Yorker magazine, dated January 31, 1948, with a paper clip marking a story, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish,” by J. D. Salinger. He opened the card.

  Dear Steve,

  I convinced the manager of the Ritz Book Shop to give me these galley proofs of a book that will be published this summer. It is Mr. Vonnegut’s first novel. Something tells me you will like this writer.

  Congratulations on your graduation.

  Wishing you all the best, always.

  Daisy

  P.S. The Salinger story is one I recently came across while browsing through a stack of old magazines.

  For some crazy reason Daisy’s gift made him cry. Maybe because it meant somebody did know him, after all.

  Elizabeth Daily Post

  A FAREWELL TO ELIZABETH

  By Henry Ammerman

  JUNE 23—It is with some sadness that I write this, my last story for the Daily Post. I have been privileged over the past six months to report for you on the terrible series of airplane tragedies that has brought this city so much pain and unwanted national attention. As I leave the place of my birth for a job in a new one, the editors have invited me to offer some final thoughts.

  The investigations of the Civil Aeronautics Board have now been completed. The results will be annoying and maybe disbelieved by those who saw sinister forces conspiring to bring about the three crashes in rapid-fire succession. Each plane failed for a different reason, and none of them indicate any pattern of sabotage or nefarious activity.

  Dec. 16—The Miami Airlines non-scheduled C-46 that crashed in the Elizabeth River suffered engine failure, apparently from poor maintenance, which led to a catastrophic fire. The pilots had not been adequately trained to shut off fuel to a damaged engine.

  Jan. 22—American Airlines Flight 6780, a Convair 240, was an incoming flight in poor weather conditions. The weather could have caused carburetor ice. While the plane had heaters to preclude this, it is possible the heaters were not activated. But without definite evidence, the CAB was mystified as to the probable cause of the crash.

  Feb. 11—National Airlines Flight 101, a four-engine DC-6, suffered a sudden and unexpected reversal of its No. 3 propeller. Attempting to correct this, the pilot mistakenly feathered (shut off and locked) his other right-side propeller. With both the right-hand engines out, the CAB concluded “the aircraft did not maintain altitude and settled rapidly.”

  In both crash number one and number three there was a confluence of mechanical problems and mistaken action by the pilot. Perhaps if the Miami Airlines pilot had shut off fuel to the failed engine sooner, or if the pilot of the National plane had feathered the correct engine, they could have recovered altitude and made it back to the airport. Crash number two is more problematic but there remains a possibility that pilot action to overcome icing might have made a difference.

  The one lesson we can surely learn from these events is that airplanes are complex machines, operating in a precarious environment—the air—where any emergency, be it from mechanical failure, human error or weather hazard, is fraught with peril. The risk is especially great when it occurs at low altitude, giving pilots little opportunity to take corrective action.

  As if to underscore this point, just after midnight on Feb. 11, at almost the same time as the final doomed Elizabeth plane was going down, a Pan American airliner from Idlewild Airport lost an engine just after takeoff. But that pilot was free to maneuver over the Atlantic Ocean, unconcerned with multistory buildings or thousands at risk on the ground, and returned to the field in safety.

  Every effort must be taken to safeguard heavily inhabited areas from takeoffs and landings. Let us hope the Port Authority will take this lesson to heart before reopening Newark Airport.

  34

  Miri

  She was sure they would drive. See the U.S.A. in Your Chevrolet, even if their Chevrolet was an Oldsmobile. But she was wrong. They were going to fly. Off we go into the wild blue yonder…she couldn’t keep songs about flying out of her head. And especially the ending of that song—live in fame or go down in flame—not that she’d lived in fame but still…she’d seen what it was like to go down in flame. And she didn’t want any part of it. That was putting it mildly.

  “I really don’t want to fly,” she told Rusty.

  Rusty said, “I understand.”

  “If you understand, why would you make me do it?”

  “I don’t want you to spend your life avoiding travel. I want you to see the world.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “You can’t drive across the ocean.”

  “I’ll take a boat.”

  “Everyone will be flying, Miri.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to be like everyone else.”

  “No, but you don’t want your fears to limit your possibilities.”

  “That sounds like something Dr. O would say, not you.”

  “But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Miri shrugged. Did it? “Christina and Jack are driving to Las Vegas.”

  “Are you saying you want to go with them? Because I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  Before her world fell apart, Miri might have begged to go with them, Mason surely would have been along. She hadn’t seen Christina or Jack since the breakup. She hated that word. Breakup. It reminded her of Henry’s description of the third crash—Like a swollen cream puff that had broken apart. She felt as if she, too, had broken apart.

  “I still don’t see why we can’t drive.”

  “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can establish residency.” Rusty was losing patience, Miri could tell. “It takes six weeks before you can get a divorce. And we can’t get married until the divorce is final.”

  Married. She sometimes forgot that her mother was going to marry Dr. O. He would be her stepfather. He’d be there for dinner at night, asking about her day, like a real father. But what about his kids? How would that make them feel? Sometimes, she didn’t blame Natalie for hating him.

  Christina

  It didn’t hit her until they made it to Las Vegas in Jack’s truck, how far she was from home. She cried for two days when she saw the dusty road stop of a desert town with a couple of motels and flashy signs spelling out CASINO or BAR, surrounded by brown and red mountains, mostly untouched by vegetation. She expected green, not brown, and summer flowers, not cacti. She couldn’t get out of bed. She wouldn’t eat. Jack enlisted Daisy’s help. Daisy had arrived before them to start setting up the new office. She’d been there a week when Jack and Christina finally made it. Daisy came to the cheap motel where Christina and Jack were staying until they found an apartment to rent, urged her out of bed, helped her into the shower and chose a sundress for her to wear to lunch at the Flamingo, a swell hotel with a pool, owned by some of Dr. O’s friends.

  “What have I done?” Christina asked Daisy, once they were seated with menus in front of them. She let Daisy order for both of them. “What am I doing here?”

  “I’d say you’re homesick, sweetie, but that will pass. Remember, you can alway
s go back. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to buy an open ticket on a plane from here to New York and keep it in my office drawer. It’s yours, anytime you want it.” Daisy reached across the table and touched Christina’s hand.

  “Thank you, Daisy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She picked up her burger and took a bite. She’d forgotten how hungry she was. “Um…good,” she said.

  Daisy laughed and took a bite of hers. “It is, isn’t it?”

  After lunch Daisy said, “I have something to show you.” They drove in Daisy’s new white Ford convertible to a long, low building, just out of town. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Medical Arts Building,” Daisy said. Inside, she walked Christina through the hall to a large, almost finished suite of offices. “This will be your new home-away-from-home. The dental offices of Dr. Arthur Alan Osner and Associates.”

  Christina was overwhelmed by the scope of the project, by the newness of everything.

  “We’re interviewing dentists and dental assistants every day,” Daisy told her. “All trained at the best dental schools in the country. General dentistry, orthodontia, oral surgery, periodontics, all in one section of the building. It’s going to be a big operation. The biggest and best in the area. And you, Christina Demetrious, are my second in command.”

  “McKittrick,” Christina said.

  “What?” Daisy asked.

  “Christina McKittrick. I’m married. Remember?”

  “Of course,” Daisy said. “Christina McKittrick.”

  There was no office furniture yet. But there were two card tables set up, each holding a typewriter. “This will be my station,” Daisy said, leaning against one of the card tables. “And the other will be yours.”

  “I have my own station?” Christina asked. “My own typewriter?”

  “You do.”

  “Can I try it?”