He then tells me he is nearly two-thirds of the way finished with his book, and thinks that it’s the best thing he’s ever written. The words have been flying out. But he won’t tell me what it’s about. “It’s a surprise,” he says with a wink. “But you could say it’s a love letter to my wife.” He tells me he gets up every morning at five and writes until seven, when it’s time to wake Johnny. Then he comes home and works until it’s time for pickup.
Dinner is pleasant, like old times. Even though Maddy is not here and the locale is different, I am drawn into Harry’s orbit, like the gravitational pull of a planet on a smaller moon. For a night I find it impossible not to like him. Just as Maddy did, I had meant to be distant, aloof, but it was inevitable that he would have me roaring with laughter. Johnny fights to stay awake, and when Harry says, “Come on, pal. Time for bed,” I stand up and try to make my excuses, but Harry waves me down. “Don’t leave yet. Let me get Johnny ready for bed and then we can have a more serious talk.”
And, again like old times, I stand in the doorway listening to Johnny be put to bed. Teeth brushed, he says his prayers, and then Harry tells him one of his stories.
“Thanks for staying, Walt,” says Harry, carefully closing the bedroom door behind him. “Can I get you anything else?” The wine has been drunk, and he makes us both whisky sodas. We resume our places at the table.
“Look,” he says, “I want to say something, and if you can pass it along to Maddy, I’d appreciate it.”
“What is it?”
“That I still love her. Maybe more than ever now. And I don’t want us to get divorced. That I screwed up, and that I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her, but we—her, me, Johnny—won’t ever really be happy unless we are all together as a family. Please, can you tell her?”
“Have you told her?”
“I wrote to her last week.”
That must have been the letter she referred to. “Well, good luck. I guess it all depends on her frame of mind when she returns. I’ll mention it if it seems appropriate.”
“Thanks, Walt. I know how much she thinks of you.”
I get my coat and head to the door. It’s not that late, but it’s time to get going.
On my way out he asks, “One more thing, Walt. You wouldn’t know anyone who’d be in the market for a plane, by any chance?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve decided to sell my plane. It’s costing too much, I don’t use it enough to justify the expense, and frankly I could use the money. Maybe one of your rich clients might be interested.”
“I’ll ask around,” I reply. That damn plane.
O
n Saturday, Harry and Johnny drive out east for the day. Maddy is returning the next evening. It is their last day together. They leave early. It is still dark. Johnny sleeps in the backseat while Harry drives, drinking coffee. As the sun rises, the morning becomes beautiful, as he had hoped. He had been checking the National Weather Service for the past few days, and the forecasts are for fine weather.
There are already leaves on the trees as they get farther from the city. He has not been out here since the fall, when he came with Claire. That seems like a lifetime ago. He notices the new stores and restaurants, their façades freshly painted, waiting for the bounty of summer. The farm stands are still closed, the fields flat and untilled.
They pull into the airport shortly before nine. There are only a few people in the small terminal. While Johnny sits groggily on one of the chairs, Harry gets more coffee and checks the weather report.
“Hey, Marty,” he says to the man behind the counter. “How’s it going?”
“Harry! Long time, man. Where you been hiding?”
“Spent the fall and winter in Rome.”
“Nice.”
Harry shrugs. “Jimmy around?”
“Out back.”
“Thanks. I asked him to prep and gas up the plane. Been a long winter.”
“I’ll say.”
“See you around.”
“Take it easy.”
Harry and Johnny walk out onto the tarmac, Harry’s hand on his son’s shoulder. The wind sock hangs limply, and the sun is already bright. He spots the little Cessna. Jimmy has taken off the tarp that covered it all winter. The battery has been charged, and the pitot and static vents cleared of bugs. He looks under the cowling, and checks to see that the flaps and wheel bearings are properly lubricated.
“Everything okay?”
Harry turns and sees Jimmy, and the two men shake hands.
“You remember my son, Johnny, don’t you? Shake hands with Mister Bennett, pal.”
“How do you do, Mister Bennett.”
“Good to see you again, Johnny. You’re getting real tall, aren’t you?”
“I’m the tallest in my grade.”
“Good for you.” Then to Harry, Jimmy says, “I found a family of mice in the engine but cleaned ’em out and replaced some wires they’d chewed through. Let me show you.”
The two men walk over, and Jimmy lifts up the cowling. “See? Good as new.”
“Looks good, Jimmy. Thanks.”
“She’s a pretty little thing.”
“That she is. Thinking of putting her up for sale.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Know anyone who might be interested?”
“Sure. I know a bunch of guys who’d like a 182.”
“Cool. I’ll talk to you about it later. Going to take her up for one last spin.”
“Good day for it.”
“Couldn’t ask for better.”
“Well, Harry, good seeing you. Let me know about the plane.”
“You bet. Thanks again. Send me your bill.”
Harry walks around the plane, completing the preflight procedures, reminding Johnny again how to check the empennage, elevator, and rudder. He runs his hands over the flaps and ailerons, and inspects the nose wheel and fairings, removing the tie-downs and chocks as he moves clockwise around the plane. He then walks back to the terminal to file his flight plan with the tower. He and Johnny have been talking about doing this for days. They’ll be heading up to the Cape and then maybe stop for lunch on Nantucket. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.
Warmed by the sun, the cockpit is stuffy. Removing his coat, Harry opens the windows and checks that Johnny is buckled in correctly. He switches on the engine, and it coughs to life, the blade of the propeller suddenly a blur. With a practiced eye, he looks over the controls to make sure they all appear to be functioning normally. He radios the tower and asks for permission to depart. “East Hampton Tower, this is Tango Gulf Niner Niner requesting takeoff.”
The radio crackles. “Tango Gulf Niner Niner, you are cleared for takeoff.”
There is no one in front of them. He taxis the little Cessna from the run-up area and points it down the runway. He smiles at Johnny.
“Ready?” he calls out over the thrum of the motor.
The boy smiles back and gives him a thumbs-up. Harry slowly advances the throttle all the way to full. The oil pressure and oil temperature are in the green. At around thirty-five knots, the airspeed indicator comes alive. He pulls back slowly on the yoke when the plane hits sixty-four knots, and then they are in the air. The plane climbing high, banking left over the airfield.
“Look, Daddy, our house.”
Harry looks down. He sees the large pond, then the big house, and then the cottage behind, always marveling at how small it all seems. He has been looking at it for years from this height, the first thing he always checks, his heart leaping at the thought of possibly spotting a tiny Maddy, maybe watering in the garden or playing on the grass with Johnny, her golden hair sparkling in the sun.
Now, he realizes that, if things cannot be resolved with Maddy, he may never see it any closer again. It makes him feel like a ghost looking down on the loved ones he’s left behind.
He remembers the first time he ever saw Maddy. She had been crossing the quad. It was early in their freshman year, and he had already been adopted by members of DKE, many of whom had been upperclassmen in his boarding school and knew what a good hockey player he was. They introduced him to New Haven—where to drink, where to eat, which classes to take. They took him to the parties freshmen were rarely invited to attend. He had been walking in the opposite direction when one of his friends, a junior on the hockey team, snickered and said, “Check out the fresh meat.”
The first thing he noticed was her hair. He had never seen hair like it. Golden with hints of red, rippling halfway down her back. Then he saw her face. It was a proud face, chin jutting out, the nose sharp. She walked like a man, he thought. Strong, purposeful. He could tell she wasn’t afraid of anything. She also dressed like a man, with the tails of a man’s shirt hanging out over her jeans. At the time the shirt intimidated him. He thought it was a boyfriend’s. An older man’s. It suggested undreamt-of levels of sophistication. It communicated that she had seen more of the world than he had. Her beauty, her self-possession, her insouciant manner, all combined to create an aura around her that made her stand out from all the other girls he had seen so far at Yale.
Unlike them, she wasn’t easy to categorize. She wasn’t preppy, she wasn’t Goth, she wasn’t a hippie or a dyke or a jockette or a geek. She just seemed so uniquely herself. He had never seen anyone like her, or anyone so beautiful. None of the other boys said anything as she passed by. They, too, were awed. And she ignored them, her brilliance making everything around her dull. After she was out of sight, one of them finally said, “I’d like to nail that.”
Harry said nothing but just kept his eyes transfixed on the door through which she had walked. His chest felt tight. He felt like punching the boy who had spoken but knew he would have been out of line. “Shut up,” he said. But his words were lost as, at the same time, one of the other boys playfully punched the boy who had spoken in the arm. “Yeah, right. Never going to happen, man.” The rest of the boys laughed, reasserting their manhood, but Harry frowned, thinking only of the girl.
Freshman year was a triumph for Harry. He easily made the varsity hockey team, the first freshman to do so in two decades. With its mix of prep school heroes and working-class prodigies, the squad was one of the best Yale had put on the ice in years, winning the Ivy League title and getting as far as the NCAA semifinals. He even dated a pretty, pneumatic creature from Greenwich, a field hockey player if I remember correctly. Or it could have been lacrosse. It’s not important. But the whole time he was thinking about Maddy. They shared no classes, nor were they in the same college. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of her, sometimes crossing the street, entering a building, driving by in her car. She was like an angel of good intention, hovering always just out of reach. And yet each time he saw her, his heart would race, and for a few seconds a rush of joy would surge through him. She was still here, he hadn’t imagined her, and, yes, she was as beautiful as he remembered.
Inevitably, this momentary elation would be followed by a crushing despondency that would carry him through the rest of the day. He wished he could simply call out to her, “Hey! Stop!” But even if he did, what would he say? Once he had seen her walking right toward him, and he’d panicked and ducked quickly away. Normally, he was easy around women, but her beauty was so extreme that it made him feel foolish. He knew nothing about her, where she was from, what kind of person she was, what she was studying. He didn’t even know her name. All he knew was that she was beautiful, and for some reason she terrified him.
Then one night in the spring, at a party thrown by the daughter of a wealthy German industrialist, who had converted an entire town house in New Haven for one night to celebrate her twenty-first birthday, they met. Hundreds of guests had been invited, including Maddy, Harry, and me. The engraved invitations told us the dress would be formal, shorthand for not dressing like slobs. So Maddy actually had made an effort that night, unlike most evenings.
The weekend before, she and I had visited several boutiques in Manhattan, and she had picked out a skintight, low-cut, sparkly green dress that fell just above the knee. Needless to say, she looked stunning in it, and I was enormously proud to be her escort for the evening. The dazed, admiring looks of the other men confirmed what I already knew, that not only was Maddy the most beautiful woman at the party but she was the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen. There was much whispering going on behind our backs, and doubtless a few of the women made catty comments, but none of that mattered.
At one point, I recognized an old prep school classmate I had not seen much during the year and walked over with Maddy to introduce them. I have to confess this was pretty selfish of me; I wanted as many people as possible in the room to know I was with Maddy. It was my finest hour.
My former classmate was talking to a big fellow with his back to us, wearing a too-tight dinner jacket, obviously borrowed, but I barged in anyway. “Hey, Frank,” I said. “Where have you been hiding?” Frank turned and shook my hand and then stopped when he noticed Maddy. “Frank, allow me to introduce Madeleine Wakefield.”
Frank recovered his composure and smiled. “How do you do? And may I introduce Harry Winslow?”
I recognized the name from the
Yale Daily News
. He had been a frequent subject of front-page admiration.
“You’re ‘Winner’ Winslow?” I asked. It was a sobriquet that had been given to him for his hockey prowess.
“Just Harry,” he said with a shy grin.
“Well, then, Harry, I’m Walter Gervais, and this is Madeleine Wakefield.”
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her. “How do you do?” he mumbled.
“Walt, guess who’s here? Rocky came over from Princeton for the party. He’s at the bar. Want to see him?”
“Maddy, I’ll be right back. We need a refill anyway. Harry, can I ask you to look after Maddy? I won’t be a minute. That okay?”
Maddy nodded.
And then the moment Harry had dreamt about all year, and yet dreaded, was upon him. His mouth was dry. His brain shut down. It was agony. He stared at Maddy, struggling to come up with something to say so he wouldn’t just be standing there staring at her like an idiot.
“Nice party,” he ventured. “Are you having fun?”