Why the Marines? It struck me as an odd decision at the time. No one we knew was joining the military. Our fathers had been raised when there was a still a draft, but most of them were of an age that fell between the Korean and Vietnam wars. Maddy’s father had actually left Princeton to enlist to fight in Korea, an act that had always been difficult for me to square with the debauchee I knew in later life. Or maybe it partly explained it. I wouldn’t know, having never been a soldier or even heard a shot fired in anger.
We never heard Harry discuss going into the military in those waning school days. Most of us had been obsessed with softening the impact of graduation by lining up jobs at investment banks, newspapers, or earnest nonprofit institutions, or obtaining postgraduate degrees. I had known for months that I would be entering law school in the fall, so I simply let the days of May spool out without any particular anxiety.
I had been aware that Harry echoed my outward calm, but he rarely spoke about the future. When he had revealed his intentions over one of those endless farewell dinners to a table consisting of Maddy, myself, Ned, and few other confidants, I could tell I was not the only one surprised. Even Ned, who had landed a job in Merrill Lynch’s training program and was Harry’s best friend, goggled.
“You’re joking, right?” he had asked.
“Not at all,” Harry had responded. “I wouldn’t joke about something like that. I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly. Anyway, I’m not good enough to become a pro hockey player, and I have zero interest in working on Wall Street. I really have no idea what I want to do, so I figured while I am making up my mind the least I can do is serve my country.”
Maddy, of course, knew. What’s more, she obviously approved. If he had told her he was going to become a lion tamer or a salvage diver, she would have followed along just as happily.
As a married couple, they lived off base at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola for the first year. Harry flew fighters. They had a dog then, a brown mutt named Dexter. Maddy drove the same red MG she had at Yale. They cut a glamorous path wherever they went. Senior officers would be found at their frequent cocktail parties. Their new friends had been football legends at Ole Miss and Georgia Tech, now married to former cheerleaders.
This is when Maddy discovered her talent for cooking. Inspired by the local cuisine and with plenty of time on her hands, she tackled shrimp étouffée, rémoulade, fried chicken, pecan pie. Then she began working her way through Julia Child, Paul Bocuse, James Beard. Soon she was making béchamel sauces, coq au vin, salmon terrines, beef bourguignon, cheese soufflés. Invitations to her dinner parties were as sought after as presidential citations.
During the day, Harry flew endless training missions and sorties, and attended ground school. But luckily there was no war. On weekends, they traveled, driving all night to visit friends on Jupiter Island or to go bonefishing in the Keys. I visited a few times from my first year at Yale Law. They also got moved around by the Corps. Bogue Field, North Carolina. Twentynine Palms in California. A year in Japan. Maddy says this is when Harry began to write. His first efforts went unread by anyone other than her, but she encouraged him. There were numerous short stories and even a novel. All now destroyed.
Once she told me, “When I fell in love with Harry, I never thought of him as being a writer. He was simply the most confident person I had ever met. He’s always determined to be the best. He was the best hockey player, then he was the best pilot, and I guess it just makes sense that he would be the best writer. If he wanted to be the best jewel thief, he could probably do that too.”
He kept at it. At some point he began submitting short stories to magazines and literary journals, most of them obscure. Finally he had one published, then another. When his six years were up, he resigned his commission to write full-time. A few years later his first book, a roman à clef about an Air Force officer, met with modest praise and milder sales. Critics recognized him, though, as someone who needed more time in the bottle.
He and Maddy moved to New York, then outside of Bozeman for a year, and after that Paris, where they lived above a Senegalese restaurant in the distinctly unchic 18th Arrondissement. Maddy’s trust fund subsidized them, allowing them to get by but not live extravagantly. Johnny was born, and then Harry’s second book, which took seven years to write, won the National Book Award. There is even talk of a movie.
But he still loved flying. When his second book was published, he fulfilled a promise to himself and bought a used plane that he fixed up and now kept at the airport near their cottage. On fine-weather days, he would take the plane up. Sometimes he’d invite others to come with him. They’d fly over to Nantucket, circle Sankaty Head and return. Or up to Westerly. Sometimes he’d touch down for lunch, but he preferred to remain aloft. I flew with him many times. It is very peaceful. Madeleine rarely went. Small planes make her nervous.
F
riday morning. The airfield sits before them, tanker trucks idle in the background, the planes of the local elite parked, waiting like ball boys to spring into action. It is just Harry and Claire. She and I had gone over early to the Winslows’.
“I’m going flying,” he announced as we walked in. “Anyone want to come?”
I declined. “I’d love to,” said Claire. “Do you have your own plane?”
“Yep. A single-engine Cessna 182. She’s a little beauty. She’s been in for repairs. This is the first time I’ve been able to fly her all summer.”
“Do I need to change?”
“Nope, you’re good to go.”
At the airport he files his flight plan and does the preflight inspection. Today they will fly over Block Island. The plane is old, but he loves it anyway. The sky is a cloudless blue. It’s already warm, a late-summer heat. The little cockpit is stuffy. Harry opens the windows. “It’ll cool off when we get higher,” he says. He is wearing an old khaki shirt and a faded Yale cap. Around his neck hangs a gold chain. He tells her it is a Saint Christopher he wears for luck. Maddy bought it for him when he was in the Marines. They taxi to the runway. Only one other plane is ahead of them.
Claire is excited. She feels like a child, practically pressing her nose against the plastic of the window. The engine starts to rev, and they begin to taxi down the runway for takeoff. Harry pushes the throttle and they race forward. One second their landing gear is on the ground, and the next they are in the air, climbing, climbing. The earth falls away beneath them, and when they bank, Claire can see they are already hundreds of feet in the air, the people on the ground, houses, trees rapidly diminishing below her.
At cruising altitude, Harry says, “Some view, eh?” He has to yell now above the engine.
She nods her head, leaning forward in her seat. She can see the curve of the earth and beyond, stretching to the end of the horizon, the blue of the Atlantic. She is amazed by how fast they are moving. What would have taken an hour in a car now takes seconds.
“I’ve never done this before,” she says. “I mean, fly in a small plane. It’s incredible.”
He points to his right ear. “You’ll have to speak up,” he yells.
“Okay,” she yells back, smiling.
He smiles and gives her a thumbs-up, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses. As they fly he points out landmarks. They have now left the mainland behind, soaring godlike over the ocean. A fishing boat, white against the dark blue water, bobs like a toy. Block Island looms in the distance, and then suddenly they are almost over it. She sees the waves crash on the rocks.
“That’s Bluffs Beach,” he shouts. “Over there is Mohegan Bluffs and Southeast Lighthouse. In between is Black Rock Beach. It’s a nude beach, but I don’t think you can see much from up here.” He smiles.
She looks at him. He is wearing shorts and moccasins, his legs strong and tanned, covered with golden hairs. She wants to touch them. This is the first time they have been alone together. It is hard to speak. She had no idea it would be so loud.
Words formulate in her mouth, but nothing comes out. There is so much she wants to say, but this is the wrong time. In addition to the noise of the engine, he is wearing a headset, further blocking his ears.
“Did you say something?” he asks, lifting the right earpiece to hear her better.
She shakes her head no. Relieved, she feels like someone who has stumbled on a precipice but miraculously regains her balance. Her heart is racing, her palms are sweaty. Nothing has changed.
“Do you want to try it?” he yells, indicating the controls in front of her.
“What? You mean fly the plane?”
“Sure, it’s easy,” he shouts. “Put your hands on the controls. It’s not like a car. The tiller controls the altitude, which means it lets you go up, down, left, and right. If you pull on it, the plane will go up. Push and it goes down, get it? The throttle controls acceleration. See that? That’s the altimeter. It tells you how high you are. Keep at one thousand feet. That’s your airspeed indicator. You’re going about a hundred and fifty-five miles an hour now. And see that little instrument that looks like a plane? That’s your attitude indicator. Keep it level unless you turn. Okay?”
“What should I do?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have my hands on my controls the whole time. Just go ahead and take your controls. They won’t bite.”
She puts her hands tightly, too tightly, on the tiller. The vibrations from the engine course through her. The plane bucks slightly, and she jumps. “Not so tight,” he says. “Relax.”
“I’ll try.” She inhales and exhales quickly several times and then resumes her grip, this time lighter, on the tiller.
“Good. Now just keep her level.”
He lets go of the tiller. “See? You’re flying the plane now.”
“Oh my god. That’s amazing.” She is giddy. She can’t believe how easy it is.
“Want to try a turn?”
She has to strain to hear him. She yells back, “Yes. What do I do?”
“Turn the tiller slightly to the right and then straighten out.”
She does, and the plane turns but begins to drop.
“Pull up a bit—but not too much.”
She does and the plane levels out again.
“Very nice. Now just keep heading on this course. See over there? That’s our airfield.” When they get closer, he yells, “You better let me take over now.”
He contacts the tower, tells them they are approaching, and receives permission to land.
He reaches out his right hand and points. “We’re going to pass over our house. We’re right on the flight path. Look down.”
She cranes her neck. Below is the house, like a diorama in a museum, a microcosm. She is a giant. He begins the landing, flaps down, reducing airspeed. The treetops rise up to meet them. Objects become larger again. They touch down with a slight shudder and a bounce as the air pressure resists the wings. He taxis to his parking spot and kills the engine.
“Not bad,” he says, looking at his watch. “And it’s not even noon yet.”
“Thank you so much. That was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done,” she says.
Her eyes sparkle. Descending from the cockpit, the rest of the world feels flat and ordinary. She wishes she could return to the clouds.
On the drive back Claire, emboldened, now a risk taker, a conqueror, asks, “What happened to Johnny? I mean, his scar. Walter said he had an operation when he was younger.”
“That’s right. He was born with a congenital heart defect. A hole in his heart.”
“Oh my god. What did you do?”
“There was a series of operations. We took him to the Children’s Hospital in Boston. The first time we were up there for months. He could have died.”
“How old was he?”
“The first was right after he was born. The last when he was four.”
I remember sleepless nights in the hospital, the monotonous beeping of the monitors, concerned surgeons in blue scrubs, the small, deflated, unconscious form beneath a transparent shield. It was hell.
“Is he all right now?”
Harry rubs his forehead. “I don’t know. I think so. The doctors are optimistic he’ll be okay. It’s been a long time since we had a scare, thank God.”
“He doesn’t seem sick. He seems like an ordinary healthy boy.”
“It’s been hard. He tires easily. And Maddy watches him like a hawk. She’s always on the lookout that something might be wrong. We’ve had some false alarms, but we can’t be too careful. Even if he looks like an ordinary healthy boy, he’s not.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No reason for you to be sorry. We give him love and confidence and try to make his life as normal as possible. He could live another six years or sixty. It’s impossible to know. It’s hard for him at school, though. He can’t play sports. Children can be cruel.”
“It must be very hard on you. I mean on you both.”
“At times it is, but he’s a great kid. He knows what we’re up to, and he tries to make us feel better. He’ll say things to Maddy like, ‘It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t feel sick. Don’t worry about me.’ But you just can’t help feeling so goddamn helpless sometimes, you know?”
“I’m sorry. He’s a lovely boy. He’s such a wonderful combination of Maddy and you.”
They pull up to the house. The boy comes running out. “Daddy, Daddy,” he shouts as the tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. I am sitting by the window, reading the newspaper.
“Hey, sport.”
“Daddy, there was a telephone call for you. From Rome. Mommy took the message.”
“Thanks, pal. Tell Mommy I’m back, okay?” The boy trots back inside.
To Claire, “Got to make a call. Glad you could come along.” He gets out of the car.
“No. Thank you for taking me. When can we do it again?”
“Maybe not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks at her, a bit puzzled. “I thought you knew. That’s what that call is about. Maddy, Johnny, and I are leaving for Rome in a week. I have a grant to write there. I’ll be working on my new book.”
“No. No, I hadn’t heard.” She feels like she is going to be sick. “How long will you be gone?”
“Almost a year. We’ll be back next June. For the summer.”