So, while working on Deep End I started work on a new story, a sailing story, of course. I don't like working on two stories at once - which is why I usually ending up doing just that - but this is a work-in-progress, too, and unfinished (boo-hiss). Still, have fun. I'll finish this before Deep End, I guess.
The title? A song, of course. I like Sinatra's version, but there are dozens out there, including a nice one by Queen Latifah (oh, try her rendering of Poetry Man).
So... Pour yourself a Drambuie and settle in, put on some music and have a read.
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Corcovado, or Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars
I
She was gone now. Gone just now, and he was alone in their house, their home, and memories seemed to push in on him.
Twenty-three years together. Gone, down in flames, an assumed destiny reduced to the lowest common denominator by depositions and faultless recriminations. Contrived recriminations, he reminded himself. False memories, misplaced motives.
He heard it first, through a grapevine he'd never known existed, that she was having an affair. Young guy. Some guy who had time on his hands...time enough to take care of her liquid dreams. First, a quiet confrontation, then an equally quiet agreement, and once arrived at it was over - there was nothing left to say, little left to do.
Or...was there? Like...what comes next?
He moved his belongings down to the marina, moved onto the little boat they had sailed on weekends - together. It was big enough, he told himself, to hold onto the things left, the things worth holding onto.
He went to work two days after he moved aboard, drove out to SeaTac, walked to the dispatch office, picked up and scanned through the preflight briefing for the leg to KSLC. He read the met synopsis, checked off the squawks and signed the fuel load-out, then walked through the quiet terminal to the security line. He checked his watch - 4:20 in the morning - while he shuffled through the crew line, then, when he was through, he walked out to the gate and onto the old 757.
All the lights were off - save a few in the galley that cast oblique little pools of blue and amber where the Jetway met the doorway, and he grinned at other memories. How long had it been, he wondered, since he had been the first to board? How long ago had he worn three stripes on his sleeves?
He went to the cockpit and reached into the darkness, feeling for the switch on the overhead panel that would turn on the dome light, but it was second nature now - and had been...for fifteen years. He had to admit...this confined little space was home, his real home. Barbara had never understood that, not really, and had never been willing to share him with this other world. Even if she was proud, in a way, of his calling, she hated him for this one chaste passion.
He sat and started flipping switches, activating electrical buses and checking ground power status, then he started entering data in the old girl's nav system. He heard a couple of flight attendants come aboard, listened to their careless banter - because they assumed they were the first aboard this morning - and he smiled when he heard one of them notice there were lights on in the cockpit.
Then...footsteps.
A knock on the door.
"Captain? You here already?"
He turned, looked at Marcy Stewart and smiled. "Yup. That seems to be the case."
"Can I get you some coffee, Jim?"
"No thanks, darlin'," he said. He liked Marcy, had been to her wedding two summers ago and, because her father had recently passed and he had walked her down the aisle, given her away as best he could.
"We heard about Barbara," she said, walking into the cockpit just a little. "I'm so sorry, Jim."
He nodded, turned back to the panel and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment - then he felt her standing right behind his seat, her hand on his shoulder.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm copacetic."
"How many we got this morning?"
"Looks full. Sorry. No rest for the wicked."
"Orange juice?"
"Oh...sure. A little one?"
"Comin' right up."
He watched the fuel boss supervising the truck for a moment, then heard his FO walk through the galley on his way up...
"So, it's true," Will Eberling said as he came in and hung up his coat. "How long you been here?"
"Half hour, maybe."
"Leave anything for me to do?"
He almost laughed. "Maybe. I hear the aft head portside is clogged. Why don't you go do some of that plumber shit..."
Eberling ignored that one, contorted his way into the right seat and ran through his procedures, and even managed to set up his FMS in less than ten minutes. "Ready to hit the bricks?" Eberling said when it was time to do their walk-around down on the ramp.
"Starting to rain a little," he said as he made his way to the galley. It was cold out, too, like not quite 40 degrees yet, and it was still snowing like crazy in Salt Lake. He made it down to the concrete and walked to the number one engine, confirmed oil and hydraulic pressures were good, then he walked around the gears and tires, giving them a practiced look over. When he was finished he walked over to the fuel boss and took the chit, looked it over once and signed it.
Eberling was waiting for him at the metal stairway, looking southeast. Mount Rainier was barely visible - just - in the dim, early morning light, and he stopped and looked into the shades of gray for a while, then they walked up to the vestibule that connected the old girl to this earth.
Marcy was waiting for him, a glass of orange juice in hand when he came back to the pools of light.
"You sure you don't want something hot?" she asked, looking at the water running off his rain-coat, and his nose.
He took the juice and downed it, shook his head. "Maybe before we shut the door?"
"Got it," she said.
He noticed the way she looked at Eberling just then. Kind of a "keep an eye on him this morning" look.
"There are no secrets between crew members," he remembered one of his training captains telling him once - almost thirty years before. Just the opposite of life in the Navy, he'd had to remind himself. Everything was different - again.
Yet there'd been one constant all through his life so far: Barbara. And Ted, he had to remind himself.
She'd been by his side since their second year together, at school. She'd stuck with him when he'd decided to go into the Navy after graduation, and she'd visited while he struggled through OCS, and he couldn't have finished without her, he knew. She was his future even then, and they knew it. They got married after he finished up at Pensacola, and when they moved to Pearl she seemed to love him all the more for his calling.
But...things change, don't they? People change, too.
Eberling was calling out the pre-start checklist now, and he woke up the old girl with her old, familiar routines, got her ready for another day in the air. He was on automatic pilot too, and he knew it...going through all the old, easy motions. He didn't have to think about what he was doing now; all these motions were in deepest muscle-memory. His fingers found switches without any need to look, because every little thing in this cockpit had it's own sound and feel.
"Yaw dampers - "
"One and two, check..."
"IRS - ALIGN to NAV..."
"One, check...two...and three..."
He watched the pushback truck line up, felt the slightest jolt as they mated - then he was talking to the ground boss...
"Clear to start One, Captain..."
"Starting one..."
Eberling finished the switch from ground power to internal buses while he kept his hand on the tiller, then the truck was free...
"Delta 217, clear to taxi Bravo to one-six left. You're number two behind a Scandinavian 340, contact tower one-nineteen-nine. Good day."
"217 to left and nineteen-nine," he said - and suddenly, in that moment, he knew he'd be okay. All the weight from the past couple of days slipped from his shoulders and he took a deep breath, shook his head.
"You okay, Jim?" Eberling said - a little too quietly.
"Yup. Five by five." He watched the taxiway lights slip by - in an order he understood all too well - and he braked when they were still about a hundred yards behind the A340 - while Eberling called out the last items on the pre-takeoff checklist.
He watched the -340 turn onto the active, it's drooping wings heavy with fuel - then it's engines ran up and she lumbered down the runway.
"217, taxi to position and hold."
"217."
He turned onto the runway, lined up on the centerline, flipped off the taxi-lights, turned on the wing lights...
"217, clear for takeoff, contact departure one twenty decimal four for a Summa One departure."
