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For the first time since his arrival Dwight slept well at night, and he awoke feeling calmer and steadier and he showered and dressed. Mrs. Dolan had gone to church and Dwight drank some coffee. He had not inspected her back yard so he went out back. Tomato plants filled wire cages and zucchini plants bore trumpet-shaped yellow blossoms, and these plants were as primly organized as the old woman was; Dwight knelt to inspect the zucchini blossoms and the drops of condensation on them, and at last he pushed upright and went out to his Porsche. All of the building supplies from last evening were mysteriously absent. When it was five minutes until eight o’clock Dwight started his Porsche. “Hey there, gorgeous,” Pamela called to him as he braked up her driveway. “You’re right on the dot like usual.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I feel better than I have in weeks.” She looked better as well. She had on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and her walking shoes. “Could we take a walk out on the pier?” she asked him happily. “I’d like to go out there again.”
“Sure.”
“Can I drive?”
He paused. When she laughed it was so carefree and unexpected that he blinked. “You don’t need to worry,” she assured him, “I haven’t smoked any pot. I drove in Alpine. I can do it here.”
“Okay, but be careful. You know how you started to feel.”
“We were going in circles. This is just a couple of blocks.”
“All right.”
He climbed out. He closed the door after she got in and he sat beside her. “Park on Niagara Street,” he told her, “not in the parking lot. Park as close as you can to the pier.”
“Yes, sir.” She backed out. She did so with a little effort and she drove north and west. “Here’s a spot,” she told him as she braked, “but it’s pretty small. Get out, please, and talk me into it.”
“I’ll park it.”
“No, I want to. Just climb out and talk me in.”
“What did you have for breakfast? You’re twice as stubborn as you usually are.”
“Here — I’ll roll down the windows. Get out. I’ll be able to hear you that way.”
“Jesus.”
He pushed out. He closed his door and he turned in the sunlight that was falling on him. Years later and decades later he would decide that it was not planned, that she had not planned this rendezvous any more than he had; it had drawn every line of their lives to a single point, into a point of pure intensity where time started to alter. Seconds turned into minutes and the minutes started to slow. Then, finally and without effort, he stepped through the veil. They were out upon the ramp and she had unlocked her Cessna, and they were out before the sunrise and they were starting their pre-flight; she removed the control lock from the yoke and she leaned further in, making sure that the electrical system and the fuel selector were off, and she turned on the master switch and she checked the fuel quantities, and she lowered the flap handle and she switched off the master switch. She was moving very slowly and he was helping her. There was a vague and a diffuse orange light that was coming from the east of them. He could see every screw of the spinner and the sheen of its surface, and the propeller and the cowling and the belt of the alternator; he could see the oil lines and the air cleaner and the cowling screws, in exactly as much detail as he had in their youths. He tested the cotter pins while she checked the strut height. Then she checked the steering linkages and he moved beside her. He checked the static port and fuel visually and a wing and pitot tube, and he unhooked one of the three tie-downs and he let it drop against asphalt; then they checked the port aileron and the flap and the fuel drain, and they checked the stringers and ribs and they moved to the tail. The sunrise was growing closer; planes were visible. Long rows of light planes were tied down on all sides of them. As she continued up the passenger’s side he unhooked the last tie-downs, and the pre-flight was completed and they were in the cockpit; she set the throttle a half-inch from full out and she pulled the primer twice, and she switched on the master switch and she switched on the ignition. The four-cylinder engine shuddered and the propeller roared. She idled down to 1,000 and she leaned out the mixture. Flaps were set and the mixture was set and the transponder was set, and the radio and the beacon and the strobes were on; she had checked the weather with ATIS and she had received run-up clearance, and she was taxiing and she was turning and she did the run-up. Doors were checked and the yoke was checked and the sun had not risen. She checked the ailerons and the rudder and she neutralized the yoke. She set the trim and she adjusted the richness of the fuel mixture, and she checked the heat of the carburetor and she checked the magnetos; she switched the key from R to L and she watched the RPM drop, and she made a check of the gauges and she taxied out to the runway. He stood to the right of the Porsche and she waited on him. He could affirm or abort her decision; it was up to him now. He stood as the air around him shimmered and vibrated, both from the exhaust of the Porsche and from the heat of the engine; she sat in her shorts and her T-shirt and her eyes waited on him, those large eyes that were so blue, so clear, and so prescient. I love you, he thought to her and he felt it reflected. I love you and I understand you.
They waited.
He nodded. He nodded almost imperceptibly and she nodded back. Then she pushed the throttle forward until it touched the panel, and they started to move forward and the plane began to yaw; she pressed down the right rudder pedal as she eased the yoke back, and the pier was wide enough and he recalled the brown City truck that they had veered past next to the bait shop. But he was in the cockpit with her and the Cessna shook. It shook violently and it roared and it started to climb. You can’t do this, he shouted at her as winds shoved at the wings. I don’t care what I said. I love you.
It’s time.
No, it isn’t. Stop! I need you to stay with me!
You’ll understand it later. I love you. I won’t forget you.
No.
But she was correct. And as the plane shook under them the sun rose to the west of them. Rather than rising from the east the sun rose from the west, looking exactly as it had when they had flown in their teens; it was huge and coruscating and it widened quickly, until the entire sky was a wash of orange radiance. Then someone was grabbing him, someone large, tackling him. He was crying “No” repeatedly and other voices shouted. He kept crying “No” and the Cessna lifted past the pier, past the shattered length of railing that had killed her instantly; nevertheless two men had dived in and they were trying to save her, trying to pull her body from the Porsche as it rotated and as it sank. God accepts everything, she had told him and he understood now. Dignity. He had given her that. Some gulls flew, crying.
The End