More Than a Number

More Than a Number

It was dark inside except for light that washed over the cockpit from the instrument panel. City lights that seemed to move below, along with the comforting hum of engines and the banter between the pilots, helped me achieve a somewhat meditative state.

“Hey Dru, would you like to visit the Vietnam Memorial? Have you ever been there?” Talk about being pulled out of a meditative state! That did it for me. I blinked, shutting out the view of the Capitol and the Washington Monument and focused on Jim, our Captain.

“No, not yet”

“We have enough time before our trip tomorrow. How about it?”

I could feel my heart beating faster and my ears were ringing, creating a symphony of dread and confusion. It was a direct question that required a direct answer. I knew I should want to go. I should be eager to go, but my breath caught in my throat. Finally, I choked a reply.  

“Sure!”

***

Safely harnessed in my jump seat with my fingertips tucked under my thighs--the standard hard landing position--I began to breathe steadily, but still felt the anxiety that had been with me for a long time, anxiety that sometimes surfaced when I wasn’t distracted by something else. Years ago, I began flying because I wanted freedom. I wanted adventure. I wanted to be surprised by what tomorrow would bring. Now, in that fast-moving world, when you’re always thinking about tomorrow, my career served as a distraction. A welcomed one.

***

Jim, was a Vietnam vet and like so many other pilots, had exchanged a fighting uniform for a flying one. I found that most of the pilots from that era had now abandoned their fly-boy image and were only too happy to share photos of their wives, children, and even their pets. Jim was one of these, a family man.    

Flight crews bonded. Crew members knew, in the event of an emergency, they had to depend on one another. Besides, after years of travel, despite encountering thousands of people each month and staying in one hotel room after another--sometimes with only enough time to recuperate--flying can be a lonely job. While we were away, our families became bonded in their own ways to the neighbors, the grocer, and the continuity of life at home while we shared dinners in Paris, New York, San Francisco and ordered authentic Buffalo wings brought to the plane---in Buffalo.

During dinners, we downloaded our unbelievable stories.  True stories. When you deal with huge numbers of people, there will be stories. This was sharing for sharing’s sake as well as entertainment. But, most importantly, sharing was for understanding. “Jump-seat counseling” was a standard phrase, and what wasn’t shared in flight was shared over dinner or drinks.

On a prior trip, Jim and I had played darts in the hotel pub to avoid being alone and bored staying in our rooms. It also gave us an excuse to have a beer. We played for an hour or so. I hit the bullseye twice, but when crunch time came, I had trouble reaching that perfect number. Afterward, making our way to the table where our drinks waited, I blamed my loss on my height. Or rather, on Jim’s.

“You’re much taller than me. It was easier for you to hit the numbers on top.”  

“He laughed. “You could have stood on a stool”.

“What? And, just what would that do to my form? Besides, I’d be on the floor and you’d have to find another flight attendant for tomorrow.”

We continued our good-natured ribbing while sitting in front of our beers which were, by that time, almost empty. I sipped the remainder of my Coors and looked around before asking him what I had been wanting to know.

“Jim, can you talk about your time in Vietnam?” I caught him by surprise. His head jerked back a little and then he answered, “I was sent to Nam right after flight school”. He peered into the distance. I imagined he was remembering the unspeakable. “I saw too much and had more close calls than I care to remember,” he said. 

His words and that far-away look stopped me from asking another question. I wanted to because I thought Jim might have known Art or seen him. Maybe he was the pilot who had picked him up on the side of the river. I needed to try to make a connection. There was always a chance I would discover more about that time, that day.  

         It was in the dim light of the pub, while staring down at the empty beer bottle I rolled in my palms, when I blurted “My husband was in SEAL Team Two. I took a deep breath, looked up, and sat straighter before continuing. “He was shot manning a gun on an LST in the Mekong Delta.”

I exhaled the words that tumbled out. “He lived for three weeks after he came home.” I saw what I always saw in the face of the person hearing this news. Jim blinked, looked down and before looking up at me with eyes that reflected my own sadness, his hand reached out to cover mine. “I’m sorry…”

I usually keep this part of my life to myself. A secret, a dark part that I don’t know how to share or whether I should. But, when the words are finally said, I am relieved except for the guilt I feel for having brought it up.

I asked in my cheerful “Welcome-aboard” voice, “One more game? Want to find me a stool?” He gripped my hand a little tighter. “It’s okay, Dru. Let’s just sit here and have one more.” He released my hand and walked to the bar.

***

Our overnight in Washington was in Crystal City, a D.C. suburb. It can best be described as a concrete and marble jungle of high-rise office buildings and grand hotels. The plush lobby of our hotel with its chandeliers fit for a ballroom, expensive sofas positioned for private conversations, and a grand piano, was an opulence that promised clean sheets, hot water, and a good night’s sleep. But I reminded myself, appearance was no guarantee that I wouldn’t find a chewed-off fingernail in a bed of unwashed sheets or mold around the faucet in the tub.                                                                

         The First Officer’s job included checking us in, but Roger, we called him Cowboy, the name he earned by bouncing down the runway, zeroed in on the baby-grand while the rest of us dragged ourselves and bags across the marble floor and waited.  Soon, honky-talk music filled the large room and bolstered us enough to forgive him for taking his time getting to the front desk.

          A few minutes later, alone in the quiet of the elevator, Jim said, “I think we should leave here around eight, so we’ll have plenty of time before we have to catch the airport van at four.” Bleary-eyed from the long day and somewhat numb, I answered with false enthusiasm, “Good idea! Meet you in the lobby”.

***

The elevator stopped on the third floor. I hurried to my room, propped the door open with my roller board, checked under the bed, behind the drapes, and the bathroom shower-curtain for any uninvited guests. Only then did I lean out the door to give a thumbs-up sign to Cowboy who was waiting down the hall until he knew I was safe. Once inside, I closed, double-locked the metal door, and retrieved a rubber wedge out of my suitcase. I shoved it under the bottom of the door… for insurance.    

With the wedge in place, I kicked off my heels, reminding myself to wear pants on my next trip so I could wear flats for a change, set my wake-up call, turned on the hot water tap in the tub, undressed, and sprayed my uniform with Febreze before hanging it in the closet.

Tired, but wound up, I needed to relax. Since there was enough time--no alcohol within eight hours before duty--I dug into my suitcase for the flask of Crown Royal tucked in beside tomorrow’s jeans. After the past three days, I felt I deserved the best. Without the ice. I poured two fingers into one of the glasses beside the ice bucket, happy that it was glass and not plastic, and smiled at the sound of other crew members heading for the ice machines. It had been a hard day for us all.  I held my glass up to the light to appreciate the dark amber glow before taking a sip. The smoothness of the Crown warmed my throat as it went down, and I took another.

Feeling the warmth spread throughout my body, I sat on the side of the tub, a folded towel protecting my warm skin from the cold porcelain. The hot water. The cold porcelain. A little yin/yang moment. My life was all about yin and yang. Maybe everyone’s life has yin/yang moments…I shook my head and decided this was not the time for thinking too much or philosophizing. I chose to be grateful, very grateful, for the hot water soothing my feet, the cold tiles surrounding the shower I leaned on, and the Crown in my hand.

***

When the phone rang, I fought to pull my hand free of tangled sheets and mumbled, “Hello,” even though I knew no one was on the other end of the line. The wake-up call came on time but felt about two hours too early. I groaned, turned over and hugged my pillow for a few more minutes, finally willing myself to get out of bed and take a shower, a steaming shower, hot enough to soothe tight muscles. 

Breakfast came with oatmeal, fruit, nuts, and a pot of coffee. A small vase held three Carnations. I sat in front of the desk with my second cup of coffee to write a letter and took a sheet of paper from the portfolio in the desk. Others leave mementoes at the base of the memorial. I thought a letter would mean more. It was all I had to give.

 I began with “Dear Art” and sat there with my elbow on the arm of the chair holding the end of the pen below my lips…thinking. The words wouldn’t come, and soon I was holding my stomach, rocking back and forth. It’s not that I couldn’t think of what to write. My head was full of thoughts, so full that they seemed to block one another from exiting any pathway from my mind to the pen. There was no way to express what I felt in words. Coffee didn’t help. Crown would…maybe, but it was too late for that. I wrapped the three Carnations in a napkin and tucked them into my waist pouch then, grabbed an apple from my breakfast tray on the way out the door.

***

I found Jim reading the latest issue of USA Today by the glass lobby doors. He wore jeans, running shoes, a jacket, and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked like a runner with his tall, slender frame. My layover uniform was pretty much the same, except for the backpack.

       Behind Jim, on the other side of the glass doors leading to the front of the hotel, the forsythia bloomed. Those little yellow flowers always reminded me of another Spring when the earth was coming alive, giving me a sense of hope before there was none.

         We set out with Jim clutching a city map and a map of the Metro’s route. We power-walked after we passed the forsythia and laughed trying to outdo one another before reaching a crowd of other power-walkers going to work.  They were dressed in business suits and running shoes, intent on excelling during their morning exercise. I imagined this was their way to offset their hours shackled to a desk. It had not taken long before I knew I could not do that, sit at a desk all day.

         When we reached the Metro, we took the route to the memorial. I people-watched, which provided a diversion from memories that struggled to the surface, and the fear of reviving them.

        A round-faced, middle-aged woman with tight curls, and a tighter frown, sat across from us. She wore a grey suit, clip-on silver earrings and held a large, opened purse on her lap. She bent over the purse as her hand dove first in one pocket, then another and another. Just as I was beginning to feel concern over what important item she had forgotten, her frown disappeared and she brought out a red package of chewing gum, unwrapped a piece and slid it between her teeth. I wondered why I felt such a relief over the outcome of her search. Then I remembered what the psychologist said, “You feel fearful because you don’t have faith in positive outcomes.” But, when the worst happens, I don’t think that optimism, that childlike trust is easily found again.

Jim and I were silent. I figured he was people-watching, too. He nudged me and nodded toward two men wearing their dress blues standing at the metro doors. I wondered if they had something to do with a ceremony or some other important event requiring the dignity of dress uniforms. A young couple held hands and were whispering to each other. Everyone seemed to be locked in their own private world. I thought they’d be a little more enthusiastic. After all, today was a day of blue skies and sunshine, wasn’t it? But I knew only too well, there could be darkness even on the most beautiful day.    

***

The Metro made several stops and soon it was ours. We walked along to the clip-clop sound of the crowd’s hurried steps before groups split this way and that. Nearing the park, the only thing I was aware of was the sound of my own shoes hitting the sidewalk and Jim’s grip on my hand lending me courage.

 There it was. The Wall.

Soon, I huddled over the directory under glass on a stand. My hands were trembling, and I tried to will them to stop, but there was more in charge here than simple will. I found my husband’s name and the number of his engraving then turned to face the tall wall.

The Wall seemed to be growing up out of the green, grassy lawn as it spread across the lay of the land. The breath went out of me. It had no end. It may have been described as a jagged scar, but I just saw an unending list of tragedy and sorrow as I passed by name after name etched into the granite surface. Fifty-eight thousand souls.

I found him and stared at his name before reaching out to touch each letter, A-R-T-H-U-R- C.- W-I-L-L-I-A-M-S, J-R. There we were, wrapped in a blanket of knowing belonging to only us. I don’t know how long I stayed with my fingers on the wall. I carefully pulled the carnations out of my waist pouch. Looking down I placed the flowers, cradled in my hands, at the base of the wall. And the apple. I stood, trying to breathe and slowly ran my fingers once again across the letters. Then I bowed my head and I cried.

Jim was watching and waiting, and soon I was sobbing in his arms. He had accompanied others to this place and said their reactions were the same. It was painful, but cathartic. I was grateful for his insight. He knew I needed to be there.

It had been years since Vietnam, and I thought I was okay. And I was okay. I felt I owed it to Art, to his sacrifice, to live my life fully because he couldn’t live his. I had gone on. But I don’t think any of us walk that walk alone. We have ghosts that will always be around and scars and sometimes we scratch memories that bleed into tears. I recently read that grief is just love with no place to go and those words, love with no place to go, helped me understand this longing that never ends.  

The captain put his arms around my shoulders and guided me to a nearby bench--not speaking. He removed his backpack and took out the bananas and apples he had brought for us. It was mostly quiet. Rustling leaves. Whispers. Loud thoughts.

A sound caused us to look up to see a girl hunched over the names and numbers in the directory. She shouted to her mom with the sound of someone who had just discovered a treasure. “I found Dad!”

                                               ***