Fortress

Scott on Flight 559

Scott on Flight 559 The Burbank evening hugs the littlejet. Commuters, standing on the rubber-padded stairs, can look inside the engines and feel comforted, seeing how sensual, full-lipped they are, the metal daisies in each one, then open the starved briefcases on their laps and study graphs of annual reports . . . . You're traveling alone, crying, trying to open the tinfoiled peanuts; I settle in next to you, and we are trapped by the fat man in the aisle seat, who goes to sleep. You live on Howard Street, and you are six. Only staying with your dad three days. I can't get you to say much more, but can adjust the nozzle of the vent, tell you the female silhouette—the cop-show target on the button— is to call the nice lady if you are sick. You look at me. Brown eyes like river pebbles. Youdon't believe me, open your mouth a bit: the serrated tip of your first permanent tooth, coming in crooked. In the safari fabric of your chair you squirm, open the Chicklets, look at the emergency card— a smiling woman slides from the crashed plane, her dress not even wrinkled. At least your tears have stopped. I try 7 to help you in the Berkeleyway to talk about your feelings but it seems a load of crap up here. You don't know me. Youmiss your mom. You have a one-way ticket, paid with cash. The pilot's voice comes on, announcing altitude. I fumble with the Redbook, read the recipes; the cart is coming up the aisle, its bottles ringing like the bells of an old sleigh horse; you're looking at the other passengers, the tops of heads, those bristly hills of straw . . . What's to be done for you? Is there nothing? I can't think of a story, or reassure you with maternal chatter, can only keep you company an hour and just out of Oakland point to where our light projects a cone of tiny ice-flecks, spinning, like something at once being seen, and the gift of sight. In the beautiful void over the lighted wing, those ice children seem alive, moving with no purpose but to be separate. 8 ...