The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [73]
She fingered her wedding ring.
Over the intercom, the captain spoke with a resonant voice that was meant to be reassuring. Yet flight itself still felt wrong. The difficulty lay with the mind accommodating itself to the notion of the plane, with all its weight, defying gravity, staying aloft. She understood the aerodynamics of flight, could comprehend the laws of physics that made flight possible, but her heart, at the moment, would have none of it. Her heart knew the plane could fall out of the sky.
When she woke, it was dark both inside and outside of the plane. Overhead, a washed-out movie played silently on a screen. They were flying toward morning. When Jack had died, he’d flown into darkness, as if he were outrunning the sun.
Through the windows, she saw clouds. Over where? she wondered. Newfoundland? The Atlantic? Malin Head?
She wondered if the heart stopped from the concussion of the bomb, or if it stopped at the moment of certain knowledge that one would die, or if it stopped in reaction to the horror of falling through the darkness, or if it did not stop until the body hit the water.
What was it like to watch the cockpit split away from the cabin, and then to feel yourself, still harnessed to your seat, falling through the night, knowing that you would hit the water at terminal velocity, as surely Jack would have known if he were conscious? Did he cry out Kathryn’s name? Another woman’s name? Was it Mattie’s name he called in the end? Or had Jack, too, in the last desperate wail of his life, called out for his mother?
She hoped her husband had not had to cry out any name, that he had not had a second to know he would die.
Beside her in the taxi, Robert stretched his legs. The gold buttons on his blazer had set off the airport security alarm. He wore gray trousers, a white shirt, a black-and-gold paisley tie. He looked thinner than he had just yesterday.
She raised a hand to her hair and tried to refasten a wisp. Between them were two overnight bags, both remarkably small. She had packed hastily, without much thought. Her case contained a change of underwear and stockings, a different blouse. They entered London proper and began to pass through pleasant residential areas. The taxi pulled abruptly to a curb.
Through the rain, Kathryn saw a street of white stucco town houses, an immaculate row of almost identical facades. The houses rose four stories tall and were graced with bow-front windows. Delicate wrought-iron fences bordered the sidewalk, and each house bore a lantern hanging from a columned portico. Only the front doors spoke of individuality. Some were thick, wood-paneled doors; some had small glass panes; others were painted dark green. The houses closest to the taxi were identified with discreet numbers on small brass plaques. The house they’d parked in front of read Number 21.
Kathryn sat back on the upholstered seat.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Do you want me to go instead?” he asked.
She thought about the offer and smoothed her skirt. Like the steady hum of the engine, the driver seemed unperturbed by the wait.
“What would you do when you got there?” she asked.
He shook his head, as if to say he hadn’t given it any thought. Or that he would do what she asked him to.
“What will you do?” he asked.
Kathryn felt light-headed and thought she could no longer predict with any accuracy the actions and reactions of her body. The difficulty with not thinking about the immediate future, she decided, was that it left one unprepared for its reality.
The drive to the hotel was brief, the block on which it stood eerily like the one they had just left. The hotel had taken over seven or eight town houses and had a discreet entrance. The upper floors were ringed with pristine white balustrades.
Robert had booked two adjacent, but not adjoining, rooms. He carried her bag to the door.
“We’ll have lunch downstairs in the pub,” he said. He checked his watch. “At noon?”
“Sure,” she answered.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.