A Fortuitous Meeting (1) The promise of a hot June day lingered in the still cool morning air as Anne Chambers stepped out onto her porch and winded her way between neatly groomed rosebushes. The clip-clip of the Shearer’s she used to cut a fresh bouquet for her table punctuated the still, cool morning, lending to the peacefulness of the day. Suddenly, the growl of a small plane engine intruded on the usual quiet of the morning, causing Anne to look up. Sound like the buzzing of a million flies enveloped her as the crippled plane flew overhead. She inhaled sharply as the plane headed straight for the empty spot afforded by the grass of the high school baseball field not one hundred yards from her house. The plane hit the fence with the shivering crackling sound of a shattering load of wood, and now she found herself bounding across the street, not stopping to look for oncoming traffic. She ran breathlessly to the crippled aircraft, putting her hands out to steady the pilot who staggered from the cockpit. He put his arms out, catching hold of the still intact strut, steadying himself against the dizziness that suddenly overcame him. "My glasses!” exclaimed the distraught pilot as Anne eased him into a sitting position; “I've lost my glasses!" “Alright,” she comforted, “Your head is bleeding. You’ve injured your head.” “I don’t feel so good,” he said distractedly, his gaze drifting. She noticed his discomfort and tried to calm him. "I’m here to help. I’m a teacher. I live across the street. Can you tell me if you have a phone?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the plane. “There!” he said dazedly, “in the plane in the chart case.” Anne squeezed herself into the cockpit, somehow finding the glasses and the metal chart case. She pushed the heavy case out ahead of her. It thumped hard on the grass. She dragged the case to him. He directed her gaze to its latches. "They're open. I didn't lock them." Anne turned the latch and opened the case just as the pilot became sick on the wet grass. Quickly removing the phone from atop the piles of charts and maps, she sighed in inestimable relief seeing that its battery held a full charge. Moments later, she was led from the plane as paramedics assisted the pilot. Distractedly, she told a policeman holding a pen over a form about finding him. Hearing the slam of the ambulance door and the wail of the sirens, she suddenly came to her senses, realizing that she still held the pilot’s glasses. Anne made her way quietly into the injured man’s room. He lay on his back, his head turned away from her. White bandages swathed his injured head, a strand of golden blond hair fell over his forehead, touching the stitches above his right eye. She paused for a moment, struck by the contrast between the golden blond hair and the bandage. “Hello,” she said quietly, not knowing if he slept, “I brought your glasses.” The man moved his head slightly as if testing whether this was a good idea and opened his eyes very slowly. He sighed a little, slowly focusing his gaze, finding her face in a haze of medicated lethargy. “Your nurse said I could come and see you,” she said gently. “She said you were resting.” He tried to focus his gaze on her again, then closed his eyes, resigned to her presence even if he couldn’t place her face. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked, genuinely concerned, knowing he was a bit uncomfortable. "I’ve got a headache," he said, not looking at her, gingerly placing his right hand on his temple and running it across the jagged line of stitches. "You have a concussion,” she told him, “but I bet that fence is worse off than you are." He looked confused. "You don’t remember hitting the fence? The one across the street from my house? The one in the baseball field?” “No,” he answered quietly. He looked at her for a moment. "I don’t know you,” he said hesitantly. "Of course you don’t,” she assured, “my name is Anne. I helped you out of the plane." A moment of silence passed between them. Anne picked up three photographs someone had found in his personal possessions and extended them to him. “We looked through your things and called your sister, Rachel Kennedy,” she explained, “but we don’t know what she looks like. Can you find her in these pictures so we know who she is when she comes to see you?” “Okay,” he said, reaching for the pictures and looking through them. He lingered over them for a moment, finally handing one back to her. She studied a young, pretty face with smiling blue eyes. “She’s pretty,” she said, as the man closed his eyes, weary from the task. She replaced the pictures on the table and turned back to him. “I’m sorry, but no one has told me your name,” she said gently. "Andrew," he whispered wearily, "My name is Andrew Crance." Anne noticed movement in her peripheral vision and looked up. A young woman wearing a blue suit stood beside the nurse. “This is his sister,” she said, introducing the two women. Anne took the young woman’s hand. "My name is Anne Chambers. I called the ambulance." "I’m Rachel Kennedy,” the woman responded in a tired and grateful way. "Go in and see him,” the nurse said to his sister, “But don’t stay too long. He’s had a rough day.” The two women sat in the hospital cafeteria staring at bitter cups of coffee. Rachel sat back and put a hand across her tired, blue eyes. "Andrew was always getting hurt as a boy,” she commented, twisting her napkin absently into a ball, “he was always climbing trees and breaking bones.” She tried to smile. “This tops them all! The doctor says Andrew still doesn't remember the accident, but he will. Hopefully it won’t be when he has such a nasty headache." Rachel sat silent for a moment as she stirred cream into her white ceramic cup. “Are you still trying to figure out how to get Andrew home?” Anne asked, noticing the worry that creased the woman’s brow. Rachel sighed, acknowledging Anne’s question with a nod, and laid her spoon on the table. “My husband is out of town this week. I’ve got two daughters to pick up from school and it’s a long trip from here to Andrew’s house. I’m just thinking out loud, somehow it will work out.” “I’ll drive Andrew home for you, Rachel.” Rachel looked unsure. “Look, the school session has ended so I don’t have to teach any more English classes for a while, and I have time. I don’t mind. Just give me directions.” Rachel still seemed hesitant, unwilling to lay such a responsibility on a woman she hardly knew. “I’ve been here for three days with you and Andrew and I like you, Rachel. I’d like to help.” Rachel reflected that Anne’s words were true. She had taken time out of her life to help Andrew. She had liked Anne’s no nonsense attitude, she had respected Anne’s willingness to take charge of the situation and help them both through a difficult time. She nodded and smiled her consent. “Good,” said the English teacher, glad to ease Rachel’s anxiety, “I’ll come get him tomorrow.” “Thank you for driving me home,” Andrew said the next morning as he and Anne approached her car. She slid the key into the passenger door and unlocked it. “Sure, Andrew, I like your sister. And I met your nieces, too. You have a great family. Rachel is coming by to see you after work. I’ll stay with you till then.” He nodded, slowly getting into her blue Toyota Camry and clipping the belt across his lap. “I brought you coffee,” she said, casting her gaze on his face. It lingered momentarily on the golden blond lock of hair that teased the stitches above his right eye. He reached for the cup, cradling its warmth in both hands. A smile played across his face, livening his brown eyes. Reluctant to pull her gaze away, Anne was suddenly attracted to something different about him. He traced his right eye with his hand, tapping a lens. “I'm wearing my glasses." Anne leaned back in her seat, suddenly laughing. "That's it. You definitely look different with your glasses.” He settled in and put the cup in its holder. “What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing his weariness, sliding her key into the ignition. “My head just hurts. I’m okay.” Anne reached into her purse and extended some capsules to him. He took them and swallowed them, saying nothing, but thanking her with his eyes. “No planes for a while,” she chuckled, winking mischievously at him, “doctor’s orders.” He caught her eye and smiled despite his discomfort. “Okay. Sure.” Andrew fell silent as Anne negotiated some heavy traffic, finally reaching a stretch of open highway flanked by dairy farms. She quickly found the large sprawling stuccoed building that was his house, sitting for a moment before the wrought iron gate that surrounded it. Roses grew along the bars, and a neatly groomed lawn invited Anne to bring him into the house’s comforting embrace. She put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, startled. She got out of the car, and met him outside. He looked dazedly about him, shaking his head to clear it. "You slept, Andrew. Come on, you’re home.” They walked up the grassy path, and paused as he lifted his hand to open the gate. He led her up three wooden steps and onto a large porch decorated with flowerpots. Anne turned to him. "We need your keys.” He seemed to come to his senses, searched for his keys and slid them into the first of two brass locks. They jingled against the wooden door as first one lock turned, then another. The door opened. Anne took his hand and led him through the entryway. Stopping in the impressive hall, she spotted a large living room and led him through it, helping him to sit down on the couch. She retrieved his keys and returned to find him sobbing quietly, unaware of her presence. She sat down next to him, waiting patiently while the tears dried. "I remember now," he said, holding his head, "I remember the distress call and the course correction. I was going to the airport to pick up a passenger for a charter flight when the engine gave out, then the fence…then nothing.” “Do you remember me helping you?” “I do know your face. I remember the room and the picture. Before that, I don’t know.” “I saw the plane and came running to help.” Anne tried to reassure him. “Lie down and rest now. I’ll be here for a while if you want to talk.” He eased himself back against some overstuffed pillows and closed his eyes. She looked around, noticing pictures of Cessna and Piper aircraft on the walls. “Do you fly all these planes?” “Some of them,” he said wearily, his voice drifting. Her eyes strayed to a picture of a gleaming white Cessna Cardinal on the wall above the couch. “That’s a nice plane. Is it yours?” He did not respond. Returning her gaze to him, she saw that he had fallen asleep, strands of his hair lying softly against the pillow, his eyes closed in relief. Suddenly she had to touch the warm hair. She put out her hand and brushed it gently with her fingers. Later, Andrew stirred and opened his eyes as a key rattled in the lock, breaking the tranquil silence that had enveloped the house. Anne got up, gently restraining Andrew as he tried to follow her. "Easy, it's probably Rachel. Don't aggravate that head of yours. I'll meet her." But Andrew gently removed her restraining hand, and getting to his feet, reassured her with a pleasant smile. "I’m alright. I just have to go to the bathroom.” Andrew’s injuries healed, and he grew restive, staring dreamily into the sky, searching it for the trailing lights of aircraft. Feeling much stronger and ready to resume his work, he showed up at the airport early one morning after passing his Aviation Medical Exam. He went to find Karl Miller, a mechanic who regularly serviced all of the ABC Charter Company’s planes. They drew coffee from a steaming pot in the office and walked out to the hangar. “Damn, we’re busy,” Karl complained good naturedly “I swear some people just wait to the last minute for their annuals.” Silence passed between them as Karl led his friend out to a low-winged Bonanza. It looked strangely misshapen without its propeller. Karl inspected something inside the plane’s single engine. “So,” he said, momentarily turning his attention from some small perplexing detail, “have you heard from the girl who saved your life the day you thrashed that plane?” “No,” said Andrew, who stood at a respectful distance, and chuckled just a little, “But I do wonder how she is doing.” "So call her,” Karl suggested mischievously, as if it were the only thing to do. He wiped his hands on a rag and gave them a cursory inspection for grease under his nails. "I don't have her phone number,” Andrew answered, handing Karl a small bag he had pointed out to him, “besides, she probably doesn’t remember me.” "Ah, Andrew," the mechanic growled impatiently, "you’re kidding me.” A wave of raucous country music made its way to them. “Damn,” he said, rubbing at something on his knuckle, “it’s too early for that! Hand me that, Andrew.” Andrew gave Karl a small u-shaped tool, waiting for his friend to start in. But Karl was silent as he tightened a belt, and looked back at him. He got up and replaced the engine’s cover. “Andrew, believe me, she remembers you. She got into your plane, brought you your glasses, drove you to your house…” “Okay okay,” Andrew interrupted him, laughing a little. “She remembers me. Convince me over beer after work. I have a passenger!” “No, not tonight,” said the weary mechanic, “pilot fools! Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe.” Andrew turned to leave the hangar. His own C310 was waiting for preflight. “Oh, Andrew, wait. One more thing.” Andrew turned his attention back to Karl who was twirling something, looking at the same Bonanza with a critical eye. “You know the NTSB didn't think it was such a great idea that she climbed into that plane to get your phone." Andrew frowned, making his friend’s ruddy face break into a smile. "This is why you’re John’s best pilot! You're so calm about these things!” "There isn’t anything to be upset about!” Andrew gestured with his empty cup. “I only had time to make one emergency transmission before getting slammed into the front dash of that plane. I'm not going to argue with them about whether or not the woman across the street should have helped me. That’s ridiculous!” "Yeah,” Karl nodded wisely, waving to the owner of the Bonanza who had just entered the hangar, "get that number, Andrew.” Andrew turned this idea around in his mind for a while and woke up not long afterward with two images in his head: the girl, and the fence. At night he had sometimes awakened from deep sleep with fresh memories of the approaching fence, his heart clamoring, and his hands sweating. Now on this cool morning, sprawling in his king-size bed, those dreams came less often than thoughts of the girl who had helped him. He didn't know much about her. He only knew that she was friendly and had noticed the pictures on his wall. He lay wide-awake noting the slight chill in the air, imagining from experience the haze of gray fog that still shrouded the sky. The sudden jangling of the phone clattered into his thoughts. He sat up and got out of bed. Shuffling to the desk, he sorted through a clutter of photographs, papers, and a Mustang P-51 model to silence it. "Good morning, Andrew. Isn't it time for you to be up?" Andrew smiled, accustomed to such greetings. “It is now!” "Well," said John Foster, Andrew’s boss, cheerily, "I thought I’d call early to let you know there is a change in the schedule for today.” "Okay,” Andrew said, shaking the images and wiping the remaining sleep from his eyes, “what's up, John?” “Your flight for tonight canceled so all you have is the morning flights for today.” Andrew rubbed his head, thinking. "John,” he said after a moment’, “I’m going to go ahead and file that flight plan.” Anne laid aside her pen as the bell-like tones of the telephone broke her concentration. "Miss Chambers, its Andrew Crance, the pilot. Remember me?" “Andrew,” she said in surprise, immediately recognizing the pleasant voice, “’course I remember you! I couldn't forget driving a man home with a concussion and a broken plane! That’s not something I do everyday, you know!” "No,” he chuckled, hearing the smile in her voice, “I suppose not." She paused briefly. "How are you feeling?" "Much better. You won't recognize me!" Anne suddenly remembered his golden blond hair. "I know it's still early, I’m at the airport. A flight for tonight canceled so I thought if you were free for dinner I could fly you to San Diego.” Anne pushed her red pen across the desk, contemplating his suggestion. She smiled. “I would like that very much.” Andrew rose from the chair beside the silk plant and walked easily toward Anne, his hand extended. "Hello Andrew," she said, taking in his tall, lean figure and easy stance, "I hardly know what to say. The last time I saw you,” she teased him, as he warmly clasped her hand, "I was climbing into a wrecked plane." He smiled easily. “That was your choice.” He held her hand a fraction longer than ediquet dictated, then stepped back and looked at her. Her nut-brown hair curled at her ears, falling gently to her shoulders. Her red summer outfit made her Grey eyes stand out. "Please forgive me for staring,” he said quietly, noticing her questioning gaze, “I don't even know that I really saw you before today.” She eased his discomfiture with a smile. Her glance moved to the scar above his eye, and there was that incessantly mischievous lock of hair teasing her. “I wouldn’t worry,” she reassured him, “You look different, too, without all those stitches!” She fell into step beside Andrew as he led her out to the Cessna 172 and helped her into it. He climbed in beside her, and clipping his belt into place, caught her eye, holding her gaze for a moment. “I’m glad you climbed into that plane.” Anne held her hands out for the headset. “It was just meant to be,” she said easily, returning his look. She made herself more comfortable as he ran through the checklist, and clicked the key into position, starting the single-engine. "So this is what it's like when the cockpit isn't damaged," she observed, noticing the panels and lights only inches forward and to her left. “Right. Scared?” "No. I’m not the one responsible if it goes down!”
Copyright © 2002 Shelley Alongi |