The Way We Were

	Standing outside, in the parking lot, I tear up the funeral invitation into as many pieces as I can. After stirring up the bits of paper, I cup them into my hand where they mix in a little white whirlpool. Then, I ease my imprisoning fingers and let the wind blow them away. I pretend that they are doves, and that I am a magician, and that I can make everything disappear—the little birds fly away.
	Mr. and Mrs. Sheth watch me do this with disdain. I do not think they like the litter, the spectacle of the moment. Nor do I, really, but I think that spectacles merit spectacles. Funerals merit spectacles, and vice versa—especially brilliant explosions, plane crashes that kill people. What a spectacle! What a funeral—how depressing the thought, the cynic I am. The voice of spectacle haunts me—I remember all too clearly. Soprano. C.
	Mr. Sheth wears glasses, giving him a distinguished owlish appearance. Dignified and proud, Mrs. Sheth stands behind him, not touching him, her back straight and her shoulders defined. They stare at me and I stare at them back. They know who I am, and I know who they are. Not really in terms of Appalachian Hamix and Stuti Sheth, but as I see it, I know him as father no longer, and he knows me as man still living. These are facts strewn on a road of debris, but Sheth can see a little further down the road than I.
	“Mr. and Mrs. Sheth?” I say, hesitantly, genuinely afraid.
	“Yes?” says Mr. Sheth, very slowly and deliberately, as if every word walked on hot coals. Ginger steps.
	“My name is Appalachian Hamix. I was on Flight 331.”
	“I see. I am sorry, then, Mr. Hamix,” he says, turning slightly away from his wife, like a turn of the kaleidoscope.
	“I was sitting next to Neha Sheth.”
	Mrs. Sheth’s face stares back the way a door does—the blank stare of grain, cracks running along dark wood. She looks slowly over me while, in the background, Mr. Sheth shrinks away towards the door of his large SUV. Mr. Sheth’s voice grates raw against me as he speaks, callous false-encouragement.
	“Congratulations. Would you like a medal? Leave me alone, we are grieving, can’t you see? Leave us alone—we are very occupied.”
	“I have a message from your daughter, though,” I say emphatically. Mrs. Sheth taps her long red nails on the roof of their SUV—impatience? Or maybe anxiety? Or am I underestimating Mrs. Sheth? Mr. Sheth climbs in the car, and deftly rolls down the window facing me, keeping his own face immersed in the pools of darkness collecting in his car. I slink back.
	“I do not think of this as funny, this whole business. I could call the police—harassment. This is not entertaining, this is not a good joke. I do not think of this as a good joke,” he says coldly.
	“Nor do I, really,” I say strongly. I feel as though, even though I only knew their daughter for a moment, I have some kind of advantage—having heard her voice the last time it sang. I feel compelled to defend her against her parents—though she is dead, strewn on a road of debris—little birds. In defense of a voice, what weapons to employ?
	“I think you are mistaken. You must be very hurt, I know, but you received no message from Neha. You are mistaken, and you should go home. I’m sure you have parents, or brothers—sisters,
someone else to go home to,” he says in return.
	What if, I think, I came home with Neha? We talk? Meet for lunch? Name our children after Greek heroes and hope for the best. Maybe I would be calling Mr. Sheth something else. My wife died in an accident too, a car accident, so I understand creeping away.
	Doesn’t he know that? Of course not, she is dead. If only one bolt had been secured tighter; if only Rome had not fallen.
	“I know what I heard. Your daughter has—had a very beautiful voice. It is the last thing I heard up there, as we fell,” I say.
	“Mr.—whatever your name was, I, I—we are not amused by this game. Perhaps you should think—“
	I break in and hum—a broken dirge.  C – F# – A – D – C
	A pause, time full of hope—but it is not for reflection, simply for breath.
	“I hope you are happy at whatever you do, sir, or wherever you go. I hope you find happiness somewhere, something—do something good perhaps. But today, you are making me very unhappy. We are leaving now,” Mr. Sheth says finally.
	“Then tell me something. Did she have a boyfriend? Or, someone else she would—“ I fade out.
	Mr. Sheth leans forward a little with a groan, then after a while scowls at me and whispers “Simon Adreus.” He rolls up the window purposefully and stares forward. Mrs. Sheth looks at me with unhappy silence, and opens her mouth, which hangs reluctantly, teetering on the edge of words.
	“I hope—“ she begins, slowly, infectiously deliberate. Then the cave closes, and she simply whispers under her breath something I cannot hear. As her eyes slowly scan my face, I feel a rusty guilt crawling up my cheeks. When her eyes finally release and fall to the ground, she gets into their car, and the Sheths drive away, leaving me alone in the parking lot, dead paper doves returning from the wind, knocking at my feet.

	Wobbling wings, bouncing slightly, jump silently at the edge of my vision—wobbling wings. Are wings supposed to wobble?
	Right side, an aluminum spear out the window. Bobble. Where are we? Somewhere over the Atlantic, I’d guess. I look down, beyond the wings, but all I see is the sheet of clouds.
	The air is stuffy, like a breeze of cottonballs in my face. Close my eyes, see what I see—the wobbling of wings. The aircraft shudders with the rattle of plastic and metal. I hear the soft sighing of people sleeping all around the cabin. San Juan is just a sighing dot of people behind me. St. Maarten is just a sighing dot of palm trees in my wake. Shiver. 
	I see the glare of reading lights against my eyelids. I see darkness, upon which a movie projector skips images of places I’ve been and people I’ve met. The image shakes as the airplane vibrates again, the armrest buzzing in my hand.
	I hear the woman next to me. What is her name? Neha, I believe it is—which is a nice name. What country is that from—her voice, not her, that voice. Country of origin? Her voice hums quietly to her music, as if a hidden spider in her throat is slowly spinning golden thread. I sag happily and wearily against the weight of her webs—the nearly transparent brushing of her voice. The hum of newspapers blown along brick walls, wind sweeping across oceans of grass, the echo of a single harp string, the silence of fingertips on the back of necks. No—that can’t be it. The echo of a single harp string.
	That voice! I should talk to her—the airplane jolts—but what would I say? Something. My dead wife. What if—
	“Oh, sorry, I’m just going to use the restroom real quickly,” I say. She smiles at me, a row of miniature dominoes shining in the dim cabin interior.
	“No problem, hang on,” the voice says. I brush past her body, letting my knees scrape against hers, letting my thigh touch hers briefly before moving into the aisle as the airplane thrusts me into her casually.
	“Oh! Sorry,” I whisper.
	“No problem,” the voice giggles back.
	I walk into the aisle, steady myself, and walk back into the restroom in the back. I sweep back the door and stare at myself in the mirror.
	I am Appalachian Hamix. I am on an airplane, going from San Juan to Washington D.C. I have just gotten back from vacation. I am going insane. The girl next to me is extremely attractive. My wife is dead.
	I push down the tiny lever for water and splashed my face. Soap? No. Aftershave—lots of little bottles of aftershave. The tiny containers look like chess pawns in their small holding case. Square bodies with heads looking up at me curiously. Move. I turn around, slide open the lock and step back out into the
aisle. Rattling fills the air as a stewardess steadies herself against me.
	“Sorry!” she says.
	“Are we ok?” I ask.
	“Just turbulence. I think the Captain will turn on the seatbe—“ she begins.
	“This is Captain McEvitt from the cockpit. We’re going through some turbulence and need to ask everyone back to their seats. Just think of this as a free back massage folks—“ the captain says, cut off by static crackling. Scattered laughter accompanies the announcement, and the stewardess laughs at me as I return to my seat. Neha gets up and I skew my eyes from her smooth black pants. I squeeze past her with my breath held tight and sit back down in my seat.
	We both reach our arms out for the armrest between us. I laugh nervously as we collide.
	“Sorry. We’ll split it,” the voice says gloriously. Hidden silkworms hard at work spinning milky strings, harp strings and voices ring. Milk in tall glasses—a line of milk.
	We sit, with both our arms touching, my shirt rubbing up against her fuzzy blue sweater. She looks straight ahead and hums a beautiful tune— C – F# – A – D – C.
	I close my eyes and try to seal the moment in memory, but all I see in my head is my right arm, gripped around the arm rest, which shivers violently under my grasp. The floor quakes, and the even the cramped air feels quivery. Her knee is shaking, bouncing slightly up and down, faster and faster, sometimes accidentally knocking against mine. My foot is doing that too, shivering involuntarily. The cabin dips up and down.
	I swallow quickly, and I hear a collective gasp as the lights in the cabin flicker beyond my eyelids. Blue sweater—fuzzy, my shirt— gray, thin, her arm, her voice. Something cracks outside, loud and distant. Wobble. My wife dies in a car accident nearly a year ago, and now, now I hear Neha swallow again. Her hand brushes against mine anxiously. Where are we again? Somewhere over the Atlantic—and we are tossed again, the cabin sinking and rising, plunging again, a little fun roller-coaster. Someone stifles a scream.
	I swallow again, breathing faster. The intercom fizzes. “T-------ca-------vit----------seat bel---------------take pr----------soon.” The lights go out. Shuddering—me. Shivering, her. Lights back on. Back out. Flickering—moths. The Atlantic. The water must be cold. The waters must be deep.
	A lightning bolt of sound races down the cabin as if a thousand pencils were suddenly snapped. Something creaks—a thousand insects scattering up my spine. Where were we? My arm is against hers—her voice is sitting next to me. C – F#.
	My eyes slam open as Neha snatches my hand, crying.
	“If—tell my parents I love them. Tell him too,” she says, her eyes piercing. Her voice quivers, her hands shake, and desperation fills the air between us. I recoil back in shock, fear. Her voice sags against mine.
	“Wh—what?” I stutter. But she turns and faces straight forward, her eyes closed, her lips mumbing. To my right, the wing wobbles. The airplane rattles.
	Where are we? The Atlantic. C – F#... A. D. Anno Domini. The right engine explodes in a brilliant shower of flames and debris. The plane is wracked in shudders as the fiery remains of the engine burn up the wing. I yell and jump in my seat; I press my face up to the glass and watch as the wing deteriorates. Little panels and plates of metal peel back and fall off into the Atlantic Ocean. The lights are blinking rabidly, illuminating flying cups, waving hands, a body flying. Oxygen masks appear in front of me, swinging wildly as we begin turning right. Why me? Why again? The nose of the craft dips and we dive straight towards the Atlantic Ocean, people calmly watching as we trail blazing liquid fuel, scorching the sky.
	“I was just there,” I whisper to myself inside my oxygen mask, my hopes pressing against the broad blue ocean. I close my eyes and hear the scream of wind, the horrible sobbing of tearing metal, and a beautiful voice next to me humming heaven— C – F# – A – D – C –

	I rap gently on Simon Adreus’ front door, which lies on a white porch. The porch sits in front of the house, a pristine suburban build with a sloping driveway and a parade of colorful elms. The porch swing rocks in the wind lopsidedly, creaking to join the chorus of birds squawking in the background. I knock again, and wait curiously studying the finely painted door, the careful strokes of delicate white. A red car goes by behind me, a whoosh of sound followed by the scattered flocks of dead leaves—and the door opens.
	Simon Adreus stands there in front of me, half-surprised. I recognize him—from the funeral, or after, or before, or somewhere. He is dressed in khaki pants which are too long, covering white socks stuffed into slippers. His left arm, in his striped tan sweater, is wrapped around a girl. She is slender, beautiful, with a long spilling coil of blonde hair. In a state of recline, she cocks her head slightly at me and slurs out lazily, “Yes? May I help you?”
	I only look at Simon, and, as his interrupted smile slowly dies from his face, he slowly straightens his back into a stiff rod. Shamefully, he recoils one step back, and delicately—tenderly. Ah yes, recognition. Premonition.
	He begins to slowly move, his fingers slowly releasing like lifting spider legs. His fingers unclutch the girl’s sweater, and his wrist pivots slowly, his bony white palm showing as his hand tilts. His forearm, tucked neatly under a sweater, slowly lifts from the girl’s shoulder. Peeling a thin-skinned fruit. His arm hovers above her, just inches above her shoulders, but a mile away. How fast can guilt run? The blonde, too, looks at Simon Adreus now, as his cowardly face hides in the shadow of his house; he creeps away without moving. Finally, reappearing by his side, his arm hangs limp and useless, not touching the other woman. His eyes slip from mine and steer to my feet, which are already turning as I walk away from his
house without a word.
	
	As I walk away, I remember only the way we were, sitting there, with her fuzzy sweater touching my nervous arm, her gentle humming voice peeking above the shroud of noise. I remember the way we could have been, maybe some other day in some other time, when I would have clasped my hand around hers and told her sadly that everything would be alright, that air travel was safe and that our landing would be but a bump. Then in time I would invite her for coffee, then dinner, and name our daughter Penelope, and we would sit on the front porch together, our arms touching lovingly, watching the yellow cars go by.