Who cares if I use a recorder? he asked himself. There was no longer a city editor to contend with, or even peers to pressure him.
Scott reached in his shirt pocket to check the tiny instrument, triggering a few seconds of sound to reassure himself. The woman’s words were clearly audible.
Martha Resnick had been the daughter’s name. A pretty 14-year old diving into life. Her mother’s post-divorce existence, by contrast, had become more invested in Martha’s teen years than her own re-entry into single life. Amanda the mother struggled not to hover over Martha the precocious daughter, and that one snowy afternoon — to her eternal sorrow — she had succeeded.
Letting Martha visit her father in Orlando had seemed a reasonable request when the skies were clear, but that afternoon, leaving Denver by air had become a mounting challenge with snow flying in every direction and the planes doing anything but. Martha, however, refused to concede her carefully planned weekend. Seven days in Florida and then back with Mom for Christmas had been programmed into her iPhone for weeks, and she wouldn’t hear of a delay.
Slowly, Amanda Resnick had narrated Scott through the pain of her “if-only” memories of their snowy race to the airport that December afternoon, and of her decision to cave to her daughter’s desire to go despite the storm. Dedicating oneself to not being the overbearing mom meant a follow through that defied all her cautions and protective instincts. But, after all, it wasn’t irresponsible to let Martha go, was it? Even in horrible weather, airline flying was supposed to be safer than just driving to the airport.
There had been one hundred fifty-four passengers and crew on Flight 12, and fourteen terrified faces in the windows of the smaller aircraft, every one of them convinced they were going to die.
How many other lives have been shattered or damaged by proxy, he wondered. With survivors, the torture never ended.
Every interview had poured more depth and understanding into the human stories, but talking to the passengers was getting more difficult. The captain, in particular, had refused all requests for an interview, and even refused legal help.
Scott opened his notebook and looked at the schedule once more, anything to get those innocent faces of the little occupants he’d almost killed in the minivan out of his mind.
Broomfield, 6:30 pm. Lucy Alvarez.
It was highly unusual, but Alvarez had called him. She’d heard he was researching the tragedy, and she’d been seated on the right side of the 757 and finally wanted to talk — after months of therapy.
Pulling into her driveway twenty minutes later, Scott grabbed his notebook and recorder and got out, acutely aware his body was still awash in adrenaline. He would have to make a concerted effort to slow down.
“How much do you know?” Lucy Alvarez asked when they were settled in her living room.
Scott fingered the aromatic cup of tea she’d prepared for him and returned her intense gaze. She was barely over five feet in height, shoulder-length dark hair worn with bangs and a classically angular face carefully maintained. A naturally lovely forty-something struggling to stay younger, successfully so far, he judged. Her deep green eyes, though, were clearly haunted.
Scott cleared his throat. “I don’t know enough, definitely, which is why I appreciate so much you calling me.”
She nodded. “I heard you were a serious journalist.”
“I know a lot of facts… I’ve interviewed dozens, including the families…”
“It was snowing,” she began simply, interrupting him, her eyes shifting away to a distant horizon as her mind transported the both of them back to the previous January. “God, how it was snowing! I decided on the trip to Orlando at the very last minute because my fiancé called from New York with the infuriating news that the weekend we’d planned so carefully in Vail had just gone up in smoke. He was coming back from New York on schedule, that night in fact, but going straight on to southwest Colorado to work for a week with a client hospital. Frankly, I was pissed. I got online and found a great give-away, non-refundable fare, and I remember feeling somewhat smug that I’d outfoxed the system. But the moment I got up and pulled the curtains back on the grey skies and snow flurries that morning, there was a… a kind of foreboding. I felt it, but I dismissed it. Regal Airlines has been such a godawful mess of angry people and poor service for the last ten years, but they practically invented airline safety so I wasn’t worried about that. Boiler plate predictability, you know? Flight 12 left at seven-fifteen pm and I was planning to drive to Denver International at around five… it’s only a half-hour in good weather. I didn’t even check on Greg’s flight because I didn’t want to see him. Around three, the snow became a near-blizzard. I should have just cancelled, but I threw my bags together and headed for the airport instead, thinking rancid things about Denver city fathers who’d built an airport practically in Kansas without a rail line. I have four-wheel drive, and I needed it. Finally made it at five-thirty. Got to the gate at six-fifteen, and the first thing I noticed was a clearly upset captain… our captain… talking on the phone at the podium.”
“Captain Mitchell?”
“Yes. I only know that from later coverage, of course. I couldn’t see a name tag.”
“And he was…”
“Worried. You could see the worry in his eyes. And you could barely even see our airplane through the windows behind him even though it was right there at the gate. The snow was literally blowing sideways, one of those really intense storms. I figured, no way is this going to work because it’s coming down too heavily, but the flight information screens were showing only a handful of cancelled flights, so I kind of got as close as I could to hear what the pilot was saying and figured I’d wait it out.”
“Was the snow sticking?”
“Not really. More like a powder, and great if you’re skiing. I had heard snow like that just blows off the wings, although I also heard they would have to spray some sort of de-icing liquid on the plane before we could go.”
“Were you worried?”
She shrugged. “Not about safety, just about getting to Orlando somewhere close to schedule. Or, I guess I should say, I wasn’t thinking about safety until I heard the captain say something really strange to whomever was on the other end.”
“What was that?”
“He said, ‘We’re pressing the margins here, you know that, don’t you?’ I never knew who he was speaking to, but that twanged me… worried me. Pressing the margins? I didn’t want to press the margins if it had to do with being safe. But this guy…”
“The captain?”
“Yes. Captain Mitchell. Just to look at him inspired confidence. Like he came out of some Hollywood casting company, you know? Square shoulders, tall and trim, chiseled facial features. Salt and pepper hair, very neatly cropped. That deep, rumbling, authoritative pilot voice. I figured he was in his mid-fifties and probably former military. He just looked like Air Force or Navy. Maybe it’s a female thing, but… if a guy like that is willing to fly, I’ll be his passenger any day.”
“What do you think he meant by that phrase, ‘pressing the margins’?”
“You’d have to ask him. But I couldn’t help wonder if he sensed something, too. I mean, something beyond the obvious.”