You sit straight in your seat, your hands on the yoke, and feel the plane lurching forward, jerking just like a roller-coaster car at first, and then you are climbing up the track. The plane rests at the summit for a second or two, the tower says go, the antirollback struts slip away, and the nose of your aircraft dips. And then you are rumbling down the far side of the track, the passengers behind you screaming-but not in terror, in delight, because this is, apparently, the tradition in this particular aviation culture. You have the feeling their hands are over their heads.
When you hit the bottom-and the start of that gently angled runway itself-your engines kick on. On the instrument panel you can see the turbines are spinning. All good. And then, a moment later, you are flying, angling into the departure corridor high over this bay and getting clearance from the tower to climb to five thousand feet. And there isn’t a bird in sight. Delightful.
But this is a dream, and do your dreams ever end well? Not these days. A flight attendant knocks on the door, and even though you are in the midst of your initial climb, you unbuckle your harness and see what he needs. He is a young man and his face is colorless. You walk into the first-class cabin and gaze at the floor where he is pointing: This plane seems to have a long row of baseboard heaters along the floor, and what is occurring is most visible before the feet of the passengers in the first row-the bulkhead seats-but is happening the entire length of the plane. Waves of what looks like woodstove or fireplace ash are spewing from the grates on both sides of the jet, rolling from the openings like lava and coating the floor and the feet of the passengers.
Meanwhile, the plane continues to climb, though there is no one on the flight deck piloting the aircraft, and you and the flight attendant conjecture amiably about the location of the fire. You seem to believe that the blaze must be out, because this is ash and it doesn’t seem to be causing the passengers any pain, so it must be cool. But then the plane begins to dive. Not only is it not climbing-or even gliding-it is plummeting, almost nose down. And so you leave the flight attendant to see if you can prevent the aircraft from breaking the surface of the water like an Olympic diver.
You climb into the captain’s seat on the flight deck and pull the yoke back as hard and fast as you can, and instantly the plane starts to rise; you hit the vertex of the parabola, the very bottom of the U, and you resume your climb. But in your haste to save the jet, you pulled back too fast and too hard. Yes, you are climbing. But it is only a slingshot effect. You pulled the triple-seven heavy out of its dive so quickly that you asked more of the metal than it could handle: You sheared off the wings. You are now in the front of a long tube, not a plane, that is going up but in a moment will reach the top of its arc and then fall headfirst into the earth. Into that bay. And behind you the passengers scream once again. They, too, have seen the wings ripped off, and this time they are screaming in horror at the imminence of their death.
And then you wake up.
You always wake up before your plane augers in.
You listen to Emily’s breathing beside you, her hair on her pillow wild like Venus’s when she was born in Botticelli’s painting. You feel your head pounding, and you know instantly that Ethan is with you. You turn toward the doorway, and there he is, beckoning you with one finger. It’s time. You climb from beneath the sheets, careful not to untuck them because Emily sleeps best when the sheets are tight, but tonight this is not merely because you are such a considerate husband. It is because you can’t risk her waking when you do what you have to do. This can’t continue. This can’t go on for you or Emily or your beautiful daughters. This can’t go on for Ethan or Ashley. God, poor, poor Ashley. You are all in pain. You are all unhappy.
Together with Ethan you go downstairs. You peer into the den, and there are Sandra and Ashley playing with Hallie’s and Garnet’s American Girl dolls on the floor. Sandra looks up at you and shakes her head no, but Ethan takes you by the elbow and pulls you along into the kitchen. There you fall onto your hands and your knees and reach underneath the oven, finding the blade of the knife with your fingertips. You pull it along the linoleum floor and then grasp the pearl handle in your palm.
“Let’s take the back stairs,” Ethan suggests, and you agree. You know why. It is because he does not want you to see Sandra again when you pass the den. He does not want you to be dissuaded from this hard, hard task by her disapproving eyes and, perhaps, her desperate entreaties. But there really is no danger of that. Not tonight. She is not connected to you the way Ethan and Ashley are. You don’t feel as profoundly what she feels; you don’t know as precisely what she thinks.
Still, you move gingerly up the back stairs and then as silently as you can along the second-floor corridor and up to the third floor. To Hallie’s and Garnet’s rooms. You hold your breath for long moments as you walk, the knife wrapped tightly in your fingers. The pain in your head and your side is excruciating. You will begin in Garnet’s room, for no other reason than it is nearer to the top of the stairs. You will place your left hand on her sleeping mouth so she cannot scream when she is awoken by the knife, moving in your right hand like a jackhammer. You will stab her in the chest and the abdomen. Then you will move to Hallie’s room.
You wonder: Are you dreaming now? Still? Perhaps at this moment you are in fact in bed beside Emily.
It was raining earlier tonight. No longer.
You gaze into Garnet’s room, and the idea that you might still be asleep becomes more pronounced when you see that she isn’t in bed. She should be. It’s the middle of the night. And so you go to Hallie’s room, presuming you will simply begin with her. Begin. Not stab. Did you want a euphemism? Is the actuality of slaughtering your twin girls really becoming too much for you?
Just in case, Ethan wraps his wet arm around your shoulder and guides you to Hallie’s room. And there you see your daughters together. At some point, for some reason, Garnet has gone to Hallie’s bedroom to sleep. So be it. Besides, there is a symmetry to handling it this way: They were born within moments of each other, and they will die within moments of each other. Born together, dead together. You cross to the far side of Hallie’s bed and stare down at them. You try not to view them as beautiful children, though you are their father and so the idea that they are is inescapable. But so is Ashley. So are all the children who died or were made orphans or lost a parent when you crashed Flight 1611 into Lake Champlain.
You are contemplating precisely how to begin, the knife at your side, when you hear your name.
“Chip?”
You look up. There in the doorframe is Emily. She is lit by the hall light behind her, but she has not turned on Hallie’s bedroom light. Her hand is near the wall switch. If she does, she will see the knife. You hold your breath.
“Chip?” she whispers again, her voice a little more urgent this time. She clearly has no plans to risk waking the children by turning on the light. You press the knife against your side, shielding it from her view. You join her and wrap your free hand around her waist. You pull her against you.
“I was watching them sleep,” you murmur, the words catching strangely in your throat. You look for Ethan, but he’s gone.