display of extraordinary beauty.
In the rear of the plane, Prince T. McChesney saw none of this beauty. The first thing he'd done when he sat down was close the window shade. He sat rigidly, hands clenched in his lap, eyes closed, hating the plane and especially people who pretended to like flying.
He tried every mental trick he could think of but the fear was primal, beyond understanding. He desperately wanted Sherry to sit with him and talk. If they talked maybe he could forget about being thousands of feet above the ground in a frail device that might crash at any moment.
But he couldn't ask. He wanted to, but he couldn't.
As soon as the seat belt sign went off Sherry went forward to check on Alvin and Mr. Genoa. The old Italian was reading a travel guide to the state of Washington.
She knelt effortlessly by his seat. Her movements were neat and graceful. Alvin wondered if they taught her how to do that.
"How are you doing, Mr. Genoa?" She had a genuineness that made the old man feel as if she was really interested.
Genoa was a New Yorker with a finely honed sensitivity to insincerity. Nowhere else, except perhaps Paris, are men and women more uniformly mean spirited, insensitive and ill-mannered.
Tony Genoa was from a country and a generation that understood and appreciated good manners. Living in New York hadn't made him forget.
"I'm alright, Miss. You're very nice...it helps."
"Thanks." Her smile repaid the compliment. "Are you going to Seattle to visit?"
"I wish I were. No, I'm going to live with my eldest son."
"You don't want to do that?"
Genoa laughed harshly. "No, I don't. Don't get me wrong, my son is a fine man, but a doctor in New York," his voice was filled with bitterness, "said I couldn't work anymore. Bum ticker," he tapped his chest.
"That must be hard."
He nodded. "Yeah, I had the nicest little delicatessen in the Bronx...had it for forty five years. Made a nice living, all I ever wanted to do. Sons don't want their father hanging around, getting in the way."
"How does your son feel about it?"
"Oh, well, he's been asking me to come for years, says the shop is...was too much work." He looked down at his worn and gnarled hands. "It wasn't too much work to me!"
She smiled, touched his arm. "I understand, I really do. There's nothing better than having your own thing."
He patted her hand. "I believe you do. Not to worry. It's like Pinochle, you have to play the cards you're dealt."
"I hope it works out for you, Mr. Genoa. Can I get you anything to drink, a snack?"
"No, no, maybe later some fruit."
Sherry pivoted and moved to Alvin's seat. "And what about you, Mr. Eagle Scout?"
He smiled shyly. "I'm not an Eagle Scout yet." His hands kept moving, working the pieces of rope even as he talked.
"Do I call you Alvin, or would you prefer Al?"
"My friends call me, Al."
"Okay, Al. How do you do that?"
Alvin had tied an elaborate knot without looking. "Practice. My father says I have more energy than a squad of marines. I like to keep busy."
"Why are you going to Seattle?"
"I was chosen to be in the `Best Scout In The West’ competition."
"Tell me about the competition."
"Do you really want to know?"
"Sure. My brother was a scout, but I was in high school then and I wasn't really interested." She laughed. "All I cared about was boys, clothes and music."
"Well, they have it every two years. Guys from all over the Western States go, four from each state. They have a whole bunch of tests, you know, woodcrafts, survival, camping, ecology..." he looked down at the rope, "knots and hitches, you know stuff like that."
"Are they all your age?"
"No, I'm the youngest," he was very shy.
"Wow, did you hear that Mr. Genoa?"
Across the aisle, Genoa nodded seriously. "Age and size don't mean much. Getting the job done does."
The flight attendant bell rang three times and a light on the forward bulkhead flashed.
"Have to go, Captain probably wants his coffee."
Her face held no hint of her concern. The three bells meant there was a problem and that she was to go to the flight deck immediately.
Alvin sensed it. He'd been looking out the window since they took off.
"Nice girl," Genoa said.
"Yes sir." Alvin's attention went out to the plane. Engines sounded good, everything seemed normal.
Sherry entered the flight deck and closed the door behind her. Captain Duckhorn and First Officer Neilsen were leaning forward staring at the weather radar.
"Damn, where did it come from?" Duckhorn whispered. There was awe and fear in his voice.
Sherry looked out the window between the two men and froze. She shivered visibly. The sky, from horizon to horizon and as far up as she could see was a boiling, coal-colored mass streaked with massive bolts of lightning. She leaned forward and looked out the side window toward the rear of the plane. It was the same. The plane flew at peace in an empty bowl between Olympian chaos.
Captain Duckhorn turned to Sherry. "We've got problems. This mess goes up forever. No way over the top and it has formed all around us. According to the radar it's solid. No idea where the other side is. Meteorology says it's big and getting bigger. Barometric pressure is falling like a stone. The whole mess is moving north west, fast. We're going to have to find our way through. This hole we're in won't last. You get ready back there...tie up all the loose gear twice. Go over emergency procedures with the passengers.
He reached back and held her arm in a firm grip. "Sherry, I'm depending on you to keep it under control back there. We'll be too busy up here. Do you understand?"
She nodded stiffly, stood up, tried not to look out the front window. "Yes, Captain, don't worry, I'll take care of it."
"Good, girl, I know you'll do it right."
"Captain..." he looked up at her expectantly. "I...well, I just want you to know I have a lot of faith in you and Mr. Neilsen."
"Thanks, Sherry. It'll be all right. Off you go now."
She moved down through the cabin working from a checklist she had learned years before. She did not feel calm, but she moved calmly. Alvin watched and knew something was wrong. The plane began to buck before she reached the back.
The seat belt
