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Flight
Flight (a Lexington Avenue Express short story)
Viewed from above, the inkblot shadows of broken clouds effortlessly glide across the vast, rugged expanse of the Eastern Utah Rockies. The flight from Salt Lake City to Dallas has leveled off now, passenger thoughts changing from fear of a plummeting, screaming death to the inventory of the drink cart and a yearning for salted pretzels.
Ruth Caldwell's journey is neither joyous nor sad, a droning, melancholy dash for redemption through February skies. As she gazes at the mountains below her, Ruth absently searches for the DC10's gray silhouette. Like the cloud shadows, she knows the airplane's ghost is rushing across the sun-washed terrain, but it trails just behind, ever-present but hidden from her view.
A vivid green lake stands; silent captive on a steep mountain slope. Viewed from the airplane window, the oval splash of viridian is outlined by a pie-crust of rocky, brown beach. A window-inch below the lake, Ruth notices the silver-ribbon-track of the Interstate and she wonders … her eyes following the highway as it disappears beyond the window frame.
*****
“Did you hear something?” the woman asks her companion as their old Chevy SUV crests the steep grade on I-70.
“You mean the truck?” her rescuer responds over the din of noise produced by the eighteen-wheeler inching alongside them in the passing lane.
The man driving the SUV glances at the woman and is surprised by her expression. The soft wrinkles around her eyes signal fear, a look he's not seen on her face before. They had met for the first time the previous evening. He had attended the mixer at the church on Kline Street several times before; she had arrived directly from the downtown bus terminal. She was damaged and looking for a meal and a safe place; he was searching for someone just like her. They had talked. The next day they were together, travelling due east in his old SUV, strangers orbiting starkly different personal demons.
As he speaks, she is not looking at him but at the passing truck. “Look, Melanie, I’ve worked around trucks a lot, they all make those sorts of noises,” he says, and he reaches across the console to gently touch her hand.
“No, it wasn’t a truck noise,” she says, pausing thoughtfully, “I could swear I heard something human … like a scream.”
“You just heard the whine of that truck's turbo,” he says with a smile. “That guy must be doing eighty, even up this grade. I think I'll fall in behind him; he'll escort us all the way to the Grand Junction exit.” As he fixes his gaze on the passing truck, the driver’s eyes narrow just a bit. He smiles in surprise as he recognizes the bumper sticker on the rear door of the trailer: I BRAKE FOR TAILGATERS.
*****
More mountain peaks; a fan of snow drapes gently across the face of the tallest, peppered there as though the clouds had coughed and sputtered before their icy paint was finally exhausted. Ruth's eyes follow the shaded, shimmering glacier-tentacle reaching north along the jagged crest before disappearing beneath the airplane wing.
Leaning her forehead against the cold window glass, she recalls how damp the metal trailer door felt as she slammed it shut for the final time. She had driven her last rig. After she'd dropped her loaded, sealed trailer at Eastern Freight Brokers, Ruth had gone inside and signed over the load-manifest for the next east-bound driver. She had lied to the dispatcher telling him she was coming down with the flu. The dispatcher had never shifted his eyes from the computer screen flashing in front of him.
Viewed from above, the inkblot shadows of broken clouds effortlessly glide across the vast, rugged expanse of the Eastern Utah Rockies. The flight from Salt Lake City to Dallas has leveled off now, passenger thoughts changing from fear of a plummeting, screaming death to the inventory of the drink cart and a yearning for salted pretzels.
Ruth Caldwell's journey is neither joyous nor sad, a droning, melancholy dash for redemption through February skies. As she gazes at the mountains below her, Ruth absently searches for the DC10's gray silhouette. Like the cloud shadows, she knows the airplane's ghost is rushing across the sun-washed terrain, but it trails just behind, ever-present but hidden from her view.
A vivid green lake stands; silent captive on a steep mountain slope. Viewed from the airplane window, the oval splash of viridian is outlined by a pie-crust of rocky, brown beach. A window-inch below the lake, Ruth notices the silver-ribbon-track of the Interstate and she wonders … her eyes following the highway as it disappears beyond the window frame.
*****
“Did you hear something?” the woman asks her companion as their old Chevy SUV crests the steep grade on I-70.
“You mean the truck?” her rescuer responds over the din of noise produced by the eighteen-wheeler inching alongside them in the passing lane.
The man driving the SUV glances at the woman and is surprised by her expression. The soft wrinkles around her eyes signal fear, a look he's not seen on her face before. They had met for the first time the previous evening. He had attended the mixer at the church on Kline Street several times before; she had arrived directly from the downtown bus terminal. She was damaged and looking for a meal and a safe place; he was searching for someone just like her. They had talked. The next day they were together, travelling due east in his old SUV, strangers orbiting starkly different personal demons.
As he speaks, she is not looking at him but at the passing truck. “Look, Melanie, I’ve worked around trucks a lot, they all make those sorts of noises,” he says, and he reaches across the console to gently touch her hand.
“No, it wasn’t a truck noise,” she says, pausing thoughtfully, “I could swear I heard something human … like a scream.”
“You just heard the whine of that truck's turbo,” he says with a smile. “That guy must be doing eighty, even up this grade. I think I'll fall in behind him; he'll escort us all the way to the Grand Junction exit.” As he fixes his gaze on the passing truck, the driver’s eyes narrow just a bit. He smiles in surprise as he recognizes the bumper sticker on the rear door of the trailer: I BRAKE FOR TAILGATERS.
*****
More mountain peaks; a fan of snow drapes gently across the face of the tallest, peppered there as though the clouds had coughed and sputtered before their icy paint was finally exhausted. Ruth's eyes follow the shaded, shimmering glacier-tentacle reaching north along the jagged crest before disappearing beneath the airplane wing.
Leaning her forehead against the cold window glass, she recalls how damp the metal trailer door felt as she slammed it shut for the final time. She had driven her last rig. After she'd dropped her loaded, sealed trailer at Eastern Freight Brokers, Ruth had gone inside and signed over the load-manifest for the next east-bound driver. She had lied to the dispatcher telling him she was coming down with the flu. The dispatcher had never shifted his eyes from the computer screen flashing in front of him.
27 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 14, 2012
1 person is currently reading
About the author
Jess Butcher
49 books2 followersJESS Butcher is the author of three Mike Bishop novels, SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, and MULESHOE. In addition, Butcher has published FINAL THOUGHTS and 17, short fiction anthologies that feature titles from his Lexington Avenue Express series.
All of Butcher's titles are available on the Kindle e-Reader; SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, MULESHOE and FINAL THOUGHTS are also available in Paperback.
Please note: Lexington Avenue Express and Canal Street Station titles are short fiction. These short story titles range from 1,200 to 4,000 words in length.
You may contact Jess Butcher by email at:
jessbutcher.home@gmail.com
www.jessbutcher-author.com.
All of Butcher's titles are available on the Kindle e-Reader; SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, MULESHOE and FINAL THOUGHTS are also available in Paperback.
Please note: Lexington Avenue Express and Canal Street Station titles are short fiction. These short story titles range from 1,200 to 4,000 words in length.
You may contact Jess Butcher by email at:
jessbutcher.home@gmail.com
www.jessbutcher-author.com.
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