The bomber jacket, p.2
The Bomber Jacket, page 2
Henry’s coughing had brought Naomi to the kitchen doorway. “What’s wrong?” Her brows came together in a concerned crease.
“Tea… went… down the… wrong… hatch,” Henry got out between coughs.
“Do you want more tea? I’ll go get your cup,” Beth offered, but he shook his head. He had stopped coughing, but still breathed unsteadily. “Why don’t you sit down?” she asked.
“No, I’m better standing for a minute,” he said. “I’m fine, really.”
“Okay. You gave me a scare. Did I startle you with my news?”
“What news?” Naomi asked, still frowning.
“I’ve just been telling Grandpa. I’m thinking of switching schools and going to the University of Edinburgh. In Scotland.”
Naomi crossed her arms, “Oh, no good can come of this. You tell her, Henry; tell her it’s a bad idea.”
Henry did not reply but stared at Beth with a look she couldn’t interpret. Beth had been surprised. He always supported her ideas, often taking her side against Naomi’s frequent protests.
“Well, I’m sorry my idea doesn’t excite you, but I’m going to see how to make it happen.”
But the “signs” from that day weren’t the only reason she decided to spend the semester in Scotland. It was also the dream she’d had earlier that morning, a version of the same, yet ever-expanding dream she’d been having every night since she bought the bomber jacket. Alone in her room, she’d flipped to the back of her journal where she recorded details about THE DREAM, as she called it.
Sunday, October 19, 1996, 6:07 a.m.
I had the most peculiar dream last night. It seemed to consist only of smells.
There’s engine oil, a smell I know from helping Grandpa work on the car. It’s a smell that feels thick. My head felt thick, too, weighted down, and my thoughts felt thick, like I was trying to swim up from the bottom of a pool of molasses, sticky heaviness pulling me down into forgetfulness. Yet there's something I must remember, but it’s lost in all the cloying smells that are stealing my breath.
I was drowning in a pool of engine oil. No, no, not drowning, there is air. And, yes, I’m breathing, but the breathing feels muffled, confined. And there’s another smell—the sharp, bitter odor of cold metal, a smell I can almost taste. Then the sweet, musty smell of leather and slightly damp wool, like my bomber jacket.
There’s something else. Another odor. In the dream, I was sweating. Now, sitting here writing in my journal, I know what it was… the smell of fear.
Taking a sip of her now-tepid tea, she could still recall waking up from that dream in a pitch-black room, her heart pounding. For a minute she couldn’t think of where she was until the illuminated dial of her bedside clock caught her eye, 3:53. Her face, neck, and armpits were drenched with sweat. Shivering, she curled under the blankets but lay awake for a long time.
Until the remnants of fear faded away.
Beth stared out the huge glass airport window into the dark night blinking with the lights of landing and taxiing airplanes. How vivid that first dream was and how unnerving that she dreamt it every night for a week. The same smells, the same sensations. Then a week later it changed. Her journal entry spelled it out.
Oct. 26, 1996, Monday, 6:05 a.m.
Last night was the 8th night in a row that I had THE DREAM. There is always the smell of engine oil, old leather, and damp wool. And the bitter taste of cold metal. Not long ago I began to have a sensation of muffled breathing, as if someone had a hand over my mouth and nose or I was wearing a scarf. And there’s the constant knot of fear in the pit of my stomach.
But last night something new happened. I heard something. There’s been that occasional thumping noise in the background but now it’s a constant, low roar that seems to take up the empty space, so the dream feels full.
Two days later she had written,
THE DREAM is growing, widening, expanding. As if at first, I was in a tight cocoon limited to smells, tastes, and then sounds. Now there is a sense of being in a place—a confined space, a contained space. There is a sense of an inside and an outside, and I’m on the inside. And that constant, low roar seems to be coming from the inside.
Then in another two days, something both alarming and exciting happened in THE DREAM. She had heard a voice next to her ears. Muffled, crackly. But distinctly a man’s voice.
Soon the dream began to contain a sensation of movement. Next came a feeling that she was holding onto something in front of her as she was seated. Night after night some fog in her brain seemed to be lifting. She was more… aware—no, hyperaware. Though she couldn’t see anything, all her other senses were now engaged: smell, taste, touch, hearing.
And every night she awoke, sitting straight up, the clock reading 3:53. Then right before the Scottish minister’s visit, she had THE DREAM that changed everything. She turned to that journal entry and read it slowly.
Saturday, November 1, 1996, 3:53 a.m.
It’s always 3:53 when I wake up from THE DREAM. But tonight I had to write right away. I’m wide awake, sitting here in the middle of the night with my bedside light on, and it feels like my bed is an island surrounded by a dark sea. Tonight THE DREAM changed completely.
I felt as if I were wearing my bomber jacket in THE DREAM. It was keeping me warm. It was comforting. And I heard a voice—my voice. I AM the person in the dream, I mean, I’m not, but it’s like I am. I’m experiencing what the person in the dream is experiencing, the smells, tastes, sensations, sounds, and feelings. So, it feels like I am the person.
I heard my voice. Responding to that crackly voice next to my ears.
“Roger that. Mission accomplished. On target for home.”
I said it—I mean, he said it, with a Scottish accent.
I’m the pilot. And I’m Scottish.
two
I should get up and stretch my legs before I go to sleep , Beth thought as the flight attendants on the British Airways plane moved through the cabin, distributing soft wool blankets in a deep blue plaid and tiny pillows covered by crisp, starched cotton.
The disadvantage of the window seat meant disturbing the passengers in the aisle, something she had already done twice for a trip to the tiny airborne bathroom. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need it after a rare indulgence in a glass of red wine. She had thought it would settle some jitters that had lingered in the lower reaches of her stomach ever since lunch, but it had only made her head fuzzy.
Beth looked at the passengers to her right, a middle-aged couple she had learned from friendly chit-chat were from Connecticut heading to visit their daughter in London. They had settled down to sleep as soon as the supper trays were taken away. Beth saw the woman's chest rise and fall rhythmically, amusingly in sync with her husband's gentle snoring, which Beth found comforting. It reminded her of her grandfather whenever he fell asleep after dinner sitting in his chair watching the news.
Just then, the passenger in front of her reclined so far back he felt like a threatening intruder in her private air space. “So much for getting up,” Beth muttered to herself, now hemmed in on all sides.
Wishing her glare penetrated through the seat into the passenger’s brain, Beth spread the blanket over her lap and stuffed the pillow between her headrest and the window to her left. She zipped her bomber jacket, the comforting leather smell mixing with the lingering odor of roast beef and mashed potatoes, and folded her arms, tucking her hands underneath her armpits. As the cabin lights dimmed, she rested her head against the pillow.
She closed her eyes and let the sounds sink in. The cabin was quiet except for a few soft conversations and an occasional whine of a fussy child. There was a sense of muted airlessness that made any sound shrink to the size of the airborne life raft in which they were seated. She noticed the hissing sound of air from the overhead vent and the roar of the engines, which earlier had been part of the white noise of this confined space, distinguishable only if it changed pitch in accelerating or decelerating.
The window’s cold dampness penetrated her mind as she became aware of her forehead leaning against it. She opened her eyes and stared out at the reflection of the wing lights on thick clouds. She had imagined that traveling so much nearer the stars would be like flying among them. But the stars were as invisible as the ocean, which remained a vaguely menacing presence miles below, especially after the crash-landing instructions only she seemed to pay attention to.
Beth thought of the thinness of the air on the other side of the window, outside the pressurized cabin, and the frigid temperatures at 26,000 feet. Shivering at the thought of the cold, she nestled deeper into her coat and tucked the blanket more firmly around her jean-clad legs.
Exhausted from the day that had started before six and a restless sleep last night, Beth tried to will herself to sleep, but sleep was an unwelcoming host. After several minutes she gave up and stared out the oval window, which looked like an eye fighting sleep, with its blind pulled halfway down. The deep, dark night was the black pupil staring back at her, and the blinking red light at the wing tip was the red, angry iris pulsing with blood.
Beth sank into the forward motion of the plane, a barely perceptible sensation as the plane streaked across the night sky at six hundred miles an hour. Toward England.
Going home. Aye, we're headed home. Another night near spent. Another night survived.
The chill of the plane penetrated the leather and wool of the jacket. It was never warm at the height they flew. The only warmth came from the fear in the pit of one’s stomach. Fear that shrank the further back across the channel they flew, the nearer the aerodrome they got, but as that fear shrank, the sense of cold increased.
The crew was quiet; they always were on the return trip. The nervous chatter that accompanied the trip out was stilled by exhaustion, hunger, and the anticipation of getting home.
Somewhere below was the water. He could not see it, only sense it. It was always there, a kind of being, churning, roiling, on a cold night. Like his stomach.
His stomach always gripped on the way back. On the way there he was calm, focused, steady, even when the flak was exploding around them. But on the way back, that's when the fear swept over him. That's when the odds began to play in his mind.
How many missions now? Each one done made the possibility of not coming back higher. Would Lady Luck hold? He didn't trust her. Just when you thought she was on your side, she'd bugger you. Couldn't afford to get cocky. Always had to be wary on the way back. His eyes constantly darted between the fuel gauge, the altimeter, and the speedometer. And ahead. To the right. To the left. His ears constantly listened for a change in the sound of the engine, for a warning sputter, or a hint of a cough.
They depended on him, the men. To get them home.
The plane hit an air pocket and dipped. The sting of acid rose to his throat. Thickening clouds warned of turbulence. “Look sharp, we're heading up to get out of this cloud cover. It might—"
“—get a wee bit rough.” Beth blinked as the intercom crackled off above her.
She felt the plane accelerate as it began to climb, and she sat up straight.
To her right, the couple slept on. She looked up to see the fasten seat belt sign lit. The look of confusion on her face must have caught the attention of a passing flight attendant.
"Not to worry, miss. The pilot says there’s some turbulence ahead,” the young woman said in a quiet, comforting British accent. Beth remembered the pilot’s introduction over the intercom. A Scot. Michael MacDermot. "Might get a wee bit rough in spots," he had said about the flight, "but mostly a quiet night ye'll have."
Had she been dreaming? She would swear she hadn’t closed her eyes. Maybe she had been hypnotized by the sameness of the view, the blinking light on the wing of the plane. If she had been asleep, it couldn’t have been for long.
She realized with a start this was the first dream she’d had since early November—since that night she realized she was dreaming about the pilot who’d once worn her jacket. The dreams had stopped suddenly after that night. Though she was happier for better sleep, she supposed. And it gave her one less thing to worry Henry with—she’d never have told Naomi, who’d tell her she wouldn’t have bad dreams if she stopped eating sweets at bedtime. Still, she had felt oddly bereft. As if a friend had suddenly departed without saying goodbye.
As she thought about what she just dreamt, assuming it was a dream, she realized it was different in many ways. She played it over in her head, analyzing. The pilot had seemed so real—no longer a sensation, but now embodied, though she could not see him—wait. She gasped. Of course, she could not see him. She was viewing the world from his eyes: noticing the dark and the threatening clouds trimmed in moonlight, feeling the unseen ocean below.
And, also for the first time, she had heard his thoughts.
She shivered, unable to shake the deep, penetrating, bone-chilling cold filling the cabin of the bomber. Seeking warmth, she turned up the wool collar of her jacket, hunkered down into her seat, and pulled the blanket up to her neck. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine herself back into THE DREAM.
“See you again soon.” She whispered a promise.
Aye, said a voice that seemed to float back to her across the night sky. Aye, soon.
On Sunday morning, Beth woke up in a panic in the tiny room of the low-budget London guest house. Worn out from her whirlwind tour of the city, her mind still drugged from jet lag, she had overslept. Scrambling into her jeans and Shippensburg University sweatshirt she had laid out the night before, she jammed her feet into her brown leather boots and shoved her pajamas and cosmetic bag into her suitcase.
Forget the plan to walk the seven blocks to Kings Cross Station. Instead, she hailed a taxi with some difficulty on the crowded London street and mouthed a silent thank you to her grandfather for his thoughtful Christmas gift of lightweight luggage on wheels. Once at the station, she made a hasty stop to check her bags and hurried to the platform where the Flying Scotsman was boarding.
Her heart was still pounding wildly as she searched for an empty seat in the third-class, six-passenger compartments. She hadn’t bought a first-class ticket because it was too expensive, which meant she did not have a reserved seat. After walking through several cars, she saw a group of older women getting settled in a compartment and mentally counted them.
One. Two. Three.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but is there room for one more?” she asked, a bit out of breath.
“Oh dearie, you look a wee bit frazzled,” the woman closest to the open sliding door replied in an obvious Scottish accent. “Aye, we’re only the three of us, and you can have the window seat if ye’d like. Moira, give the lassie the view.”
“Oh, no, really,” Beth shook her head rapidly. “I don’t want to take anyone’s seat.”
“Think nothing of it, dearie. We’ve seen the Anglish countryside before. And I’m guessin’ ye’re a student? An American?”
Beth had discovered how quickly her accent and attire gave her away, in spite of the bomber jacket. Or maybe because of it. “Yes, ma’am. Heading to Edinburgh for a semester.”
“Oh, aye? ‘Tis a marvelous place, is Edinburrah.”
Beth made a mental note of the proper pronunciation of Scotland’s capital city.
As the ladies moved to the places nearest the door, Beth sat in the first available window seat, which faced the rear of the train. Once everyone was settled, the lady seated cattycorner from her nodded at the backpack Beth held on her lap and said, “Ye can put your sack up in the overhead bin if ye want,” she said helpfully. “And maybe your wrap.”
“Oh, no thanks.” Beth smiled back, her pulse beginning to settle down now that she was safely on the train. “There are things I’ll want.”
“Well, then, there’s plenty of space on the floor; ye can set it down there so it’s in reach.”
Beth nodded, smiling at the gentle, grandmotherly concern of the woman. She had a flash of envy, wishing her grandmother was like that. So much for her looking similar to Naomi. That’s where it ended.
Before long, two other passengers claimed the remaining seats in the compartment—the other window seat and the one next to her.
Within minutes the train was underway. When she had booked her nonrefundable ticket in November, she discovered that the famous train had been leaving at ten o’clock in the morning from the number ten platform at King’s Cross Station since 1862. Facing a seven-hour trip, she was prepared for a long day. Taking her journal and her tour book from her backpack, she set it on the floor against the wall and relaxed.
The view out the window caught her eye, and she watched the landscape gradually change from city to suburbs to countryside. The gently rocking motion of the coach, the rhythmic thunk of the wheels, and the warmth of her leather coat began to lull her into a hypnotized state. Her journal and tour book lay ignored on her lap.
Less than an hour outbound, the sunny London morning faded into a dank, cold English winter day laden with rain. She watched the drops on the window being stretched into long thin rivulets by the speed of the train. The stormy day filled the compartment with a low diffuse light that made reading possible but created a sense of muted isolation. The man next to her and the woman in the other window seat were silently absorbed in their newspapers.
Beth inconspicuously eyed the three Scottish women. Their low-spoken, lighthearted chatter about who was meeting them at the train station filled her with piercing homesickness, recalling the forsaken look on her grandfather’s face as she left him at the airport.
I have no one to greet me in Edinburgh. No one to even know if I do arrive.
The smell of leather seats, damp clothing, flowery perfume, and a vague mechanical odor that Beth associated with trains permeated the enclosed compartment, giving it a musty heaviness. Occasionally, a welcome rush of fresh air blew in as her fellow passengers came and went at stops or made a trip to the Water Closet, or WC as it said on the door, which Beth thought was an amusing name for a bathroom.
