Flygirl Page 2

  The drive took her past run-down low-rise buildings. Mobile homes, fast-food joints, dive bars, and the occasional strip club slid by the driver’s side window. When she found herself at the turn for the main terminal, Tris remembered the old joke she and her fellow flight instructors would tell about driving to tiny rural airports all over the state—pointed in the right general direction, a pilot’s car will always find the airport.

  When she finally saw the outline of the main terminal, the train track’s automatic barriers and flashing red lights forced her to a halt. She put her old Corolla in park as a line of freight cars slowly screeched by.

  Tris watched a 747 on final approach above her, its four engines hanging off of the wings, massive gear assembly down. It probably moved at 160 knots, but it appeared to float toward the runway. The majesty of this enormous jet had awed Tris ever since she was a little girl.

  Grandpa Ed had introduced her to flying. On Sundays, he would come over early and have breakfast with Tris and her parents. Her mother would make blueberry pancakes that had a secret ingredient Tris still didn’t know.

  “Let’s go, Princess Patricia. Let’s see the miracle of flight,” he’d say as he wiped his mouth and drained his cup of black coffee. She’d jump up from the table, kiss her parents goodbye, and run out to Grandpa’s truck.

  They’d make the two-hour drive from the tiny town of Pittston to the big-city airport. Tris would watch the cornfields roll by, as Grandpa’s old pickup bounced along with his hands locked in the ten-and-two position on the steering wheel.

  When the terminal doors opened, she would run to the plate glass window looking out over the ramp, pressing her nose up against the glass and trying to rub it against the bulls-eye tip of a 747 parked at the gate. White with a red stripe, the letters “TWA” painted on the side.

  “Grandpa, it’s so big. How can it fly?”

  He’d smile down at his only grandchild. “That’s the miracle, princess.”

  Now, whenever Tris saw a 747 in flight, she could almost feel the calloused warmth of Grandpa’s hand on hers. Those days at the airport, with her hand in his while she stood nose-to-nose with the gigantic jet, were the moments she treasured from a childhood that always seemed too short.

  Tris’s dad died when she was eight. Her mother was adrift after that, sometimes forgetting to cook or clean. From time to time when Tris walked in the door after school, her mother stared at her like she was an unexpected visitor.

  Grandpa died just a few years after her father. Tris felt more alone than ever after the two most important men in her life floated away like helium balloons.

  The train passed, the barriers rose, and Tris moved on. She’d flown into Exeter many times at Clear Sky and knew the alignment of its crossing runways like the lines in the palms of her own hands. In her mind, she held a full-color picture of how they looked from the air, like a postage stamp glued to the middle of the city.

  Her mouth went dry. She swallowed twice and shimmied in her seat to loosen the grip of the shoulder strap that locked against her chest. As she checked the street signs for her next turn, Tris daydreamed about flying the Astral for Tetrix all over the world.

  “Look where I am, Grandpa,” she’d say from ramps in Europe, Asia, maybe even Africa! Well-paid corporate crews slept in five-star hotels with lengthy sits in high-end vacation destinations at the ready in case the executives they flew changed their plans. And this job promised the most important benefit: the chance to become a captain without having to wait for her seniority number to come up.

  Then something Danny had said popped back into her mind. Why would they interview her? Why not just pick a current Astral captain, maybe a pilot at a smaller operation who’d been flying it for years? Or, better yet, some poor guy whose company had gone out of business or had a run of bad financial luck and had to sell their expensive private jets? Why interview a fifteen-hundred-hour regional airline pilot flying a nineteen-seat turboprop?

  She’d turned it over in her mind for days after her trip with Danny ended. Tris paid attention to current events. Headlines about affirmative action lawsuits dominated the media, and conforming hiring policies were announced through the gritted teeth of every airline’s human resources department. Getting a female pilot on the team would make any company look better in the male-dominated world of aviation.

  She told herself it didn’t matter why she was chosen to interview, even if she had a leg up “just because.” She’d rise on merit. I’m smart. What I lack in experience I’ll make up for with enthusiasm. What I don’t know I can learn. I will do any job, no matter how small or undignified, with a smile. I will show them that I am the best person for this job. I will work harder than anyone else there. She tightened her fist and pumped it in the air.

  Tris headed into uncertainty but felt no fear. She imagined herself as a character from one of her favorite books, Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. Today, she was Jurgis Rudkus; hardworking, on the edge of survival, willing to do the impossible to succeed. Of course, ultimately, poor Jurgis could not endure.

  She would.

  Four

  THE WEST SIDE of Exeter Airport was reserved for private jets owned by celebrities, the uber-wealthy, and corporations. As she drove closer, Tris saw the outline of two Gulfstreams and a Citation Jet, preening in the morning sun. She glanced down at the clock on her car’s dashboard. Twenty-five minutes until the interview.

  As she turned into a parking area just a few yards from runway One-Four Left, the ground rumbled from the force of a full power takeoff. She rose from the car and centered her skirt, which had twisted during the drive. Her pumps clicked on the asphalt pavement between her car and the secured entry door with the number “5026” on it.

  The woman who set up her interview had given her a quick rundown of the department. Tetrix currently employed five pilots, and a group of mechanics, cleaners and dispatchers, all supervised by Chief Pilot Brian Zorn and his boss, the department head David Willett.

  Tris had on her very best suit, a grey herringbone. She wore the same one for her interview at Clear Sky. Her airline buddies teased her that she couldn’t call it a “lucky” suit, since it wasn’t navy blue. Another silly airline superstition. She smoothed her skirt again and tucked in the white cotton blouse she’d ironed with extra starch to make sure the buttons didn’t gap. She didn’t want to look like a balloon at the end of a Popsicle stick.

  Security cameras pointed in all different directions at the front entrance. Tris rang the doorbell, and a female voice responded, probably the same person whom she talked to before. A buzzer sounded, followed by a click as the door moved slightly open.

  Tris walked straight toward the woman at the front desk—definitely the one who had let her in. A nameplate said “Ann-Marie Markham.”

  “Hi. I’m Tris Miles.” Tris extended her hand over the reception desk. A petite slender woman stood to grasp it. Ann-Marie had long blonde hair that fell to her waist. She was dressed in business clothes—blue pinstripe slacks and a light pink shell. Her appearance made Tris glad she’d chosen a suit for the interview.

  “Hi, Patricia. Ann-Marie,” she said in an officious and formal tone, her facial expression neutral.

  Tris nodded. “Nice to meet you. It’s Tris,” she repeated as Ann-Marie directed her to a row of chairs. The reception area looked more like the entrance to a business office than a place where pilots flew airplanes. She’d expected a disorganized assembly of worn couches, folding chairs, and tables covered with crumbs like those in the Clear Sky crew room just across the airport. Instead, Tris saw two doors labeled “Conference” and several glass-walled offices. She smiled at Ann-Marie, who nodded before picking up the telephone to make a call.

  Tris sat calmly, eyes straight ahead. She didn’t want to be seen craning her neck to check out the surroundings, so she investigated only to the limits of her peripheral vision. She’d gotten great interview advice when she looked for teaching jobs right out of graduate
school: the interview begins the moment an employee of the company you’re meeting with can see you.

  She noticed a piece of lint on her skirt. She tried to brush it off. When she couldn’t, Tris realized the fabric had pilled from years of machine washing. If I get this job, the first thing I’ll do is buy a new one.

  A critical moment in her brief flying career—maybe a life-altering one—ticked closer. Yet she didn’t wring her hands, rhythmically tuck her hair behind her ears, or feel the slightest racing pulse. Tris expected nerves, almost wanted to feel them. She folded her hands impatiently and glanced up at a clock hung on the wall behind Ann-Marie’s chair.

  How much longer until she had to face her past?

  Five

  “RIGHT. OK.”

  Zorn hung up with Ann-Marie and primed himself to meet Patricia Frances Miles. First, he smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair and straightened his tie. He wore the only clean white shirt he could find in his closet this morning. He hated when that happened. He avoided wearing this particular shirt because it strained against his gut, though not long ago it had fit him perfectly. But he had stopped running, ate the same rich food on the road, and still downed a couple of beers each night after dinner, all while nearing fifty.

  He rapped twice on the glass in between his office and Willett’s, and soon both of them were sitting at a small conference table near Zorn’s desk. He wanted to start the interview right on time.

  “Ok, let me get her,” Zorn said on the tick of 9:30 a.m.

  As Tris rose from her chair to greet him, Zorn sized her up—a habit he’d picked up years ago. Straight brown hair fell below her shoulders, longer than his wife’s, but not as long as Ann-Marie’s. The FAA medical certificate she’d sent along with a copy of her pilot’s license listed her as five-foot-seven and 145 pounds. That looked right—at least the height did. Guessing women’s weight remained a mystery to him, and his wife strongly discouraged it.

  He noticed she carried most of her weight in her chest, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she would fill out her uniform. He shook that image off.

  As he worked his gaze down from grey-brown eyes to pale, unadorned lips, he was drawn to her wrists and hands. They were larger than he expected. He saw short, stout fingers poking out of wide chutes. An incongruous male attribute on someone who was otherwise all girl.

  “Hi, Patricia. I’m Brian Zorn, the chief pilot.” Zorn put his hand out in a noncommittal fashion, the way his father had taught him to shake hands with a woman.

  “Tris Miles.” Her hand grasped his with power and shook it for the maximum acceptable amount of time. This surprised him, although he kept a gruff expression. Zorn believed that a firm handshake showed confidence and strength of character. Another lesson from his father.

  As he led her to his office, he caught a glimpse of Willett in repose. Slumped in his chair, he doodled on his notepad, his head cocked to the side and his burgeoning bald spot dusted by barely discernable grey hairs. As Tris followed, Zorn wondered, based on her grip, whether she or Willett would win a fistfight. He’d put his money on the girl.

  Tris sat opposite Zorn as Willett asked questions about her flying background.

  Zorn pretended to study something in his lap. He concentrated on her voice to get a sense of how she’d sound on the radio with Air Traffic Control. Zorn could tell the difference between someone indecisive—or worse, scared—and someone who could make lifesaving decisions by the tone of their voice. So far, she sounded pretty good.

  Willett wrapped up his part of the interview with a review of the Tetrix employee benefits while Zorn glanced at Tris. She looked mesmerized.

  “Why would you leave behind a teaching career to become a pilot of all things?” Zorn asked, gently tossing a round glass paperweight between his hands.

  Tris chuckled politely. “Yes, of course. Well, there were a lot of reasons. I grew up in Pittston, and we had a little airport there. I loved the sound of the airplanes flying over our house. Also, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut!”

  This made both men smile, Zorn still twisting the paperweight around the fingers of his left hand.

  “At the time, you know, there weren’t any female astronauts. My friends all got jobs. I wanted to go to college, so I chose to be a teacher.”

  When she described her teaching career, Zorn stopped fiddling and looked her over again. She looked fit. Slim build, like a runner. Like his wife used to look. He passed his hand through thinning hair and adjusted his belt buckle, which cut into the stout round of his belly.

  “I love teaching, I do, but I’ve been fascinated by airplanes ever since I was a little girl. Then a friend took me flying with him and let me take the controls. After that, I knew I just had to fly.”

  Zorn pressed her. “Well, how do we know that, if we hire you, you won’t be on to the next thing in a couple of years?” Some thrust and parry were called for. It was expensive to train a pilot.

  Tris took a deep breath and looked around the room. Zorn wondered if the pause was spontaneous or rehearsed. He couldn’t tell. She was good, this one.

  “For me, teaching was fulfilling. I used my intellect, my book knowledge, and learned skills. But flying, well…I get to use my head and my hands. And it expanded my world.” She raised both hands and held her arms out wide. “It’s just very satisfying.”

  Both men glanced at each other. Willett nodded. Zorn stirred slightly in his seat. Then he sat upright and put down the paperweight.

  Just then he heard a compressor whir and welcomed the cool air. The room had gotten stuffy.

  Zorn took her in a bit before he spoke again. She didn’t wring her hands or fiddle with her hair. Her posture was upright, but not stiff. This pilot was confident. She’d need to be.

  “This is a co-pilot position,” Zorn began as the air-conditioner hummed over his words. “We require 1,500 flight hours, 250 hours multi-engine time, and advanced training.”

  Tris’s muscles contracted at the words “advanced training” but she recovered quickly. He’d hit a nerve.

  “So, Tris, how did your training go at the commuter?” Her airline training records weren’t available to corporate employers.

  Tris looked directly into his eyes as she spoke. “I passed my initial training,” she said. She paused and glanced quickly down at her feet, then back up. “That was over two years ago. I’ve been flying the line ever since.”

  Zorn suspected there was more she wasn’t sharing. And at that moment he had a choice: he could probe further or move past it. She wasn’t sweating and didn’t fidget or look away. In fact, she almost stared him down, as if daring him to press.

  Whatever she held back, he let it go. He liked her.

  Zorn caught her glance and they locked eyes. They established an incorporeal connection. “I am what I say I am,” was the message she sent in their unspoken dialogue. She was trying to tell him something else. His stoic expression thawed in minute increments until he finally understood. She had to have this job.

  “Ok, so, here’s one,” he said.

  Tris braced.

  “Are you familiar with the expression ‘what happens on the road stays on the road?’”

  “I am,” she replied.

  Of course she knew it. Pilots loved to gossip, especially about the antics of other pilots on overnights. But once the trip was over, the airplane was parked at the gate and everyone headed home toward his or her real life, anything that happened was history.

  She shifted in her seat but never took her eyes off Zorn. He was satisfied. He’d rattled her a little, but she hung in there. She’d keep their secrets. He was sure of it.

  “So,” he said after he considered the information in front of him, “before we take you out to the hangar to see the airplanes, do you have any questions for us?”

  Tris nodded and leaned forward.

  “If I were lucky enough to fly for you, sir, how long would it be before I’d upgrade to captain?”

 
; “How quickly a new pilot assimilates here in the department, how fast they master the Astral, they all count,” Zorn said, taken aback by her question. “We’ll provide some in-house training initially and look at getting you professionally trained, you know, at FlightSafety, after about six months, if things go well. But upgrade to captain. Well.” Zorn looked over at Willett again. “That, Miss Miles, will depend on you.”

  “Now, how about we show you the airplanes?” Willett broke the mood.

  “Absolutely.” She gave Zorn a slight nod and popped out of her chair, anxious like a puppy keeping pace with her master.

  Six

  TRIS SWALLOWED THE aftertaste of her omission and followed Zorn and Willett toward her future. She had told the truth—just not all of it.

  She’d spotted copies of her license and medical certificate on Zorn’s desk during the interview. Had he found a way to get her training records? Danny grilled her with every possible question they could ask about training, and she had ready answers. Yet, when it came up, Tris skipped to the happy ending. She had passed.

  She shook it off and stepped behind Zorn and Willett on their way to the hangar. She’d worked so hard since then, done so well. Tris couldn’t let her failures cut off her best path to the captain’s seat. It was two years ago. I’m a totally different pilot now. Surely Bron would have understood.

  Yet she’d dug her fingernails so far into her left palm she’d practically broken the skin. Thankfully Zorn stopped asking about training—otherwise, she’d probably have drawn blood. Tris rubbed the half-moon shapes with her right hand.

  The nondescript, one-story industrial building that housed the Tetrix flight department offices opened into an enormous airplane hangar. Its exterior door was fully raised, exposing a panoramic view of Exeter Airport.