The Last Pilot: A Novel by Benjamin Johncock

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    Ah, he said, well. It’s good to see you, Grace. God bless. You’re always welcome.
    She thanked him and left, the cold air slugging her like a gang of thugs as she stepped outside; Milo, whimpering, pressed his body against the dirt.

    The next day was a Thursday. It was a quarter before ten and she was alone in the house. Milo’s paws clicked on the hard linoleum of the kitchen floor as she pulled laundry into a basket to hang outside.
    What’s the matter, boy? she said. You been poking about all morning.
    The dog paced the room. Grace glanced up at the clock. She carried on with the laundry, folding and smoothing the sheets, ignoring the forty-five-minute chasm between when Jim said he’d be home and what the clock now read. Three words were trying to get her attention, like a small child. Something has happened . She folded and smoothed. She could recall the entire conversation. She was used to conversations at five in the morning. He dressed for work, she lay in bed. He would be home by nine.
    Fold and smooth. The house was silent and still; slowly, the chasm grew. She listened. She listened for a car turning off the main highway. She listened for the wail of a siren. She listened for the telephone. No one had called. The other wives; there would be calls. A collective assimilation of information and, one by one, elimination of their husbands’ names: a grim game of chance. Something has happened. The silent telephone was good. Unless it was very bad. She knew the procedures; they all did. In the event of Something Having Happened, a strict protocol was swiftly adhered to. No information pertaining to the freshly deceased would be released until the man’s wife—widow—was informed, in person, by an appropriate party; a superior officer, a comrade or, often, the base’s chaplin. The chosen messenger would advance slowly upon the departed’s front door, headwear stowed beneath the left arm, face set in a way that spoke the news, the words that followed a horrible formality. The man would close the front door behind him. He would assist the crumpled woman to a place of comfort. He would leave. Grace stared at the telephone. The sky was silent.
    There was a hard knock on the door.
    She felt nothing; just a distant confusion: in her nightmares, it was always a doorbell. It occurred to her, for the first time, that they had no doorbell. She wanted to shout, but had no voice. Instead, she watched a phantom arm, her arm, reach out from her unfamiliar body and push open the door.
    Mornin, Mrs. Harrison! Oh, you look terrible. Are you okay?
    Dougie , she said.
    What’s happened?
    She stared at him. He was wearing a light blue shirt with short sleeves. Under his arm he carried a package.
    I’m fine, she heard herself saying.
    You sure? You don’t look right, if you don’t mind me sayin.
    I must have stood up too quick, got a little dizzy.
    Well, so long as you’re sure … Got a package for you—Jim, actually. Damn heavy, glad you’re in. Didn’t much fancy lugging it back.
    He lowered the box gently to the ground.
    Where do you want it?
    There’s fine.
    She felt sick. She held the doorframe.
    Hey Milo, Dougie said.
    The dog ran outside.
    Well, guess I’ll be seein you, Mrs. Harrison. Don’t be movin that yourself.
    He smiled. She thanked him and shut the door. In the kitchen, she made up a little hot milk, with a measure of bourbon and a spoon of sugar, and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it. Then she cried. Four sharp sobs. She stopped herself, wiping her eyes with the palm of her right hand. Her husband was still missing. Milo stalked the yard in circles. She stood at the window and watched him. She glanced at the telephone again, then walked over and dialed the base. The duty officer answered.
    This is Grace Harrison, she said. I want to speak to Captain Harrison please.
    That’s not something—
    Please, she said, surprising herself. I want to speak to my husband.
    I—
    It’s very