realization that he had Tenderâs gun. The immense error because he was in a situation he was not trained for. Judge the metrics of that performance, Rick.
He rolled his shoulders and fished out his earphones and distracted himself with a movie. Henry often went away to work but came back. Now he would have to stay and resolve a few things. He knew why he was leaving work but he wasnât sure why he returned to Newfoundland. Home. It held a gravity, some kind of atmospheric orbit that spiralled him towards the centre whenever he exhausted things out there in the world. Jesus I sound like a salmon. Like a lot of Newfoundlanders, though, he pictured an acre of land in his head that was his land. The picturehas no location, itâs a floating acre with a perforated edge like a postage stamp that hovers slightly above the land, though there is, of course, a view of the Atlantic. He understands this image to be romantic and unrealistic, and yet sometimes in foreign beds, rather than imagining a woman to keep him unlonely, he will think of this two hundred by two hundred view. He was thinking of it now, just weeks after that party at John and Silviaâsâan acre of land that belongs to Tender Morris, and Martha worried about what to do with Tenderâs heritageâas his plane flew into a dark blizzard, the airplane pounded by weather, a bright snow flurry against the tracking lights on the wings and the woman next to him, who had watched a movie with a two-dollar headset sheâd had to buy with her credit card. She pulled out a black plug from the armrest and said she was prone to panic attacks and, if it came to it, would Henry hold her. Henry removed an earbud to understand her. They made a descent and the plane shuddered and the tarmac zoomed up a little too fast in the plastic porthole and the landing gear jerked out of the frozen wingsâthey were inches from the runway and the woman next to him grabbed his arm and gripped it tight. The seams of the plane groaned as the fuselage twisted sideways a little and Henry thought whoa so this is it. The belly of the plane lifted and the landing gear tucked itself away again under the wing and the captain on the intercom, in a voice touched with receding panic, said the computers would not let them land in this weather. They flew a thousand kilometres back the way they had come and it took every kilometre for the alarm to melt away. They touched down at three in the morning in Halifax where, as they deplaned, they were all handed a 1-800 number to rebook. The woman who had sat next to him said what do we do now. She was a novice of the airways. We get ahotel room, Henry said. And let that hang ambiguously. They took their bags and had a drink in the lounge and Henry ate a chicken souvlaki while she made a phone call and told him about the local documentary film business and her two kids and her husband. He was surprised to hear she flew all the time. I guess she doesnât fly strapped to the bulwark with a nylon cord in the hull of a Hercules with no seats, he thought. They talked and Henry realized this woman loved her husband. He explained he had just quit work because he helped break a manâs arms. Not just one arm but both of them. The man has to go back to Cape Breton to live with his mother. He canât even open a door.
They spoke about their lives. The woman was good at prying him open but it was also the circumstance of knowing heâd never see this woman again. I donât know to what Iâm returning, Henry said. There is a woman, he admitted. But he didnât know. What he did know was he might be giving up on airplanes.
The next morning he found her with a cup of styrofoam coffee in the lobby and they shared a taxi like old friends out to the airport and flew again over a white clear land and underneath the plane Henry saw the contour of the land he was to love, the little bird islands heâd kayaked around with Nora Power
He rolled his shoulders and fished out his earphones and distracted himself with a movie. Henry often went away to work but came back. Now he would have to stay and resolve a few things. He knew why he was leaving work but he wasnât sure why he returned to Newfoundland. Home. It held a gravity, some kind of atmospheric orbit that spiralled him towards the centre whenever he exhausted things out there in the world. Jesus I sound like a salmon. Like a lot of Newfoundlanders, though, he pictured an acre of land in his head that was his land. The picturehas no location, itâs a floating acre with a perforated edge like a postage stamp that hovers slightly above the land, though there is, of course, a view of the Atlantic. He understands this image to be romantic and unrealistic, and yet sometimes in foreign beds, rather than imagining a woman to keep him unlonely, he will think of this two hundred by two hundred view. He was thinking of it now, just weeks after that party at John and Silviaâsâan acre of land that belongs to Tender Morris, and Martha worried about what to do with Tenderâs heritageâas his plane flew into a dark blizzard, the airplane pounded by weather, a bright snow flurry against the tracking lights on the wings and the woman next to him, who had watched a movie with a two-dollar headset sheâd had to buy with her credit card. She pulled out a black plug from the armrest and said she was prone to panic attacks and, if it came to it, would Henry hold her. Henry removed an earbud to understand her. They made a descent and the plane shuddered and the tarmac zoomed up a little too fast in the plastic porthole and the landing gear jerked out of the frozen wingsâthey were inches from the runway and the woman next to him grabbed his arm and gripped it tight. The seams of the plane groaned as the fuselage twisted sideways a little and Henry thought whoa so this is it. The belly of the plane lifted and the landing gear tucked itself away again under the wing and the captain on the intercom, in a voice touched with receding panic, said the computers would not let them land in this weather. They flew a thousand kilometres back the way they had come and it took every kilometre for the alarm to melt away. They touched down at three in the morning in Halifax where, as they deplaned, they were all handed a 1-800 number to rebook. The woman who had sat next to him said what do we do now. She was a novice of the airways. We get ahotel room, Henry said. And let that hang ambiguously. They took their bags and had a drink in the lounge and Henry ate a chicken souvlaki while she made a phone call and told him about the local documentary film business and her two kids and her husband. He was surprised to hear she flew all the time. I guess she doesnât fly strapped to the bulwark with a nylon cord in the hull of a Hercules with no seats, he thought. They talked and Henry realized this woman loved her husband. He explained he had just quit work because he helped break a manâs arms. Not just one arm but both of them. The man has to go back to Cape Breton to live with his mother. He canât even open a door.
They spoke about their lives. The woman was good at prying him open but it was also the circumstance of knowing heâd never see this woman again. I donât know to what Iâm returning, Henry said. There is a woman, he admitted. But he didnât know. What he did know was he might be giving up on airplanes.
The next morning he found her with a cup of styrofoam coffee in the lobby and they shared a taxi like old friends out to the airport and flew again over a white clear land and underneath the plane Henry saw the contour of the land he was to love, the little bird islands heâd kayaked around with Nora Power
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