I remember when my father told me Indians called it a "Giant Bird". Even though I was only six, I still smelled a whiff of TontoSpeak about that tidbit. Giant Bird? Oh brother. That was the thing about my father, even when he was feeding you a party line he was so damned earnest. It's one thing we shared, except with me, when I'm earnest it sounds like I'm feeding you a party line. My father, the closet scientist, would begin his lecture on aerodynamics and the nature of currents. I pretended to listen, nodding in the right places and acting perplexed now and then while watching the hair on the back of his hands flow like seaweed across his wrists. Finally he'd finish his great musings on the nature of flight and the two of us would gaze at the "Great Bird" on the runway, full of awe and resignation how after all our talk about aerodynamics, we'd never really understand what flying is.

I often went with my father to the conventions he attended. My mother insisted and every time we came back from one, she'd have redecorated the entire house. My father would be in meetings all day while I'd sit in our hotel room watching TV and flipping through the local yellow pages noting sex-related businesses. Occasionally I'd wander down the hall to the ice machine where I'd bury my G.I.Joe under all the cubes pretending he was Walt Disney. The day we were returning home from Atlanta, the weather was perfect. We boarded our flight uneventfully. I was not a noisy child in public, more interested in appearing angelic so as to attract the interest of passing movie stars. "My, how beautifully you've colored that firetruck. Let's be best friends."

After the plane left the ground, I promptly fell asleep. Not until I was shaken awake and saw magazines scattered up and down the aisle did I realize something was different. My father kept looking out the window, his head bobbing up and down as if there would be a difference in the view between the top and bottom. I wasn't scared, I was used to Father's resourcefulness in these situations or the ones I'd imagined. The plane lurched and my box of crayons slammed against the seat across from me, colors bursting free like quick bright birds.

I stared as Father removed his shoes, old, thick Oxfords he bought precisely twice a year, holding them in his lap as the plane jolted and growled like a bear in a trap. We suddenly tilted to the other side and began a rapid descent. To the pilot's credit, when we hit water we didn't nose dive or skitter like a thrown stone. We seemed to just land and were it not for the panic and confusion, you'd have thought we'd arrived at our destination. Stewardesses began pulling orange vests out of compartments and throwing them to panicked hands along the aisle. The plane lurched again and then we were in another world. The window was above us and we dangled in our seats, limp dolls strapped at the waist.

My father, calmer than ever, took one of his shoes, put his hands in the soles where the shiny leather had molded to his black-haired toes and pushed out the window. The entire glass popped, like a contact out of an eye. I was impressed. I suppose planes were built different then but the whole thing was a super-human feat like you read in line at the supermarket. "MOTHER LIFTS CAR OFF INJURED BABY", that kind of thing. There was a huge gust of sea air, sticky and chilled. My father undid my seat belt, shoved his life preserver through the hole and lifted me through after it. I went without question, he was still so resolute and earnest. I think I expected him to follow behind me, sliding through the small opening like a trick monkey. I was now sitting on the plane's side, lone inhabitant of a smooth silver island. There was another lurch and water drenched my shoes and socks.

"Thomas, put on the life vest."

"Ok."

"You'll have to get away from the plane. I know the water's cold but someone will be here soon. Go on."

As I slid feet first into the Atlantic, the plane lurched and began to sink. I paddled fast as I could away from this thing, this great dying beast. I turned for one last time to see my father's head sticking out of the window like a newborn chick out of some great egg.

"Goodbye Thomas. Say goodbye to mother. I love you."

With one last lurch, the entire plane sank into the sea. Two or three minutes later there was a huge eruption and the water was suddenly littered with suitcases, trunks and loose clothes. I dog-paddled my way to several larger boxes, making a small island where I sat waiting in the sun.

I was a media freak for awhile, though at that time there wasn't the feeding frenzy there is now. No Hard Copy, no Connie Chung. I still have a newspaper photo of me looking at the camera, the grass stretching behind me to our empty front porch. WONDER BOY, the headline screamed. The neighborhood kids constantly prodded me for information. Did I see a dead body? Was there blood? Finally, they tired of hearing the only response I would give, "I did what my father said". My mother never asked what happened. One day after being sent to my room, I decided to never tell her the message my father sent. I never did. Eventually, the whole incident took it's place on the list of my life's events until all I recalled was my father's shoes clutched in his thick, dark-haired hands.
11:22:03 PM    sro home /