37. Townsend Jump
In 1943, after the first two weeks of basic arms and military training at Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama, I finally caught the thrill I had been chasing. Growing up as the son and grandson of avid hunters, I knew how to handle firearms with care, caution, and, most of all, precision. So the previous two weeks were a chance for me to shine and stand out more than anything. But this final test was what I had come for; this was my moment.
At twenty-two and a half feet long, with a thirty-foot wingspan, the Ryan PT-20 we used for primary pilot training—the “Recruit,” as we named her—wasn’t huge. But as I climbed up the wing and sat in the captain’s seat with my trainer behind me, it felt like it was capable of carrying all my dreams, no matter its size. Even with my helmet on, the propeller was loud enough to drown out my fears and my thoughts as I placed my feet on the military-green pedals. The open-air craft was all metal inside, utilitarian, the seat offering nothing in the way of comfort, and it contained little more than a fire extinguisher for safety. But it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. As I caught speed and took off, up into the air, I realized that all my anxieties about whether this was a good idea were unfounded. I knew at once that I was made to be a pilot, born to be a part of the sky. I would excel at this; I would defend my country.
And I vowed that, when I got home, I would teach my Becks to fly so that she too could experience this feeling, so that she could know what it was like to lift off into the air and leave all her earthly problems on the ground. From then on, the plane would be where we left all our worries behind.
It was a memory I never wanted to forget, that I always assumed I would remember. And flying was still the place where I would leave all my worries behind. It was there I could forget the horrifying Alzheimer’s diagnosis Daniel had given me. For long stretches of time even. Not in an I’m-losing-my-faculties kind of way. In a blissful, best-moments-are-in-the-sky kind of way. It was the same with fishing. I remembered everything out on the water. During our most recent fishing trip I mentioned this to Daniel and he responded, “Well, of course. Fishing has never been about a list or the mind. Fishing is about instinct.”
We hadn’t mentioned my condition since he diagnosed me in his office three weeks ago. But now he said, “Towns, as long as I am able, as long as we can walk on and off this boat, I will bring you out here. I promise. You might not know me or the boat or your name, but I have zero doubt in my mind that you will still know these fish. You will still know this water. You will still be the best damn fisherman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
That’s a good friend. One who will stand by you even knowing what’s ahead for you, one who will make promises you know he will keep. I looked over at him. Maybe it wasn’t time for rhapsodies yet. But who knew how much time we had? “Daniel,” I said, clearing my throat, “you’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
He teared up, and it occurred to me how impossible it must have felt for him to tell me, his best friend, that I was going to face a terrible fate, all while knowing that he would be powerless to do anything about it. Any soldier could tell you that once you have lost a brother in arms, you are never the same.
Men our age had lost so much, so many. I hope the next generation never has to see what we have seen. But I knew I could not control that any more than I could control the fate coming for me. What Daniel said next is part of that fate, a part I had both entirely expected and not expected in the least.
“Daniel, as your best friend, there’s something I need to ask you. Is Becks…”
I trailed off. I couldn’t ask him. I already knew the answer. But if I hadn’t, it was there in the quiver of his chin. I loved Becks in a way that split me wide open, in a way that was all-consuming and terrifying. But Daniel loved her too. He loved her hard.
“Is she dying, Daniel?”
He cleared his throat. “You know I can’t tell you that, Townsend. I can’t tell a patient about another patient, even when it’s my best friends.” Even still, his eyes filled with tears. And that told me all I needed to know.
I shook my head. “I’ve spent forty-one years of my life with her. I can tell when my own wife is dying. I just don’t want it to be true.”
I was surprised how stoic I was when I said it. Maybe it was because I knew I was dying too. Knowing that I would slowly lose all my memories, my sense of self, somehow made it easier to accept. Once Becks was gone in body, she would also be gone in my mind. A small kindness from a brutal disease.
“I’m so sorry, Townsend. I would have done anything to save her if I could have. You know that.”
I nodded, unable to find the words.
“How have you resisted the urge to intervene?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Becks is the smartest person I know. And she’s the most steadfast. So whatever she decided about her illness was what would happen. I couldn’t change her mind anyway.”
“Will you tell her?” Daniel asked. “About you?”
I shook my head. “I can’t increase her burden by telling her,” I said. “She’ll just be worried about me instead of herself.”
Daniel nodded. “I know. No reason to make her final weeks even worse.”
I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t crying, wailing, flinging myself over the side of the boat. That’s how I knew that, somewhere deep down, I had already come to terms with Becks’s death. “When she goes, can you take me too?”
“I’m sorry, my friend. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m going to need you when she’s gone.”
That was when the tears finally came for both of us. “I’m going to need you too,” I whispered.
“At least the kids are grown,” he offered.
The kids. It panged me anew that their mother wouldn’t be at their weddings. Wouldn’t see her grandchildren, should some come along. Lon and Virginia would miss me, sure. But not like they would miss her. She was their mother, the blood that ran through their veins, the fierce protector of their dreams and hearts. Mine too. Becks was the thread that wove through our family. She would be gone. Life without Becks. No. Living without Becks. There was no life without her.
“I could just go ahead and jump,” I said, gesturing to the ocean surrounding us. “Sink to the bottom. Let the sharks have their way with me.”
“You could jump.” Daniel nodded seriously. “But then you’d ruin Becks’s dinner party.”
I paused as if considering. “Yes. And not just any dinner party.”
“The last dinner party of summer,” Daniel said, “which we all know is the most important.”
Her last dinner party ever.
“Shall we get this to the chef?” he asked, gesturing toward our cooler of fish.
“Can you imagine if we’re late?” I asked.
We both laughed, and Daniel turned the boat toward home. For years, Becks had lamented that with our age difference she would likely have to live without me. I had never, not once, considered that I might have to exist in a world without her.
I used to dream of flying when I was younger—not in a plane, but of my own accord, zipping through the night sky, swimming among stars and the bright silver moon. I would wake with the feeling that this was what awaited me on the other side. Oh, how I hope that’s true. Oh, how I long for a day when Becks and I can float among the stars together. If I could choose our time and place, I know just when and where it would be.
As Daniel drove on, I turned to see it, the spot where light blue and dark blue collide, where the white of the clouds and the white of the surf merge. No land. No people. I’m grateful that Daniel sped on so he couldn’t hear the sob that caught in my throat as we pulled away from the place most special to my girl and me. If we could go together, choose our time, I would pick that enchanted merging for the two of us to spend eternity: where the sky meets the sea.