Then he disappeared behind the cockpit door.
I sat there holding the airplane.
For years, it had been one of those ordinary objects that survived a person’s death for no particular reason.
Daniel had kept it in a desk drawer.
After he died, I’d found it among old licenses, pens, receipts, and photographs from his flying days.
When Benjamin became fascinated with airplanes, I gave it to him.
“That was Grandpa’s,” I had said.
That was all I knew.
The flight attendant crouched beside us again.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile.
I looked toward the cockpit.
“Daniel trained him?”
“That’s what I always heard.”
“Always heard?”
She hesitated.
“Your husband was pretty well known among some of the older crew.”
That surprised me almost as much as the captain recognizing his name.
Daniel had loved flying, but at home he hadn’t been a man who told stories about himself. If I asked how a trip went, he’d say, “Long,” or “Fine,” or complain about airport coffee.
