Early Warning Read Free

six months felt like an eternity, and twins seemed like quintuplets if you never thought, waking or sleeping, about anything besides feeding, diapers, bathing, burping, crying). Andy was always either tending to one of them or out on the back deck, smoking a cigarette. She had risen to the occasion, no two ways about it—the nurses they’d hired for two months had taught her to order her every moment and the twins’ every moment; the boys were thriving, but at the expense of all that was idle or easy. After much hemming and hawing, he and Andy had bought a house in the winter. It was an airy, modern split-level with plenty of windows, contemporary furniture, and wall-to-wall carpet. It felt as bleak in the summer and the spring as it had in January, when they moved in. Doing this job for Arthur felt like playing hooky—returning to his younger, sharper, brighter, and more restless self. If only Andy—the Andy of two years ago—could have come along.
    When they stopped to refuel in Sardinia, he wanted to walk around, smell the air. What was her name, that girl, the love of his life? Joan, it was. Joan Fontaine, he had called her. A whore. But it was foolish to daydream about a woman who was lost; instead, he sat quietly and waited for Louis to make a move. When the door opened, Louis stood up and scuttled forward. It was, indeed, Mediterranean light here. Hard to believe that he hadn’t been to Italy or France since the war. It was as if he had no idea that Italy would have changed or recovered since he last reconnoitered this cratered city or that blown-up house, looking for Jerries. He had treated stories of postwarrenewal in newspapers as unsubstantiated rumors without even realizing it. The airfield was barren, just a long stretch of concrete with a rudimentary tower at one end, not far from the fuel tanks.
    Louis hunched down the steps. Frank went into the toilet and pissed without flushing—flushing would release onto the tarmac. He went back to his seat and ate half of his sandwich. When Louis returned, he brought a couple of Cokes. Frank took one.
    Louis sat down and buckled his seat belt. Frank said, “This reminds me of the war.”
    “You in the European theater?”
    Frank said, “Africa first, then Italy.” Someone closed the hatch. Frank could hear the crew shouting something.
    “Pacific for me. Midway. Philippines. Nimitz was a great man.”
    “Not so many cats to herd,” said Frank. “At the time, I was a big fan of Devers, and I couldn’t figure out why Ike stopped us at Strasbourg, but now I understand a little more about outrunning your fuel supply.”
    Louis nodded, then said, “I think you had the prima donnas with you. Montgomery was a fool.”
    They sniffed simultaneously. The plane began taxiing down the runway, and Frank turned to stare at the beach and then the ocean, so much paler here. Louis said, “Can’t say I’m all that comfortable in this aircraft.”
    Frank turned and looked at him. “Why not?”
    “That BOAC Calcutta crash.”
    “I didn’t hear about a Calcutta crash.”
    “No? Last May sometime. Everyone killed—crew, passengers, everyone.”
    Frank again glanced out the window at the engine.
    Louis said, “Here’s the creepy part, you ask me. Witnesses say, when the plane went into the Indian Ocean, it was on fire”—Frank couldn’t help looking at him now—“and the wings were gone. Just say this: let’s hope we don’t encounter a hurricane.”
    “Let’s hope that,” said Frank. They were quiet. And it was odd that they were using an English plane, given the antipathy the Iranians were supposed to feel toward the Brits. On the other hand, it was the fastest plane Frank had ever been in—twice as fast, if you included takeoff and landing, as a DC-6. Frank looked out the windowpast the wings this time, and imagined a hundred thousand hundred-dollar bills fluttering in the air.
    —
    THE SUN WAS GOING down again—Frank checked his watch. For him it was