B.W., he needs the company of other cats."
"It won't do him any good. I had him fixed, remember?"
"I didn't say he needed sex, he needs company other than yours. God, men! Maybe getting 'fixed' is something we should consider for you."
"I love you, Rose."
"Piss off, Leicester. Don't be late for dinner."
Maybe some company would do me good. I've been alone for a couple of weeks and realize I'm starved for conversation. I have felt directionless like snowflakes in a swirling wind. There has been a feeling of unhappiness since my failed relationship. But then I can always trust unhappiness. Her face never changes. However happiness, ah she's slick, can't be trusted. She has a thousand faces, all of them just ready to turn into unhappiness once she has you in her grasp.
Pouring more coffee, I sat on the couch in the place that Sunny Pfeiffer had so recently occupied. I imagined that I could still feel her warmth. The check was made out on a bank in New Orleans and the newspaper clipping was from the Union Appeal , a local weekly now owned by an old friend. I can research their archives for more on the disappearance of the airplane. After the date and time is established, a check with air traffic control in Meridian may turn up the controller who worked the flight and a tape recording or a transcript of the conversation. It was a long shot, but one worth trying.
Rose. I wanted the full story from her. But once upon a time I wanted to be Johnny Weissmuller and swing from jungle vines and call elephants with a primal yell only African animals could understand. Life is a bitch.
An old friend owns a flying service in Meridian. Dialing his number, I thought that he might remember the missing plane.
"Sanders Flying Service."
"Hello Earl, Jay Leicester."
"Jay, how you doing? I haven't heard from you since that Mexico thing."
"Finally made the permanent move to the country. You and Annie must come up for a visit. Let me show you around God's country."
"That sounds like a plan. So what's on your mind, Jay?"
"Back in eighty-two, a PA-18 took off from a grass strip in Union, in fact from the farm I now own, and went missing. Never showed up, no wreckage ever found. You have any memory of that happening?"
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Hadley Welsh, I taught her to fly, sold her the PA-18. A real mystery. Why are you asking about her disappearance?"
"I have no memory of it happening. Everyone seems to know about it but me. Where was I when that happened?"
"Why don't you check your logbook, maybe you were out of the country. Or that daily journal you've been keeping for thirty years."
"Good idea, haven't thought of looking there."
"So, I say again, why are you asking about Hadley Welsh's disappearance?"
"Her daughter wants me to find out what happened."
"Sunny? I often wondered what happened to that little girl. Pretty thing, and so outgoing and full of energy."
"Well, she grew into a good-looking woman."
"You remember John Roberts? He worked her flight that day. He's retired, but I have his phone number."
"Thanks. Give Annie my love. I may come for a visit in a couple of days."
"Look forward to it."
John Roberts was an air traffic controller, and a good one. As a pilot for Southern Airways, I used to land at Meridian twice a day, five days a week. Roberts worked most of my flights. We got to be good friends. A true professional, I am glad he made it to retirement age. His was a high-stress job, and a lot of his contemporaries died early from heart attacks and other stress related illnesses. I would contact him later, but first a trip to the Union Appeal for some research was in order.
After a quick shower, I sat on the couch and read the yellowed article Sunny Pfeiffer provided. The disappearance occurred on Friday, the ninth of April, 1982. It went on to tell about Hadley Welsh, a widower who had lived in the community for a few years. Her plane mysteriously disappeared from radar shortly after taking off
"It won't do him any good. I had him fixed, remember?"
"I didn't say he needed sex, he needs company other than yours. God, men! Maybe getting 'fixed' is something we should consider for you."
"I love you, Rose."
"Piss off, Leicester. Don't be late for dinner."
Maybe some company would do me good. I've been alone for a couple of weeks and realize I'm starved for conversation. I have felt directionless like snowflakes in a swirling wind. There has been a feeling of unhappiness since my failed relationship. But then I can always trust unhappiness. Her face never changes. However happiness, ah she's slick, can't be trusted. She has a thousand faces, all of them just ready to turn into unhappiness once she has you in her grasp.
Pouring more coffee, I sat on the couch in the place that Sunny Pfeiffer had so recently occupied. I imagined that I could still feel her warmth. The check was made out on a bank in New Orleans and the newspaper clipping was from the Union Appeal , a local weekly now owned by an old friend. I can research their archives for more on the disappearance of the airplane. After the date and time is established, a check with air traffic control in Meridian may turn up the controller who worked the flight and a tape recording or a transcript of the conversation. It was a long shot, but one worth trying.
Rose. I wanted the full story from her. But once upon a time I wanted to be Johnny Weissmuller and swing from jungle vines and call elephants with a primal yell only African animals could understand. Life is a bitch.
An old friend owns a flying service in Meridian. Dialing his number, I thought that he might remember the missing plane.
"Sanders Flying Service."
"Hello Earl, Jay Leicester."
"Jay, how you doing? I haven't heard from you since that Mexico thing."
"Finally made the permanent move to the country. You and Annie must come up for a visit. Let me show you around God's country."
"That sounds like a plan. So what's on your mind, Jay?"
"Back in eighty-two, a PA-18 took off from a grass strip in Union, in fact from the farm I now own, and went missing. Never showed up, no wreckage ever found. You have any memory of that happening?"
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Hadley Welsh, I taught her to fly, sold her the PA-18. A real mystery. Why are you asking about her disappearance?"
"I have no memory of it happening. Everyone seems to know about it but me. Where was I when that happened?"
"Why don't you check your logbook, maybe you were out of the country. Or that daily journal you've been keeping for thirty years."
"Good idea, haven't thought of looking there."
"So, I say again, why are you asking about Hadley Welsh's disappearance?"
"Her daughter wants me to find out what happened."
"Sunny? I often wondered what happened to that little girl. Pretty thing, and so outgoing and full of energy."
"Well, she grew into a good-looking woman."
"You remember John Roberts? He worked her flight that day. He's retired, but I have his phone number."
"Thanks. Give Annie my love. I may come for a visit in a couple of days."
"Look forward to it."
John Roberts was an air traffic controller, and a good one. As a pilot for Southern Airways, I used to land at Meridian twice a day, five days a week. Roberts worked most of my flights. We got to be good friends. A true professional, I am glad he made it to retirement age. His was a high-stress job, and a lot of his contemporaries died early from heart attacks and other stress related illnesses. I would contact him later, but first a trip to the Union Appeal for some research was in order.
After a quick shower, I sat on the couch and read the yellowed article Sunny Pfeiffer provided. The disappearance occurred on Friday, the ninth of April, 1982. It went on to tell about Hadley Welsh, a widower who had lived in the community for a few years. Her plane mysteriously disappeared from radar shortly after taking off
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