Page 83 of Flight of Dreams

“I trust that the package I placed in your care is still safe, Herr Zabel?”

Max nods, mute. A toxic, unholy fear begins to bloom in his chest.

“Good. You will receive the rest of your payment once we arrive in Lakehurst.”

THE STEWARDESS

They are unhappy because there is nothing left to do, Emilie thinks. The passengers have reached that point in the trip where cabin fever has set in. It is late afternoon, on the last full day of travel, and there is a stifled feeling in the air. A thickness. These men and women have seen and done everything. There are no more rooms to explore—at least no rooms where they are allowed. The newness has worn off, as has the exuberance. They are tired of one another and tired of the doting crew, though, if pressed, they would argue that the service could be better. They are tired of coffee and pastries and card games and the dissatisfied droning of their peers. They wish the piano hadn’t been removed last year—it would be nice to have a little music. They wish the sun would come out. They want to be in New York. Fifteen hours. That’s all they should have left until arrival. But that time has been lengthened now, a seemingly interminable age to these fatigued travelers. They are angry about the ever-increasing flight delays. Angry they won’t be on their way to some new grand adventure tomorrow morning.

For Emilie the remaining hours cannot pass quickly enough. She sits in the promenade with Matilde Doehner and her children. Irene is crying her way through a difficult cross-stitch pattern. She has pricked her finger three times, and a tissue lies wadded in her lap in anticipation of a fourth. It’s the frustration more than anything else that has the girl in tears. She wants to get it right but can’t. Emilie can sympathize with this. She has spent the majority of her life feeling the same way.

“Would it help if I held the hoop? That way you’d have both hands free,” Emilie says. Helping Irene gives her something to do. It’s a way to forget her anxiety of what will happen when they land.

Irene looks up at her, embarrassed to be caught with tears dripping off the end of her nose. Emilie wipes them away with her apron and receives a smile in exchange.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s this stupid flower. It’s supposed to be a tulip but it looks more like a bloodstain. It’s gross.”

Emilie wants to reassure her that the small bouquet of red, yellow, and blue flowers is pretty, but it’s not. It looks as though a cat has gotten hold of three balls of yarn while high on catnip. The cross-stitch is a disaster. It cannot be salvaged. Emilie pries the hoop from Irene’s tense fist and drops to her knees before the girl. She holds the hoop steady and urges Irene to continue.

When Irene’s hand has stopped shaking in anger, Emilie leans forward and whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?”

The girl nods.

“I don’t know how to cross-stitch. So you’re already better than I am.”

It’s only a small thing, but to a girl of fourteen, being superior to a grown woman in any area is a very big deal. Irene sniffs, lifts her chin, and turns her attention back to the hoop. “Your mother really should have taught you.”

Emilie suppresses the urge to laugh. It feels good, this sudden mirth, but she shows nothing more than a twitching smile. The stewardess has long since mastered the art of restraint. One day Irene Doehner will learn that restraint trumps superiority every time. But the poor girl has many years to go before she will be open to such a lesson.

After several long moments Emilie can sense that Matilde Doehner is watching her. When she looks up, the mother winks and mutters something about herculean efforts and the patience of saints. It feels good to be part of this small domestic scene.

Little Werner chooses this moment to roll out of his chair and flop around on the carpet like a dying bird. “I’m bored!” he begins to squawk over and over again. Emilie has to admit that his thin, piercing voice is eerily avian. His siblings, however, do not see the humor in his actions. Walter kicks him and tells him to shut up. Irene begs her mother to make him stop.

“Werner,” Matilde says, her voice low, almost disinterested, “get control of yourself.”

Perhaps the children have run out of coping skills as well, because the boy decides to test his mother. He continues thrashing around, arms and legs akimbo. “Bored, bored, bored. So bored!”

Matilde sighs. “Irene, go get your father.”

Before Emilie can draw her next breath, Werner is on his feet begging and pleading and promising to behave.

“You made your choice,” his mother says. “Sit on your hands and wait.”

Hermann Doehner isn’t all that tall for a man, but he has a kind and handsome face. He is mostly bald, but his blue eyes and dark brows make up for this. He enters the promenade, hands on hips. Lips pressed together. Irene trails behind him, trying not to look triumphant.

“Come with me,” Hermann says.

Little Werner shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”

He leans over his son. Whispers. “I expect better of you.”

Hermann sets a hand on Werner’s shoulder and smiles at his wife. It’s a look that says boys will be boys. But it also says that he will take care of this and she needn’t trouble herself. He plants a kiss on Matilde’s forehead, looks at Emilie, then says to his wife, “Have you asked her yet?”

“I was just getting to that.”

“If she says no we’ll blame it on this little rascal.” Hermann leads a white-faced Werner out of the room.

Matilde watches her husband go with a calculating expression but doesn’t explain his comment. Instead she says, “Just think, this time tomorrow we will be touring New York City. Hermann has booked us a suite at the Astor Hotel in Times Square. I hear they have copper bathtubs and room service. We’re only in New York for two days, but we’ll be going to Carnegie Hall and Broadway and the Central Park Zoo. On Saturday we’re boarding an ocean liner for Havana where we’ll have a week on the beach. Palm trees and pineapple juice. Can you imagine?”