I expected weather to be the primary culprit of the crash. The storm. The winds. All of it pushing down our plane.
It was not. It was only listed as a factor.
So now I considered fatigue cracks. Tired spaces in the plane.
And it blew out and gave up during a freak December thunderstorm over East Texas.
It was a week after I’d first met Tim LeMoot. He and Mom were sitting at our kitchen table, drinking iced tea and checking movie times. I showed Mom the NTSB report I’d found on the Internet.
“It’s difficult to accept.”
Yeah.
“Do you feel better now that you know the facts?”
“I have to agree with you.”
No amount of money will put the plane back together.
And Tim LeMoot chimed in. “Not that plane, Wayne. But others. Aircraft are designed by humans, and humans make errors. Sometimes you must hold people accountable.”
Right.
“Hey, I have to go shoot a new commercial later. Want to go with us?” Tim LeMoot asked. It turned out that Tim LeMoot, in real life, was a nice guy who actually asked people what they wanted to do. And because I wasn’t used to that, I shrugged and left them. They were happy. I could only pretend to be happy for so long.
I wasn’t. I was too distracted. The NTSB report made everything about the crash final. Would that mean no more searches through East Texas? No more newscasts about the tragedy? I guessed the answer was no. There was already a sinking cruise ship off the coast of Italy eating up all the tragic news time, anyway.
Liz Delaney was probably researching that story right now.
Liz Delaney had not answered my third e-mail request. Denny had even left a message on her voice mail: “Hello, Ms. Delaney, I hope it’s not rainy. Respond to your e-mail from Mr. Kovok so he won’t go into shock.”
Liz Delaney probably thought she was being pranked. Denny used his whisper-voice, which could sometimes sound a little murdery over the phone.
Reporters were not responding to my e-mails.
And Sandy Showalter? I expected a report on the demise of our sort-of-boyfriend/girlfriend status any day now.
The primary cause of this relationship ending was a lack of interest.
But, the day before, Sandy Showalter had allowed me to walk all around the mall with her. And I mean from the Pizza Kitchen to Sears. End to end. The only thing we had in common was that we both avoided eye contact and sipped on drinks I bought when we passed the food court. Her mother had run off someplace in the mall to buy plates that were on sale.
I knew it was all pretend. As long as I was mute, I was her sort-of boyfriend. As soon as Dr. P pronounced me healed, Sandy’s mother would allow her to bolt.
So I’d gathered up a bunch of facts and wrote a note to Sandy. I tried to be like old Wayne, giver of facts. Facts doing the talking so that I wouldn’t sound stupid.
Want to know what it said?
Did you know that the word “muffin” is believed to come from the French term “moufflet,” which means “soft bread”? And also, the corn muffin is the official state muffin of Massachusetts, and the apple muffin is the state muffin of New York?
“Ohhhhh,” she said as she handed the note right back to me. The way she said it and carried out the word oh with three syllables had a lot in common with the way Anibal Gomez had given me the dog-dump glare and said Duuuuude.
Her look gently approximated the dog-dump glare.
My recitation of facts backfired.
Even for Wayne Kovok, it was a new low. It wasn’t the ground floor of dorkery. No, there was a level beneath that. I’d ridden the elevator all the way to the basement of awkwardness.
I bet Sandy wrote a novel-length text to her friend Wendy about what a muffin-researching moron I was.
Now I sat on my bed thinking about the previous day. And I got so sick of myself. So sick of thinking and wondering. I went back to the kitchen table, where Tim LeMoot and Mom were still drinking iced tea.
I’ll go to your commercial shoot.
“That’s great,” Tim LeMoot said.
We spent the rest of the afternoon watching Tim LeMoot stand in front of a green screen inside a studio. He’d shout his phone number into the camera, practically begging accident victims to call him. His production team superimposed fake explosions, shattered glass, a bald eagle, and a giant black boot in the background.
Then they brought out actors to stand in front of the screen and shout about their fake injuries and how much money Tim LeMoot had kicked into their pockets.
Then they put Tim LeMoot up high on a ladder.
“This is the part where the team will superimpose the giant eighteen-wheeler,” Mom whispered to me.
The last scene. Tim LeMoot stood in front of the green screen, and then they superimposed a giant field of grass behind him. I didn’t get it at first. Why a field?
Tim LeMoot looked directly into the camera and said, “WHY WERE YOU IN AN ACCIDENT? WELL, ACCIDENTS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE. GOOD PEOPLE NEED SOMEONE LOOKING OUT FOR THEM! YOU NEED A LAWYER WHO’S OUTSTANDING IN HIS FIELD. SO CALL ME, TIM LEMOOT, THE TEXAS BOOT. I’M OUT STANDING IN MY FIELD! WHY SHOULD YOU GO THROUGH HARD TIMES ALONE? WHY?”
At the end of that session, the entire crew clapped. The Boot took a bow. The field disappeared from the screen.
Do you know what I was thinking? That Tim LeMoot seemed to understand the plaguing question.
Why should any of us go through anything all alone?
It all made sense now. The real reason Grandpa had come to live with us. The real reason he was still here.
Why should anyone go through hard times—or an illness—alone?