He Sent the Helicopter for Her Dog, So I Took Back My Wings novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Tailgate

Bruce drives her to Hank's hangar in Ojai and resigns from Sutton, and at midnight Sutton posts a statement that the client declined evacuation twice and names her.

Bruce Donovan held the elevator door with one arm until I walked out of it.

"Where's your car?" he asked.

"I don't have one. It belongs to Sutton."

"Then you have one now."

He took the go-bag off my shoulder before I could say no, and I let him, because my hands were shaking.

His truck was in the visitor row, an old gray pickup with a dent in the tailgate.

I put the urn on my lap and buckled the belt over it.

Bruce started the engine and did not pull out.

He unclipped the badge from his collar and looked at it.

"I'm going to say it in front of you," he said. "So it counts."

He took out his phone and typed with his thumb.

I read it upside down: I quit. Effective now. Keep the badge.

He sent it to Leonard, and then he dropped the badge in the cup holder.

"You'll lose your job over a woman you haven't spoken to in four years," I said.

"You'll lose more than that."

"I mean it, Bruce."

"So do I." He put the truck in gear. "I saw your comment before it hit a thousand likes. I figured you'd need a ride."

That was a thin reason, and I knew it.

I was too tired to push on it.

We took the 101 north through the dark, past the burned hills that still glowed orange in the folds.

Every mile or so I could smell the ash through the vents.

I turned my face to the window and counted exits until I stopped feeling the urn shake.

It was past midnight when we reached the Ojai airfield.

The hangar at the end of the row had a flickering light over the door and a hand-painted sign that said DOLAN AIR RESCUE.

The sign had one bad letter.

It had been bad when I left.

Hank Dolan stood in the open door in a canvas jacket, with his reading glasses hanging on a cord.

He was sixty-two, broad, and gray all over.

He looked at Bruce, then at the urn in my arms, then at the gauze.

He didn't ask any questions.

"Your locker's still got your name on it," he said.

"Hank, I'm so sorry I never called."

"Soup's on," he said, and turned around.

I followed him inside.

The hangar smelled of fuel and cold coffee, and exactly the same as it had for ten years.

A battered Bell 205 sat on the far side, and a smaller 407 beside it with its panels open.

Two crew members were asleep on cots under a light.

Hank cleared a shelf above the radio, wiped it with his sleeve, and nodded at it.

I set Nonna there, facing the doors, so she could see the runway.

"That was her favorite spot," I said. "Watching planes. She thought they were birds."

"She'll like it, then," Hank said.

He put a bowl of minestrone in my wrapped hands and a spoon on top of it.

Then he stood over me until I ate.

Bruce sat on an upturned crate by the door with his hat in his hands.

He was watching the road.

I did not ask why.

At ten past midnight his phone lit up on the floor.

Then it lit up again, and again.

LEONARD, the screen said, and then, LEONARD.

Bruce turned it face down with one finger.

My own hands had gone quiet around the bowl.

For the first time in eleven days nobody was telling me what time it was.

Hank's old television sat on the filing cabinet, turned to the local news with the sound low.

I did not notice what was on until Hank reached for the volume.

"Gianna."

A banner ran under a woman in a blue blazer.

SUTTON AVIATION RESPONDS TO FIRE CLAIMS.

The anchor was reading from a statement in a flat voice.

"The company says its Sentinel evacuation service operated at full capacity throughout the Canyon Fire."

"A spokesperson adds that one client declined evacuation, and that all rescue resources were deployed to members who requested them."

My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.

The photo behind her was a picture of me.

It was from our wedding.

I was in white, smiling at Leonard, in front of the ranch gate.

The anchor kept going.

"The client, identified as Gianna Sutton, wife of the company's chief executive, was warned twice by flight operations."

"Sutton Aviation expresses its sympathy for the family's loss."

Nobody in the hangar said anything.

Hank had stopped breathing through his nose.

"Warned twice," I said.

"They're lying," Bruce said, very quietly.

"They put my name on a screen at midnight, with my face, and said I refused."

I put the bowl on the floor because I could not hold it any longer.

"She was dying, Bruce. I begged them."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

He did not answer.

He was looking at the television, and I could see his jaw working.

Then the anchor said one more line.

"Celia Rask, head of flight operations, will hold a news conference at the Calabasas evacuation center tomorrow at ten."

Hank turned the sound off.

On the shelf above the radio, my grandmother's urn caught the hangar light.

I stood up.

"I'm going to be there," I said.

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