Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

He stopped and took her in his arms, letting her cry against his shoulder as he stroked her hair. He could think of nothing appropriate to say.

When she grew quiet, he guided her to the gate where a bus waited to leave for the mid-field terminal. Although she’d intended at one time to go there, she resisted now.

“Why bother?” she asked in utter despair. “There’s nothing out there for me.”

“There are people out there who can help you and explain what happened.”

“I don’t need any help,” she said defiantly. “I know what happened. The goddamned airplane crashed and killed my brother.” She took a deep breath. “I had two brothers once. Now they’re both gone. And my mother’s gone. And none of it should have happened.”

He steered her gently toward the bus. “Come on, Kath. I’ll go with you.”

This time she didn’t resist.

Pace led her to a place where there were two seats together. She sat in silence, staring out the opposite window but seeing nothing. Many of the passengers had the same dazed and vacant stares. A few were crying openly.

The children broke his heart. There must have been fifteen of them on the bus, all too young to understand what was happening but recognizing in that way children have that whatever it was, it was horrible. Each was accompanied by at least one parent or grandparent stricken by tragedy and transmitting stifling signals of despair.

One towheaded little boy—Pace guessed he was three—was on his knees beside his mother, who was sobbing softly. He was wearing a western shirt and kids’ Levi’s rolled up at the cuffs over tiny cowboy boots. He threw his arms around her neck and buried his head in her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Mommy,” he repeated over and over. “Please, don’t cry.”

One old woman sat alone, her legs parted, the hem of her plain, lilac-colored cotton dress pulled demurely over her knees. She leaned on a cane. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her expression was stoic. As Pace watched, it never changed. But the tears dropped, one after another, onto her lilac skirt, leaving dark-stained dots where they landed.

He felt a hand on his left arm and turned to face a middle-aged man in such agony it hurt to look at him. “Who did you lose?” the man asked.

Pace drew a ragged breath. He cocked his head toward Kathy. “My friend lost her only living brother,” he said quietly.

“We lost our children, our daughter and son-in-law,” the man volunteered. “Just married yesterday. They were on their way to Hawaii for their honeymoon, and now they’re dead.” He groped for the hand of the woman beside him, his wife, who kept shaking her head and repeating, “No. No. No. No. No. No. No.”

“She hasn’t accepted it,” the man said. “This soon. I guess that’s to be expected, huh?”

“Probably,” Pace agreed. “Where we’re going, there’ll be people who can help.”

“They’re alive,” the woman said. “I know they’re alive. Jenny and Chris didn’t get on the plane. They’re waiting in the parking lot. Jenny and Chris need a ride home.” She looked directly at Pace, and he felt his stomach curdle. “We’re going to find Jenny and Chris and give them a ride home. They’ll be fine now. We just have to find them and take them home.”

The man took his wife’s hands in his and looked at Pace in a silent plea for help.

“I’m sorry,” the reporter said kindly. “I’m really sorry.”

The bus reached the mid-field terminal and started its hydraulic rise to meet the gate. The passengers shuffled from the vehicle into the midst of the largest congregation of misery Pace could ever remember seeing under the same roof. Everywhere he looked, his brain recorded snapshots of anguish.

In ones and twos and small clutches, desperate people listened to the psychologists and clergy assembled by Consolidated Pacific to offer emotional and spiritual support. The faces bespoke disbelief. Kind words were flung aside, replaced by the rejection of reality, recrimination, and the single question: Why?

Within Pace’s range of sight, three crews of emergency medical personnel tended to people who collapsed. Two women were receiving oxygen. One elderly man sat at the gate of a canceled flight to St. Louis. He rocked back and forth and wailed. A young man in a priest’s collar sat down beside him and spoke softly to him. The old man heard nothing; he continued rocking and wailing. Dozens of people sat and stared at nothing with the same vacant eyes Pace had seen on the bus.

A teenaged boy in a Kensington High School athletic jacket leaned over a gate partition and cried uncontrollably. Although two people stopped to check on him, their words of solace had no impact, and they were forced, reluctantly, to move on to those they could reach.

The young children cringed, holding tightly to the legs of adults. A raven-haired little girl jammed her thumb in her mouth and buried her head in her mother’s skirt, clapping her free hand over one ear, doing her best to shut out the sights and sounds of suffering.

A woman approached Pace and Kathy McGovern. “I’m Rabbi Kirschner,” she said. “Would you like to talk to me, or to another member of the clergy?”

Kathy shook her head. “Where are the airline officials?” she demanded.

“They’re over there,” Rabbi Kirschner said, indicating the United Air Lines Red Carpet Lounge. “They’ll be there all day, and they’ll answer any questions you have. It might help to talk about this with somebody else first.”

Kathy set off for the lounge without replying.

“Thank you anyway,” Pace told the rabbi and hurried to catch up with Kathy.

Inside the lounge, Pace saw several dozen airline officials talking individually with grieving relatives, giving each very personal attention. He recognized two of the officials, and, unfortunately, one recognized him.

B. J. Houston, chief of operations for ConPac, excused himself from a middle-aged couple and strode toward Pace. “How did you get in here?” he demanded. He spoke in a whisper that was more like a hiss, but he took care not to be overheard by those around him, who didn’t need to witness a confrontation at that moment. “This area is absolutely off-limits to the media.”

“I’m not here as a reporter, Mr. Houston,” Pace said honestly. “I came with a friend.”

“That’s true,” said Kathy, who appeared at Pace’s side. “My name is Kathleen McGovern. My brother Jonathan was on Flight 1117.”

“I am terribly sorry for your loss, Miss McGovern, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask Mr. Pace to leave,” Houston told her. “It’s my experience that a reporter is always working, and these people deserve privacy at a time like this.”

“I’m not going to interfere,” Pace insisted.

“No, you’re not,” Houston replied. He waved in the direction of a security agent.

“Please,” Kathy pleaded. “He’s my friend.”

Houston looked at her apologetically. “I’m sorry, Miss McGovern. We’ll arrange transportation out here for anyone else you want, but we can’t allow Mr. Pace to stay. That’s an ironclad rule.” Houston turned to the security agent. “Escort this man back to the main terminal,” he ordered. “And take pains to see he doesn’t get out here again.”

Pace took Kathy in his arms. “I’ll call you. I promise.”

The agent took Pace by the arm and firmly guided him to the door. Pace walked backwards, never taking his eyes from Kathy’s face.

“I’ll call you,” he repeated. She nodded. He wanted to fight to stay with her. He felt like a jerk for allowing himself to be rousted.

The agent hauled him through the door, and Pace’s anger overflowed. He jerked his arm from the man’s grasp. “Touch me again and you’re risking a lawsuit.”