It was not until later that I understood what she meant. You see, in my innocence, I thought a concubine was an airplane. I thought it was the airplane that drew him irresistibly from my side, an airplane that fought me for his love.

Only later did I realize it was a woman, all along.

Now the airplane stands before me, but there’s no sign of the woman, or the children. And I have come full circle and understand that my father was not pulled from my life by the airplane or by the woman, each on its own, but by the two of them together in an irresistible passion and also by an equal and opposing force that pushed him away, which was my mother. But that’s all past and doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is what remains of him. What I might still grasp with my two hands, if only she’ll let me.

A streak of sunlight finds the airplane’s skin and flashes white. The brilliance blinds me. The following breeze streams in, blowing the haze apart, carrying the cacophonous chime of birds, and as I stand there panting in my wet shoes, my wet skin, blind and afraid, the chime clarifies and becomes human.

I turn and open my eyes.

The tribe of them jogs across the grass, Sophie and Leo and Lindquist herself, led by a pair of scampering sprogs, tumbling tadpoles, as wet as I am, sunlight dancing on hair, alive.

Aviatrix by Eugenia Everett (excerpt)

May 1937: Bardenas Reales, Spain

When Morrow left, Mallory pulled his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He couldn’t walk after Irene; even if he had the strength, his ankle was broken, his thigh split apart, his head concussed. Cuts and bruises lay everywhere on his ribs and arms and legs, stiffened during the long days and nights, so that it was agony just to move. Instead he lit a cigarette and reached for his leather diary and the pen clipped inside. He smoked for a moment, wrote a broken half-sentence while the sound of voices drifted through the hatchway, while the engine of Velázquez’s airplane started with a cough and whine.

GM to rescue at last thank God She will live

The diary fell from his hands. He didn’t have the will. He wanted to listen to the sound of Irene’s going and then slip away into rest, because Morrow was right about one thing. This was his fault, all of it. Irene, her pregnancy, her dangerous days here in Spain, the crackup, his own death—all of it was Mallory’s doing, the work of the devil on his own shoulder, his recklessness, his death wish.