FICTION
Mary Alice Ayers
SLOW FLYING
I maneuver my flying machine, a Cessna 150 (simple bird, no
omni, no radar) as
if
it were a boat.
The same precision is required when piloting over air as over
water; I know because I have done both; unusual accomplishments perhaps
for a young woman.
Ifwe
all
killed ourselves that would solve the pollution problem. But
there would be more waste after the deaths, as the bodies would have to
decay (not everyone wants cremation.) How to solve this? How to eliminate
all waste matter on the earth? One way is to fl y, to leave the earth by
taking our bodies up into the eternal firmament.
Because I can't reproduce myself I intend to destroy myself. This is
what is thought by those who love me.
But I'm not a suicide pilot - I'm a believer, with a titanic faith .
An
inner
voice assures me that 1, though mortal, can be like an immortal angel
if
I can
escape beyond the usual limits of this world. But, like an angel, I must have
wmgs.
Under my wings now I am flying, seeking estrangement from earthly
concerns, but I have been followed by my family. One thousand feet below
me, my mother flies a Mooney Ranger (retractable landing gear, 168 mph
cruising speed .) In this more sophisticated craft, she could catch me if she
wanted to, but she doesn't want to. She wants to watch me.
To my left, I find my much older sister, shaky in a Piper Comanche
(big 260 hp engine, cruising speed 185). She is too far away for me to read
her face, but I can see her shoulders hunch in anticipation of my fall.
On my right, my brother practices slips (opposite aileron, opposite rud–
der) in a Beechcraft Bonanza, the ultimate prop plane in general aviation,
with its constant speed, full feathering propeller, its 200 mph cruising speed.
He will catch me if he can. But I can maneuver better then he, better than
any of them, because I am the littlest of the lot. I am simple, an uncompli–
cated aircraft.
A living room, much like any other, with family seated about.
An
el–
derly woman; a middle-aged woman; a youngish man. "The trouble with
my baby sister," the man says, "is that she can't accept reality."
A ritual cocktail hour is in progress. One swallow and the accusations
