Hank felt his temper rise. Megan got on a roll and she was likely to say anything, which he understood, having had a pretty excitable mother himself. But she always said the same thing, which made him think she really meant it: he didn’t care about her and the boys.
That was what really made him see red. Did she think he worked double shifts, coming and leaving in the dark, for fun? Because he loved airplanes so much? Half a minute’s thought would have convinced her he was doing it for them, to keep them in a decent home in a decent neighborhood. Not like where he grew up.
And that was another thing: Megan was raised rich, to Hank’s way of thinking. Hank came from a project in Jersey where he saw his first man killed at the age of six. He wasn’t murdered; he stood up in a convertible and a rusty fire escape ladder caught him in the face. Hank didn’t see anybody murdered till he was ten.
He hated the smell of engine oil. It reminded him of nights spent hiding under cars, while the boots of the local gangs stood all around him, wondering where he went. So naturally, the only way out of the projects was a mechanic’s apprenticeship, long hours for no pay, bathed in oil and crawling under cars.
At least aircraft engines used a purer grade of oil. They even called it lubricant, which was just as well where Hank was concerned.
But it was still hot, hard, dirty and occasionally dangerous labor. And when Megan acted like he was playing hooky all day instead of working to support them, he felt like—
No. He was not going to go there, Hank told himself. A man does not even think about hitting his wife. Deadbeats in the projects do that. Real men don’t.
All this took place between one breath and the next. It was the same feelings that hit him every time this happened.
Lately, it was happening a lot.
“Look, sweetheart, I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said out of habit. “I can’t just walk off whenever I want. You want me to lose this job?”
He didn’t really hear her answer; he knew the steps in this particular dance. Instead, he was thinking.
What did I say that for? I can go home if I want to.
Maybe I don’t want to.
His brows furrowed into a knot.
What was happening to him? Was he seriously thinking of abandoning his family?
Put that way, no. Of course not. He loved Megan, loved the boys. That was a given.
But he sure was sick of her neglectful-dad rap. Of that, too, he was certain.
It had never been hard for Hank to be a decent man in his own eyes. He had so many bad examples to steer clear of, after all. But now he suspected for the first time that most guys didn’t have it so easy.
ARWIN LEBANC: Mr. Babbage, describe the circumstances that led to Henry Schram boarding your airplane.
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Mr. Rowe informed me that Mr. Schram was not willing to be my mechanic for the flight to Dallas. This was not acceptable; Mr. Schram was reputed to be the most competent mechanic available.
ARWIN LEBANC: You were willing to go to what lengths to acquire his services?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Great lengths. It was, after all, a matter of life or death.
JANE BERRENDT: Objection. The defendant is not necessarily a living being. That is precisely the point at issue: can Benjamin Babbage be considered a human being?
ARWIN LEBANC: If you mean Homo sapiens, defense stipulates that my client is obviously not a human being. But Judge Haley in Chicago is quite clearly on public record that by virtue of his possessing a moral sense and an appreciation of the obligations of citizenship, Mr. Babbage enjoys all the rights of any other natural-born United States citizen, and I respectfully submit that until and unless Your Honor rules otherwise, he is, in law, human.
JANE BERRENDT: Chicago decisions have no weight in a Texas state court, Mr. LeBanc!
JUDGE WRIGHT: Actually, under “full faith and credit to the institutions of other states,” they do, Mrs. Berrendt, if only in the sense that common law does. Your objection is overruled; court recorder will leave the remark as stated. Proceed.
ARWIN LEBANC: Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Babbage, what lengths did you go to in order to secure Mr. Schram’s services? Anything unusual?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Certainly. Mr. Schram was not receptive to the most obvious incentive of extra pay.
ARWIN LEBANC: How much did you offer?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Twenty thousand dollars.
ARWIN LEBANC: That’s right much.
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: The sum total of my available capital. I had credit as well, but if I failed to appear in court, I thought it quite possible I would have no future earnings in any case.
ARWIN LEBANC: Let’s see if I have this straight: you thought you might be declared nothing but a machine, a piece of property, and busted up for scrap. Is that right?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: I still might, sir.
ARWIN LEBANC: Mmm… true. True. So you’d be no more?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Well, obviously.
ARWIN LEBANC: So if you were no more—beyond punishment, beyond reward—why not go ahead and put Schram’s pay on your credit card? If you live, you can pay it off in a year or two, and if you don’t, why, how are they going to collect?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Mr. Schram would not be paid. Either that, or the bank card company would take a loss.
ARWIN LEBANC: How does that matter to you when you’re dead?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: It would be wrong.
ARWIN LEBANC: What’s that, Mr. Babbage? I can’t hear you too well.
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: It would be wrong to defraud innocent parties.
ARWIN LEBANC: Mmm-hmm. Because it’s illegal?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Obviously.
ARWIN LEBANC: Or because it’s immoral?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: It would be unethical. Fraud is equivalent to theft by deception. Theft is clearly unethical. As a fellow member of the Bar Association, I am surprised you do not understand me, sir.
ARWIN LEBANC: Oh, I understand you, Benjamin. Don’t worry about me. (pause) But you say he refused the money?
BENJAMIN BABBAGE: Yes. It was necessary to try something unusual.
The Sun was rising on a day bright with promise.
Hank Schram halfway hoped he wouldn’t see it set.
Megan was having Ricky’s party anyway, come hell or high water, as she was fond of saying. Hank was either going to be there, she said, or there were going to have to be Changes Made.
He couldn’t have agreed more.
He’d worked all night rigging the cooling ducts on the old Boeing so Benjamin Babbage would be comfortable on his trip. Then he’d blinked the dawn out of his eyes, assembled his team, and got to work replacing every gasket in the wing hydraulics, without waiting for them to pop. He dreaded having the plane go down because he missed something; that was simply too horrible to even contemplate, so he didn’t.
Something buzzed in his tool belt. The phone. He’d taken the belt off, of course. Nothing like getting down on your belly with six screwdrivers hanging right below your belt buckle, he thought, and winced despite himself. He’d done it once, when he was young and dumb. He didn’t have either excuse now.
And besides, he could still feel it.
He hopped down and almost slipped on the oil-stained tarmac. There were a lot of people going in and out of the plane; his own techs, and several in sweaters and slacks, like lawyers going casual. One of them caught his arm before he went headfirst into the cement.
Hank nodded to the guy, who gave him a big goofy smile and went up into the plane. Hank retrieved his tool belt.
“Go,” he said into the phone. He meant it, too.