Ripcord by R.P. Logan

At the end of the Overseas Highway lies the island city of Key West. Where, at the Manatee Bar and Grill overlooking Key West Bight, I sat sipping and savouring a Mojito while the sun slowly settled into the turquoise blue expanse of the Gulf of Mexico.

  I was enjoying life, the ‘come as you are’ mantra of the crazy fuckers who populate this sleepy burg. Which cannot be said of my wife.

            Where do I begin? Foolish question? Let’s start with the phone calls I regularly use to receive from my former best friend and working associate Jason P. Allen. JP would call me on my cell and this, invariably, would happen:

            “Hello.”

            “Dave, JP.”

            “What’s up?”

            “Just needed to ask, whoa, hold on Dave, got another caller.”

            Then I would wait patiently for several minutes before I eventually rang off.

            Or

            “Hello.”

            “Dave, JP buddy. How’s it going?”

            “Hanging tough. Any word on when that contract with the City will be signed?”

            “Dave, got another call. Be right back.”

            So, I would sit in my car, or at my desk or at a seat in a local restaurant waiting for JP to come back on the line so ultimately, I could get on with living.

            But then this call happened:

            “What’s up, JP?”      

            “Dave, where are you man? Need a witness to those Carmichael contracts. Judy’s down sick, not in the office today.”

            “I’m twenty to thirty minutes out. OK?”

            “Good enough, buddy. Ops got another call, be right back.”

            But this time there was no disconnect; I was still on the line.

            “How you doing, baby girl?”

          “Nervous. Cold sweats. Everything set for tomorrow?” 

            “Yeah, all set babe. The rigger is an ex-con with a possible assault charge pending from his live-in girlfriend. Needs the money to get out of town.” 

            “Dave doesn’t suspect anything?” 

            “Not a thing, babe. He won’t know what hit him.” 

            There was a muffled chuckle from JP, a second or two of silence, then the closer:

            “Still want to see Paris?”

            “Only from our bedroom, doll.”

            There was a ‘miss you’ and a ‘love you’ before the call went dead. Unmistakeable terms of endearment between my wife, Janet, who was the voice I heard on the other line, and my best friend, JP.

            Tomorrow, they were talking about tomorrow. The day after that call, all three of us were going to be skydiving. Why would I suspect anything from an event we had undertaken maybe a hundred times before. But then it hit me. I felt my balls crawl out of their sack and up into my asshole for protection. A rigger. JP specifically mentioned a rigger in the call. A rigger, let me tell you, is responsible for ensuring there are no signs of damage or abuse in a skydiver’s parachute. And now he needed money to get out of town. And he was probably packing my chute!

            Later that night, my wife’s watchful wary eyes pleaded nolo contendere when I thoughtfully asked if she was OK. She had developed a nervous twitch in her forehead but she simply replied that it had been a long day and “I’ve got a terrible migraine. Do you mind if I go to bed early?”

            “Hey honey, if you’re feeling that bad maybe we should cancel tomorrow’s jump.”

            We’d only been married for seven years, well seven years that October but I swear that she could read my mind that night. Does familiarity breed contempt? She looked at me for several seconds, then smiled and said, “I’ll be OK. I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow.” 

            I could hear my balls arguing over whether it was time to retreat again but I casually replied, “OK. Get a good night sleep.”

            As she turned and walked towards our bedroom, my mind played host to myriad thoughts regarding the coming hours. A voice of reason ‘piercing the night’s dull ear’ that I was overreacting lay waste to any hope of a restful sleep. Questions. So many questions. And Paris? La ville Lumiere. Why Paris? I settled in my favorite chair with a bottle of Bushmills and a can of coke and waited for the elusive tendrils of sleep to put an end to my endless ruminations.

            That fateful morning conversation was stilted and strained as we drove to the airport where we were to meet JP.

            JP had reserved a Cessna 182 for our jump. A small plane that holds five people: the jump pilot and four skydivers. No co-pilot. No co-pilot seat either in this craft of spartan simplicity. It generally takes about 20 to 25 minutes for the plane to reach the altitude required for our jump, 10,000 feet. That day there was only the three of us and the jump pilot may have pushed the altitude to 10,500 time and fuel permitting. I never asked. 

            JP greeted Janet and me as we approached the Cessna which appeared to be undergoing a pre-flight check by the jump pilot. Apparently, JP had arrived early and settled up our account for that day’s jump so we could slip away to a local wine bar before it got busy. 

            He had also secured our chutes and our jump suits, which he dropped before us and with that distinctive JP smile said, “Last one down buys a round.”

            It was around this time that I was getting really concerned about what was about to unfold after I dropped from the plane. Was the overheard phone call something I was meant to hear? A practical joke? Was I simply overreacting to a phone call that pointed to my wife’s possible infidelity? If not, I would be free falling to the most serious face plant of my life. When Janet left my side to join JP, who had sauntered over to the Cessna to talk to the jump pilot, I switched out her chute for mine. All three chutes were identical as far as I could see, but JP’s was further away and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. If I was worrying unnecessarily--and I am prone to negative thinking--then either chute would bring us safely to the ground.

            I chose to be the first to jump. Don’t ask me why. I could have jumped last. I could have come down with the plane. But for whatever reason, I decided that day to confront this irrational fear that my life was in danger. Surprisingly, JP and Janet did not object. They even looked at each other if I remember correctly and smiled.

            At 10,000 feet msl the temperature is roughly 23.3 degrees Fahrenheit and as I eased myself out of the opening of the Cessna, placed my foot on the step and grabbed hold of the wing strut, the cold slapped me hard in the face. We were approaching the drop zone and what the hell was I doing?  Before I could reconsider whether this was a good idea someone kicked my ass out the door.

            It takes about 30 to 35 seconds to drop in free fall at a terminal speed of 120 mph to 3,000 feet where I would usually pull my ripcord to deploy my chute for a lazy two-to-three-minute ride to the landing area. I looked back and saw JP drop from the plane followed by my wife.

            I checked my altimeter. It was the moment of truth. Shit or get off the pot.  Rather than wait for my normal deployment altitude, I pulled my ripcord. Nothing, as I watched the ground below me approach rapidly and decisively. Nothing, then a slight tug as the pilot chute caught air acting as a drogue to pull out the pin of the closing loop for the main chute. I caught my breath as the main chute blossomed above me, that beautiful fucking canopy catching air as I settled into a slow drift.

            I looked up just in time to see JP belly flying above me, then a quick look my way as he shot by me, and seconds later his pilot chute popped free. 

            To this day I wonder what my wife thought in those last seconds of her life as she beheld our two canopies as she continued to drop by me and then JP.

            I could see her pulling at her ripcord. Pulling, desperately pulling and then she started to tumble, a free fall from which there was and wouldn’t be an escape until she hit the ground several thousands of feet below me. It never occurred to me as I floated down to the landing area, watching her plummet, screaming, or praying I presume, why her AAD, her Automatic Activation Device, failed. But at the subsequent inquest into her death, it was discovered that her chute wasn’t equipped with one. And considering how she was tumbling she couldn’t have jettisoned her chute in time to deploy her reserve.

            There was no forwarding address for the rigger but apparently his testimony wasn’t required. Her death was labelled accidental by the FAA. JP and I dissolved our working relationship and I moved to Florida, home of ex-presidents and presidential wannabes, pickle ballers and aging widows in hot pants. At Janet’s funeral, he gave me a look that said, “You knew, you fucker. You knew,” which I acknowledged with a simple grin and under my breath added as he walked away, a line from Henry V, "With blood he sealed a testament of noble-ending love".

                        It was several months after my wife’s funeral that I received an unexpected and rewarding phone call.

            “Hello.” 

            “Mr. Wilson.” 

            “Yes. Who’s calling?” 

            “Mr. Wilson, it's Sanjay Kumar from the Progressive Life Insurance Company.”

            There was an obvious pregnant pause because I didn’t really know what to say. Fortunately, Sanjay continued, perhaps mistaking my befuddlement for apparent grief.

            “I was very sorry to her about your wife’s passing, Mr. Wilson. I’ve been in India for the past several months taking care of my father whose health is, well it has certainly been better. It wasn’t until I returned to the office that I was told that your wife had died.”

            I was a little circumspect about this call so I asked the obvious, “So why are you calling me?” 

            “Your wife called me I believe about six or seven months ago, I would have to check my notes to be sure, but she called about obtaining a life insurance policy from Progressive Life.” 

            “An insurance policy? For whom?”

            “She was inquiring about a life insurance policy on her husband, yourself.”

            “On me? Why would she be asking about a life insurance policy on me?”

            “I can’t remember all the details of our conversation but it had something to do with ensuring your children’s future was financially secure in the event of your death.” 

            “We don’t have any children.” 

            Again, a slightly longer pregnant pause.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” 

            “It’s Sanjay Kumar, Mr. Wilson.” 

            “What was this policy worth Sanjay?” 

            “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

            Unbelievable. Seven years of marriage, and dead I was worth only five hundred thousand. 

            “Well Sanjay I’m not planning to go anywhere anytime soon. Are the premiums all paid up? Just asking.” 

            “Yes, they are but, that’s not the reason for my call.” 

            “And that would be?” 

            “When I spoke to your wife, I indicated to her that our company would provide a modest discount to the monthly premiums if both partners regardless of their marital status, had life insurance policies with Progressive Life.” 

            He added, “Simplified issue policies. No medical exam required.” 

            I was afraid to ask the next question but what the hell. “Where are you going with this Sanjay?”

            “My manager, Mr. Wilson, however well-intentioned he may be, is strict yet practical. If an opportunity exists for a sale to a client, we are to pursue it and your wife reluctantly--and I must stress Mr. Wilson she was not cajoled or pressure--agreed to a second policy.”

            “A second policy?”

            “Yes, she agreed to a second life insurance policy in her name, with you as the beneficiary.”

            I was almost afraid to ask but Sanjay gave me the answer before I could formulate the question.

            “Her policy was worth five hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Wilson. That is the reason for my call besides my most heartfelt condolences. Again, Progressive Life is very sorry for your loss. I will be forwarding you a cheque as per the terms of your wife’s policy after we are in receipt of a deposition regarding her death and a copy of her death certificate. If you could forward those documents to my attention, I will finalize all the paper work at this end.”

            We talked for a few more minutes as Sanjay reviewed our, or rather my mailing address and I answered his questions regarding the state of my health.  Then I concluded our conversation with a “Thank you, Sanjay.” 

            To which he replied in that pleasant lilting East Indian accent, “You're most welcome, Mr. Wilson. And again, I am very sorry for your loss.”

            So here I sit at Manatees, sipping and savouring another Mojito, waiting for Pedro Alfonso, an aged but very sociable Cuban refugee from whom I learn Spanish in return for English lessons while we settle the world’s differences over a game of chess. Remorse? No, no remorse. How can I feel remorse when I still get to see the sunset each and every day?