Chapter 6 - Alan Had Turned His Son Into A Witness
Alan and I walked across base after dark.
He carried the flask in an evidence bag.
The wings were sealed separately.
Neither belonged to me yet.
I was unexpectedly grateful.
“You have children?” I asked.
“Mason.”
“Only?”
“Yes.”
“Did he see what happened sixteen years ago?”
“He was nineteen.”
Old enough to absorb everything.
Young enough to believe the angriest adult in the house.
“What did you tell him?”
Alan took his time.
“That I had protected a pilot who didn’t protect me back.”
“Did you believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
He looked at the path.
“Some days.”
That answer was more useful than a conversion.
“What did you leave out?”
Alan rubbed the side of the evidence bag with one thumb.
“I lied during the first inquiry.”
I stopped.
“What lie?”
“When they asked if anything inside the flask belonged to someone else, I said no.”
“So you weren't only protecting Dad’s privacy.”
“No.”
“You gave a false answer.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because once I had decided the wings were his business, I treated every question like a threat.”
I resumed walking.
“That made correcting it harder.”
“Yes.”
“And when Dad offered his statement?”
“I thought he was protecting himself.”
“He was.”
Alan looked at me.
“I know.”
“Both can be true.”
He almost smiled.
“Evan says things like that when he’s losing an argument.”
“Genetic.”
We kept walking.
Then I asked:
“Why tell Mason the simplified version?”
Alan stopped.
Not immediately.
Eventually.
“Because he was furious for me.”
That was the honest part.
“He came home from college the weekend the rumor was worst. Heard guys talking about me in the exchange.”
“What did he do?”
“Started a fight.”
I looked at him.
“Mason.”
“Yes.”
“And you corrected him?”
“About the fight.”
“Not the story.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Alan looked toward the dark aviation buildings.
“Because being defended felt good.”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“My wife was angry at me. Command was frustrated. Evan wanted me to accept his written correction and move on.”
“Mason didn't.”
“No.”
“He thought you had been wronged.”
“Yes.”
“And you liked having one person who didn't complicate it.”
Alan's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
No speech followed.
We walked another fifty yards.
“What did his mother think?”
Alan almost laughed.
“She told me I was teaching him to hate a man he’d never met.”
“Did that stop you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I told myself he’d grow out of it.”
Mason was thirty-five.
Apparently not.
Alan looked at me.
“You’re quiet.”
“Usually.”
“You let Mason ride you for weeks.”
I turned.
“How do you know?”
“People talk.”
“What did they say?”
“That he singled you out. Extra inspections. Comments about your father’s rank. Called you ‘aviation royalty’ twice.”
I said nothing.
Alan asked:
“Why didn't you report it?”
“Because I could handle him.”
“Could you?”
I looked at the bag in his hand.
“Until lunch.”
Alan nodded.
I hated that he was right.
My father had raised me to survive discomfort without giving people the satisfaction of seeing it.
Useful skill.
Expensive habit.
Mason had been crossing lines for weeks.
I had kept letting him choose the next one.
“That doesn't make today my fault,” I said.
Alan looked at me.
“No.”
“Good.”
“It does mean Mason wasn't the only person convinced silence was control.”
I stared at him.
“Careful.”
He nodded.
May you like
“Understood.”
At least he knew when to stop.
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