El Tonelero Diabolico Blanco

“Abuelo, quédate conmigo, por favor”, the little girl murmured softly. “Grandpa, please stay with me.” The old man looked into her eyes, and wished more than anything that he could give her what she wanted. He wasn’t tired of living, but he’d lived at least two lives. He just couldn’t bear to break her heart. He’d caused enough heartbreak already. “Es la hora, mija.”. His breathing slowed, and on the backs of his eyelids a staccato slideshow of those lifetimes flickered. His face gave only the barest indication of the scenes he was reliving. His expression flowed from pride through amusement, then darkened as regret drew his features taut. The little girl would have been pleased that reflecting on his all-too-brief time with her had restored the sun in his soul, both in the moment and in his life.

Even now he marveled at the seemingly limitless joy that shone from his granddaughter’s eyes. He ached that her mother’s light had always been hidden behind shutters. It couldn’t have been helped. It had to be this way--hadn’t it? An unanticipated coughing fit jolted him back into the present moment, in the present day. He barely got his hand to his face in time to cover the worst of it. The old man stole a glance at the back of his hand. As he feared, it was flecked with blood droplets. Under the woman's stony glare, he slyly drew his granddaughter close with the other hand, and wiped the blood on the underside of the sheets. He didn’t have enough time to atone for any new sins. Better the nurse should do more laundry than he should make his granddaughter cry any more than she had to.

His embrace was almost crushing. He truly wasn’t sure if he was trying to squeeze in enough love to last her the rest of her life, or to borrow enough innocence by osmosis to escape Hell. He hoped to at least ride Charon’s boat in First Class. Her mother locked eyes on his. Silently, she seemed to say “Why couldn’t *I* have had this life? You know how to love! You need to BE loved! All my life that was all I ever wanted!” For his part, the old man could only speak his daughter’s name, with eyes heavy with shame and remorse. “Daniela…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to say, how to say it or even what he felt. Together, they were bound by a lifetime of his missteps, and her endless cycle of soaring hope and crashing disappointment. The welling tears in his daughter’s brown eyes lashed him from without. Even all these years later, as they played out their agonized duet for the thousandth? the millionth? time, he beat himself up from the inside, and silently raged because they both knew that he bore the blame. All of it.

His muscles sagged as he slipped below the waves of slumber again. Daniela’s voice penetrated the surface: “Susana--No debemos cansar al abuelo. Te prometo que podemos volver mañana”, she said softly. “We mustn’t tire Grandpa. I promise, we can come back tomorrow”. Susana reluctantly accepted the offer--Daniela had been careful to never break a promise to her daughter, whatever other failings she may have had. She kissed her father goodbye, and hoped it was not for the last time.

His eyes remained closed. When the two people he loved most walked out of his room; it felt as if all the life force in the room followed them out. Even before Susana and Daniela were out of sight, he became aware of the sensory abrasiveness of the room. The hard echo of the tile floors. The cold and scratchy linens. The horrific institutional stink composed of equal parts industrial cleaning products, incompletely mopped up urine, and decades of meals dumped indifferently out of #10 cans. No one wants to die, but no one wants to live like this either.

He lay back quietly and returned to June of 1970. He smiles as he sinks into memory. Hospital chatter of the 21st century crossfades into the day he is returning from his tour in Vietnam. The soldier sitting next to him jokes that he’s dead certain this is one flight that won’t be hijacked. It’s a casual throwaway line that doesn’t even make complete sense, but it’s enough to set his thoughts in motion, if slowly. The other man, a paratrooper, says something like “just go right out the back of that 727, right down the stairs”. The idea is already sprouting, and he stops listening as he begins planning what would become his boldest moment, and his high water mark. It’s the same old dream, but even knowing it frame for frame, the sensations are as real and heart-in-throat exhilarating as they had been 40 years ago. The stiff smile of the stewardess as he declines coffee and sends her to wait in the cockpit with the pilots. Buckling the duffel bag to his waist. The roar of the icy November wind threatening to rip the clothing from his body. He smells the jet exhaust, and as he plunges into the night the world is all jangled confusion . There have been other points of no return along this path, sure, but jumping...if ever there was a leap of faith he’s just made it.

Several days later, he steps into a drugstore and buys a pen, a Coke and little black notebook. “12/2/71”, he writes. “Sacramento.” He’s disheveled from his walk through the woods to highway 5.

He is lucky to have survived the jump, though he’d have a limp for the rest of his life. Those first few days are painful and disoriented. Life is spartan and fast. Run for the border. The smug thrill of victory dims when his damaged leg flexes. The bag isn’t making it any easier. They're looking for him. They'll look for the next 40 years.

On balance, the thrill of the moment was all he got to keep. He had left a little of the loot, wrapped in tissue, to decoy his pursuers. He had planned to simply lie low for a time, but "a time" had turned to years of a quiet nomadic life. In Bolivia, love hit him like a gaucho's bola. His constant run from the law slowed but could never stop. He made a life of sorts with Consuela. They were never very long in one place, but they had each other. He shared with her his true name. Despite her pleas, in reckless conceit for the rest of his life he would use the surname “Tonelero”. Barrel maker. Cooper. She lived the rest of her life afraid his hubris would destroy them both and deprive their daughter of a father.

As Daniela matured, her heart slowly broke as she watched her father deteriorate from a mighty god to an idol with feet of clay to a mortal man whose flaws and deceits were a way of life. He ran from his crimes, and ran from himself, but always brought her and her mother along for the punishing ride. She had never gone hungry or cold, but nor had she known stability. She had learned evasion, camouflage and deception from the moment she could speak. And though it was second nature, she had known it was unnatural. She still loved her father, but her heart ached for the days when she still liked and respected him.

The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of the old man. He was dying, and he knew it His life had been transformed by the paratrooper’s unknowing suggestion, and even now he could not say whether it had been for the better, overall. The balance shifted momentarily toward “better” when Susana’s voice excitedly rang out “¡Tito! ¡Tito!”--”Grandpa! Grandpa!” A tear rolled down his face as he smiled at her. He was almost grateful that he wouldn’t live to see her learn what he really was, and see the adoration dim in her eyes, as he had watched it dim in Daniela’s. “Siempre te amaré, mi corazon” -- I will always love you. He lifted his eyes to her mother. “Hand me my bible.” She could not help rolling her eyes.

Matthew 3:8 Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. Between the pages of the gospel was a slip of paper, torn out of the little black notebook, 40 years before. It was worn and yellowed with age, but the writing was still clear. “That is the number of a deposit box in the Bank of Mexico, in Mexico City. It has the last $20,000 from my...my adventure. Please, use it to make a better life for Susana than I made for you.”

Those were the last words of D.B. Cooper.