Post 35: Man On A Plane

“So, your friend--and I--we're Carters. What was—is--his first name?” I asked, lowering my tray table. The flight attendant had just brought us our drinks.

I was mid-sip of my vodka tonic when Hugh replied, “We called him BC. His full name was Bradford. Bradford C. Carter. He was dating the most beautiful girl in those days, named Liz.”

            Unnerved and at the same time curious, I smiled. “They’re my parents. Only people call them Brad and Elizabeth these days.”

            Looking relieved, Hugh replied, “Well, you are the spitting image of your daddy, Drew. You’re what twenty-five, twenty-six? Your dad must have been about your age when we were friends. But, how is it possible? Your daddy was, I hope is, a good five years older than me. He’d have to have been almost fifty when you were born.”

            “Forty-eight. He and my mother were late starters.”

            “And, now, are they?”

            “Very much alive and well.”

            “Oh, good, good. I’m a little more hesitant to ask that question than I used to be. So many of our crowd.” Hugh drifted off. “Anyway. So, they got married and had you.”

            “And, first, my older sister, Kathryn or ‘Kit.’”

            “Two. Well, how wonderful for them.” Hugh took a sip of his drink. He seemed genuinely happy with my news. He paused for a minute and offered, “You know, you come from fine people.”

            “Thank you, Mr., er, Hugh.” We both paused to attend to our drinks. “Can I ask you, Hugh, how did you know my parents?”

            “Oh, gosh,” he replied. He smiled and settled in, recollecting their meeting. “This was in the early days. Your dad and I worked together at People’s Drug downtown. I did mostly stock work, but your dad was a handsome, personable young man and they put him out front at the pharmacy counter. I’m guessing he was about twenty-six or so, and I was twenty-one. We must have worked together for over three years. As I remember, he was supporting his mother as well as helping out his younger brother, Richard?”   

            “Uncle Rick.”

            “Yes, Rick. He was helping Rick with his tuition at Mercer.” I had heard this part of the story from Mama. Those were hard years, long behind Daddy; he had never shown any interest in revisiting them.

            Hugh’s eyes were kind and reflective. We each made our dinner choices and ordered another drink. After they came, Hugh continued. “You know, your father is the finest, most honest man I have ever known.” Pleased and curious, my reaction prompted Hugh to continue.            

“You see, it was 1935. Nobody had much of anything, and we counted ourselves lucky just to have a job. Of course, your dad always found work outside of the drug store. BC was a hard worker. After work, your dad and Liz, and my girl, Nancy, and I would double-date. In the summer months, we’d go dancing at the pavilion at Waterglen, the amusement park. Is it still there?”

            “It’s still there. And my aunt Virginia, my mother’s older sister, actually owns it.”

“So, Virginia must have married Rob.”

            “Davis. Robert Davis. His family owned Waterglen.”

            “I knew your aunt and uncle. Rob was a great guy. Everybody loved him.”

            “So I’m told. I didn’t really get to know him. He died when I was barely four.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.”

            We sat in a quiet, respectful moment. Then Hugh began again. “The six of us triple-dated a few times. There weren’t many of us who had a car, so when we could borrow one, it was the more, the merrier.” Hugh laughed. I relaxed and wondered what the odds were of being seated next to someone who tapped so easily into your family history.

            Dinner came, and we talked more about the years that preceded not only me but also my parents’ marriage. For Hugh, it seemed like a fond journey back to a gentler time. For me, it was like an archeological dig. I wanted details, and Hugh provided them, seeming to relish sharing those times with someone who had a connection, someone who cared. His stories were often funny. Some were poignant. But as the sun set and the plane darkened, Hugh’s face turned serious in the cabin lighting.

            “Now, Drew, I want to tell you about your dad and the fine thing he did. I doubt he ever told anyone about his kindnesses, so this is a story I doubt you are likely to hear from anyone but me. As I’ve said, the Depression was on and nobody had much of anything in the way of things or money. Your dad and I talked a lot during our breaks at People’s, behind the loading bays, smoking and dreaming about our futures. As I recall, your dad had a singular dream: to marry Liz, your mother. He said the rest would work itself out. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure if opportunity would ever show up, so when it did, I was sure it would disappear as quickly as it came.”

            I waved off the flight attendant’s offer of a brandy, and Hugh continued. “At the time, my older brother, Phil, was married and living in Chicago. Phil had gotten a full ride at Northwestern and graduated with a degree in biochemistry. Despite the Depression, Phil was a talented chemist, with a mind for business. He called me in December of ’35 and told me to drop everything and come to Chicago. It seems his company had been awarded a military contract that would not only pay well but also enable the company to offer shares. All I had to do was show up with two hundred dollars, and not only would I have a job, I would have a stake in something. Something with promise.” Hugh stopped, deep in thought, reflecting on what was flooding back to him.

            “I remember the Christmas lights had just gone up downtown, and even the general air of Depression-era gloom was brightened a bit by the season. I met your dad on our break and shared my news along with my disappointment. I had scraped together a hundred, but didn’t have any way to get the rest right away or in a month or a year.”

            Hugh must have caught my questioning look. “Here’s the part I want you to know: your dad lent me the money. I don’t know who went without Christmas presents that year, or what dreams of his own he postponed, but two days later, he placed an envelope in my hands and said, ‘Go to Chicago. Take Nancy. Take a chance. Pay me back when you can.’ And that was it. As quickly as the news came, Nancy and I married in a civil ceremony five days later and boarded the Centurion at the N&W station the following day. You dad and Liz stood up for us at our wedding, and saw us off at the station.”

            Hugh paused, wiped his eyes, and sighed. “There was no contract, no promissory note, no terms, no hesitation. Just, ‘Pay me back when you can.’ Your dad trusted me and, as amazing as it seems, he believed in me, Drew. Not since then have I ever been given such a vote of confidence.”

            “What happened?”

            “Well, the rest is pretty amazing, too. Turns out, I was pretty good on the business side, and my brother and I did well. So well, that we ended up buying out the other shareholders and took control of—”

            “Oberling Industries? The one in Chicago?”

            “OI on the stock exchange. Yes, that’s us. We were Oberling Chemicals at first. The ‘Industries’ part came later. And just so you know, I paid your dad back, five dollars a month at first and later ten. It took two years. Your dad refused interest. When the war came, our military contracts made my brother and me a lot of money. During the war, I sent your dad a ‘business bonus’ to try to show my thanks, and he returned it with a note: ‘I knew you’d make good.’ We lost touch in 1944, and the last I heard, your dad was in the Navy in the Pacific. My last letters were returned; your dad was on a ship somewhere, and your mother had moved. My letters never reached them.”

            “OI,” I repeated. “So, you’re OI.” I was young and impressed and not terribly subtle. “And you never found them or saw them again?”

            Hugh nodded no in reply. “So, you can see now, Drew, why I stared at you at first. I wasn’t even sure your dad was still alive, and you, well, you were like a ghost, from another time.”

            “So, what was my father like then? I mean was he funny, or quiet, or what?” The man that Hugh had been talking about for the better part of an hour registered with me as a more daring, assured, outgoing version of the quiet, fiscally responsible, reserved man whom I knew as my father.

            Hugh smiled. “I think the most important thing you should know about your father is this: He was honest. He was kind. And he believed in people, in me. I doubt he ever became a big talker, but I’ll bet he was—is--a good husband and father. And if you inherited half of his qualities, then I’m betting you’re a fine young man, too, with an amazing future ahead of you.”

            I turned my head toward the window, filled with an overwhelming mixture of embarrassment, amazement, and pride. Hugh and I sat quietly for the rest of the flight.

            As we touched down in Houston, I thanked Hugh for our conversation and for the kind words he had for my father. And as businessmen meeting on a plane did in those days, we exchanged business cards, and Hugh urged me to stay in touch.