Coincidentally, Duane made the decision to try to get home at just about the same moment that SuddenJim knocked on Deirdre’s door. Connie had been nagging Duane about how important it was for him to be home that night, for their as-ever-childless Christmas eve. So even though the admiral opted to stay in Las Vegas, Duane decided to fly home in the nasty weather, filed a flight plan, took off alone into the stormy dark. While Deirdre opened her door to jolly old Jim, Duane taxied and lifted off toward lightning.

Deirdre thought about sending Jim home but would have felt small-minded doing it. She sent him instead into her TV room, where he played some video games. She tried to recover her lovely solitude but the mood eluded her. Eventually she answered the door to Connie, gathered her scarf and her son together, pulled Jim away from the game, and left for the pageant.

They walked. Three blocks downhill slipping a little on wet sidewalks that had iced up in the cold night air. Left and level for another two blocks, but into a face-chapping wind. Around the corner, gust-sheltered, happy to get into the school auditorium just ahead of the rain. They walked to four seats together, pulling off gloves and tugging scarves loose from their throats.

Abundance of wool. Red mufflers and blue hats. Poofy nylon jackets in spinnaker colors. Rosy cheeks even on African skin. The place sparkled with December.

The music was awful. Flat out of tune. Deirdre and Ian squirmed a little in their seats. Jim and Connie were sedate with satisfaction. They sat hunched slightly forward with smarmy grins on their faces.

From out of nowhere, between a marginal rendition of “Silent Night” and a gathering of the whole troop for what was to be “Jingle Bells,” came a tearing crash, a thudding shudder…lights out…screech…

Hole in the sky. Metal glinting. Smashed and sliding. Screaming…

Connie and Jim were stunned. Unhurt they sat in dazzled amazement. It was Ian who leapt to action. He raced to the stage, pulling classmates away from the smouldering wreckage. Before the remains of the plane ignited he and a few others had evacuated that stage. Deirdre ran to help. Past ripped metal, sliding on blood, to cushion the heads of terrified children.

Duane died on impact. Long afterward, when they analyzed the flight recorder and replayed his last words, some of them suspected suicide. But the plane was clearly hit by lightning. It’s almost certain Duane would have looked for an uninhabited area in which to crash. There’s no way he would have aimed for the school; it was tragic that he hit the auditorium. His final words were garbled and must have meant something else. Must have been two partial sentences or something.

Three teachers died along with Duane, and a dozen parents in the audience were injured. The music instructor, the man who kicked Ian out of the production for passing around those kitchen matches (“bringing a weapon to school,” were the words on the suspension report), was decapitated by the port wing. Miraculously, no kids were hurt. But Ian got them all away. He and a few others. Deirdre helped.

Ian was a bit of a hero. He learned how it felt to admire himself. It was easy and obvious for Deirdre to mark his evolution from that night.

And Deirdre? she tried to reserve judgment. But she watched Connie and Jim motionless in the auditorium that Christmas eve, and she knew then that they were full of shit. The worst kind of solidarity, she couldn’t help thinking. Certain images wouldn’t leave her memory. The sight of Ian running to help, sliding to his knees, pulling with small bulging man-muscles, his face shining and intense. The blank look on her sister, like she was coming out of a dream. Jim’s big blue eyes blinking as he sat immobile, blinking like he was surprised by light. The remains of the music instructor.

Deirdre grew a little more knowing. She smiled a lot and although she spoke more softly, from then on she tended to hum “whatever” and do whatever she wanted to do.