If Count was nervous, he hid it well. "Nothing to be nervous about - other than little Ms. Ortolan confusing twisty ties for rubber bands."
Unlike the first time she rigged a parachute, Shannie didn't have to wait until the last pass of the Cessna to witness her handy work; Count was first to exit the plane.
"Not bad," Pete critiqued Count. "It looked like you wanted to go into a fetal position. Then a light bulb went on and you remembered to look up. Congratulations. Good luck in the army." A month later, Count left for Basic Training. Three days after Count's departure, I helped lower a coffin for the first time.
During the spring of 1990 - around the time Count decided to re-enlist - on the night before Shannie and I made our first jump, Diane, Shannie and I sat around the Ortolan's kitchen table sipping coffee. "I have something to show you," Diane said. Shannie and I followed Diane into her bedroom. She handed me the cardboard box with an UPS label affixed to its top. A chill ran along my spine when I noticed the sender: The Reverend Floyd Meaks, Shepherd of the Hills Non Denominational Church, Pleasanton, California. "The box is empty," Diane said.
"I can see," I said turning the box over in my hands. "Why would you get a package from my grandfather's minister?" I asked.
"Before he died, your grandfather asked if I could do him a favor," Diane answered.
That's why he was in her room, I thought. "You knew him?" I asked.
"He introduced himself. Anyway, we made an arrangement. Your grandfather said if anything happened hold onto my ashes until James is old enough. He knows what to do with them. I trust him. The minister sent his ashes here for safekeeping. To keep your mother happy, the good reverend gave her bogus ones."
"I'll be damned," I uttered. "But what about the switch? The one Count made."
"That was phony."
"Why didn't you tell me?".
"It was important that you thought it happened," Diane said.
Diane and Shannie followed me into the kitchen. "You didn't need to know about it, but you needed to know that we weren't burying his real ashes," Diane said.
We could have jumped the previous winter, but we chose to wait until the weather broke. "I'm not freezing my ass off," Shannie said. I agreed.
Throughout the class, I found myself glancing at Shannie; later in the morning I noticed I wasn't the only one. A forty-something man - who Pete Condra dubbed Sergeant Slaughter - with a square jaw, high forehead, and a horrible comb over mauled her with his eyes. Sergeant bragged he was a Philly cop.