All Jack could say was, “Huh?” He stretched luxuriously—seeing if I’d panic when he released the wheel. I didn’t. “If you ask me, the best movie ever made was Cannonball Run.”
All I could say was, “Huh?”
I pulled his chain by asking. “What’s your opinion of that great love story set against a civil war backdrop?”
“Awful!” he replied. “Gone with the Wind was a chick flick.”
“Not that one. I meant Dr. Zhivago—the Russian civil war.”
He refused to talk to me for the next thirty minutes.
We continued a northwesterly path over Alaska, and dusk shrouded us earlier than I was used to in Upstate New York because of the plane’s current, more-northerly latitude. Our conversations became even more disjointed when Jack broke his self-imposed silence. The vast, barren terrain below, flitting in a
