Fireball

1

As PanAm Flight 632 plummeted toward the ground only seconds before midnight, all Maryann McTavish could think of was her makeup.

What, I’m gonna die ice cold and with my mascara smeared? I don’t think so.

2

It was bad enough she’d boarded the plane in Anchorage at 9 p.m. on an icy December the 24th. As she’d stepped out of the jet bridge and made her way to her apparently self-chilling seat, her teeth chattered and every fiber of her being trembled with the cold.

3

Just under three hours later, there was a pop. It wasn’t part of the ambient noises she’d grown accustomed to ever since the plane lifted off.

And a stupid plastic bag appeared before her, dangling by a ridiculous plastic tube.

Annoying. What, I’m gonna spend my final moments tryin’a remember that bimbo flight attendant’s instructions?

Below the bag dangled a wholly inadequate mask.

Right. One size fits all, no doubt. What’m I, a putz that I’m gonna put that on my face? How many covid germs are on that thing?

She slapped the inane construction out of the way and reached into the seat beside her for her purse.

But the tube and bag and mask swung back into position, taunting her.

Frustrated, her compact and her self-contained mascara brush tube in her left hand, she raised her right hand to slap the annoyance away again as the final half-second of Christmas Eve ticked off.

4

The Virgin Mary appeared in the aisle, indicting Maryann with a single stiff index finger. Frowning, the Holy Mother said, “Don’t!” Then she brought the finger to the vertical and moved it back and forth in sych with the swinging bag. “Are you stupid, or just naïve?”

Maryann looked up. “Okay, first, get that outta my face.” She put one hand to her chest, her fingers splayed. “And me naïve? So we’re name-calling now? Hey, I’m not the one who boffed the—” She stopped and raised one hand, palm-out. “No. Never mind. I can be the bigger person here. Besides, far be it from me to speak ill of the dead.” She kept the hand up as if to testify. “Anyways, sorry, but I’m not Catholic.”

The Virgin shrugged. “Whatevs. Nobody’s perfect. And I’m here for everyone, not only the faithful.” She gestured. “Just don’t slap the bag, a’right? Use the bag. It’s there to save your life.”

Her hand still on her chest, Maryann canted her head and a glimmer came into her eyes. “Oh, you really wanna talk about ‘faithful’? You really wanna do this?”

The Virgin put both hands out in front of her and curled her fingers. “Bring it on, bitch.”

A sneer worked its way across Maryann’s face. “Okay, one,” and she backhanded the bag again, “this stupid thing is not here to save anything. It’s only a distraction.” She eyed the bag balefully. “Well, and maybe to cut down on the screaming. And two, in this conversation I’m not the one who’s naïve. And three, with regards to being faithful, I’m also not the one who’s a bitch.”

The virgin scowled a warning and wagged that finger again. “Hey now, you don’t wanna go there.”

The sneer fully developed, Maryann shrugged. “Why? I’m not the one who knuckled under to pressure from the boss, a’right?” She snickered. “Virgin birth my ass! And I’m not the one who ejected his Kid nine months and a donkey ride later! If you wanna talk about naïve, poor Joseph, eh? What was his problem, anyways? I mean, other than you putting the horns on him.”

The Virgin’s hands shifted to her hips. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

Maryann shrugged. “Hey, the guy was your old man, am I right? So you must’a had a honeymoon. Even wedding cake—well, or wedding manna or whatever—isn’t a big enough bummer to keep him off you during the honeymoon.”

The Virgin blushed and brought her palms together under her chin. “Joseph worked hard. He was always too tired to—”

Maryann wagged a hand. “Always too tired? Yeah, right. C’mon, no man’s ever too tired to lay a little pipe. So anyways, You an’ the Big Guy—where’d you do it? On his desk? On a cloud? Or did he just sprout wings and whisper ‘Oh Lena’ in your ear?”

The Virgin’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open. “What? We didn’t ‘do’ anything! He came to me in a dream and—”

Maryann wagged that hand again. “Dream schmeme. What, ‘cause you kept your eyes closed you get to call it a dream? Was that part of the deal?”

“You shut up! Shut the hell up!”

Maryann chuckled. “Why should I? You obviously didn’t.” Again she wagged that hand. “Sorry, that one was too easy.” She grinned and pointed. “You know, like You.”

“I warned you!”

The Virgin transformed.

You’ve seen it before. Male, muscular, red skin and horns and a tail.

Maryann laughed out loud. “Now the truth comes out, eh? What, it was a little boy on boy action?”

As the devil lunged, the plane nosed into the ground and went up in a fireball.

5

When investigators finally found the black box, only one voice was clearly recorded. It came after a maniacal laugh, and it wasn’t from the cockpit. “Whatever. At least I’m finally warm.”

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