Broken Sky

by L. A. Weatherly

  Goldie was still dancing. I don’t think she even noticed us.

  I did tell Ma, though I thought Collie would never speak to me again. She went down to Collie’s house with soup and comic books and told me later that he’d been glad to see her.

  “We played cards,” she said. “And I gave him some more aspirin. If he’s not better soon, I’ll get a doctor in.”

  Her mouth was tense; she stood chopping vegetables for a stew. I watched her, at a loss. Why had Collie been glad to see her and not me? At the same time I felt so grateful to her that a scowl darkened my face. Ma could be silly and fluttery sometimes, but when Hal and I were sick she bathed our hands with cold cloths and made all our favourite foods.

  “Did you bathe Collie’s hands?” I said finally.

  Ma stopped chopping. “Come here,” she said, and hugged me hard. I pressed close, though I didn’t usually like being hugged – I’d decided years ago that pilots were too tough for that.

  “Yes, I bathed his hands with a cool cloth,” she said. “And his face, too. And if I could, I’d take him away from that mother of his and raise him right here, with you and Hal. Now go play – I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  Then she’d turned quickly away and I’d known better than to hang around.

  Collie appeared a few days later, knocking at our kitchen door as if nothing had happened. “Scrambled eggs, great,” he said, sliding into his usual chair. His eyes were stormy blue that day, daring me to say something.

  I didn’t – not ever. But something ached inside me whenever I thought of Collie lying in that almost-empty room, with the scarf Ma had given him so carefully arranged.

  I thought he was the bravest boy I’d ever known.

  I was thirteen when I found out Collie was leaving. My father had died four months before and nothing had been right since; the sorrow was a boulder constantly weighing me down.

  Yet there was also the memory of how Collie had held my hand, that day in my bedroom after Dad died. He did that sometimes now. He’d touch my hand, or my arm, and electricity would shoot through me. I didn’t understand it. This was Collie, who I’d known since I was six, who’d seen me in my underwear as we slogged through the mud together.

  We hadn’t been swimming in almost a year, though. I felt too embarrassed by my new curves, and hated it fiercely that things had to change. Sometimes I’d look at Collie when the light hit his face a certain way and my stomach would go tight. What’s wrong with me? I thought.

  When he told me that he and his family were leaving, that very day, the two of us were sitting under a tree in one of my family’s fields. The news was too much; it shattered me. I leaped to my feet and took off running, pounding over the grass. I heard Collie call after me but I didn’t stop. When I reached the barn, I ducked inside and tugged the heavy door shut after me.

  The large space plunged into shadow. I headed straight for the shape that crouched in a far corner. I was sobbing by then; I couldn’t help it. I folded my arms against the side of my father’s Firedove and hid my face as my shoulders heaved.

  A sliver of sunlight fell into the barn, then disappeared again.

  Footsteps. Collie appeared beside me; I felt his hand rest on my shoulder. He squeezed it hard.

  “Please don’t cry,” he said hoarsely.

  At last I straightened and swiped my palm over my eyes. “Why?” I got out. “Why do you have to go?”

  Collie took his hand away and jammed his fists into his denims pockets. He’d grown a few inches lately: a thin, lanky boy with eyes as changeable as the sea.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think my father owes people money. Well, he always does, but it’s pretty bad this time.” Collie’s voice was bitter. From what little I’d gleaned, his father was always either off making “deals”, or sitting around drinking with Goldie.

  He stared at his feet and added reluctantly, “And… I could be wrong, but…I kind of have the impression that Tru’s death made things worse for us.”

  I went cold. “What? Why would it?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe your dad was going to offer mine a job or something.”

  I couldn’t even process the idea that my father’s death might have brought this about. Finally, hesitantly, I took Collie’s hand. He didn’t look up; our fingers wove tightly together.

  “Don’t go,” I whispered.

  He rubbed his eyes. “Do you think I want to?”

  “Then stay here with us! Collie, you know Ma would—”

  “I can’t. I can’t leave Goldie; it’s not like my father ever looks out for her. And besides, if I stay here, what is there for me? You know what everyone thinks of my family in this place.”

  His voice had turned bitter again. Collie had a couple of uncles, too, and cousins, all a few years older than him. Those Reeds, people called them.

  “But if you live here with us, people won’t—”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he broke in shortly. “My father wouldn’t let me stay in a million years.”

  “Why should he have any say in it?” I cried, close to tears again.

  Collie pulled away. “Because the law says so, that’s why. He’d set the police on Rose if I tried. I wasn’t even supposed to come here today, but…” Collie looked at me. His throat moved. “But, Amity…I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you.”

  I felt locked in his gaze. Neither of us moved. Every moment of this past year when Collie had affected me so strangely seemed to surge together at once and my heart beat hard. I was suddenly very aware of his closeness.

  The barn felt vast, silent. Collie hesitated. He put his hands on my shoulders and bent his head to mine.

  Our lips touched. I kept my eyes open as we kissed, staring in wonder at his dark gold eyelashes, the freckle near his eyebrow. There had never been anything as soft as his mouth against mine.

  We drew apart. I swallowed and rested my hand on his cheek. The smooth curve of his skin filled me with awe.

  He reached up and gripped my fingers. “Amity, I…I’ve wanted to tell you for so long…”

  “Tell me what?”

  The world held its breath. Finally Collie shook his head, looking miserable. “I’ve got to go,” he whispered. “I don’t want my father coming here.”

  Panic touched me. This could not be happening. “No, wait! You have to say goodbye to Ma!” On some level, I knew that my mother would not let this happen.

  Maybe Collie knew it, too. “You tell her for me. Tell her how grateful I am to her for everything.” He clutched my hands fervently. “They won’t keep us apart, Amity, I promise. I’ll write to you all the time. Every day. And then when I’m older, I’ll—”

  Collie choked to a stop. He kissed my cheek, then pulled away and ran from the barn before I could stop him, his long legs churning. Sunlight angled in as he wrenched the door open.

  “Collie!” I shouted, racing after him. “Wait!”

  He didn’t stop. A moment later he was gone, running away over the fields.

  I haunted the mailbox for months after that, scarcely able to believe it when nothing came, day after day. Finally Ma sold some of our land and rented out the house and we moved to Sacrament, with its noisy streets and its skies crowded with buildings, because she said she couldn’t keep up the farm without Dad.

  We left a forwarding address but still no letter came. I was going crazy by then, certain that something terrible had happened. Ma was worried, too, and put feelers out – and finally, in response, she got a letter from a friend of hers in Vegas, who said she’d seen Collie and his parents there a while back.

  They seemed fine, told me they were just passing through. Collis looked happy. He was playing ball with another boy when I saw him, she’d reported.

  That was when I stopped caring about much of anything, and decided that I might as well act in the same cold, dark way that I felt inside. I’d shoplifted, mostly. I liked the thrill – it got my adrenalin pumping the
same way flying once had. I hung around with this sleazy boy in our neighbourhood named Rob, who Ma hated. That was good enough for me. He wasn’t Collie, which was even better.

  I lost my virginity to Rob when I was fifteen. He wanted to, and I just thought…why not? It was in the basement of his parents’ house; they were making it into a rec room but hadn’t finished the work yet. There was sawdust everywhere.

  I didn’t like it. Or hate it. I didn’t let myself feel much of anything, but deep down I must have, because I broke up with him soon after that. Then I got arrested for shoplifting a few weeks later. I had to sit in a jail cell for hours, full of drunks and prostitutes – and it hit me so hard then, what Dad would think of me.

  That was when I decided to become a Peacefighter.

  There’d only been one other boy since – someone I met in training school. He was a nice guy and I’d liked him, but I wasn’t in love with him. Or him with me. We were both lonely, I guess. We only saw each other for a few months; then he dropped out. I think I was almost relieved when he left.

  That was it. My romantic career so far. And now Collie was back…and he was insane if he thought I’d ever let myself risk being so shattered again.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I rushed into the courtroom antechamber, Russ was already there, unfamiliar in a blue pinstriped suit. He leaped up, twisting a fedora in his hands.

  “Where have you been, Vancour? I’ve already testified.”

  “I was delayed.” I glanced at the closed courtroom doors. I’d missed my train because of Collie and had to catch a later one; I’d run all the way from the station. I thought I’d kill for a glass of water. I swallowed and smoothed my hair with one hand.

  I should have worn a hat, I thought belatedly. Something small, with a veil. At least I’d brought gloves. I dug them out of my purse – silly little white things that I seldom wore – and struggled them onto my sweaty hands.

  The heavy wooden doors swung open. “Miss Amity Vancour,” called the bailiff.

  “All right, at least you made it in time.” Russ clapped my shoulder. “Go on, Wildcat, knock ’em dead.” His smile looked tense. It reminded me of something – I couldn’t think what, just then.

  Inside the courtroom, the bailiff directed me to the witness stand and I was sworn in. Three WfP officials – two women and a man – sat behind a long, ornate table; the familiar flag with its laurel wreath and clasped hands hung above. They questioned me tirelessly about the Peacefight, referring to typewritten pages.

  “You were aware that your plane was on fire at six thousand feet?”

  “Could you explain, in your own words, the dangers of not bailing from a burning plane?”

  “You are familiar with the phrase ‘sanctity of life’ and what it means to the World for Peace, is that correct?”

  I gripped the podium and managed to keep my voice level as I answered. I couldn’t read anything from their faces, their tones. The stenographer typed every word into record; the steady clicking played on my nerves.

  While they deliberated I sat in the anteroom and plucked at the fingers of my gloves. The minutes ticked past. Russ tapped the wooden arm of his chair, looking like he wished he had a cigar.

  I almost wished I did, too. I gazed blindly at a painting on the wall: the current World for Peace leaders, a committee of twelve who’d given up their respective citizenships to be truly neutral. Just then their expressions seemed grim, unsympathetic.

  I jumped as the outer door opened. A woman with wavy red hair and worried eyes entered, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Amity! I came as soon as I heard.”

  Madeline. I let out a breath and rose to meet her; her perfume wrapped around me as we hugged. I hadn’t told her about the appeal, but in the back of my mind I’d been hoping she’d come.

  “Thanks for being here,” I said.

  She squeezed my arm. “Don’t be silly.”

  When Dad was alive, Madeline often spent long, lazy summer weeks at our place. She’d even gone swimming with Collie and me in the river, shrieking like a ten-year-old at the cold. She and Dad had given flying exhibitions together – and seeing her laughing and confident in her battered leather jacket had impressed it on me even more than Dad’s praise: girls can be pilots too.

  Now she worked here in the Heat where the main WfP offices were, but I didn’t see her very often. I was touched that she’d come. I introduced her to Russ; they shook hands.

  “How’s it going so far?” Madeline perched on a seat and glanced tensely at the closed courtroom doors. Despite her businesslike skirt and broad shoulder pads, she still looked like an overgrown tomboy, with freckles misting her nose.

  Russ grimaced and didn’t respond.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “From the way some of the questions were going…” I trailed off and tugged at my gloves again, then realized I was doing it and stopped.

  “Well, you know what your dad would say,” Madeline commented after a pause.

  I glanced up quickly. She had a small smile on her face. “No, what?” I asked.

  “To hell with it – full speed ahead.”

  I smiled a little too. I could hear Dad saying it, and Ma protesting, “Tru, that isn’t helpful.”

  The door to the courtroom opened. “Court is reconvened,” said the bailiff.

  I took a deep breath. Madeline gripped my hand. “I’ll wait for you here,” she said in an undertone.

  A few moments later Russ and I stood behind a wooden railing with the long table in front of us. One of the women rose and read from a crisp-looking sheet of paper.

  “The Appeal Court in the case of Miss Amity Vancour, Peacefighter pilot 100982, in regards to conflict AT34 on November 29th 1940, the Western Seaboard versus the European Alliance. This court finds that Miss Vancour’s landing of a burning plane from six thousand feet was a reckless manoeuvre, against the precepts that the World for Peace holds dear, and we therefore rule that the wait-time before said dispute can be challenged shall remain five years as standard, with no…”

  Beside me, Russ closed his eyes. I stood stunned as the words droned on. Nothing? If you got your plane down, you almost always got at least a year, except in cases of total irresponsibility. Did they really see me as that reckless?

  “…while no penalties shall be issued, Miss Vancour is officially warned not to partake in such a manoeuvre again. Case dis—”

  “No!” I gripped the railing. “Wait, this can’t be right! I was in control of that plane every moment!”

  The only sound was the stenographer’s steady typing. He came to the end of my outburst and the room fell silent. The WfP official raised an eyebrow as she gazed at me over the top of the paper.

  “Are you questioning our judgement, Miss Vancour?” she asked.

  The only honest answer I could give was yes. I said nothing, words churning inside me.

  “Case dismissed,” said the official after a pause. She rapped her gavel on the table.

  As I exited the cool building the sunshine felt like a spotlight on my failure. Twenty-seven per cent of our main fuel source gone. The Western Seaboard wasn’t prosperous; we couldn’t import what we’d lost. Prices would skyrocket. There’d be hardship – poverty.

  All because of me.

  Russ had hardly spoken. He put on his hat and snapped the brim to an angle. As he walked beside me he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, you got shafted…but at least you tried.”

  “Fat lot of good it did,” I said bitterly. After a hug and a few words of condolence, Madeline had had to return to work. I felt very alone, even with Russ there.

  The Appeal Courts were in a staid part of the Heat never known as anything but Heatcalf City. In places, the planners had left pieces of ancient ruins on show. As Russ and I walked, we passed ages-old footprints set into the sidewalk, alongside names I didn’t know. I stared down at them, lost in my thoughts.

  “Excuse me, Miss. Are you a pilot?”

/>   I turned. A guy in his twenties with auburn hair and ruddy cheeks had caught up to us. A press card was stuck into his hatband. He held out his hand. “I’m Milt Fraser – a reporter for the Daily Laurel.”

  Russ rolled his eyes. “Buzz off, you know better.”

  “Hey, I noticed there was a case today, that’s all. Thought you might have a scoop for me.”

  “No,” I said shortly. I started walking again.

  “You sure?” Milt Fraser jogged to keep up; he grinned. “Aw, come on, help out a struggling hack. There hasn’t been anything good since that big gambling scandal last month. Total anonymity, I promise. If there’s anything you want to—”

  “You heard the lady,” snapped Russ. “Beat it.”

  Milt pressed a business card into my hand. “Okay, didn’t mean to make you sore. But if you’ve ever got anything for me, just give me a call.”

  After he left I crumpled the card and pitched it savagely at a trash can. “I could have his job for that,” I muttered. Reporters weren’t supposed to talk to us; usually fending them off was a game. This time I felt like murdering someone…or crying.

  Twenty-seven per cent.

  Russ must have seen it in my face. He looped an arm around my shoulders and we started down the sidewalk again. “Come on, kiddo,” he said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, I let him. We went to a small bar not far away and I drank whiskey neat. Russ grew expansive as he downed shots of rye, telling me about some of his own hair-raising Peacefights.

  The bartender stood drying glasses; only a few other customers were there at this hour. One sat slumped over the bar with his head on his arms. There was a telio set on in the corner, its drone low and steady. For a change, music wasn’t playing. News footage was on instead: one of Gunnison’s Harmony rallies.

  The small screen showed the Central States leader in grainy black-and-white. He waved a fist, shouting, then surveyed the rally with that call-me-Johnny grin that prickled at my spine. A man I thought might be Sandford Cain stood beside him, his small smile just as chilling. Then came the thunderous crowd. So many people – so many flags snapping at the air with their stark swirls. In real life they’d be red and black against grey, like blood on grimy snow.