An Impossible Distance to Fall

by Miriam McNamara

  Milosh flipped his pirate eye patch up onto his forehead. “You’re okay?” he asked softly.

  Birdie swallowed, unable to hold their eyes. She didn’t deserve their concern. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  Hazel and June ran into the hangar. Hazel threw her arms around Birdie, her new ring glinting on her finger.

  “Hey, you.” June took her hand and squeezed it. “Come with me. I’ll show you where to change.”

  June’s fingers slipped from hers as she headed toward the cluster of their planes. Birdie followed to a somewhat private area between the Moth and a Jenny. It was hard to look at the height of June’s shoulders, her dark lashes and questioning eyes, and not forget her resolve to put their kiss out of her mind. She wanted to fall against June’s shoulder and feel her arms tighten around her. She wanted to tell her everything that happened last night, everything that had ever happened. About Dad, about Izzy.

  But who knew what had happened between June and Ruth after she’d left? June handed over her costume, and she snatched her hand away when their skin grazed.

  June turned away to give her some privacy. “I can’t believe we lost track of you last night.” Her back was to Birdie, but Birdie could hear the tightness in her voice. “I went to talk with Ruth—next thing I knew, I couldn’t find you anywhere. And I’d seen that jerk talking to you!”

  Birdie had convinced that jerk to leave with her without a thought to the show the next day, and how important it was to everyone. She pulled her filthy dress over her head. “It’s not your fault—” she said. Her voice broke, tears threatening.

  “No, you don’t have to explain anything,” said June. Her hair was pulled into two Wendy pigtails, her hair short enough that wisps had come free and were tickling her neck. Her voice was soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

  June wasn’t judging, defensive, or angry. Birdie wanted to tell June how sad and stupid she felt, but she was barely holding it together. Who knew what might happen if she cracked. “I’m fine,” said Birdie. “Everything’s jake.”

  She sounded convincing, but her hands still trembled as she pulled on her costume.

  Birdie didn’t have to do any stunts in the first scene, just climb out onto the wing and wave at the stands while the story began to unfold. The wind tore at her so hard that she stumbled. It pushed and pulled her, whipping smoke-dirtied hair across her face. She couldn’t find her balance, no matter how she tried to focus.

  Everyone adores you.

  She’d thought Dad adored her, but he’d left without a backward glance.

  Her hands refused to leave the struts, her feet refused to leave the wing. Her eyes caught sight of the ground and she gasped involuntarily, her fingers tightening around wire until she could hardly move. The grass of the field, the concrete of the runway, the hard arch of the hangar roof, CURTISS spelled out in big white letters against the dark tar paper. The word ran through her mind over and over: Curtissssss, Curtisssss, the hiss of a snake. Birdie couldn’t think of what she was supposed to do.

  Everything is perfect.

  It could have been, but she’d done her best to mess it all up.

  Oscar glanced at her worriedly. Birdie gave up on letting go of the struts and slid down them until she sat on the wing. She just needed a moment.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breath deeply, but all she felt was the empty space around her. The plane was not in her control; it could jerk or dip and throw her off. It could fall like a stone from the sky. Just because it stayed up in the air every time before, who could say if it would this time? She’d thought she knew how everything would go—but she had no idea which way life would lurch.

  You will never fall.

  She bet Dad never thought he would fall, either.

  “You okay?”

  When she pried her eyes open Oscar was crouched beside her, looking so concerned her heart wobbled.

  “Now is the sword-fight,” he said.

  The show. She couldn’t let everyone down. She nodded, her stomach dropping out.

  “You’ve got this,” he said. “You’ve done it a bunch of times. You know exactly how it goes.” Coaching her gently, Oscar took her hand and lifted her to standing. He guided her to the edge of the wing.

  “I’m getting back in the cockpit,” Oscar said. “I’m gonna bring the plane around, then it’s your turn to shine.”

  He left her side. After a moment the plane banked, and she glanced out over the airfield. They were coming into position.

  She looked straight down and tried to convince herself.

  The ground below is home. Life like it used to be is waiting for you. You would jump off the wing of a plane for that.

  She would do anything.

  But that was just a story she’d been telling herself. That life was gone. She knew it was gone for good.

  “No.” She gasped and backed away, fumbling for something solid. “No, no, no—”

  There was nothing there but empty air, an impossible distance to fall and survive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BIRDIE DIDN’T ARGUE WHEN HENRIETA LED HER TO A STEAMING BATHTUB. She had never felt dirtier, and she couldn’t bear to be around anyone. Now she sat on her bed in the front bedroom, damp and exhausted, in a threadbare robe that Henrieta had lent her, as the show’s spectacular failure replayed in her mind.

  It had all fallen apart after Birdie panicked. She remembered little except for the gasping, harsh sound of her own breath as she struggled to keep her throat from closing up. The gusto had left Colette’s narration as she scrambled to make it seem like Peter Pan had saved the day, when it was clear that he had not. Birdie had been able to look up from her own clenched hands only after Oscar had landed, just in time to witness the final catastrophe. Merriwether had crawled down the rope hanging from the Jenny as Milosh flew it, into the open mouth of Bennie’s crocodile costume as he drove the Studebaker speeding below. It started out spectacularly, but this time the Studebaker couldn’t quite get up to speed, and the Jenny passed the Studebaker a hair too soon. Merriwether had flailed around in the air for a few moments before she realized she wasn’t going to make it, then had to pull herself back up the rope ignominiously as Milosh circled the field and the Studebaker came to a rattling stop.

  The NAR guys had left the field tight-lipped and unimpressed. The audition had been an absolute disaster.

  And it was her fault. Birdie had been so stupid, thinking she could just will everything to work out all right.

  There was a knock on the door. She stared at the door a moment, willing whoever it was to go away, but there was another soft knock.

  She stood up, body like lead, and shuffled over to open it.

  Oscar’s smile filled the doorframe, a plate in his hand. “I thought, if I was you, I’d like some dinner,” he said. “But I also thought, if I was you, I might not want to be fussed over any more. I might be hiding in my room.”

  Birdie stared at his mouth. He said something else but she couldn’t hear it—her exhaustion was a roaring wave. He stepped inside the room and put the plate down on her side table. She caught her pale, hunched reflection in the mirror and fluffed her hair over her shoulders, trying to put a pleasant expression on her face, but when he turned and met her eyes, his smile faltered. “It’s okay, if you’re not okay,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what happened last night, but don’t feel like you need to pretend.”

  She could feel tears welling in her eyes. If she tried to explain, it wouldn’t make any sense. She was falling apart because a pretty lady told Birdie she didn’t have an affair with her dad?

  She sank onto the edge of the bed. “I’m just hungover,” she mumbled. She didn’t deserve his sympathy.

  Oscar came and sat beside her.

  “I’m hungover,” he said. “You, on the other hand—you didn’t make it home last night.” He paused. “We were really worried about you.”

  He was so sweet. They all were. “You as
ked Hazel to marry you.” Birdie’s voice rasped, and she swallowed to clear her throat. “I’m sorry I made a mess of your big night.”

  “Come on, Birdie,” he said. “Don’t beat yourself up about that, or the show today. It wasn’t just you. We weren’t ready.”

  Birdie stared at the floor, hugging her arms around her ribs. It was getting harder to pretend she was fine.

  “We were really scared when you didn’t come back last night,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that. I wanted you to know we care about you.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned into his shoulder, trembling.

  “C’mere, pretty bird.” He pulled her into a hug. “You must’ve had some night.”

  She breathed him in for what felt like minutes. His breath was steady and deep, and it calmed her. The itch of tears receded from her eyes, and she became aware of his cheek against her forehead. She could feel his chest rise and fall. She tilted her head up and breathed against his neck. He smelled like Henrieta’s handmade soap and tobacco. She remembered his hands lingering when he’d tickled her on the path.

  He inhaled and pulled away. Sadness washed over her, all the breath left her body. She felt like she was drowning. Tears slid down her face as she caught his cheek and pulled him in—his full lips brushed hers, salt and warmth and sadness. She felt him resist but she clung tight, she’d go under if she let go—

  A gasp sounded from the doorway. Birdie looked up and June was standing there, her mouth open. A plate, identical to the one Oscar had placed on the bed stand, tipped toward the floor. A pierogi fell and hit the rug, rolling under Merriwether’s bed as they all stared at each other.

  Oscar was on his feet in a second, hands wavering, unsure.

  Tiredness surged though Birdie.

  “You,” said June, staring at Birdie. She blinked. “You,” she repeated, this time with venom. She looked at Oscar, who’s open mouth held unsaid explanations. “You bastard!” Her face reddened as she flung the plate at him. He ducked, and the plate clattered to the floor as sour cream and bits of onion slimed the bedspread behind him.

  “June, it’s not—it’s—” Oscar stuttered.

  “You just—” June stabbed a finger at Oscar, words failing her. “Hazel—”

  “Oh my God. This is a mistake,” he said low. “This is an accident.”

  “It’s my fault,” said Birdie wearily. It’s all my fault.

  “You don’t get to say anything!” June whirled on her. “What are you even doing here? What were we even thinking?”

  Birdie pulled her robe tight, wishing she’d headed home this morning. She should’ve gone straight back to Glen Cove after she got the truth from Gilda. Then she wouldn’t be here, this wouldn’t be happening.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Hazel, swinging into the doorway playfully.

  No one answered. Hazel took in Oscar and Birdie standing next to each other, the plate of food smeared across the floor. “What’s going on?” Hazel repeated, straightening and smoothing her skirt.

  June looked at Birdie with utter contempt. “You’ve done nothing but mess things up. You have no experience, no sense. It should’ve been clear to us from the start that you’re just a spoiled girl looking for attention.”

  Rage was a raft, lifting Birdie out of her stupor. “Me?” said Birdie incredulously. “I’m spoiled, Miss My-daddy-gives-me-everything-I-want? You don’t know anything about me.” None of them would understand what she was going through.

  “You’re right,” said June quietly. “I don’t. I sure did want to, though, for some crazy reason.”

  “You don’t say,” said Birdie, alive now. Hot and electric. “Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, I was just looking for attention.”

  Too late, Birdie remembered them dancing together. Slow, hip-to-hip, fingers entwined. She remembered the tug of that strange thread between them.

  She felt now how quickly it was unraveling, as June shook her head and looked away.

  “Please tell me what happened.” Hazel was staring at Oscar, hurt dawning in her eyes. “Oscar?”

  “I—I don’t know what happened.” Oscar reached out to catch Hazel’s hand. “I came in here to—” His voice trailed off. “I was just—”

  Hazel pulled her hand away. She looked at June.

  “They were kissing,” said June flatly.

  The color left Hazel’s face. The air left the room. Birdie felt like screaming.

  David had come around, Izzy had said. He wanted to marry her. She should have gone home as soon as she’d heard that.

  She should have known, since the bank failed. Things failed. You could smile and party and dance and pretend like everything was okay, and you would still fail.

  Everything was one big disappointing failure.

  “Don’t worry,” Birdie said bitterly. “I’m going home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BIRDIE EASED THE DOOR OF THE GUEST BEDROOM OPEN, FEELING A PANG as she listened to Merriwether’s whistling breath behind her. After the terrible audition, Merriwether had been her usual gruff, practical self. Life never goes according to anyone’s plan, that’s for damn sure. When she heard Birdie was leaving, she’d given her five dollars in payment for the Coney Island show. Birdie took it, even though she didn’t deserve it. With that and the last of the money she’d brought with her, she figured she’d be able to make it back to Long Island if she was careful.

  Birdie quietly shut the door behind her. She had her old coat on. She’d tried to put her old dress on, too, but it stank so badly of smoke and alcohol that she couldn’t stand it. She wore Henrieta’s daughter’s dress. It wasn’t clean either, but it smelled like dirt and fresh paint and sunshine.

  She would make it to Union Station in Chicago by morning. Henrieta had given her directions. Bennie had said he’d drive her in the morning, but Birdie couldn’t stand the thought of being at the house when they all woke up. She couldn’t face any of them again.

  As Birdie crept toward the door, her elbow caught paper on a side table and swept it to the floor. She cursed quietly, and risked flicking on the hall light. A draft of a poster lay on the floor, fallen from next to the phone. Birdie squinted in the dim light as she picked it up. It proclaimed, BIRDIE, THE GIRL WHO WOULDN’T GROW UP! There was a picture of her and Hazel smiling in short skirts and flying caps, arms around each other, smiling sweetly with painted lips.

  No new Travel Air for Hazel. No Hollywood agents. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Birdie had taken the thrill of Hazel’s new engagement away from her, too.

  She heard a tap from the kitchen and turned her head. A candle in a holder burned on the kitchen table, illuminating a steaming mug and a few other objects. Her stomach tightened, bracing for another confrontation. So much for slipping away unnoticed.

  “You ready for your tattoo, bird girl?” Colette’s voice came out of the darkness that pooled on the far side of the candle.

  Birdie felt like she was communing with an invisible spirit. “I can’t,” she answered. “I’m leaving.”

  “Train won’t leave till morning.” Colette’s hand appeared next to the candle and patted the table. “Come on, I drew you some pictures. All you have to do is look.”

  Birdie set the poster next to the phone and walked into the kitchen. Colette materialized, hair piled wildly on her head, a homespun nightgown looking incongruous on her inked, lanky body. Milosh sat next to her, looking equally out of place in a striped nightshirt.

  “What do you think about these?” Colette pushed a piece of paper across the table.

  “I helped come up with some ideas.” Milosh leaned his elbows on the table, hair falling into his face.

  A few images stood out. A pattern of stars, all different sizes, like a night sky you could get lost in. It looked like the first night she’d sat on the beach with June and Oscar, staring up at the sky and thinking anything was possible. A trail of musical notes looked like they were dancing, a few of them entwined like lo
vers kissing. The silhouette of a bird in flight—wide wings and spare lines, light and strong all at once.

  When they had thought about her, they’d thought of winking stars, dancing music, soaring wings. Birdie ached for what she was leaving, all of the unexpected experiences she’d never even imagined were possible. “This one.” Birdie pointed to the bird silhouette. She felt bold, excited, and frightened all at once. Would it hurt? Was she crazy for doing this?

  “That one was my idea!” Milosh’s dark eyes were proud.

  Colette leaned closer, the planes of her face illuminated starkly in the sideways light. “I thought that one was too obvious at first, but it came out really beautiful.” She traced the lines. “I don’t have the equipment for anything fancy, not like I used to have when I was with the three-ring, but something simple like this won’t be a problem.”

  Birdie looked at the table. A needle and thread, and a bottle of India ink. Her stomach fluttered. Colette picked up the needle and held it in the flame of the candle until the tip darkened. “Where do you want it?”

  Birdie unbuttoned the collar of the dress and pulled it down over a shoulder before she could change her mind. “Here.” She reached back to touch her shoulder blade. Milosh stood and wet a rag at the sink. Colette wound string around the needle, then dipped it into the ink.

  “Sit with your back to me,” said Colette, and Birdie turned a chair and sat sideways in it, nervous. She was a girl who walked out on wings and warmed to a soft, forbidden kiss, but somehow this felt wilder. Milosh wet her shoulder with the rag, rubbed soap into her skin, then wiped it clean. Birdie tensed as Colette placed a hand against her shoulder. She felt the prick of a needle on her skin. Another prick, and another. It hurt, but not badly—like ant bites. Birdie relaxed into it.

  “I can keep it covered,” she said, reassuring herself. “I’m not putting it where just anyone could see it.”

  “You never know.” Colette’s breath tickled Birdie’s skin. “These things can change you. You might find you want to show it off.”