by Scott Snyder
John saw that she was arranging herself in some sort of theatrical pose now: extending her arms, leaning all the way back over the wing’s edge. She closed her eyes.
“Hang on!” he yelled. “I’m going to slow us up!”
Helen nodded, but stayed frozen in position.
John decelerated to thirty-five miles an hour, minimum flight speed. As the plane passed over the bulk of the crowd, Helen tossed her head back, letting her hair stream out from beneath her pilot’s helmet. Even through the engine noise, John could hear the cheers. Faces, frightened and amazed, rushed by in a blur. Hands whizzed past, straining open, reaching for her. John tried to imagine the scene from the ground, tried to picture himself suddenly looking up and seeing a pretty girl soar past on the wing of a plane. He’d admit it: she did make a sight out there. Posing like a woman standing on a cresting swing. Her hair billowing out, the satin dress trembling against her body. He put pressure on the rudder, dipping to starboard slightly so that the last of the audience might get a better view of Helen.
The entire population of Mooney appeared to be rushing after the plane as it crossed out of town—a crowd of at least four hundred people. John could see an actual dust cloud rising behind the throng.
“I want to live my whole life out here!” Helen yelled from the wing’s tip. She had one arm wrapped around the post; the other she held out in the open air.
“Well, you can’t!” John said. “I’m landing. Get in!”
Reluctantly, Helen began making her way back toward the cockpit, slipping between the bracing wires, hopping from strut to strut. Again John was impressed with how smoothly she moved. When she reached the fuselage, she grabbed hold of the rim and pulled herself up.
“Hey! Look at the crowd!” she said, pausing with one leg in the cockpit.
John banked hard, spilling Helen into her seat.
Mr. and Mrs. John Barron were Mooney’s guests of honor that night. The mayor treated them to a private dinner at Bungay’s, the town’s nicest steakhouse. Then they were handed free passes to the new movie theater, where, along with a packed audience, they watched the new Fatty Arbuckle tickler. Afterward, the crowd led them to a pub off Main Street, a warm, charming establishment with cherry-wood floors and a long zinc bar. The pub’s owner sat John and Helen at his best booth, located beneath a small stained glass window depicting his family’s coat of arms. He was a gregarious man, and as the three of them drank, he peppered John and Helen with questions about their travels. How many states had they visited so far? Had they ever crashed?
Helen glowed in his company: every answer she gave became a story; every story a performance. Again and again she tried to involve John in the conversation, deferring to him, asking him to confirm details, but John couldn’t muster the energy. He knew he should be enjoying himself—here he was, the toast of the town—but instead he found the whole scene strangely irritating. Everything Helen said made the pub owner double over with laughter, slapping the table, wiping his eyes. The conversation kept lurching forward without John noticing. Whenever he looked down, a new round of drinks sat foaming on the table.
“I think it’s because I studied dance for so long,” Helen was saying. “I was part of a troupe back in Missouri.”
“A ballet troupe?” the pub owner said.
“No. Modern style. We went around teaching people how to do all the newest fads. The turkey trot, the grizzly bear. The Charleston. At first we just performed in Missouri, but soon people started hearing about us and we ended up going all over the country. There were twelve of us. We drove around in a bus. Once we even made it to New York. We got to perform in front of the Statue of Liberty. This wasn’t just us, though. It was a big showcase. There were troupes of girls everywhere from all over.”
“Let me guess,” the pub owner said. “That’s how you met John? Dancing?”
Helen laughed. “Us? No.” She turned to John. “Do you want to tell him? How we met?”
John took a sip of his beer. “I crashed into her wedding,” he said. “She was about to marry another man.”
“You what?” said the pub owner, waiting to burst into hysterics.
Helen opened her mouth, but said nothing.
“I’m just kidding,” John said. “We grew up together. We’ve known each other forever.”
A small jug band set up beside the bar began to play a rendition of J.P. Brakeman’s “Hillbilly Delight.”
“These guys are magical,” the owner said, excusing himself to dance with his wife. “Please. Enjoy. I’ll be back.”
Once he was gone, John and Helen fell silent. For a long time they sat watching couples dance. The music was lively, and the wood floor shook with the stomp and tap of boots.
“So, Mr. Barron,” Helen said, “will you at least treat me to a dance?”
“Too tired.” He took a sip from his glass. “Go ahead. There are ladies dancing together in the back.”
Helen put her hand over his. “John, I didn’t mean to upset—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
Helen waited for him to say more.
“I’m fine, Helen. Really. Go dance.” He moved her hand off his.
She sighed and got up from the booth.
The day had been busy; all morning and afternoon John had given rides and taken photographs beside the plane. He’d had no chance to speak to Helen privately about what had happened in the air that morning. By now, though, he was sick to death of thinking about it. He’d replayed the incident in his mind hundreds of times already, in the plane, at dinner, during the movie; he couldn’t help conjuring it up: even now he could see the scene, see Helen pulling herself up out of the front cockpit, arms shaking, see himself reaching for her, grabbing nothing. He finished the last of his beer. The notion of discussing things at this point only made him angry.
Besides, he thought, there was nothing to discuss. She’d gone out on the wing. The crowd had loved it. Story over. Yes, he wished that she’d talked the idea over with him beforehand; because no, he didn’t like surprises thrown at him in the middle of a performance—who would? But what purpose would squabbling with Helen serve? Why should he care that she’d gone for a stroll on the wing? What did it matter to him? In the end, Helen’s wing-walking had given him the best day in his barnstorming career. They’d made over sixty dollars together. In less than seven hours. Enough money to take a whole week off, fly around the South, do some sight-seeing. In fact, he realized, he should be thanking Helen. He should be marching up to her and scooping her off the dance floor.
And yet he didn’t feel like thanking Helen at all. Watching her dance, twirling from hand to hand at the other end of the room, he felt like ditching her for good.
He laid a quarter on the table for the beer and got up. As he crossed the room, he realized that he wasn’t entirely sober, and he ran a hand along the wall to steady himself.
At the door, the barmaid approached him. “Your money, Mr. Barron,” she said, handing him back his quarter.
The night was cool for summer, and the breeze felt good on John’s skin as he made his way through the dirt streets. The house he and Helen had been invited to stay at for the night was located on a farm at Mooney’s western edge. The owners were two identical brothers, pecan farmers and amateur aviation enthusiasts who’d each taken three rides with John that afternoon. As he neared the end of Main Street, John spotted the property; the brothers had left a lantern hanging above the door of their barn so that he and Helen might find the house in the thick darkness beyond the town’s commercial district.
John unlatched the wooden fence and crossed into the brothers’ orchard. The pecan trees stood in tight rows; the tips of their branches crossed in places, knitting together a loose maze of arch-ways and tunnels that stretched toward the house. Stumbling, John made his way across the orchard. The ground was soft and damp and fallen pods lay scattered in clumps. He fell twice before reaching the house, dirtying the knees of his pant
s.
Inside, John headed to the kitchen to wash up. On the counter he found a freshly baked pecan pie with a note beside it. He picked up the paper, squinting through the darkness.
For Mr. and Mrs. Barron. A token of thanks.
John opened a drawer and removed a fork. He scooped a ragged chunk from the pie and stuffed it into his mouth. The texture was perfect, crunchy and thick with maple butter, but the taste was too sweet. John could barely get the bite down without feeling sick. When he went to the sink for water, he noticed a phone standing on a table by the window. He headed over and picked up.
A girl’s voice came on the line. “Operator.”
“Which operator?”
The girl paused. “Fourteen?” she said.
“No. What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I was just trying to be friendly. I thought you might be tired of being treated like a nobody all day. Operator this, operator that, connect me to wherever. Forget it, though.”
The line was silent.
“My name’s Patricia,” said the girl.
“Patricia. That’s beautiful. See? Now I’m picturing a beautiful girl, sitting at a switchboard somewhere, pretty brown hair—”
“Blond.”
“Pretty blond hair. Big green eyes.”
“You sure lay it on thick.”
“Is it working?”
“Keep going a minute and I’ll tell you.”
But then there was a rustling on the line. John heard a man talking in the background, and when Patricia came back on, her voice was flat.
“Connection?” she said.
John gave her the number.
The phone rang eight times before Rollie picked up.
“Hello?” he said, sounding hoarse and sleepy.
“Guess,” said John.
“Who is this?”
“It’s John. Your son.”
“John? What time is it?”
“It’s only eleven o’clock. Snap out of it and guess.”
Rollie coughed. “I don’t know. Missouri.”
“South.”
“Kansas.”
“Kansas is west. I’m in Oklahoma. It’s beautiful. I’m calling to tell you to tell Dale Morton to go fuck himself.”
“Tell who what?”
“Tell Dale Morton not to keep a job for me at Sweet Fizz. I’m not coming back.”
“I’ll tell him, if you want, John. But let’s talk about this some other time, okay? It’s too late for me right now.”
“Too late,” John said. “Right.”
“Be careful,” said Rollie. Then the line rattled and went dead.
John replaced the receiver. He considered heading to bed, but decided instead to go out to the barn and check on the plane.
Most farmers didn’t like John parking the Jenny inside their barns; the engine dripped oil, the tires left tracks. At best they allowed him to station the Jenny beside or behind their barns, to afford at least a bit of shelter from the elements. But the Calbraith brothers had insisted John use their barn to house the plane. They’d even cleared out some of the pecan barrels to make extra room.
John took the lantern down and slid open the barn door. As he stepped inside, the odor of the plane hit him: a rich mixture of petrol, doping varnish, and old leather. The scent warmed him, and he felt a sudden, deep affection for his Jenny. How beautiful she looked too, standing beneath the rafters at the back of the barn, her linen wings shining pale gold in the lantern light. John thought back to the very first time she’d taken him up, during his orientation at Fort Hawley: how frightened he’d been, clutching the cockpit rim, teeth clenched, as his flight instructor lifted off. He’d experienced a kind of primal, childlike terror, watching the Texas grassland fall away beneath the wheels. But then a transformation had occurred, and his terror had changed to pounding exhilaration, and, finally, delight. Because now, for the first time in his life, he felt entirely apart. He could see the horizon in all directions: see it as it was, a brilliant white ring encircling the world. A string had been broken—that was the sensation—and John could feel himself drifting higher, released.
“You cutting out on me?” said Helen.
John turned to find her standing in the doorway. “No,” he said. “Just partied out.”
Helen slid the barn door closed. “And here I thought you were Mr. Party,” she said. “There were at least a couple of telephone ladies at the pub, you know.”
“Ha-ha.”
She walked over to him, kicking a stray pecan ahead of her. “Someone’s in a bad mood.”
“I’m not in a bad mood. I just don’t like surprises. That’s all.”
“So,” Helen said, resting a hand on the propeller blade, “what was the surprise?”
John squinted at her, confused.
“Was it all the money we made?” she said. “The people taking us out afterward? What?”
“The wing-walking, Helen. You shouldn’t have gone out on the wing without talking to me about it first.”
“The wing-walking,” she said, nodding. “You’re right. That wasn’t polite of me.”
“Polite? You could have fallen off and gotten killed.”
“True,” she said. “But that’d be my problem, wouldn’t it? I mean, you could just go on barnstorming. Get yourself a new girl. A new Mrs. Barron.”
John pushed past her, heading for the door. “We’re a team. You should have talked to me. That’s why I’m angry.”
“Wait,” Helen said.
John yanked the door back.
“John!”
He stopped, the door open before him. “What?”
“No more surprises after today,” Helen said. “I promise. I’ll ask you first about everything.”
“Fine. Done. I’m going to bed.”
“Not yet,” Helen said.
“Helen…”
“I want to ask you something.”
John sighed and leaned against the door frame.
“Do you think I’m a coward?” Helen spun the propeller blade.
“What are you talking about?”
“A coward,” she said. “Do you think I’m a coward?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Well,” Helen said, spinning the blade again, harder this time, “I am.”
John walked over to her. “You’re not a coward, Helen.”
Helen nodded and continued smacking the propeller through its rotation. With each slap the blade twirled faster, until John caught it.
“You walked out on the wing of a plane today. I think that qualifies as brave.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes. It does.” He bent his knees, trying to look her in the eye, but she wouldn’t let him. “Helen, you’re the bravest person I know.”
“Don’t say that!” Her voice echoed through the dark barn. She tried to push him away, but he caught her wrists. “Listen to me. I’m telling you,” she said, struggling against him. “I’m telling you…”
John pulled her to him and kissed her. He could taste salt on her lips, and beneath that, the warm sweetness of her mouth.
She broke from him. “Stop!”
“I was so scared today, Helen,” he said. “I was terrified.”
“Don’t, John,” she said.
He kissed her again. She struggled against him, trying to tear free, but he held on to her, and then, suddenly, she was kissing him back, her body pressing into his, her hands fastening behind his neck. He wanted her so badly; he couldn’t touch enough of her at once. He moved her back toward the plane, then got his blanket from storage and laid it beneath the wing. Her eyes wet, she took his hand and pulled him down with her.
Afterward, they lay curled together beneath the starboard wing. John lit the lantern, and the two of them watched it burn, the flame sending a thin stream of vapor up toward the rafters.
Helen stuck one foot out from under the blanket and warmed her toes by the lantern gla
ss. “So, where are we off to next?”
“Wherever we want.” He kissed the top of her head. “We could head west. Take a vacation together.”
“Could we go to California?” Helen said, yawning.
A bat darted down from the loft, then disappeared again.
“Why not? We could both use tans,” John said.
Helen pulled his arms tighter around her. “You know, I’ve never seen an ocean,” she said. “Not in my whole life.”
Moments later she was asleep. John felt her ribs slowly expanding and contracting beneath his hands, and the sensation warmed him. He decided that early in the morning, before Helen woke, he’d sneak out to the main house and borrow some paint from the brothers. Then he’d creep back into the barn and—with Helen still asleep—he’d lie down beneath the port wing and paint her name across the linen surface. He imagined the lettering, bold but elegant, black against the cream-white wing: HELEN BARRON! THE FLYING BRIDE!!! He pictured himself a bystander to his own show, a man on the ground, shading his eyes, watching the approach of the Jenny. He felt the thrill of first reading those words printed on the bottom of the wing, then of seeing Helen standing above them, the main attraction, a pretty girl in a blue dress, head thrown back, the wind in her hair as she passed overhead.
In the morning, though, she was gone, along with her valise and John’s map of the 1919 United States. He searched the house, questioning the Calbraith brothers; he combed the town of Mooney, the stores and restaurants, the hotels. She was really gone. But that night, he could pull Helen close to him, cupping his body to hers. She let out a little moan, and he kissed her bare shoulder.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people who helped in the creation of Voodoo Heart. A first and special thanks has to go out to Scott Tuft, Owen King, and Eric Ozawa, who’ve helped these stories along from their most nascent and terrifying forms. Also, for their friendship, heartfelt thanks to Dante Williams, Karl Haendel, Craig Teicher, Brenda Shaughnessy, Matthew Gilgoff, Doris Cooper, and Kevin Newman.