Everyone wanted to take Francesca for a spin in the wild blue. Matt looked around at the good-natured sparring, gave a little huff, grabbed Francesca by the hand and went to Ian’s Lady Victoria.
“What in Heaven’s name are we doing?” she asked with a delighted grin.
Matt told Francesca to hop in.
“But what about your leg?”
“You can coddle me back to health later, Nurse,” Matt answered.
“Look at those two acting like school children. Harry, do something!” Maude gasped as we stood in the distance watching Matt whisk Francesca into the air.
I couldn’t believe they just left me like that. I swallowed hard.
“Now look what they’ve done,” Maude said, mashing my hair to my forehead. She had picked up on my disappointment. “Don’t fret, Sarah. They’ve probably had too much … apple juice.”
“I wouldn’t mind some of that … juice myself,” Harry said with real warmth and a touch of envy.
As Matt and Francesca zoomed overhead, he waggled Victoria’s wings in salute.
Within moments, the other pilots ran to their planes. They took off one by one and settled into formations of four and five, trailing after Matt and Francesca. It was lovely, seeing them all bank and spiral like that.
It didn’t take long for this activity to energize the interest of other fair-goers. A crowd swarmed out of the barns and the outdoor arenas onto the airfield. Hundreds of people came out from under shade trees, and some even stopped their cars along the highway to gaze at the spectacle.
Seeing an audience, Matt felt the need to put on a show. He brought the plane low to the ground — so low, the wheels practically touched. The Lady Victoria floated gently up, then down, up again and down again. Suddenly, Matt waved his hands around his ears. They were close enough to us now to see he wasn’t handling the controls. Leaning across Matt, it was Francesca that landed the plane. Not well and not gently. But she landed straight, and Matt brought the craft to a halt without any difficulty.
“What a dame!” screamed someone from the crowd.
I started clapping and jumping up and down. Maude and Harry both looked like they had been struck by lightning. That’s when Maude fell back weakly against her husband. “Give her some air,” Harry said, waving off no one in particular.
Matt handed Francesca down from the cockpit as the other planes began landing. When the crowd burst into spontaneous applause, she took a bow. “Hope no one saw my vomit act,” I heard Francesca whisper to Matt.
“Happens to the best of us,” he whispered back. “You held your cookies longer than most. Consider it your baptism.”
Francesca and the other pilots walked back to a different type of commotion.
“Aunt Maude fainted,” I said, running into Francesca’s open arms. My grandmother glanced down at her sister with the merest wisp of a grin. “She’ll be fine. Look, she’s opened her eyes.”
As we made our way to the Doozy, Francesca gave one last V-sign to the still-cheering crowd then wiped a remaining glob of spittle from the corner of her mouth. Maude still looked pasty-faced and wobbled along on Harry’s arm. Matt was limping and leaning hard on Francesca’s shoulder.
“What a sorry bunch we are!” Francesca observed. Then, she shook her head and roared with laughter.
Chapter 25
And There They Go!
R
ace day dawned gray and windswept. While Uncle Harry complained about his aching joints, Aunt Maude worried over her hairdo, which hung like a limp rag. Finally, she gave up and wrapped a salmon-colored scarf around her head.
Matt spent the morning giving the Ghost a final tune-up while Francesca hovered over him, inspecting every inch of the car. Although the dirt track was damp by the time the pit crews began to assemble, it looked as if the weather would not sour enough to cancel the race.
I could tell Francesca was nervous, the way her breath came in little fits and starts. At times, she had to forcefully push the air out of her lungs. The infield was reserved for mechanics and family, so I was surprised to catch sight of a number of pilots milling around near the far turn. Ian, with his great height and booming voice, was unmistakable.
Uncle Harry hurried to Francesca’s pit area, waving the registration receipt in his right hand. “There are precisely twenty-one cars in the field. Take care not to get trapped too far back,” he advised.
While Matt and Francesca walked the track one last time, Babe and I trailed along, drinking in the exciting sights and sounds. Conveniently, the wind was coming out of the west and blew their voices back to us. I saw Matt gesture to the registration form. “Know any of these drivers?” he asked.
“Actually, no. So many of them are complete strangers! I guess I’m a lot older than the last time I raced.”
“And a lot smarter,” Matt said. “Believe me, no one has a car that can touch the Ghost on the straightaway, and no one will handle the curves better than you.” He tapped her right shoulder three times before he continued, “Remember, the down-shift coming into this next turn is crucial.”
The track was an oval-shaped mile. The dirt appeared to be in good condition, hard-packed, well-raked and just slightly damp from the humidity. That would make for excellent visibility during the race.
“The course bed seems bumpy here,” Francesca mused, as she bent down and touched the offending area with her fingertips. “I’ll try to remember not to pass in this area.”
She looked almost boyish and rather dashing in her driving get-up: jodhpurs, a leather jacket, a helmet, and that lovely white scarf that billowed out behind her as she strode beside Matt, matching him step for step.
I looked behind us and discovered several other drivers studying the course. “Don’t talk too loud, Matt,” I warned. “We’re being followed.”
Matt glanced over his shoulder and said, “So we are … so we are. Obviously, they know who their real opposition is.” He continued in lower tones. “Don’t worry about cutting it close in the pack. Sarah and I can always rub out any scratches with a little elbow grease.”
“Don’t you worry,” Francesca said to us both, sticking her chin up and out, “I’m not afraid to mix it up.”
Matt clucked his tongue in a roguish manner and kissed Francesca on the forehead in exactly the same spot I had kissed her nearly every morning of my life. “You go out there and win that silver trophy,” he said. It made my toes tingle.
There were two scheduled feature races that day: a pro race, with real racing cars and experienced drivers later in the afternoon; and the one that was only open to non-professional residents of the state, which was the one my grandmother had won in the past. Every make of automobile imaginable was represented in the pit area, but nothing could compare to the sheer glory of the Gray Ghost.
There was a cheer from the crowd as the announcer’s voice crackled out over the public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to announce the twenty-seventh running of the Clinton County Fair 150. In a moment, our drivers will be starting their engines. For your safety, we ask that you remain behind the fences and barricades set up for your protection. The race will consist of one hundred and fifty one-mile laps. There will be one pace lap followed immediately by a green flag, which will signal the official start of the race. There will be no passing during yellow caution flags. The drivers have been assigned positions by lot. Let’s wish these brave folks the best of luck with a big round of applause.”
The crowd roared its approval.
“Drivers, start your engines.”
There was a rumbling loud enough to make the ground tremble, as one by one, the racers revved their engines and rolled up to their assigned positions. At the wave of a checkered flag by Honorary Chief Starter Brandon Cooney, Clinton Mayor Abel Walleran drove the pace car, a brand-new 1946 Dodge, onto the track,. I only knew it was Mayor Walleran because the banner draped across the hood said so.
“There they go!” shouted the announcer.
Francesca had lucked into a so-so placement, in the third row on the inside. You weren’t supposed to jockey for position during the pace lap, but everyone did … including her. As I trotted along the infield fence, I wasn’t surprised to see how many of the other drivers glanced in her direction. She was already testing them, seeing how close she could get without their flinching. Francesca knew one thing for certain … there was a lot more to winning this kind of a race than just having the fastest car.
Halfway around the oval, the pace car began picking up speed, and by the time it left the track, the field was up to three-quarter velocity. Francesca sat low in her seat, leaning slightly over the steering wheel. Her arms looked relaxed, but I knew her grip on the wheel was iron. It was hard work, wrestling with the big elegant machine. The deep-throated roar of the Doozy was an unmistakable underpinning of the shouting crowd, the noise of the other engines, the screams of delighted patrons riding the Ferris wheel across the way, the buzz of airplanes overhead, and the bleating of animals.
Within a matter of ten or eleven laps, Francesca had passed several cars and was coasting for the moment in ninth place, looking for an opening. Suddenly, Car 14, a souped-up fire-engine-red hot-rod, was moving along in third position when its rear left tire exploded, causing hundreds of large and small bits of rubber to fly into the air. As it skidded out of control, it was hit hard by the black Ford directly behind it. Francesca, who was pinned on the inside at this point, couldn’t possibly get around them. She was going to crash.
Although it must have all happened in seconds, the incident seemed to unfold in slow motion. I remember Babe and I taking off toward the far turn. I remember hearing Ian yell something at Francesca as she flew past him. I remember the red hot-rod and the Ford in their sickening dance. I saw Francesca’s crash before I heard it. But wait! My amazing and resilient grandmother had somehow down-shifted, deliberately putting the Doozy into a fish-tail spin, a jaw-gawping maneuver that allowed her to slide by the wreckage with inches to spare. She brought the Ghost to an abrupt stop just shy of the center rail at the moment the yellow flag went up.
Even with his bum leg, Matt was in front of me as we scrambled over the infield rail and onto the track. Thank God, Francesca looked dazed but unhurt. When she noticed us bearing down on her, she set her chin and waved us off rather imperiously. And with a glance behind her and a roar of the Doozy’s inner workings, she was back in the race. From that second onward, Francesca was formidable. Unstoppable. Magnificent. With her eyes narrowed in concentration, she brazened her way through one hole after another and breezed into the lead with thirty-one laps to spare.
Admittedly, I was miffed that my record catch was going to play twenty-ninth fiddle to Francesca’s triumph. But after all, a fight with the biggest pike ever caught in a small midwestern lake will never be in the same ballpark, newsprint-wise, as winning a crash-filled automobile race.
My farm-bred grandmother weirdly resembled the sophisticated French novelist and feminist George Sand, standing so straight and full of herself on the winner’s dais. She graciously acknowledged her fellow drivers and her pit crew and even blushed prettily when the Mayor bussed her on both cheeks. It was practically sickening.
At the much more fun unofficial winner’s ceremony, Ian and some of the other pilots serenaded her by popping bottles of New York champagne, spraying us all in the process. He put his ham hock arm around Francesca in a brotherly hug and said cozily, “That was putting it to them, my dear. Brilliantly done — piece of cake, as you Yanks say, … well, except for that slight graze with the south wall.” He turned to Matt and continued with zest, “A woman like this is one in a million. She’s going to go boodles over the flying business; you wait and see.”
First, the universe stopped on a dime and then a look came over Ian’s face, as if he realized he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Francesca flashed a wondering look at Matt, who avoided her eyes. There was a horribly uncomfortable pause before Ian plowed onward. “Well, we’re up then, lads. Let’s get a move on.” He turned back to Matt and slapped his friend hard across the back. “It’ll be good to have you back in the sky.”
Chapter 26
Of Heart and Man
M
att, never the sparkling conversationalist, was doubly reluctant to speak of this thing he had done, whatever it was, especially in front of Harry and Maude and myself.
Francesca had been silent throughout the repacking and checking-out process. There was a closed-off, pinched look about her, like she was struggling to hold in bile. She folded clothes and paced the floor — folded and paced, folded and paced, methodically. The suitcases were the only thing in the world.
It wasn’t until we were all settled in the Doozy that Francesca spoke, and when she did, her words were neutral-sounding — with an underlying sting.
“I want to know what this is all about, this flying business,” she said.
Harry tried to deter her from pursuing this path. “Franny, this definitely isn’t the time or place …,” he began, but my grandmother cut him off at the knees. Politely, though … ever so politely.
“Don’t worry, Harry, your turn will come.”
She gazed out the window, tapping her right hand with her left thumb. “Well, Matt? Exactly what business was Ian talking about? The one you haven’t bothered mentioning to me?”
And like a broken tooth extraction, the tale was painfully dragged out of him.
Ian and Matt had renewed an important friendship during the fair. They had spent much of their time together reminiscing about their flying days.
“Naturally,” whispered Francesca.
Matthew swallowed and continued, “He has a flying school in Indianapolis. It’s … well … he hasn’t … he’s struggling. He needs a partner to help him get back on track; that’s all.”
“You volunteered?” she asked.
“It’s not that simple.”
“You volunteered?” she asked again, more acid in her tone.
“Well, hell, Fran, he’s been through a rough time.”
“What a good friend you are,” she said, gone suddenly still.
The remainder of the tale was that Matt was leaving immediately for Indianapolis, and Francesca would be staying at Home Farm. Matt’s reasoning was feeble at best: that it was going to be hard work, getting the school on solid financial ground. He hedged and hesitated. You could tell he felt embarrassed revealing his lame litany in front of us. When Francesca mercilessly pressed him, he went doggedly on. He mentioned 18-hour days … who knew? … which meant there wouldn’t be any time at all for a relationship.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Back at Home Farm, Francesca watched him gather his belongings, although why she deliberately made herself suffer like that I couldn’t say. It didn’t take Matt long to load the Duisenberg. He tried to say goodbye to Babe and me, but I wouldn’t even speak to him.
Francesca was standing over the kitchen sink, violently hacking at carrots and broccoli. I squatted halfway up the back stairs and listened.
“I have to do this,” he said.
No response.
“I’ll be back.”
No response.
“I love you.”
I heard her turn to him then.
“If you don’t leave my house this instant, I will be forced to go and get Cox’s .410 over-and-under. As you know, it’s in a gun case off the fireplace.”
The last thing he did was hand her the big silver trophy. She took it out of his hands and smashed it on the kitchen floor. The back door slammed. I could hear Babe bark as she ran after him. The Duisenberg roared to life, and then for the last time, I heard the lovely, deep growl of the engine disappear into the distance.
He was gone.
Francesca stood on the front porch, watching the Doozy until long after its trail of dust had settled back to earth.
Harry and Maude stayed out of the fray. There
was plenty of work for Harry at Daddyboys’ garage, and, unbelievably, Maude spent those first couple of days helping him by handing him tools, going over paperwork.
That left a lot of silence to roam around in.
I was feeling Francesca’s anguish, her disbelief, the chill on her heart. It seemed to me that the lovely spark in her soul had been snuffed out. She seemed smaller and older.
The pain I felt came in waves, like an incoming tide. It washed over every other emotion and thought. How could he? How could he?
Right then, I hated Matthew Mosley with all my heart. I hated his weakness; his lack of backbone. How could I have been so taken in by his charm?
Francesca held herself together while Maude and Harry were still with us. But the silence at the dinner table was almost frightening. No one could think of anything safe to talk about. Every time Maude made a few halfhearted stabs at conversation, it was obvious how badly she felt for her sister. But Francesca wasn’t in a mood for pity, either.
When at last Maude and Harry were packed and ready to go, Maude grabbed Francesca and hugged her hard, so hard I heard Francesca gasp.
“There is absolutely nothing I can say that will help,” Maude started out, still holding on to Francesca with all her skinny might, “but … I love you with all my heart.”
She kissed Francesca on the forehead, me on the cheek, took Harry by the hand, stepped into a steady rain and got into Abraham’s cab. They waved and waved as the car bumped down the drive and onto Thunder Ridge Road. Francesca didn’t wave back.
Without a word, she took off toward the paddock, never bothering to get a raincoat or even a scarf. As I watched from the back porch stoop, she hauled herself up onto the top rail of the fence. She sat there, dangling her legs for a long, long time. Then, she whistled up RedBird, who came a-galloping. The woman and the horse nuzzled one another for a quarter hour. At last, Francesca grabbed RedBird’s mane and eased herself on to that silken back. Francesca looked back at me, shook her head, then clucked RedBird into a canter.
Francesca of Lost Nation Page 18