by Lynn Austin
“Why . . . Mr. Dolan!” She scrambled to her feet, brushing the dirt off her knees.
“My grandkids and I are on our way to a kite flying contest in the park, and I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”
“Well . . . thank you, but. . . but I really must finish these bulbs.”
Mike grinned and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Now you told me the other day that you never flew a kite when you were a kid and . . . well . . . flying a kite is about the closest you can get to really flying— without leaving the ground, that is. Come on, give it a try.”
“No . . . really, I’m not dressed.” She flicked an imaginary speck of dirt off her slacks.
Mike guessed from the way she studied the ground that she was trying to think of a tactful excuse. “You look fine to me, Professor. Besides, I’ve decided not to take ‘no’ for an answer, so you may as well stop dreaming up excuses and come along.”
Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. She looked like a grounded fish.
“Please? I could really use your help, Ma’am. I’ve got three kids and three kites, so I’m kind of outnumbered.” He smiled his most charming smile, the one the ladies could never refuse, and she sighed in resignation.
“Oh, all right. Just let me get . . . uh . . . my purse.” She disappeared into the house. Mike untangled kids, kites, and dogs, and settled them down in the back of the truck while he waited.
At last Wilhelmina reappeared, clutching a large, brown leather purse. She had exchanged her wind-breaker for a cardigan sweater and removed the kerchief. Mike watched a look of dismay and hesitation cross her face as she approached the battered pickup, as if she hadn’t realized when she agreed to come along that she would have to ride in such a rusted-out hulk.
“It’s not too pretty, but it’ll get us there.” He took her arm and hoisted her up into the lumpy passenger seat before she could change her mind. Then he ran around to the driver’s seat, ground the truck into reverse, and backed out. A few minutes later, Peter popped his head through the rear cab window.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Professor, I’d like you to meet my grandkids. Peter . . . Mickey . . . and the lovely Princess Lori. This is Professor Brewster, guys.”
“Wow! A real professor?” Peter asked.
“Yep, she’s the real thing.”
The professor sat close to the door, clutching her purse as if afraid it might leap out of her arms. When they pulled into the parking lot, she opened her purse, peered inside, then closed it again with a loud snap.
Mike tied the dogs to the bumper as the kids scrambled down with their kites. Then he tucked the red paper kite under his arm and helped Wilhelmina from the truck. They walked together to the registration booth where a large banner announced “The Twelfth Annual Kite Flying Contest.”
“I want to register four kites,” Mike told the girl in the booth.
“Names and ages, please?”
“Mickey Dolan is 10 years old . . . the lovely Princess Lori Dolan is 8 . . . Peter Dolan is 6 . . . and Miss Brewster, here, is 29.” The girl glanced up at Wilhelmina and smiled.
“Oh, no. Really, Mr. Dolan,” Wilhelmina said. “I’m not going to fly one.”
“Sure you are. Come on.” He paid the small registration fee, and they hurried to a huge open area of the park. Children and kites of all ages and sizes lined up at one end of the field while a park official, bullhorn in hand, strutted back and forth like a drill sergeant, announcing the rules.
“All right, everyone, listen up! Here’s how it goes. When the gun goes off, get those kites airborne. In exactly one hour, the whistle will blow and the highest kite wins. Any questions?”
The starting gun boomed, and Mickey took off across the grass as if the officials were shooting at him. The box kite trailed behind him, fighting the forces of gravity.
“That’s it, Mickey!” Mike cheered. “Give it more string!”
Mickey unwound his string, watching over his shoulder as he ran. The big kite climbed laboriously, twirling in circles in the breeze. His kite was the first one in the air and the audience applauded.
Peter tugged on his arm. “Will you help me, Grandpa?”
“OK, Pete. Professor, can you help the princess?”
“But . . . but . . . I don’t know how!”
“Like this, ladies. Watch.” He gave the kite to Pete who ran across the grass with it. Mike fed him the string. As soon as he felt the breeze, Mike yelled, “OK, let it go!” Pete released the kite and it flapped and fluttered noisily above his head. “Like that, girls!”
A moment later, Pete’s kite fluttered back to earth like a wounded bird. While Peter ran to retrieve the kite, Mike coached the professor and Lori. Soon, Lori’s kite hovered tentatively in the air above them, then swirled to the ground. “Awww . . . too bad, girls. Try it again.”
He turned his attention back to Pete, and after several more tries they finally got the black kite airborne. It fluttered wildly above them. “Grandpa, look at Mickey’s kite.”
Mickey had run to the far side of the field and appeared to be doing well. The box kite hung in the air as if pasted to the sky.
“Please help us, Grandpa.” Lori was close to tears. Her kite lay in a heap on the grass while the professor crouched beside it, plucking at the tangled mess.
“I’m afraid I’m not much help,” Wilhelmina said.
Mike took out his pocket knife, cut off the tangled part, then quickly retied the spool to Lori’s kite. After a minute or two he had it flying in graceful zigzags above her head, painting swaths of color across the sky like a huge paintbrush. He handed her the string. “It’s the most beautiful kite in the whole contest, Princess.”
Mike stood for a few minutes with his hands on his hips, gazing at his grandchildren as they flew their kites. When he felt this good it was easy for him to forget that his time was limited, the days left with his grandchildren precious and few. He was alive now, and that was all that mattered. Tomorrow was a long way off.
Finally he picked up the red, diamond-shaped kite with its comical tail of old knotted socks and walked over to Wilhelmina. “Here you go, Professor. Let’s get her up there.”
“Oh, no . . . really,” she said with a frown. “I’d rather just watch.”
Mike handed her the spool of kite string, ignoring her protests. “Now, as soon as I let go of the kite give the string a sharp tug, like this. That gives it lift. Then just keep feeding it more string, OK?”
He looked at the profusion of kites dotting the sky, then at his watch. “We’ll have to hurry if you’re going to win,” he said. Before she could reply, Mike raised the kite high above his head and sprinted across the field, his keys and loose change jangling in his pocket. When he felt the kite catch the breeze, he tossed it in the air.
“OK, now!” he shouted. She gave a tug and fed out the string exactly as he had shown her, and soon the kite soared above their heads, straining at the string as if longing to climb higher. He sprinted back to Wilhelmina’s side shouting, “She wants to sail, Professor! Let it out as fast as you can! That’s it! That’s it!”
Wilhelmina held the spool loosely, letting the kite take the string, and it climbed quickly to the top of the sky. Her eyes were glued to the kite high above her head, and Mike noticed that the harsh lines of her face seemed to have relaxed from their habitual scowl. She was almost smiling—really smiling—for the first time since he’d met her. When she noticed him staring at her, her cheeks turned red.
“You had better take it now, Mr. Dolan.”
“No way! You’re doing great. And please, call me Mike.” She glanced at him, then quickly turned her face to the sky, watching the kite soaring high above them.
“Isn’t that the greatest feeling in the world, Professor, holding onto that kite? I love the way it kind of pulls at your hands, like it’s alive . . . like it wants to pull you up in the air with it . . . almost as if it’s saying ‘come on, fly with me.’ T
hen your heart just travels right up the string and soars around up there, too, doesn’t it? And for a little while you’re not bound to the earth any more, but you’re tied to the sky! Know what I mean?”
She gave him a peculiar half-smile, then nodded. “Yes, I think maybe I do.”
“But you’re going to have to give it all the string you got, if you want to win. I think that orange one and maybe that yellow box kite are higher up than yours. Let out all your string. I’ll go check on the kids.”
Mike found Lori halfway across the field, in tears. Her line had crossed paths with another kite and now both were grounded, laying under a heap of string, as hopelessly tangled as spaghetti.
He gathered her in his arms and let her bury her face on his shoulder. “Don’t cry, Princess . . . don’t cry. I know you’re disappointed . . . but yours is still the prettiest kite in the whole contest. Come on . . . we’ll cut her loose, and if you dry those tears I’ll take you out for burgers and fries afterward. How about it?”
She wiped her tears and gave him a weak smile.
“That’s my girl!” He cut her kite free, then folded it ceremoniously, like a flag at a soldier’s funeral. He laid it in her arms. “There. Now, I wonder where your two brothers are?”
Mike spotted the silver box kite halfway up a tall maple tree at the edge of the field. Mickey was scrambling up the trunk to retrieve it. “Looks like Mickey got too close to those trees,” he said.
Lori pointed to the playground. “And there’s Peter.” Peter had found the playground and he sailed through the air on a swing, the contest forgotten, his kite flapping back and forth a few inches above his head.
“Well, Princess, it looks like the professor is our only hope for that trophy. Come on, let’s go help her out.” They jogged back to Wilhelmina’s side, but she seemed oblivious to their presence. She gazed at her kite as if it were a million miles away and her thoughts seemed lost in the clouds above her.
“I think that orange one is still higher than yours, Professor, but if you let out all your string you can probably beat him.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, but the string is stretched so tightly already. I’m afraid I’ll lose it if I do that. Won’t it break?”
“Well, it might. That’s a chance you’ll have to take. But if you don’t take the risk, you’re never going to win the contest. May as well go for it. You’ll never win by playing it safe, and at least you strike out swinging!”
She looked down at her feet in concentration, as if wrestling with a tremendously important decision. He wanted to remind her that it was only a 59-cent kite, but she seemed so absorbed in thought he didn’t want to interrupt.
Finally she relaxed her grip on the spool and cautiously let out more string. But she never took her eyes off the ground, as if afraid to watch the string snap or see her kite sail away into the clouds. Mike sized up the competition. Only a dozen kites remained in the air and as he watched, Professor Brewster’s kite slowly climbed until it was just a red speck, as high as the orange one. “That’s it! Keep going, Professor! You can beat him. We’ll tie on some of Lori’s string if we have to.”
Wilhelmina kept her head lowered, then closed her eyes as she slowly unwound the last of her string.
“Grandpa, she’s winning, she’s winning! Look!”
“Lori’s right! You’ve got him beat now!”
Wilhelmina finally looked up. “Oh my! I never dreamed it could go so high!”
Suddenly a whistle blew and the crowd let out a cheer. “You won! You won!” Lori shouted, jumping up and down.
A huge crowd converged on them, complete with reporters, photographers, and even the mini-cam from a local TV station. “Can we have your name please, Ma’am?”
“Uh . . . Wilhelmina . . . uh, Brewster.”
Flashbulbs popped like fireworks as the contest judge shook her hand and presented her with a small trophy. It stood about eight inches tall, topped with a metallic replica of a kite. Engraved on the base were the words, “12th Annual Kite Flying Contest, First Place.”
“We’re going to be on TV!” Lori said. Peter and Mickey ran over to join them, kites in hand. Mike watched in amusement as the reporters peppered Wilhelmina with more questions and congratulations. The attention had flustered her, but she seemed to be enjoying it nonetheless. He was glad he had brought her. At last the excitement began to die down.
“So, you’re going to be in the news,” Mike said, patting her shoulder. “Aren’t you glad you took that chance?”
She smiled slightly and nodded. “I wish I could see Dean Bradford’s face when he reads about it in the newspaper.”
“Yep, I’d say you did pretty good for your first time flying, Professor.”
Her smile vanished. “Please don’t call me that, Mike. It’s Wilhelmina.”
“OK, Willymina. But now I think you’d better start reeling it in. It’s probably going to take a while.”
She stared up at the kite, soaring high above them and sighed. “Yes, you’re right. Though it seems a shame.” She began to turn the spool between her hands, slowly reeling in the taut string. Suddenly there was a twanging sound, as if someone had plucked a violin, and the string went slack in her hand. The red kite soared out of sight.
“It broke!” she said. “I’m sorry! I lost your kite.”
“Oh, hey, that’s all right. At least you won the contest before it broke. And it seems kind of fitting, don’t you think? Almost like you set it free.”
Wilhelmina nodded. “I could tell by the way it tugged in my hands that it wanted to go forever.”
“Can’t we get it back, Grandpa?” Peter asked. “That was the best kite ever!”
Mike scooped him up in his arms as they walked toward the truck. “Tell you what, Pete. You and me and the professor will go up in the Cessna and we’ll fly all over the city until we see that kite roaming around up there. Then you can open the window, reach out, and grab it!” Mike tickled Peter until he giggled helplessly.
When they reached the truck, Buster and Heinz greeted them with tail-wagging enthusiasm. “Can I ride up front, Grandpa?” Lori asked.
“Sure thing, Princess.” He tossed her up in the cab and helped Wilhelmina in beside her.
A few minutes after they were underway, Lori turned to Wilhelmina. “Are you going to be our new grandma?”
“Lori!” Mike sputtered for something to say. He was too embarrassed to think. Peter stuck his head through the open window of the cab.
“Well, we only got one grandma, you know. And she lives in Texas. We like the professor because she flies kites.”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . she’s great at flying kites,” Mike mumbled. He glanced at Wilhelmina and saw her studying the trophy in her lap, her cheeks burning. He stepped on the accelerator. “Sorry, Professor. These kids have no manners at all.”
It was only a few blocks to the fast-food restaurant, but it seemed much farther to Mike. Maybe if he stuffed enough French fries in their mouths they wouldn’t be able to talk, let alone embarrass him again. When he pulled the truck into the parking lot, the kids cheered. “OK, everybody out. We’re going to celebrate this victory in style.”
He seated them at a table and returned a few minutes later with a tray full of burgers and fries. “Here you go, Willymina, one jumbo burger with onions and fries.”
She moaned, clutching her hand to her side. “Oh my! I can’t . . .”
“Sure you can.” He lifted his Styrofoam coffee cup in salute. “Cheers! To the greatest kite-flyer in town, Willymina Brewster!” The kids put their hamburgers down long enough to applaud. Wilhelmina managed a smile.
It was almost dark when Mike finally pulled his pickup into Wilhelmina’s driveway. He helped her out of the cab and walked her to her door. “Thanks for coming with us. I hope you had fun.”
“Yes, I did! Thank you, Mr. . . . I mean, Mike. Oh, and here’s your trophy.” He backed toward the truck, holding his hands up in protest.
&
nbsp; “No way! You won that trophy fair and square. It’s yours, Professor. Put it with all your music trophies.” He climbed in and started the engine, then ground the gears into reverse. He had started to back up when he thought he heard Wilhelmina shouting.
“Mr. Dolan! Stop! Wait a minute! Please!” She charged down the driveway toward him, rummaging for something in her purse at the same time. “Wait! I want to give you something!”
“No way, Professor! I don’t want any money!”
“But . . . but . . .”
“You don’t owe me a thing,” he said, leaning out the open window. “Today was my treat. See you!” Ignoring her frantic protests, Mike swung the truck out onto the boulevard and drove away.
*****
The following day Wilhelmina was late for church. Her gall bladder had waged war against the French fries all night, and she had slept poorly. When the alarm sounded, she barely managed to drag herself out of bed to get dressed. Where would she find the strength to play the organ?
When she stopped by Carol’s house to pick her up, she found her already waiting beside the curb. Wilhelmina braced herself for a scolding, but Carol got into the car without a word. “Good morning, Carol. Sorry I’m late.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, Carol peered at her strangely, as if Wilhelmina still wore curlers in her hair. Wilhelmina checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. “What’s the matter with you,” she said crossly. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I just can’t believe it!” Carol said. “I turned on the news last night and there you were! Flying a kite, of all things!”
“Oh, come on, Carol. I was on the news. So what?”
“But I couldn’t believe my eyes! We’ve been friends for ages and ages, and I’ve never known you to fly a kite before!”
“You make it sound like I committed murder.”
“Well, good heavens, Wilhelmina! It’s supposed to be for kids! Whatever possessed you to enter a kite contest?”
Mike Dolan. He was the cause of all this. Wilhelmina recalled how he had driven off without the tracts again, and her irritation turned to anger. “I had a very good reason for going to the park, and I accidentally won the contest. That’s all. I hardly plan to make a career of it. Now can we drop it?”