Fly Away

by Lynn Austin

  “Grandpa tried to call, but you weren’t home. He said you wouldn’t mind if I came to see the ballet instead of him.” Lori’s eyes shone with tears. Wilhelmina knew she had to quench her anger, for Lori’s sake.

  “Of course, I don’t mind. Have you ever been to the ballet before?” Lori shook her head.

  “Well, I think you’ll like it.”

  They sat opposite each other in uncomfortable silence, listening to the clock on the mantel ticking loudly. It was a 40-minute drive to downtown Hartford. What on earth could they talk about all that way? Wilhelmina wished she had paid closer attention to the sermon.

  When the telephone rang, she hurried to the kitchen to answer it as if she had been granted a reprieve. It turned out to be a salesman for a carpet cleaning service, but she listened to his entire sales pitch with great interest before finally getting rid of him. When she returned to the living room Lori was standing in front of the grand piano, gently stroking the smooth ivory keys.

  “Do you play?” Lori jumped at the sound of Wilhelmina’s voice and quickly turned to face her, wearing the expression of a startled fawn staring into the headlights of an oncoming car. Wilhelmina didn’t blame the child for being afraid of her.

  “Well, go ahead. You may play it if you’d like.” Lori shook her head. “Oh, here . . . like this.” Wilhelmina sat down at the piano and played part of a simple etude, her fingers flowing expertly over the familiar keyboard.

  “That’s beautiful,” Lori said when she finished. “I wish I could play like that.”

  “Well, no one ever learned to play the piano by wishing. Why don’t you take lessons then?”

  “Daddy says they’re a waste of money.”

  “I see. Do you have a piano at home?”

  “No, but Grandpa does at his house. He can’t play it, though. It used to be my Grandma Dolan’s.”

  Lori caressed the piano’s smooth black wood as she talked. She was smearing the finish with fingerprints, but Wilhelmina bit her tongue. She had to keep the child interested in something or the afternoon would be unbearable.

  “Sit down, Lori. I’ll give you a quick piano lesson.” Lori sat down on the far edge of the bench. Wilhelmina wondered how she kept from falling off. “Like this, Lori. Keep your posture erect, fingers arched, wrists up, elbows loose. Try it.” Lori shook her head, apparently overwhelmed by Wilhelmina’s stern commands. She had worked with college students for so many years that she no longer remembered how to handle a beginner. Why, oh why, had Mr. Dolan done this to her? Why couldn’t the afternoon have gone as she had planned it?

  Wilhelmina exhaled. How had she started piano lessons as a beginner, so many years ago? Her first piano teacher had been Mrs. Schumann, a sweet, smiling housewife with reddish-blond hair who had once sung in the opera in her native Germany. Her tiny, gingerbread-like cottage was always spotlessly clean and smelled of warm apples and cinnamon. One of her three towheaded daughters often stood beside the piano as Mrs. Schumann taught, silently listening to Wilhelmina practice her scales.

  Mrs. Schumann had made music fun by giving little names and personalities to everything. Mrs. Treble Clef lived in one house, and Mr. Bass Clef lived across the street from her. Quarter notes were little bunny rabbits hopping along in quick little jumps, and whole notes were sleepy brown bears, ambling slowly down the scale. “Don’t break the egg, Wilhelmina,” she would say with a chuckle to remind her to keep her fingers arched. Wilhelmina hadn’t thought of Mrs. Schumann for a long, long time. She summoned all her reserves of patience and tried again.

  “Let me see you sit up nice and straight and tall, Lori. Good. Now, only the tips of your fingers touch the keys, see? This part of your hand and your wrists stay up. Pretend there’s an egg under your hand and you don’t want to break it.”

  Lori giggled. Wilhelmina began to relax.

  “That’s right. Now, only your thumbs can lie on their sides. They’re rather sleepy fellows, see?” Lori mimicked whatever Wilhelmina showed her, catching on quickly. Before long, the teacher in Wilhelmina took over, and she lost her self-consciousness.

  “As you can see, there are white keys and black keys. Today we’ll start with the white ones. Each one has a name. This one is middle C. Now you play it.”

  Lori sounded the note with her index finger. Her ragged fingernails were painted with chipped pink nail polish. “Good. Play it again.” As Lori sounded the note again, Wilhelmina opened one of her music books and propped it on the rack. “Now all of these keys—these notes—can be found on the music score. Some of them live in this house on top, with Mrs. Treble Clef. She has a high, twinkly voice, like this.” She played a short tune in the upper registers. “And some of the notes live down in this house with Mr. Bass Clef. He has a very deep voice, like this.” She played a rumbling tune in the lower registers. Mr. Middle C rides his car here, between the two houses.”

  Lori was at ease now and enjoying the lesson. The awkwardness between them was nearly gone. Wilhelmina had begun to expound on how “every-good-boy-deserves-fudge” when she suddenly remembered the time. “Goodness, child! The ballet!” She consulted her watch, then hurriedly gathered her purse and gloves.

  “Did it start already?”

  “No, we’ll make it on time. But we’ll have to hurry.”

  The drive to Hartford went better than Wilhelmina expected. Lori chatted happily about the third grade, her friends at school, and her two “dumb” brothers.

  “You know, Lori, I also have two brothers. And I was born in the middle, too, like you were.” She smiled to herself, remembering. Laurentius was tall and serious, towering over her with his dark, Puritanical scowl. He always had to be the organizer, the leader, the boss. And blond, good-natured Peter—everyone loved Peter. Whenever he entered a room it was as if someone had finally turned on the lights.

  “Mickey always thinks he’s the boss,” Lori said. “He tries to order me around all the time, just because he’s older. I hate that. Did your older brother think he was a hot shot too?”

  “Oh, yes! And you know what? He still does.”

  Laurentius had phoned several days ago to offer his authoritative advice on how Wilhelmina should spend her retirement. She knew Peter had talked to him after her visit to New Haven, and it infuriated her. How dare they discuss her life behind her back? It was none of their business!

  “And Peter is such a baby sometimes,” Lori said. “He always has to have his own way. Mom spoils him like crazy.”

  “My younger brother is named Peter too,” Wilhelmina said in surprise.

  “Did your mom spoil him a lot?”

  “It certainly seemed that way, sometimes. Peter still loves to be the center of attention.”

  “Do your brothers play the piano too?”

  “No. That was my own special territory, something that only I could do. Larry played the violin for a while and Peter the French horn, but they didn’t stay with it once they were out of school. I could play circles around them, and they were both quite jealous of that.” She smiled as she remembered the fierce competition between the three of them in all areas of their lives, especially for their father’s approval. But she had excelled far beyond her brothers in music.

  “I wish I could play like you. I’d sure show my stupid brothers!”

  “Oh dear. That’s hardly a proper motivation to take up the piano.” But Lori’s attitude seemed painfully familiar to Wilhelmina. Could this be part of the reason for her depression since retiring? Had she used her musical talent all these years to win her father’s approval and feel as worthy as her distinguished brothers? If so, it would help to explain why she felt so utterly lost without her profession. She glanced at Lori and felt strangely grateful to her.

  They arrived at the concert hall in time for Wilhelmina to read the program notes to Lori above the clamor of the orchestra as it warmed up in the pit. When the house lights dimmed, a hush of anticipation fell over the audience. Then the curtain rose to reveal the glitterin
g ballroom of the Capulet mansion. Through open French doors, a golden moon shone above a little pond. The water rippled in the evening breeze. Lori gasped in wonder and delight.

  For months Wilhelmina had been unable to attend a concert without feeling resentful and depressed. But today she watched the dancers through Lori’s eyes and heard the music through Lori’s ears. They were both entranced. Lori didn’t fidget or grow bored. She sat perfectly still, watching breathlessly, and when it ended she had tears in her eyes.

  “That was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my whole life!” she said as they got back into Wilhelmina’s car. “I wanted it to go on and on forever and ever.”

  “I did too,” Wilhelmina said, and it was the truth. She thought of her friend Carol, who often fell asleep during a matinee. Wilhelmina would have to nudge her awake if she started to snore. “I’m very glad you came with me today, Lori.”

  “Then you’re not mad at Grandpa anymore?”

  Mike. Wilhelmina hadn’t thought about him all afternoon. But now that Lori reminded her, the queasy knot of apprehension returned to the pit of her stomach.

  “I wasn’t mad at him, Lori, it’s just that . . .” How could she explain to this child the divine compulsion that urged her to share the gospel with Mike? Or the feeling of near despair at her failure to do so? The ballet ticket had seemed heaven-sent, and she didn’t know how she would ever arrange another opportunity to talk to him. Wilhelmina knew she was running out of time.

  *****

  Mike finished the preflight checks on his Beechcraft Staggerwing as the brightly painted Rainbow Society van pulled up near the hangar. He wiped his hands on his coveralls and walked over to greet the driver, a petite, cheerful woman in her 40s.

  “Hello, Mr. Dolan, I’m Ann Wilson. We talked on the phone this morning.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you, Ma’am.”

  “I want to apologize again for giving you such short notice. I hope we didn’t spoil any plans you had for today, but . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ryan’s leukemia is no longer in remission. The doctors expect a very rapid decline.”

  “No apologies necessary. I understand.” She had no idea how well he understood. “My plane is ready whenever you are.”

  Mrs. Wilson slid open the van door and lowered a frail boy in a wheelchair down by hydraulic ramp. A nurse and another woman, probably the boy’s mother, hovered nearby.

  “Mr. Dolan, this is Ryan Mitchell and his mother, Cathy.”

  “Glad to meet you. Come right this way, the plane’s all ready to fly.” A stout nurse in a crisp uniform wheeled Ryan across the tarmac to the Beechcraft. Mike lifted him into the left-hand seat of the cockpit. The boy felt as light as air, his bones ready to poke through his pale skin. “Is this your first lesson, Ryan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the pilot always sits here on the left. Are you ladies coming too?” Ryan’s mother and the nurse stood beside the plane, waiting for Mike to help them on board.

  “No!” Ryan shook his head emphatically. “I don’t want them to. I want to go alone. Just me and Mr. Dolan.”

  Mike remembered the humiliation and helplessness he felt after his last cancer surgery. He had hated having everyone hovering around him too. He draped his arm around Mrs. Mitchell’s shoulder and gently steered her away from the plane.

  “Let me take him up alone, all right? We’ll be fine. If there’s any problem, I promise we’ll land right away.” When she was out of the way, he waved his cap and quickly climbed into the copilot’s seat, shutting the door before anyone could argue. He gave Ryan a wink and a “thumbs-up.” Ryan grinned as the ladies retreated to the van.

  “OK, now. Before we take off I want you to get familiar with all the controls.”

  “I already know most of them. That’s the turn and bank indicator and that’s the altimeter.”

  “Hey, that’s right!”

  “I have a flight simulator on my computer, so I fly all the time.”

  “That’s great. You’re way ahead of the game then.”

  “I really wanted to fly a jet.”

  “So I heard! Actually, they’re basically the same, but it’s a lot easier to learn on a small aircraft. Most jet pilots start out just like this, you know. If you make a mistake at 150 miles an hour, you’ve got a little more time to correct it than you do at Mach 1.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I crashed on my simulator all the time when I was first learning.”

  “Well, try to remember that this is for real, OK?” Mike said with a grin.

  “No sweat, Mr. Dolan.”

  “OK. Let’s run through the instruments quickly, then we’ll grab some sky.” Mike gave Ryan a quick overview of the instrument panel and the controls. It was the fastest first lesson he had ever given, and he probably broke several aviation regulations, but judging by what Mrs. Wilson said, Ryan would probably never get a second lesson, much less his pilot’s license. The Rainbow Society granted dying children their last wishes.

  “Ready to take off?”

  Ryan’s face was bright with excitement. “Yeah!”

  Mike helped Ryan guide the plane away from the hangar and contact the control tower. They were assigned runway zero two, the one Mike usually used with beginners. He showed Ryan how to prepare for takeoff. “All set?” he asked again.

  Ryan nodded. Mike saw the thrill of anticipation in Ryan’s eyes, and he relived his own first lesson with Joe Donovan.

  “Give it more throttle . . . that’s it . . . keep her pointed straight ahead . . .watch your air speed indicator . . . now, ease the yoke back . . . good . . . good!”

  Mike felt the glorious sensation of weightlessness as the little plane lifted off the runway.

  “Great, Ryan! That simulator taught you well.”

  “The real thing is awesome!”

  “You sound like my oldest grandson. He’s about your age. We’re going to climb to 4,000 feet, then I’ll let you take the controls again, OK?”

  “OK. Does your grandson fly too?”

  “Yep. Mickey’s a real good little pilot. Learns fast.”

  “Has he ever gone solo?”

  “Not yet. We’re taking that part kind of slow. It’s more than just ability at the controls that counts. He has landed and flown lots of times with his dad or me sitting here watching him, but he’s not mature enough to go solo yet. Airplanes are pretty expensive toys.”

  When they got to their cruising altitude, Mike let Ryan take the controls again. He had a great time, soaring through the clouds and learning how to gently bank and turn. But after half an hour he seemed bored.

  “Can you teach me to do a loop or a barrel roll, Mr. Dolan?”

  “Whoa! Don’t you think that complicated stuff better wait? At least until the second lesson?”

  “I’ll probably never get another lesson,” Ryan said quietly. “I’m going to die.”

  Mike’s smile faded. “Yeah, so I heard. That’s a real shame. I’ll tell you something, though. I’ve given lots of lessons, and I can see you’d make a mighty fine pilot. You’ve got a natural feel for it, and that’s the truth.” He glanced at Ryan and sighed. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, if you promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  “I’m dying too.”

  “For real?”

  “Yep, for real. The doctor said I had three to six months. But that was almost a month ago, so—”

  “How come?”

  “Cancer. I had a tumor removed a few years back, but now it’s spreading.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “I figured you’d understand.” They looked at each other and grinned, cementing the bond. They flew in comfortable silence for several minutes, savoring the magnificent view, the joyous freedom of flight, and the contentment that comes with understanding.

  “You scared about it, Mr. Dolan?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. Are you?”

  “Maybe a little. Mostly I’m
just sick and tired of all the junk the doctors put me through, you know? I just want to be left in peace.”

  “I know. They mean well, Ryan. They’re only trying to help.”

  “What do you think it’ll be like to die?”

  “I think it’ll be a lot like flying. Like that wonderful feeling of freedom you get when you finally break free from the earth and lift off. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. What do you think it’ll be like?”

  “Probably no more pain. And I’ll feel really good again.”

  They both fell silent. Mike gazed down at the magnificent rolling hills beneath them. For as often as he’d flown, he’d never grown tired of seeing the world from above. Each time thrilled him like the first. How he loved this beautiful earth and all the precious people in his life.

  “Mr. Dolan?”

  “Yeah, Ryan?”

  “What difference does it make then? About the loops and barrel rolls, I mean?”

  “I don’t follow you “

  “Suppose you were to teach me to do a loop. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  Mike considered a moment, then laughed out loud. “I see what you mean. There’s not much for either of us to worry about, is there?” He made up his mind. “OK. We’ll start with a loop.”

  “All right!”

  “See if you can find a road or something we can line up with down below, for reference.”

  “Like that highway over there?”

  “That’s perfect. Can you bank around and line up with it?” He coached Ryan through each step until they were aligned with the highway.

  “Now, a loop isn’t hard to do, but it is hard to do right. I’ll do the first one so you can get the feel of it. First I start a shallow dive . . . Then, I pick up a little speed . . . Now, always check the altimeter reading as you start to pull up. Push the throttle gradually forward . . . Feel the G forces?”

  “Yeah! Cool!”