Now Gavin leaned back and looked over the fine white linen cloth with matching napkins, the sparkling crystal glasses, the heavy silver service, and nodded. “It does make a difference. I guess you’ve made an English snob out of me.”
“You’re a very nice snob,” Heather nodded firmly as she brought a silver tureen and set it on the table. “Mock turtle soup,” she said. “And the rest of the menu includes chops and shepherd’s pie.” She sat down, and as they bowed their heads, Gavin asked the blessing. He had been converted while serving as a fighter pilot in France, and since their marriage they had grown very close to God.
Heather filled his bowl with soup, and as he ate, she asked, “Did things go well today?”
“A good crowd,” he nodded. “But we’re going to have to spend some money on aircraft. The Standard has about done its duty.”
They talked as they ate leisurely, and finally Heather asked, “Is something wrong, dear?”
Gavin glanced up quickly, a smile pulling at his wide mouth. “I might as well be married to a private detective,” he said. “You know too much about me.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s Jerry.” He toyed with his teacup, stared down into it, then lifted troubled eyes to her. “It’s Cara,” he said finally.
Heather nodded slowly. They had talked of this before, but now she saw that Gavin was more troubled than he had been earlier. “They’re having an affair, I take it.”
“You know Cara,” Gavin shrugged. “She has the morals of an alley cat. Makes no secret of it.”
“What about Jerry?”
“Oh, he’s flattered, of course. What young man wouldn’t be? She’s beautiful, famous in a way—and Jerry’s had no experience with her kind.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“About Cara? Sure. Might as well be talking into the wind.”
“Do you think Amos knows?”
“I don’t know. Think I ought to tell him?”
Heather was a thoughtful woman, tactful and highly sensitive to the moods of people. She let the silence run on, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. That would make you a snitch—and nobody likes one of those. Jerry would never trust you again.”
“I can’t let it go on much longer,” Gavin said heavily. “The affair—well, they would say it’s their business. But up in the air flying like we do, everyone has to have his mind on the job—all the time. Just one careless slip, and somebody gets killed.”
“Yes, I know.”
Gavin saw that his words had struck Heather, and he regretted them. “I’m very careful, and so is the rest of the team. But Jerry’s cocky, and Cara’s crazy. That’s a bad combination.” He leaned back in his chair, thinking hard. Finally he nodded, “I’ll have to talk to him.”
“What will you say, Gavin?”
“That who he beds down with is his business—but if it affects his performance, I’ll have to let him go!”
“He’ll listen to you, I’m sure,” Heather said quickly. “He really loves you, Gavin—and he respects you.”
Heather knew Gavin was very troubled, so she gave him an engaging smile. Gavin’s worry about the show evaporated. He came up out of his seat, pulled her up, and held her tightly.
He kissed her, and she gave herself to his embrace, happy that she was able to provide the love and assurance this man of hers needed. As they moved toward the bedroom, she thought, I hope Jerry has more sense than to trade in what he values most for what he can get from that little tramp!
Jerry came into the hangar, his head aching and his mouth dry. He moved to the locker that held his flying suit and began to pull off his shirt. The door opened, and Gavin walked in. “Oh, hi, Gavin,” Jerry mumbled. Yanking off the shirt, he threw it into the bottom of the locker. As he pulled on a fresh one, he glanced up to catch a quick expression on Gavin’s face. “Something wrong?” he asked.
“What time did you get to bed last night—or this morning?”
Jerry blinked his eyes in surprise and licked his lips. Gavin usually wore a pleasant expression, but now he was stern and forbidding. “Why, I don’t know exactly—”
“It was exactly 4:30,” Gavin snapped.
Jerry reddened. He had gone with Cara to a series of jazz joints, and they had drunk far too much. He remembered vaguely getting stopped by a policeman and being warned that if he got stopped again, it’d be jail. He had taken Cara to her hotel, then stumbled into his room and fallen across the bed fully dressed. “Did that two-bit clerk tip you off?” he demanded angrily.
“Doesn’t matter how I found out, what counts is that you’re not fit to go up today.”
Jerry glared at Gavin angrily. “That’s not so!”
“You think so?” Gavin demanded. “Your reflexes are all right?”
“Sure!”
“Let’s see if they are.”
Gavin put his hands out, palms up. Jerry stared at them, then put his own hands, palms down, on Gavin’s. It was a game they often played. The one who had his hands on the bottom tried to jerk them out and slap the hands of the other. If he connected, he got another try, and if he missed, it was the other’s turn to try and slap him. Jerry enjoyed the game, for he usually won—even with Gavin. His reflexes were amazingly fast, and he had no trouble winning over and over.
“All right,” he said defiantly, with his hands over Gavin’s. He waited for the twitch of Gavin’s hands, for that was the signal to jerk his own away. He grinned despite his headache, for he knew he was much faster than Gavin. I’ll give him a few extra-hard slaps just to teach him to show more respect for his nephew, he thought.
Then Gavin’s hands moved, and Jerry yanked his own—but Gavin’s hands came down on his with a loud slapping noise. Jerry stopped grinning, for Gavin had slapped him so hard that the back of one hand was red. Angrily he put his hands back over Gavin’s, who was staring at him, and said, “Go on, try it!”
But before he could finish, Gavin had slapped his hands again with a stinging blow. Jerry winced but then gritted his teeth. He carefully put his hands back and for the next three minutes endured the shame of having Gavin slap his hands repeatedly. He cursed the drinking that had robbed him of his coordination, and he desperately tried to anticipate the lightning blows that Gavin rained on him.
Finally Gavin said, “Want to tell me again how great your reflexes are?”
Gavin’s sarcasm caused Jerry to flush. “I may not be at my best—”
“Best? You’re moving like you’re underwater, Jerry!” Gavin shook his head, his eyes filled with anger. “How many times have you heard me say that when you go up, you need all the stuff you’ve got? If you don’t care anything about yourself, you ought to care about the people who trust you.”
Jerry stood there, miserably aware that Gavin was right. But something in him rebelled, and he finally blurted out, “You’re not my father, Gavin. I took enough of this when I was living at home!”
“You should have listened to him!” Gavin snapped.
“I can take care of myself!”
Gavin had braced himself for this, had dreaded it. Now he knew he had no choice. “No need getting dressed, Jerry. You’re grounded.”
“Gavin—you can’t do that to me!”
“You did it to yourself, Jerry.”
“Look, I’m a little slow, but—”
“You’re not going up until you prove that your job is better than getting drunk and rolling in the dirt with Cara.”
Jerry’s face flamed, and he dropped his head. Silence fell over the room, and finally he forced himself to ask, “Am I fired?”
“No, you’re grounded. Help Al take care of the planes. When you prove to me you’re serious, we’ll talk again.”
Gavin turned and walked out of the room, leaving Jerry to stare at the door. He stood there for a moment, then turned and rammed his fist against the steel door of the locker. He wanted to walk out, but he knew he had to fly. Slowly he put on old coveralls, shut the d
oor, and went out to help Al service the planes. He knew the jibes he’d take from Cara, but he had no choice. He muttered to himself as he walked slowly toward the planes, All right, Gavin, all right. I’ve got to do what you say. But someday I’ll show you something! I’ll make you and everybody else see that I’m the best!
Jerry stayed grounded only for a week, but that seemed like an eternity. Every time a plane took off, his heart went with it.
All summer long he labored, determined to show Gavin that he was to be trusted. Cara taunted him, for though he still went out dancing with her, he was careful to be in at an early hour, and he drank very little. “You’re no man!” she jibed time and again, but Jerry knew he had no chance to learn to fly unless he met Gavin’s terms.
After that first week, Gavin came to him as he was washing down one of the planes. He put out his hands, saying, “All right, let’s see about this.”
Jerry at once put his hands on top of Gavin’s, and there was no contest. Gavin was far too slow for him, and when it was Jerry’s turn to try to hit the tops of his uncle’s hands, he slapped them sharply five times in a row.
“All right, get ready to fly.”
Jerry swallowed, nodded, and ran to get ready. He knew that Gavin was watching him like a hawk, and for weeks he did exactly as Gavin demanded. Finally he saw that he had won back the ground he’d lost—or most of it. He flew with Gavin constantly, learning the skills that a first-rate pilot had to master, and he was grateful for the chance to learn from such a man.
Still, there was a sharp-edged memory of the humiliation he’d endured, and he determined to prove to Gavin that he was able to fly as well as most, or even better.
One day in St. Louis, he came in feeling reckless. He was touchy, for Cara had stood him up. When she came over to the plane, he demanded, “Where were you last night?”
She looked up at him defiantly. “I had a date with Red Toffler.” Toffler was a pilot who flew with another air circus. Cara had mentioned his name more than once, and Jerry suspected the two of them had been lovers. Now he saw that she was waiting for him to begin a quarrel. It was, he discovered, the sort of thing Cara liked—to get men into fights for her favors.
If he had been older or wiser, he would have dropped the matter, but instead he said bitterly, “He’s too old for you.”
“He’s not a mama’s boy. We had a good time—like we used to have, Jerry, before you joined the choir.”
“You know I can’t go carousing all night! Gavin would fire me!”
“If you want me, Jerry, come along. If not, let’s hang it up.”
Indecision broke through, and Jerry stared down at her curvaceous body. He knew he was weak and despised himself for it, but it seemed she had some sort of power to make him follow her. “All right, we’ll go out tonight—but we’ll have to be sure Gavin doesn’t find out.”
A smile came to her red lips instantly. She pressed herself against him and whispered, “There’s my Jerry!” Then she was gone, leaving him to wonder how he could pull it off.
He finished the show, then said to Gavin, “I’d like to look around St. Louis. Want to come along?”
“I’ve seen it, Jerry. You go on.”
“Sure. Oh, I’ll probably be late. Maybe I’ll get a room downtown—but I’ll be back in time to go over the program with you at the field.”
“All right. Have a good time, Jerry.”
Elated by his easy success, Jerry left at once. He met Cara at a bar they’d agreed on, and they launched themselves into a night of wild revelry. Cara had been in St. Louis before and knew all the speakeasies.
By the time they got to Madge’s Place, Jerry was fairly well drunk. It was a Negro club on the fringe of the city. The two of them walked down a flight of stairs and passed into a room so low-ceilinged that Jerry felt the roof was falling in. As soon as they sat down, the waiter whispered, “Keep your bottle in your pocket, don’t put it on the floor.”
“This is a high class joint,” Cara laughed. She was wearing a dress with a hem so high that when she crossed her legs her undergarments were visible. “Come on, let’s dance,” she demanded.
They moved around the crowded dance floor, the smell of perfume, whiskey, and sweat forming a canopy over the room. When they sat down, Jerry felt slightly sick. He had been off liquor most of the summer, and it hit him hard.
“Look—that’s the one we came to hear,” Cara said. Jerry followed her gesture to see a rotund black man sit down at the piano. “That’s Fats Waller!”
The name meant nothing to Jerry, who had to excuse himself. He threw up in the men’s room and wanted to leave, but Cara was taken with the singing of Waller. She kept demanding whiskey, and when they finally left the club it was after three in the morning. They made their way, moving drunkenly to a cab that deposited them in front of a dilapidated hotel. Jerry made it to the room, but as soon as he was inside, he fell on the bed and passed out.
When he awoke, the light was streaming in through the dirty window. He groaned, looked around, and saw no sign of Cara. He came to his feet, stopping to let the pains in his head subside. Then he looked at his watch—and the room seemed to sway.
“Twelve-thirty!” he gasped. Knowing he had to be at the field by one, he ran down the stairs, paid his bill, caught a taxi, and urged the driver to break the law getting him to the field. When he got out, he shoved some bills into the driver’s hands and ran to the hangar. His head was throbbing, and he knew if Gavin saw him, he was lost.
He managed to get into the hangar, which was empty. Outside he heard the planes revving up. Frantically he donned his flying clothes and raced out on the field. He saw Gavin and went up to him, saying, “Sorry to be late—”
Gavin took in the red-rimmed eyes and caught the smell of whiskey. He shook his head sadly. “You never learn, do you?” he murmured.
“I’m all right!”
Gavin put his hands out, palms up. “Let’s see if you are.”
Jerry blinked but knew he had no choice. He tried hard, but Gavin beat the backs of his hands five times, then said in disgust, “Go put your overalls on, Jerry. I can’t trust you in the air. A man who can’t keep a few rules on the ground can’t fly for me.”
“I won’t go back to being a janitor!”
“Then you’d better go someplace and grow up, Jerry,” Gavin said. “I hate to do this. You’ve got more natural ability than most men, but I can’t let you fly. I could never face Amos if you got killed flying drunk.”
“I’m sacked?”
“Until you learn to give me your best, you’re not flying.”
Jerry stared at Gavin, then said, “All right—that’s it!”
He moved away, collected his things, and left the hangar. Later that day he found Cara and told her the story.
“What are you going to do, Honey?” she asked.
“I’m going to fly.”
“Yeah, I think you will. You’ve got it in your blood.” Then a soft light came into her eyes. She put her hands on his face, saying, “I’m sorry about this, Jerry. It was all my fault!”
He looked at her quickly and saw that the hard look was gone. Cara looked tired, and he said quickly, “Nobody made me do anything, Cara.” He tried to speak with assurance, adding, “Look, I’ll get a job flying with somebody else. And you know we’ve always talked about getting an act together? Well, we’ll do it! And we’ll make Father Gavin take notice!”
Cara bit her lip, then brightened. “I’ve got an offer to do a distance flight. Going to fly across the ocean or something. It’ll mean big money, and maybe I’ll get enough attention to get into the movies or something.”
“Hey, that’s great!” Jerry managed a smile and kissed her. “You go do your flying, and I’ll think about our act. Hey, my aunt’s in the movies. Maybe we can get parts as fliers!”
They talked for a time, then Jerry said, “Well, I’ll be seeing you, Cara. Don’t forget me.”
And then she was gone. Jerry left
St. Louis, buying a bus ticket to Detroit where he thought he could get a job with Bix Tolbert’s Air Circus. It was a crummy outfit, but at least it would be flying! As the bus left the city, he looked up and saw a biplane skimming the clouds. It was Gavin, and Jerry whispered, “Well, Father Gavin, you old son-of-a-gun, I’ll show you something one of these days!”
The plane dipped its wings, then soared up to disappear in the clouds. Jerry put his head back and dozed, thinking of what a fool he’d been. The bus lumbered over the potholes in the highway, swerving from time to time to dodge them. Finally he fell asleep and dreamed of being in the air, touching the clouds.
A JOB IN FORT SMITH
Amos arrived at the farm driving a large yellow car with an open top and a spare tire mounted in matching yellow on the rear. He sprang out and made a sweeping bow to the wide-eyed members of his family, grinning broadly.
“Here it is, your chariot to Chicago. How do you like it, Sis?”
Lenora rolled her chair forward until she could run her palm over the brightly painted metal. “Amos—is this yours?”
“Not likely,” Amos laughed. “I’m just a lowly reporter. This is the pride and joy of my boss, Mr. Hearst. He’s letting me use it now that he’s sent me to Chicago to work on the Examiner. Rose and Maury like it, too.”
“It ain’t no Ford, is it, Amos?”
“Mr. Hearst wouldn’t go to his own funeral in a Ford, Pa. This is a brand-new Pierce-Arrow two-passenger runabout.” He spieled off the virtues of the car rapidly. “Got a six-cylinder dual-valve engine, a power-driven pump for inflating the tires, an inspection lamp, and a grease gun for greasing the running gear.”
“How much does a thing like that cost?” Will demanded.
“A little over seven thousand dollars.”
“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” Will Stuart exclaimed. “Why, you can buy a pretty fair farm for that much!”
“Don’t guess William Randolph Hearst needs a farm,” Amos grinned. Turning to Christie, he said, “I’d planned to get a bigger car, but when you said you couldn’t come, I figured this would do me. Mr. Hearst said he didn’t want any of his reporters looking shabby, so he insisted on my driving this little hummer.”
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