He walked into her room. The pink-checked curtains were drawn, the small room dim in the bright morning. For a moment the bed was only a high dark shape in tangled space. Stirred with a stick, his mother called Danner’s room. Billy walked over magazines and books and cast-off clothes and stood waiting. She’d wake up if he stared at her, unless she was only pretending to sleep.
She lay on her stomach, limbs outstretched as though she’d reached the bed in free-fall and clung to what she occupied. Her hands held the curved edges of the mattress.
“Danner,” he whispered, certain she was awake, “get up.”
She opened her eyes immediately. “Why?”
“Ride out to the airfield with me before Mom is awake.”
She turned over and pulled the sheet up to her chin. “The hangar isn’t even open yet. There won’t be anything to see.”
“I can get into the hangar,” Billy told her, “but we have to hurry.”
“You can?” She paused, considering. “Dad told you not to go out there again until after the air show. Is it true there’s a guard with a gun at the hangar now?”
“Just old Cosgrove. He’s always had a gun—he shoots groundhogs on the landing strip.” Billy leaned closer to her. Somewhere near them he heard a minute whispering. He reached under her pillow and held up the transistor radio. “Do you sleep with your radio?”
She smiled, embarrassed, and took it from him. “I forgot. I fell asleep.” She turned the sound off and on to make sure the batteries still worked, then held it to her ear. “Last night after we got home from the pool dance, I heard WLS. Now there’s only air.”
“What’s WLS?”
“Chicago. Hundreds of miles away.” Her eyes moved to the obscured windows above her bed. “I hated that dance,” she said then, almost to herself.
“You told Mom it was okay.”
Danner turned the radio off. “Well, it wasn’t. I’m not going anymore.” She looked at him quizzically. “You never told me you know how to slow-dance.”
“I don’t. I just moved my feet.” He shifted his weight, remembering uncomfortably the crowded floor, the lights strung up above like carnival lights. “It doesn’t matter now. Hurry and get up. We have to leave right away, and don’t make noise.”
Crickets sounded up and down the road in the fields, as though it were still night. The wheels of the bicycles skimmed along the smooth cement. He rode beside Danner, wishing she’d go faster but observing a tacit etiquette.
“Listen how loud the crickets are,” Danner said. “They’re down in the thick grass near the dirt and don’t know it’s daylight.”
“Sure they do. The sun just isn’t hot enough yet to make them stop.”
She glanced at him, leaning more forward on her bike. “You don’t know why they don’t stop.”
“I know how to get into the hangar. I’ll show you, but you have to do like I say so Cosgrove won’t see us.”
“Doesn’t he live beside the airfield, in that white house?”
“That’s why he’s the caretaker. He’s just an old retired guy.” Billy leaned back, steering with one hand. “We go around the other side of the hangar—he can’t see from the house.”
They rode, without talking, up the hill. There were no cars on the road and no movement around the infrequent houses, but the fields themselves looked alive. Their colors brightened in swatches as the sun got higher. Crows flew. The hoarse calls of roosters ricocheted.
“When Polly got lost, Cosgrove was the old man we talked to at the airfield.” Danner spoke without turning her gaze from the road.
“Did Dad bring us out here? Are you sure?”
Their dog, Polly, a retriever mix, had disappeared two years before. Jean had announcements made on the local radio; Mitch had driven up and down dirt roads branching off Brush Fork, while Danner and Billy called the dog’s name from the car. Months later, Billy found an animal skeleton in a ditch, deep into the field behind the house. He’d almost stumbled into a depression where the bones lay, creamy-colored, their sheen dull. The perfect fan of the ribs held an oval egg-shaped space in the concave bed of the ditch; the long tail was stretched out, each vertebrae particular and unbroken. The bones were a stencil of a vanished dog. If it was really Polly, where was her collar? But the bones themselves seemed to finalize her disappearance. Billy never told anyone he’d found them. He covered them with long grass. Sometimes men found things with airplanes—they flew over vast lands looking for signs from the air. But even with an airplane he couldn’t have found Polly.
“I would have remembered the airfield,” Billy said.
Danner smiled, a little out of breath. “You didn’t like airplanes yet, so you don’t remember.”
The sky was brightening to a sharp indigo. Dew still dried in the fields, and the rich smell of the ground was barely evident. Later on, the heat would fill the air with the weedy odor of soil and plants and pollen. Now, far off, there was the high whine of a locust.
“It’s a perfect day,” Billy said. “I don’t want to go to church.”
Danner sighed. “She can’t go by herself. No one goes to that church alone except old ladies whose husbands are dead.”
The road leveled; Billy pedaled faster. He hated wearing a coat and tie; he hated seeing all the seated, hushed people. He’d sat through hour-long Methodist services since the age of six, watching his mother’s gloved hands. If he was fidgety she’d let him work the short, tight gloves off her hands, finger by finger, then put them back on.
“We can’t spend long at the hangar,” Danner said. “We have to be back before she wakes up.”
Over the crest of the last hill, the weathered tin of the big hangar stood out against the field, the silver roof painted with a giant white circle.
“Ride a little past the airfield,” Billy told Danner. “Stop when I do and we’ll put the bikes down flat, off the road. We can walk across the meadow on the other side of the hangar—even if Cosgrove is awake, he won’t see us.” Billy passed her and rode farther ahead.
The old hangar was dilapidated. The wood frame was covered with tin sheeting; the ribbed sheets were dented, pocked in places with BB holes. The sharply sloping metal roof had been patched, but swallows had gotten in under the sheeting and nested under the eaves. Billy led Danner across the high-grown meadow to the side of the building. Behind it was the empty landing strip: long, yellow dirt the width of a two-lane road. Billy stepped close to the hangar and touched a piece of the metal sheeting near a seam, pressing it in. He rattled the big panel until it slipped slightly, then pulled one edge out a couple of feet.
“Go through sideways,” he said. “Watch me first.” He wondered if she could do it; she was bigger than he was.
Inside there was a smell of damp earth. The light was gray. Long, dim beams slanted from two high windows. Billy stood still as his eyes adjusted, and Danner stumbled behind him, rattling the panel. The planes were parked closer together than he’d ever seen them, in two shadowed rows. The numbers on the wings were clearly legible even in near darkness. He crouched and turned to his sister. “Bend over so you stay below the wings.”
“Wait, I can’t see. It’s so big in here.” She bent down, feeling the ground. “There’s no floor, just dirt.”
“Water comes in when it rains,” Billy whispered. “Come on now.” He moved quickly, scuttling under wings, and heard Danner behind him trying to keep up. He’d always been alone in the hangar before; hearing her made him feel he was leading an expedition. One of the oldest planes was never locked and seemed never to be flown; he could show her that one, he was sure, and the special box on the copilot’s side.
“Don’t go so fast,” she called after him.
He could have walked down the middle of the two rows but he led her in and out, weaving around and circling the planes. Finally he stopped near the rear of the hangar, beside the old Beechcraft. Danner stood, watching. He opened the door of the airplane and stepped up. She was below him then, l
ooking up expectantly. “Get in. On your side.” He shut the door gently and heard her moving under the nose of the plane, then the smooth click of the other door opening. She looked in, pleased, and stepped up. After she latched the door shut, they both sat still.
The Beech was a two-seater in good condition. The seats were specially covered in dark, cracked leather and the instrument panel was wooden. Billy imagined Cosgrove polishing the glossy surface, rubbing it with a rag. Once, the plane had been used often; though the wood of the panel gleamed, the clocks and dials set into it looked old, their metal rims dull. Billy touched the pilot’s stick. The room within the plane was completely familiar; Billy knew every detail.
“It’s so small in here,” Danner said, “like being in a tent.”
Billy pointed. “There’s a box strapped underneath. Look inside.”
She felt under the instrument panel without bending to see; Billy heard the leather straps unsnap. The box was in her hands then; she held it level in her palm, as though afraid the contents would spill.
“It’s okay,” Billy said. “Open it.”
The brown leather of the box was thick; it was neat and square, and the top fit tight like the lid of a cigar box. Danner lifted it. Inside was a narrow, cut-glass flask with a silver base and cap, and a silver goblet on either side; all three objects were held snug by molding covered in dark fabric. Danner lifted the flask carefully. The base was inscribed in small block letters: BEHIND STANDS THE GENERAL NAVIGATOR—COURAGE. 1949.
“What does it mean?” Danner whispered, staring at the letters.
“Navigator is the name of the plane,” Billy said, “Beechcraft Navigator.”
She turned the bottle from one side to the other, touching the ridges of the textured glass. High up in the rafters of the hangar, swallows called. Their calls were high, drawn-out whistles, echoing, ending on high notes like repeated questions. Danner looked up, then closed the box, smoothing the leather cover with her hand. She took care to replace it exactly. “I don’t know if we should be sitting here,” she said.
The metal hangar doors rumbled then, sliding back on runners. Billy saw Cosgrove and another, younger man at the entrance, leaning with their shoulders to push the old doors. “Get down,” Billy said, and they leaned flat across the seats of the Beech, their bodies overlapping. “It’s just a pilot coming to get a plane.”
A voice spoke. “Sorry to get you up so early.”
Cosgrove answered. “Don’t matter. Doing some shooting anyway.”
“Get any raccoon?”
“Not in the field here. Not till you cross the creek.”
Silence as the men walked. They must have come after one of the Piper Cubs near the front; they stopped not far from the entrance. “I’ll help you pivot her,” Cosgrove said.
Billy heard them turn the plane; then Cosgrove walked back outside. Now the pilot would be attaching a tow bar to the nose gear so he could pull the plane slowly out of the hangar to the runway.
“Let’s get out of here,” Danner whispered.
Billy signaled her to stay quiet. She nodded. They listened as the Cub moved, creaking, the sound growing more faint. Billy sat up and looked. “He’s outside. We can hide in the field at the end of runway and see him take off.”
“You’re going to get us in trouble.”
“They won’t see us, the grass is high. Slide out on my side.”
They were out quickly. Billy remembered to latch the door of the Beech. The hangar was lit now with daylight, and they squeezed out through the same opening between the tin panels of the siding. They ran straight across the field, hidden from sight by the hangar itself until they cut over to the far end of the airstrip and threw themselves down on their bellies. They were just in front of the dirt runway, several feet back into the tall field. Billy saw Cosgrove and the pilot talking near the hangar. The Cub was in position to take off and the pilot was paying Cosgrove. He turned and got into the Cub; Cosgrove walked back toward the hangar, holding his rifle low against his leg.
“The plane will taxi straight toward us,” Billy told Danner. “Don’t move. Promise.”
The engine coughed and caught, the single propeller turning seven or eight slow turns. The Cub was moving, picking up speed, the whirring propeller a flash of motion radiating outward from the spinner. The plane came on fast. Billy pressed himself flatter against the ground, staring intently to see through the grass. He stopped thinking then as the Cub approached, the grind of the engine heightened in pitch, smoothing out. There was a sensation of noise and the ground itself slanting, as the nose of the plane honed in.
Then it was airborne.
He’d never seen a plane in flight so close. Streaks of rust were on the underside, and the small wheels of the landing gear still turned. Billy rose up; the plane was perhaps thirty feet above them as it passed over, lifting off, roaring. He stood into the roar, Danner grabbing his arm hard. Then she was on top of him, yelling into his neck as the sound of the plane was everywhere, rumbling through the tall grass. As the plane banked left, Billy saw the pilot look down at them, a shock of surprise on his face. Billy looked back elated as he sank to his knees in the spongy dirt. He knelt and the field was eye level, glossed with the yellow tassels of the blooming weeds. He could see Cosgrove at the other end of the runway, standing blocklike in overalls and work hat, his back to them.
“Get down,” Danner said urgently.
“No, he isn’t facing this way.” Billy craned his neck to keep the plane in sight as it gained altitude, then grabbed Danner’s wrist. “Come on. We’ll run. He won’t see us now.”
“No, wait!” She stayed crouched, trying to pull Billy into the cover of the grass.
Billy tightened his grip on her arm and stood; then he let go and ran. He knew she’d follow him. He ran, hearing the swish of grass against his legs. He ran flat out and saw her beside him, a peripheral moving image. He smiled, running. The plane had gone up just above him, so loud and so close. The pilot had seen him: it was like a pact.
AMAZING GRACE
Danner
1965
Mitch took her to work in the big white Chevrolet. She had a job that summer as a banquet waitress at the local Methodist college, carrying eight heaped plates to conference tables of ministers. The girls piled the plates on oval trays in the kitchen, squatted, balanced the weight on one shoulder, and held it with both hands as they stood. The manager kept the swinging door open as the waitresses, all fifteen and sixteen years old, walked to their assigned places and squatted again, straight-backed, sliding the trays onto stands. Amazed at their own feats of strength, they smoothed their dark skirts and delivered roast beef. Danner hated their uniforms: white blouses, black straight skirts, nylons, and dark shoes. August was so hot that if Jean took her to work, the black ’59 Ford having baked in the sun until the seats smelled of hot rubber, Danner’s legs were clammy with sweat by the time they arrived. Mitch’s car had an air conditioner, and if he was in a good mood he’d turn the engine on and cool the car before Danner got in. She sat in the encapsulated coolness and watched the landscape while they drove to town; the fields by the Brush Fork road seemed to steam with heat, and the edge of the sign that marked the city limits shone sharp and brilliant.
Mitch smoked a cigarette, leaving his window open a sliver to take the smoke. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“You don’t have to pick me up, it’s Friday.” Riley always picked her up on Fridays after he got off work at the A&P. Without looking at Mitch, Danner knew her father was shaking his head and frowning. “I won’t be late tonight. Eleven was just too early—the drive-in doesn’t even start until eight or nine. Mom said I could come in at midnight until school starts.”
“I’ve told Jean what I think of that, but she doesn’t give a damn what I say.” He glanced over at Danner, then scowled at the road. “I know Riley’s father and I like Riley, but he’s eighteen and he’s a little too old for you.”
“I
’m almost sixteen,” Danner said, and fell silent. After work she and Riley would go to Nedelson’s Parkette to eat, then to the drive-in, where Danner would fall asleep exhausted midway through the first feature. The sound of the movie close to her face filled her mind with pictures. Usually she woke in an hour or so, happy, with Riley drinking a beer beside her.
“I know how old you are,” Mitch said. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Danner knew, but what difference did the time of night make? Riley had taken her parking since last winter, when her curfew was earlier. Now their rituals were established. What moved her most was the moment when he said her name involuntarily; then she was sliding down on the seat under him, and it was like the soundtrack at the drive-in—a surface closed over her. What was near and solid drifted far off and sounds came indescribably close; his breathing was all she heard. They lay down fully clothed and he moved against her until he came, so hard in his pants that she could move her legs slightly apart and feel the shape of him. Danner had still never touched a man. Riley stroked her thighs, moving his hands higher in subtle circles until she clasped his fingers. He would major in business at Lynchburg State, forty miles away; already, Danner knew she couldn’t stay with him. She didn’t confide in him, not really.
“What do you think about this moving idea of your mother’s?” The cigarette smoked in the ash tray. Mitch drove with one hand and kept the other on the back of his neck, as though to cushion some blow.
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