Airfield

by Jeanette Ingold

  Julie Elise interrupts, "Listen!" She lifts her head for a better look down the road. "Isn't that Milton's car?"

  Moments later he pulls in, and boys seem to erupt from the jalopy's doors. Julie Elise says, "I told you."

  Then several more girls arrive, and after that the day kind of blurs into horseplay and pimiento-cheese sandwiches, iced tea, gossip, and flirting. And the boys do a little fishing, though they don't catch anything big enough to keep.

  Julie Elise and Milton, who apparently were the hit of a high school talent night, occasionally launch into a hilarious routine about two fast-talking vaudeville stars, and I almost laugh myself silly listening to them.

  It's midafternoon when Leila says, "Beatty, you never answered about whether you have a boyfriend."

  "No one in particular," I say. "One of the things that's good about moving around is that you get to meet a lot of guys."

  "That sounds a little wild," Julie Elise says, grinning at me.

  But Leila persists, "Hasn't there been anyone you wanted to see more of?"

  "Not yet. None I thought was that special."

  I've been watching the fun around me, but now the scene seems to shift a bit, moving over to make room for other scenes: Moss puzzling over that assortment of radio parts; trudging to town after a job; boosting Millie up on the airplane wing with us last evening.

  I wonder if Moss really did give thought to helping out at the airfield. It would be good for him.

  By the time Grif comes home for supper I've decided to bring it up myself. "He'd work just for some food, until he finds a real job," I explain. "And I'd help Clo with the extra cooking."

  "Beatty," Grif says, "you don't have to sell me. Moss was raking the walk when I got there this morning, and he's been finding chores to do since."

  Clo asks, "Then where is he? If he's working for food, he should be here to eat."

  "He didn't want to intrude. I split my lunch with him, and when I go back I'll take him something more."

  Feeling a bit thrown off balance—somehow I hadn't expected Moss to take things on himself so fast—I ask, "But ... What about Millie? What did he do with her?"

  "Said he left her at the caboose, feasting on grasshoppers. Clo, can we spare a bit extra for the dog, too? I wish we had a way to pay the boy real money."

  Chapter 9

  FRIDAY OF THE next week is my birthday. I find a small, flat box on the breakfast table with a card saying, "For a special girl as she turns fifteen." It's got everybody's name on it, all my aunts' and Grif's and Dad's.

  "Aren't you going to undo the tissue?" Clo asks, her eyes shining.

  I can't imagine... Carefully, I unwrap a lady's watch, a silver rectangle of filigree around a face with hour and minute hands so delicate they look like lace.

  "Oh," I say, "it's beautiful. But how can I—I mean, how can—" I stop, uncertain how to ask if, when times are so hard, this hasn't cost more than should be spent on me.

  Clo says, "And, Beatty, I'm supposed to tell you from everyone, 'Happy birthday.' Your father included, though he'll tell you himself this evening."

  "Oh, Clo..."

  "He called from Dallas to say the afternoon flight won't have an extra seat, so he's catching a bus over instead. He's planning to stay for the weekend."

  "Really? So he's done being mad?"

  "I guess."

  Mrs. Granger, the airport director's wife that Clo's been getting to know, comes by in late morning with a card and an embroidered handkerchief. "That's happy birthday from me and Mr. Granger," she says.

  For lunch Leila and Julie Elise take me to the malt shop, where there's a lot of joking—the boys all want to know if I'm just Sweet Sixteen or if I'm Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed?

  "Fifteen," I tell them. "I'm exactly fifteen."

  Milton says that wasn't the working part of the question.

  And in the early afternoon, as I'm riding to the airport to see what's going on there, I meet Moss walking up the highway. "Hey," I call as we near each other, "where are you going?"

  The tips of his ears reddening, Moss says, "I heard it was your birthday. I thought to take you these."

  Then I realize what's he's carrying, a bouquet of wildflowers, stems wrapped in wet newspaper.

  "Moss, where did you find them? They're lovely."

  Before I think about what I'm doing, I give him a quick peck on his cheek. It's just like the ones I gave Clo and Grif over the watch, just a quick thank-you, but it startles us both as much as being touched by a hot cinder would have.

  Quickly I step back. "They're lovely, Moss," I tell him again. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  "I should go back to the cabin so I can put them in water," I say, and he nods, but neither of us actually moves. Not until Millie comes bounding out of the field with a stick she wants us to throw.

  For my birthday dinner, Clo makes a pot roast, along with new potatoes and peas. Also, she's traded some hand sewing for eggs from the chickens that the tourist court owners keep out back. Now the whites are in an angel food cake, the yolks baked into the sunshine yellow of ladyfinger layers.

  "Which cake do you want candles on?" she asks.

  "Both."

  The table is already pretty with Moss's flowers arranged in a canning jar, and Clo's got me setting it with party napkins she's made from scraps of material. "Anything else I can do?" I ask.

  "Just go watch for your father. He ought to be arriving any minute."

  The words are hardly out of her mouth when Muddy Springs's only cab drives up. Dad pulls out his overnight grip and hands me postcards he's picked up in Memphis and Saint Louis, Shreveport, Atlanta.

  "I should start a collection," I say. "Thanks."

  Clo brings out a pitcher of ice water and tells us to visit while she finishes up inside.

  As soon as Dad's settled in a lawn chair I say, "Dad, I was talking to the airport mechanic the other day—"

  "Kenzie?" he asks. "How did you run into him?"

  "—I just did. And he told me he used to fly some with my mother. Why didn't you ever tell me she was a pilot?"

  The late-day sun is coming in sideways and strong against one side of Dad's face, and now its warm glare shows his jaw tightening. "No reason," he says.

  "But she was one? That's true?"

  Dad doesn't deny it, but he doesn't volunteer anything extra.

  "Why won't you tell me about her?" I ask. "I know I've never asked much, but I didn't need to as long as I could picture her looking like anybody else's mother—sick, of course, and the picture was hazy, but it made sense. Only now I'm hearing she wasn't like other mothers. Flying ... Dad, that's what you do..."

  "Don't be foolish, Beatty," Dad snaps. "What she did wasn't the same at all."

  I try to get him to explain, but Dad backs off, and when Grif's car pulls in the tourist court, Dad practically springs up to greet him.

  "Happy birthday again!" Grif calls to me. "See who's with me?"

  Moss looks as if his cleaning project the last couple of hours has been himself. His skin is shiny from scrubbing, and he's wearing what I'm pretty sure is an old pair of pants and a shirt of Grif's, now starched and ironed.

  I see Clo noticing appreciatively, though she doesn't say anything.

  "Beatty, introduce your friend," Dad tells me.

  "Hello, sir," says Moss.

  Clo's dinner is wonderful, though I feel sorry for Moss. Dad must think he's a boyfriend of mine who needs interrogating.

  And, of course, Moss doesn't have good answers for things like "What's your father do, Moss?" and "How far along in school are you?"

  Moss doesn't try to dodge the questions, though. "My pa's an automobile mechanic," he says. "Only there weren't work at home all last year, so he went lookin' for it elsewhere."

  "And you?" Dad asks.

  "I guess I need work more 'n I need school."

  For some reason—I suppose because of how Dad is examining Moss—I notic
e Moss's grammar more than I usually do, and I wish I could stop his mistakes.

  When Clo asks, "Moss, a second piece of cake?" and he answers, "I'm obliged. I ain't had none like this ever," I cringe for him.

  "Beatty?" Clo asks.

  "Yes, please," I say. "I haven't had any like this in a long time, either."

  Moss flushes, and I realize I've hurt instead of helped.

  Still, when Dad asks where he's living, Moss begins, "I ain't—" Then he backs up to say, carefully, "I don't have any real home right now, but—"

  Interrupting to keep him from mentioning that abandoned caboose, which I know would make Dad uneasy, I risk asking about the other thing that's been on my mind. "Dad, that woman who almost flew me down, Annie Boudreau? Where did you know her from?"

  For a moment I think Dad's going to get angry again, but he doesn't. Instead he answers shortly, "She was one of your mother's cronies."

  "Why would she care how I'm being raised?"

  Clo says, "Beatty, it's natural if she was a friend of your mother's that—"

  But Dad cuts her off. "It's not her business."

  Embarrassed silence follows until Grif thinks to tell about that plane coming down in the farm field last week.

  "Yeah? What kind?" Dad asks.

  Moss says, "It was a Lockheed Vega, sir. Kenzie told me."

  Dad laughs. "So you've met Kenzie, too! He put you to work? I've seen him do it even to a pilot."

  I start to tell Dad that Kenzie's had me busy also, but Moss answers first. "Not put me to work, exactly," he says. "But we fixed an oil pump together. It was pretty new, but there was—were—a couple places—a couple of places where it was worn..."

  Dad frowns. "Did Kenzie say what caused the wear?"

  And then Moss is sketching something on a scrap of paper. "What we figured," he's telling my dad, "see, the worn places was—were—inside here, and—"

  Dad asks, "But how did you go about fixing it? I'd have thought the whole thing would have to be replaced."

  "Oh no, sir," Moss says. "We just overhauled—"

  "Beatty," Clo says, getting up, "should we leave the guys to the mechanical talk?"

  Moss and Grif leave in time for Grif to meet the 10:35 mail flight, but even after that Clo and Dad and I sit outside visiting. The two of them get going on stories from when they were kids. "Remember, Collin, that time you got sent to your room without supper and climbed out the window and down a grapevine, only to stumble on the cat and break your arm..."

  "You can't remember, Clo. You weren't even born yet."

  "But I've heard about it often enough from Maud and Fanny. And heard how, even while you were yowling in pain, you couldn't stop laughing about how surprised the cat was..."

  It reminds me of what Clo told me about my dad when he was young, that he was a joyful noise.

  I don't glimpse that side of him very often. And when I do, it's usually at a time like this, when everybody sits outside and retells old stories, waiting for a summer night to cool. I've heard the stories told the same way at Fanny's house, on the porches at Grandpa's and Maud's, on the lawn of the boardinghouse where Clo lived after Grandpa died and before she married Grif.

  Tonight, though, I'm wondering what stories my mother would tell if she'd lived and could sit with us and add her own. What would be the memories she'd most cherish?

  And, asking as the thought forms, I say, "Dad, there's another birthday present I'd like. Will you please take me for a plane ride? Just so I can know how it feels?"

  Dad shakes his head, but Clo suddenly leans forward as though to challenge him. "Why not, Collin?" she asks. "Have you any reason not to let Beatty see what you find so special up there? How long are you going to cut your daughter off from your life?"

  Dad grips the arms of his chair as though to restrain an angry answer, and I jump in to head off an argument.

  "It's all right, Dad," I say. "I just thought maybe, since you seemed to consider letting me go with you that day your copilot suggested it..."

  Grif, who's returned in time to hear this last, says, "There're open seats on tomorrow morning's eastbound flight, Collin. You two could have a quick lunch in Dallas and catch the westbound back."

  Dad, looking cornered, finally gives a reluctant "OK."

  Chapter 10

  THE SUN IS streaming in the windows when I wake up, coming in so strong I know right away it's at least midmorning. I scramble out of a tangle of sheets. "Clo," I call, "what time is it? Where are you?"

  "Here, Beatty," she says, opening the screen door.

  "Why did you let me oversleep? Is Dad still in his cabin? We're going to miss our plane!"

  "No, no. Take it easy, Beatty," Clo tells me. "You're going out this afternoon instead, taking the westbound flight as far as El Paso. Which means you'll get to eat dinner and stay in a hotel."

  "Great! But why?"

  "Because the pilot on the airmail milk run this morning got sick and your father offered to fill in on the next leg. He said he can connect with the afternoon flight, so all you have to do is meet him on board."

  "Then I better pack a bag. Clo, don't you wish you were me?"

  ***

  Bicycling to the airport, I can't resist stopping by Joe's Texas Auto Parts.

  Joe eyes the little travel case that I've got wedged in my bike basket. "Some passenger forget that?" he asks.

  "No."

  "Doing another errand for your aunt?"

  "No."

  "I know. You're running away from home!"

  "No! Joe, I'm going flying. In a plane!"

  "Well, I guess, since I don't see no wings on you." He waves at the sky. "I'll be watchin'."

  I detour by the hangar to tell Kenzie.

  "Hey," I yell as I head inside, "did you hear? I'm going flying."

  As my eyes adjust to the shadowed light, I make out three coveralled bodies huddled near the motor of the Gold Lightning plane. Something pings and someone says, "Dang, I thought we had it."

  Then they turn, and I see they're Kenzie, Moss, and Annie Boudreau herself—all grease smeared and looking like their minds are still mostly on their work.

  "Well? What'd you say?" Kenzie asks.

  Feeling a little foolish, I repeat, "I just dropped by to tell you that Dad and I are going to take the afternoon plane to El Paso. So..." I try to joke but can't keep a tremor from my voice "...Lindsey Donnough's daughter is going to fly!"

  "About time!" Kenzie says, and Gold Lightning, her voice sounding uneven, says, "She would have liked that."

  ***

  "Grif?" I ask, "is Dad's plane going to be on time?"

  He finishes marking changes on a weather map, working from a clipboard of hourly forecasts. Then, avoiding my eyes, he answers, "Beatty, the dispatcher in Lubbock says Collin took the mail flight on from there."

  "But ... he was coming back here to take me for a plane ride."

  "I'm sorry, Beatty."

  "Aren't there any other pilots in Texas? Couldn't somebody else have done the mail?"

  Grif shifts uncomfortably, and his silence is all the answer I need. "Dad volunteered, didn't he?" I say. "Offered to work so he could get out of taking me up?"

  "Beatty, there'll be other times..."

  And more times when Dad will take off instead of doing something he doesn't want to do. Why does he think it's OK to just leave things he doesn't want to deal with?

  I try to talk Grif into setting things up so I can make the trip by myself, but of course he says, "Beatty, you know I can't do that."

  "But—"

  "Listen," he says, pointing to a pile of bulging sacks out by the scale, "five hundred pounds of experimental seed just showed up marked to go on the Tri-Motor coming in, and I've got to refigure all my load allowances. I just can't take time to talk with you now."

  Outside, I jam my travel case into my bike basket. I hope Dad is feeling so guilty that he is absolutely miserable!

  Over by the hangar, the Gold Lightni
ng plane rolls into view, pushed by Kenzie, Moss, and Annie.

  Annie climbs in the rear of the cockpit, and Moss goes around front to hand-prop the plane.

  "Contact," he calls, and she shouts back, "Contact."

  Grasping the top of the propeller blade, Moss pulls it down and through, jumping back as the engine comes to life.

  And then I watch, unbelieving, as Moss climbs in the plane's front seat. What's he doing?

  I drop my bike and run toward them while the propeller rotates faster and the plane begins moving.

  "Hey!" I call. "Moss! Annie! Wait!" but my words must be drowned out in the motor noise.

  "Kenzie!" I shout. "What are they doing?"

  "Just takin' a test ride," he shouts back. "Checking how our adjustments are."

  "But why's Moss getting to go?"

  "'Cause Annie's dragging him along, making sure her mechanic's got faith in his work. And I guess to keep him from being too left out when you go off with your dad."

  "But—"

  Hot tears blur my view of the takeoff.

  It is not fair, none of it.

  Dad didn't have any business going back on his promise, and Grif ... Grif's probably glad I won't be going: He'll have an easier time getting on all that seed.

  I should be glad for Moss, really. I can't begrudge him.

  But if Moss is going flying, then I am, too.

  I go back to the terminal, where Grif is hurrying to get everything done for the flight Dad and I were supposed to be on. The plane is already making its final approach.

  "I'll take these for you," I say, nodding toward two suitcases that are standing near the seed sacks.

  He waves his appreciation and hurries past. He's carrying paperwork, manifests showing who and what's going on the plane here, and that they won't bring the weight total to more than the airplane can lift.

  I pick up the luggage and call to the couple it belongs to that it's time to come out on the ramp. They follow, watching me set their things down on a freight cart. When I return to the terminal, I have the place to myself.