Barnstorm

by Page, Wayne;

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Off the courthouse steps today?” Gerty asked. “Exactly, what does that mean?”

  They were off the courthouse steps. Dorothy, Gerty, Trip, and Mel Smith had adjourned to the courthouse parking lot. Robinson, having escaped Maggie’s grasp, had retrieved his Mercedes from the handicap parking space in front of the bank. It would be a long, lonely drive back to Cleveland.

  “Well, it’s not enough to fully cover the mortgage,” Mel said. “Off the courthouse steps means you’ll probably get a temporary break.”

  “Then I’m back here, again?” Gerty sighed.

  “Afraid so.”

  As this bad news was sinking in, a Gray Ford Crown Vic screeched to a halt right in front of Gerty. Everyone jumped aside as the front bumper rudely joined their conversation. The distinguished, professorial, bearded man who had been stalking Gerty, slammed his door and walked directly to Gerty. “Are you Gertrude Murphy?” he demanded.

  “Alright, I’m sorry,” Gerty apologized.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “Chewing tobacco on your window,” she meekly admitted.

  She glanced at the passenger-side window. The tobacco stain was gone.

  “Huh?” the confused gentleman shrugged. He placed his briefcase on the hood of his Crown Vic and retrieved one of Gerty’s journals. Handing it to her, he asked, “Did you write this?”

  Looking over her shoulder to the courthouse steps, where Maggie was still tangled in the nylon parachute cords, Gerty shouted, “Maggie!”

  “I’m Charles Worthington, literary agent. I’d like to publish your journals.”

  Knees buckling, Gerty again shouted across the parking lot, “Maggie!”

  Opening a folder, Mr. Worthington handed an envelope to Gerty. “Here’s a first installment. A check for ten thousand dollars.”

  “Now that covers the mortgage!” Mel announced, as he reached in his suit breast pocket. He tore the mortgage in half and handed it to Gerty.

  Chapter Forty

  The wind sock over the hangar fluttered in the breeze. Buzz was trying to get his life back to normal. His student pilot was paying attention as pilot certification was close-at-hand. Buzz started with his usual pre-flight spiel, “Pretend this is your first solo flight.”

  The student rattled off the usual checklist.

  “Fuel – check.”

  “Ailerons, rudder, elevator – check.”

  “Seat harness – check.”

  “Okay, ready to go. Clear.”

  Buzz gave a quick fist pump and confirmed, “Roger that. Crank ‘er up.”

  The student was Trip.

  Buzz’s Piper Cub came to life.

  Deb, Gerty, and Dorothy, on the tarmac, shaded their eyes from the early-morning sun. Maggie and literary agent, Mr. Worthington were arm-in-arm. Gerty had donned her best floral-print dress for this grand occasion.

  “Do you think my Stevie will be okay?” Dorothy asked.

  Deb furled a brow as it would take her a bit more time to adjust to this reality.

  Trip was focused.

  Buzz showed no small degree of concern. Not fear–just concern. He double-checked his own seat harness and whimpered a silent prayer.

  Trip moved the throttle forward, easing to the runway like every cautious student before him. The plane accelerated down the runway, and unlike most student pilots before him, Trip took off in as steep a climb as the Piper could muster. Followed by a radical sharp bank over the nearby woods.

  The Liar Flyers, in tight formation, buzzed the hangar wind sock. Bomber clipped it with his Stearman rear wheel. The kidnapped wind sock fluttered behind his blue and yellow Screamin’ Deb. Blue smoke streamed from Crash’s Ole Red and Hooker’s 38 Dee as they disappeared into puffy, white clouds.

  Only Buzz had the honor of hearing Trip’s scream of ecstasy, “Yee-ooh!”

  Trip earned his wings. He is a pilot.

  THE END

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  Selected Short Stories

  Here are some selected short stories. Most of these were written for my University of Cincinnati OLLI creative writing classes or the writing support group, Legendary Writers. We generally have an assignment such as: pick a Norman Rockwell painting as your inspiration (my story Again is based on the classic, The Young Lady With the Shiner — you remember, the little girl sitting on the bench outside the school principal’s office). The Russian Embalmer is a shout-out to the Beatles song, Back in the U.S.S.R.

  Some writing assignments challenge us to focus on dialogue, or use similes or metaphors. Grandpa’s Trunk is my attempt with a different genre: a movie treatment — longer than a synopsis and written in present tense.

  Visit Barnstormbook.com to peruse my latest efforts.

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  Again?

  The admitting doctor was clear and concise.

  “Yes, Mrs. Baker, his nose is broken.” Clipboard cocked against his hip, Doc Smith waited patiently for a chance to get a word in edgewise. As his livelihood did require a keen sense of hearing, he held the iPhone a good six inches from his ear. The stethoscope was bought and paid for, might as well be able to use it again someday.

  “I haven’t looked at the X-rays yet, ma’am. An arm hanging like that from the shoulder, generally isn’t a good sign.” Tapping his foot, he once again gave Mrs. Baker an opportunity to blow off some steam.

  “Yes, we did check his testicles. The swelling should subside in a day or two. I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” That last medical opinion was probably communicated a bit prematurely. Young doctors sometimes learn the hard way. The practice of medicine does involve some practice.

  “Mrs. Baker, let’s wait for the swelling to go down. I’m frankly more concerned about the ruptured spleen. Pardon me? No, I don’t make attorney recommendations. You might want to confirm all the facts with Principal Gardner before you decide to sue Mayor Jenkins.”

  Every ear within fifty feet of the ER heard Mrs. Baker’s hang-up ‘click’ thunder from Doc Smith’s cell phone.

  “That went well,” he muttered as he returned to the ER.

  Mrs. Baker wasn’t done burning up the phone lines. The school secretary interrupted school principal Gardner with the news that Mrs. Baker was on the phone.

  “Thanks, Martha,” Principal Gardner offered as he wiped his brow. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

  As Sally Brown, the sixth grade teacher was still at his elbow, Mr. Gardner didn’t cast his usual eye toward Martha’s svelte figure as she strolled from his office.

  “Are you sure that’s the way it happened, Miss Brown?”

  “Pretty much, sir,” Miss Brown tried to choke back a grin. “She kicked him, there? Crunch!” Mr. Gardner flicked a finger to an eye that offered a sympathetic tear toward his own manhood.

  “Had a self-defense class at my college sorority, sir. Wanna take a guy down fast. Go for the . . .”

  “I get the picture Miss Brown. That will be all. I better get to Mrs. Baker.”

  As teacher Brown exited Principal Gardner’s office, she coughed that fake cough one coughs when one tries to avoid something with a nervous, fake cough. Eye contact with the bleeding urchin seated on the hallway bench would be a fatal mistake. Miss Brown closed the door behind her and scurried off to her classroom.

  Mr. Gardner straightened his tie, stiffened his spine, and cleared his throat. His hand quivered, did not shake, as he raised the telephone to his ear. “Principal Gardner,” he started. “Are you at the hospital, Mrs. Baker?”

  He listened to the expected harangue, and finally interruped, “Well, let’s start with the obvious. Gonna pinch a little girl on the tookus? Pick someone other than Emily Jenkins. Secondly, please tell Coach Baker that he’s suspended, pending probable dismissal by the School Board. Good day, Mrs. Baker.”

  Principal Gardner opened h
is hallway door, restrained a needful chuckle, and looked at the triumphant future President of the United States seated on the hallway bench. “Miss Jenkins, let’s have a little talk.”

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  Madame Lucille

  The summer storm was turning the cow pasture at the edge of town into a mud fest of tents, banners, and goopy stables. Blip. Blip. Drip. Plop. Rhythmic, yet random; earthy, musty. The rain echoed off the rotting canvas tent allocated Madame Lucille by the grotesque carnival owner Zeke. While the tent mostly accomplished its intended purpose, huge drops of rain succeeded in annoying the gathered menagerie. A huge drop of rain chilled Florence, the tattoo lady, as it exploded on her bald head, then trickled down her spine.

  “Next time, I’m throwing a camel turd at the jerk,” Rosie the gypsy midget promised. “The things they say. I’m people too.”

  “And what good would that do?” Lucille scolded. “Times are tough. At least you’ve got a job. It’s 1932, most of these folks haven’t worked in years.”

  “Bottom of the barrel job,” Swazi the Nepali rubber boy contorted. Swazi was no longer a boy. That would be stretching it. The ten-by-ten canvas poster flapping in the storm outside depicted a teenager, legs wrapped around his neck, arms bound in a knot. That was forty years ago. He could still elicit an ‘ooo’ when he stretched his lower lip over his eye brows.

  “Find a more subtle way of returning the insult,” Lucille advised. “They’ve paid their dime. They deserve a show. Swazi’s got it figured out.”

  Lucille didn’t like these little pep talks before show time, but she had to keep the troupe focused. It was expected that the freaks be a little crude. This low-brow blend of vaudeville and burlesque required that. However, cross the line? Local sheriff might shut her down.

  The downtrodden were trudging their way through the mud to take their seats on the bales of straw arrayed in front of the foot-high performance platform. A full house would be twenty-five. The rain held the first show to only a dozen or so; dirty, bedraggled, unshaven drunks who had invested ten cents to abuse their fellow man. The kids huddled in the front row even looked bedraggled and unshaven.

  The insults of “ugly bitch,” “hey midget breath, you stink,” and “lemme see ya stretch yer private parts rubber man” were somewhat dampened by the leaking canvas tent. Lucille was proud that her gang of entertainers were keeping their cool so well. It was now her turn. As she larded her way onto the stage, the hoots and the hollers could be heard halfway across the midway. Six-hundred pounds of porcine rolls and wrinkle-folds oinked her way through her routine of sword swallowing and belly dancing. The Richter scale was off the chart.

  Lucille ended each show with a sit-down chat with the crowd. The abuse was horrid. Her retorts were hilarious. She’d wave off the worst of the insults with a flick of her handkerchief. “Hell, my old mule wouldn’t mount you,” an old man bellowed. “Yer so fat, how do you wipe yerself?” another quizzed. “She don’t, that’s why she smells like an August-baked outhouse,” a grungy woman shot.

  Lucille took it all in stride, until a chubby little girl in the front row raised her hand. “My daddy made me come ‘cuz I been bad. He sez I’za gonna look like you some day.”

  The hoots and the hollers stopped. The rain challenged the canvas show tent. Blip. Blip. Drip. Plop. A drop of rain violated the canvas, pierced Lucille’s soul. She gently dried her cheek with her handkerchief.

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  Grandpa’s Trunk

  Dignified. Poignant. The military funeral strikes all the right chords. The rifle salute. Crisp folding of the flag. The Army officer bends at the waist, whispers words of honor and thanks from the President of the United States as he touches Grandma Yvette’s hand. Taps echoes in the hearts of all in attendance.

  Fifteen year-old Craig opens the car door for his great-grandmother as his fellow cousin and erstwhile partner in mischief Luke, also fifteen, offers his hand to the new widow. Clutching the folded flag to her breast, Yvette Graham is flanked by these strapping teenagers up the front walk to her stately, yet soon-to-be-lonely Victorian home.

  Midwestern family funeral gatherings are joyous occasions when a life well-lived is celebrated. Ben Graham’s family has every reason to celebrate. Slipping away silently in one’s sleep at age ninety is a good start to any celebration. Grandpa, or Great-Grandpa, or just plain ole Dad was as common as dirt. Successful local businessman, soft-spoken town council head, church elder. It took some coaxing and begging; old World War II stories of glory and heroism were hard to drag out of Ben Graham. But when he got started, wow, could he spin a yarn. A daredevil pilot flying spies and contraband into 1944 German-occupied France.

  Supporting the French Résistance. Crash landing in a foggy sheep pasture on one midnight mission. Broken leg, he was pulled from his flaming British Lysander by the head of the local Résistance. Fell in love and married her. Yep, Grandma Yvette was a war hero too. Married sixty-five years.

  Every horizontal surface in the rambling, fifteen-room house is covered with food. Casseroles, pies, cakes, meatloaf. Kids, cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors everywhere – and one dog. Laughter and joy in every room. Great-grandchildren feed cookies to the dog. Old Uncle Fred once again forgets punchlines to jokes he has been telling for fifty years.

  “Craig,” his mother instructs, “zip up to the attic and bring down that old French serving platter.”

  “Where is it?” Craig quizzes.

  “Look behind the iron parrot cage.”

  “I think I know where it is,” cousin Luke brags as he races Craig up the stairs.

  The attic covers the entire third floor of the regal old Victorian house. Luke is in the lead as he opens the door to the steep attic stairs. As he flips on the never-enough solitary light, Craig elbows him aside and scampers past him. They tackle and push each other into the tomb of clutter and treasures.

  To say that these two are competitive is an understatement. Best friends, but not beyond blackening an eye here or there, they can finish each other’s sentences. Craig is the quarterback on the JV football team. Luke is a wide receiver. They don’t need to wink or twitch an ear lobe. A quick glance at the defense and Luke would run a precise pattern and catch Craig’s perfect pass. The high school coach is already salivating.

  The two cousins maneuver over boxes and weave a path toward the iron bird cage in the far corner. Craig picks up a pair of binoculars, blows off a layer of dust. “Craig, focus,” Luke orders as he surveys the attic’s dark reaches. Backing into a brass floor lamp, he catches it as cleanly as a quick-hitting slant pass. He turns on the three-way bulb, casting haunting shadows around the cluttered attic.

  “Shut up,” Craig retorts, “forgot these were here.”

  “We’ve only been playin’ up here our whole lives,” Luke laughs.

  Craig puts down the binoculars, catches up with Luke, pushes him from behind. Luke falls against the iron parrot cage. The bird cage teeters. In his attempt to steady the bird cage, Luke loses his balance, falls against a book case. The domino effect continues as the book case and books tumble to the floor. Luke is trapped beneath a hoard of books and the bird cage. Craig lifts the book case back to its fifty-year perch against a side wall, enabling Luke to extricate and dust himself off.

  The ensuing shoving match ceases as Craig’s mother shouts from the foot of the attic stairs, “What’s all the racket? Come on, we need the serving platter.”

  “Coming,” Craig yells, as he finds the platter at the base of the bird cage. Craig retreats to deliver the requested china and assure his mother that all is well.

  Luke wiggles the book case to a more secure position. He bangs his head on the steeply-sloped attic roof. “Crap,” he grimaces as he falls on his butt. Grabbing his head, he kicks the book case with both feet. The book case falls to the floor. Luke flings books and flails at anything else within range in a flurry of frustration.<
br />
  The fallen book case no longer hides the small, three-foot high door it had guarded for half a century. The door stands askew, held only by a single rusted hinge. He rubs his head and clears the books away from the mystery door. As he pulls on the door, the solitary hinge breaks free and the door lands on top of him.

  “Luke, Luke?” Craig yells as he returns to the attic.

  “Over here,” Luke responds.

  Not seeing Luke under the door, Craig scans the poorly-lit attic and quizzes, “Over where?”

  “Here,” as Luke pushes the door off his chest.

  Craig sticks his head into the newly-revealed side storage chamber. “What in the heck is this?” On all fours, he disappears into the small dark space.

  “What’cha see?” Luke asks.

  Slowly, the corner of a large, rectangular box appears in the door opening. Inch by inch, Craig wobble-slides the box out of its tomb. Luke scooches forward, grabs the leather handle at the small end of the box and pulls. The dry, aged handle breaks in half under the weight of the box. He grasps the edges of the box and helps Craig wiggle it into the attic. Crawling out of the cramped side chamber, Craig settles into an old oak rocking chair with his hands on the lid of the box. The box between them, Luke wipes his hands across the lid and blows decades of dust into his cousin’s face.

  “Thanks a lot, jerk,” Craig coughs as he clears his eyes. “Sorry.”

  In all their years of playing hide-and-seek and sneaking a smoke in Grandpa’s attic, Craig and Luke had never stumbled upon this treasure. Dull green, brass-edged corners, rivets; it measures three-feet long, two-feet wide, by a foot-and-a-half tall.

  Craig picks up a wayward cloth and wipes layers of dust from the lid. White lettering solves the mystery: 1st Lieutenant B. Graham, P28749382, U.S. Army Air Corps. Grandpa’s trunk is about to reveal its secrets.

  “Wow!” Craig exclaims.