A Flying Affair

by Carla Stewart

  All during breakfast she tried to come up with the address she’d seen on the envelope that had fallen from Ames’ pocket. Red something. Red Fork? No. Red Bend? No.

  Bobby asked if she was okay.

  Red Valley? No. Red Gulch? Yes. That was it.

  “Just tired. I need to make a phone call before we leave. How about I meet you in half an hour?” She finished her coffee and went to the pay telephone where she’d called her parents the night before. Hoping that she remembered correctly, she asked the operator for the number of Fern Danner in Red Gulch, Iowa, and deposited the required coins.

  A woman answered on the first ring.

  “Mrs. Danner?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t know me, but I’m acquainted with your brother, Ames.”

  A long pause. “Ames?”

  “Yes. I have something that belongs to him and would like to return it…your grandmother’s locket with a photo of your grandfather.”

  Fern snorted. “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s heart-shaped, a little larger than a quarter, and on a gold chain.”

  “My grandmother had no such locket. Sounds like the one Ames was bragging about winning in a poker game. Lela had a fit over it.”

  A poker game. Mittie wanted to spit but instead asked, “Lela? Your little girl?”

  “Who did you say this was?”

  “A friend of Ames. He told me about you being sick a while back and Lela getting scarlet fever. Is she still doing all right?” She should just hang up. She found out all she needed to know. Ames had even lied about the locket, given it to her as a treasure. Some treasure.

  “Is this some kind of prank?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I don’t know who you are or what kind of scheme you’re trying to pull, but I don’t have a child and never have.”

  Mittie’s stomach cramped, her breath gone. No child. No Lela. Ames didn’t have a niece with brown eyes and a smile that would light up the world. “I’m so sorry…Ames told me…” Her face flamed as if she’d been slapped.

  “There’s a Lela all right, but she’s not my kid. She’s Ames’ girlfriend. They’re getting hitched as soon as he gets home from California.”

  “Oh.” No other words would come. Mittie dropped the receiver on the hook and leaned her forehead against the wall, her heart pounding. She swallowed to keep the breakfast in her stomach that threatened to come up.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  Mittie turned to face a hotel porter. She ran clammy palms down her pant legs and forced a smile. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine. Just fine.”

  It all made sense now. The long absences, saying he was going to talk to investors. Not showing up for Christmas, saying his sister was ill. And the lies he must have told Lela, stringing her along. His girlfriend? His future wife?

  Bobby asked again if she was all right when they got to the airfield. She shrugged and looked away, afraid that if her eyes met his, she would burst into tears. Ames wasn’t worth crying over. After a brief touchdown in Kansas City, she flew along the Missouri River toward St. Louis. She clutched the gold locket with the photo of some poor stranger’s grandfather in her hand. She kissed it and Ames good-bye, then hurled it out of the plane. She pictured the chain twisting and turning as the locket plummeted into the river to be washed into the Mississippi and out into the Gulf—out to sea where it could no longer entangle her or anyone ever again.

  She shouted hallelujahs all the way to St. Louis. And if fortune was with her, Bobby would be waiting when she taxied into the terminal. It was premature to talk about whether she loved him, but with Ames behind her, she was ready to explore the possibility.

  Bobby was there, and at the dinner that night, he said, “You have a glow I haven’t seen in a long time. I trust your flight was good today.”

  “One of the best days ever. I could almost taste heaven.”

  “It must be something in the Missouri atmosphere. I remember you saying something similar when you flew in your first air race here.”

  “I do remember that. It seems a long time ago, doesn’t it?” Warmth flooded her senses. Her first competition. The first time she’d met Calista and they’d huddled together, waiting while one of their own was lost. And then found. The beginning of the sisterhood of women pilots. And Bobby—he’d been there then as now, waiting patiently in the background.

  The next two stops went by in a blur, and when she taxied into Columbus, Ohio, for their last overnight stop, Mittie could hardly contain the joy that filled her. Only one more day and the race would be over. History in the making.

  Mittie craned her neck and scanned the welcoming spectators, trying to find Bobby. She didn’t see him, but she took the time to slip out of her flight suit and smooth the wrinkles from the skirt of the frothy green dress she wore under it. She quickly donned the matching cloche, slipped on the Clara Bow shoes from her knapsack, and rose from the cockpit. Waving to the crowd with one hand, holding her dress with the other, she swung down and leapt to the ground. Her right foot landed wrong and twisted, a white-hot pain exploding in her ankle and shooting up her calf. She crumpled and fell on all fours.

  A gasp went up, people swarming around her. What happened? Can you move? Someone call for a doctor.

  Mittie winced. “I’ll be fine. Just help me stand up.” She took the first strong hand offered and pulled herself from the dust on one leg. She tentatively put her right foot on the ground, but it was no good, the pain excruciating. Bobby appeared at her side and between his support and that of a stranger, she hobbled to the safety of the terminal where someone put a bag of ice on the already-swollen ankle.

  Victor and Bobby drove her to the nearest hospital for an exam. The X-ray was clear, nothing broken, but the doctor recommended staying off of it for two weeks and keeping it wrapped.

  “Two weeks? I can’t. I’m in the women’s air race that ends tomorrow. I have to finish.”

  The doctor scowled. “I wouldn’t advise it. A sprain like this can be quite debilitating.”

  “Is there anything you can do? A splint or plaster?”

  “Plaster’s not a good idea with the swelling. All I can suggest is warm Epsom salt soaks this evening and a cotton elastic bandage. See how you feel tomorrow.”

  Bobby and Victor thought it too dangerous, but they stopped at a druggist and got the items the doctor suggested. And a set of crutches.

  That evening, while the other girls celebrated at the banquet, Mittie sat with her foot soaking in the bathtub. And prayed the throbbing pain away.

  Bobby knocked and asked if he could come in.

  “Just a minute. I have to get decent.” She hobbled around and threw on some clothes before letting him in.

  He held out a stack of handwritten notes. “From the other girls. They want to know how you are.”

  “Much better. It’s still swollen and it hurts to put weight on it, but I should be fine in the morning.”

  “I doubt it will be fine, although I admire your determination.” He handed her a cotton bag. “I talked the waiters out of a bag of ice. It might help if you alternated an ice application with the hot soaks.” Wrinkles of concern fanned from the corners of his eyes.

  “I’m willing to try anything. I’d stand on my head if I thought it would keep me in the race.”

  “We can always petition to have someone fly with you.”

  “That would be cheating.”

  “But it’s not worth risking your life for.”

  “The joy of finishing the race will be worth the risk.”

  “Somehow I knew that would be your stance.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I’ve done a lot of thinking…about Ames…and us. I’ll tell you all about it after I cross the finish line.”

  His lips brushed hers. “Till then. But remember—you don’t have to complete the race to have my heart.”

  “No, I have to finish so I’ll have a heart to give in return.” />
  She sat on the bed and read each note, each word of encouragement, tears flowing as the face of each woman who’d flown above her, behind her, before her marched across her mind. Happy tears smudged the pages she held to her chest.

  When portable steps were rolled to the little canary plane the next morning, a cheer went up from her fellow contestants. Mittie waved and said she’d see them all in Cleveland. With the aid of the crutches, she made it up the steps and rolled ungracefully into the cockpit. Helmet on. Goggles in place. Feet on the rudder. Her right foot throbbed beneath the tight elastic bandage as she did the run-up and checked all the gauges, waiting for the signal to take off.

  The little canary hummed and bounced down the runway, each bump like a lightning bolt through her ankle. Mittie gritted her teeth, speeding onward. She nosed up until the air currents claimed her. One hundred and forty-eight miles. It was mere inches compared to the twenty-eight hundred she’d flown the last nine days.

  The wind bit her cheeks and whispered its secrets to her. The ground below cradled and guided her. The sweat from her pores bathed her in sweet nectar. She was astride her beloved Gypsy, soaring, banking, headed for a distant shore. Joy wrapped its fingers around her heart and brought her safely across the finish line.

  Thousands cheered—not because she was victorious in being the fastest, but because she’d been a part of something much larger than herself.

  Bobby’s and Victor’s strong arms lifted her from the seat. She balanced on one leg and waved to the crowd, blowing kisses and blubbering like a baby. Bobby and Victor helped her down the steps and into the open arms of her daddy. Beside him stood her mother, dressed finer than the queen of England, her delicate fingers clutching a hanky and blotting the corner of one eye.

  “Mother, Daddy. You’re here.”

  Her mother sniffed back tears. “Why wouldn’t we be? You’re a celebrity.” A photographer clicked a picture of their embrace as a reporter stepped forward, pencil poised above a notebook.

  “What was it like to fly with only one usable foot on the rudder?”

  Mittie looked him in the eye. “There were always two feet on the rudder, but only one was mine. The other was the spirit of my sisters in this race, the women who would fly to the moon and back to help one another. And I believe that someone much greater than all of us had a part.”

  “Were you ever tempted to give up?”

  “It never entered my mind.”

  From the throng that stormed the field, Calista cut through their midst like an apparition. “I knew you’d do it, Kentucky. The drama at the end was a nice twist.”

  Mittie laughed. “Someone had to fill your shoes.”

  Bobby appeared with a wheelchair. “Your chariot, madame.”

  Mittie pivoted and sank onto the wooden seat, her throat thick. “You always know exactly what I need. Thank you.”

  Her mother raised expectant eyebrows.

  Mittie shrugged and said, “Let’s go and congratulate the winners.”

  Louise Thaden won the derby in her heavyweight Travel Air, a deserving and gracious woman whom they all had come to love. A girl named Phoebe won with her lightweight plane, the division where Mittie placed fourth. At the gala party that night, Calista whispered, “Next year, I’m gunning for you.” She nailed her with a slanty-eyed look and ran off to dance with a fella who said he was a Hollywood talent agent.

  Her daddy turned to Mittie’s mother. “Let’s show these kids how to cut a rug.”

  Bobby draped his arm across the back of her chair. “Guess I won’t get a dance tonight.”

  “I’m afraid not.” She leaned in close and turned her face toward his. “Will you settle for this?” She kissed him warmly on the lips as the soloist for the band sang of nothing but blue skies from now on.

  Chapter 32

  The dancing bears at the Kentucky State Fair had been replaced with an organ grinder and his pet monkey who collected tips and shiny objects from the audience, but the jugglers in clown suits, canning demonstrations, carnival rides, and sweet smell of cotton candy were still the same. The livestock barns were still a chorus of bleating and lowing and cackling, the smell that of fresh straw, lye soap, and the sharp ammonia of urine. And as always, Mittie gravitated toward the horse stalls behind the arena, where grooms ferried buckets of water, trainers led their prized horses to and from the exercise ring, and owners gathered to check out the competition.

  Mittie found Toby fussing over Gypsy. She laced her fingers in Gypsy’s mane and worked out a knot, her heart swollen with joy, knowing what Gypsy had overcome just to be in the ring once again. She gave her a quick pat on the rump and told Toby she’d be back later. She then hurried toward the hangar with the newest addition to the fair—the aviation exhibit. For two days, a hearty crowd had gathered to get a close-up look at the custom-built canary yellow mono-wing that had been part of history in the making. Bobby had flown the plane back from Cleveland and polished it up for the display. He and Victor, along with the Aero Club members, answered questions about the women’s air race and the new advances in aviation. But today, the hangar was closed until noon in preparation for Mittie’s first public appearance.

  She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, more nervous than she’d been at the starting line in Santa Monica, California, only a few weeks before. As she drew near, she saw hordes of fairgoers milling about, waiting for the doors to open. Her heart raced at the thought of so many there to see her. Flying solo across mountains and rivers, in sandstorms and rainstorms, in staggering heat, and through unbearable sorrow seemed easier in comparison. She skirted the crowd and slipped in the side door of the hangar, where Victor greeted her.

  “Ah, you’re here. York’s been looking for you.”

  “I hope I’m not late. Where is Bobby, anyway?”

  He pointed to one of the demonstration booths that was set up like the classroom where Mittie had first learned of vertical and horizontal axes and aileron flaps and magneto checks. Bobby’s back was turned as he tacked up a corner of a map that had come loose. She tiptoed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if this is where I sign up for flying lessons.”

  He turned and pulled her close. “No, this is the kissing booth. Two kisses for a sixpence.” He gave her two quick pecks on the lips.

  “May I put those on my tab?”

  “That’s a free sample. And the price goes down after dark.”

  “Lovely. I can hardly wait.” She took a deep breath. “All right. Tell me what I’m supposed to do. I’m a bundle of nerves. Have you seen all those people out there? Am I supposed to talk or just sign autographs?”

  “You’re going to be fine. Come—I’ll show you where we’re set up.”

  “Does my hair look all right? What about my dress?” She twirled around. “Are there any straw bits on it?”

  He ignored her and led her to a table beside the plane she’d called home for nine days. Boxes of publicity photos the fair organizers had printed of her in her flight jacket and helmet lined the table. “You’ll sit on this stool and greet people, sign the photos, and thank them for coming.”

  “So simple a trained monkey could do it, right?”

  “All you have to do is smile and look lovely. Which you do, by the way. And no, there’s no straw on your dress.”

  The doors were pulled open and the crowd was directed to form a line behind the ropes. Mittie sat poised on the stool and signed the photographs Bobby handed out as people approached. Mittie made eye contact with each person and asked for his or her name. Then she wrote a personal note, scrawled her name, and said, “Thanks for coming. So happy to meet you.” After an hour, her fingers cramped and her back ached, and the line looked even longer than it had at the start.

  Bobby handed her a bottle of ginger water. “Would you like to take a break?”

  “Not just yet.” She looked up at a gentleman in a natty suit and fedora, something abou
t him oddly familiar.

  Before she could ask for the name, the man said, “Hello, Mittie. Dobbs Lamberson.”

  Mittie’s hand flew to her mouth, the room moving in and out of focus. She gulped in a breath. “Dobbs—why, Dobbs Lamberson. How are you?” A sweat bead bubbled above her upper lip.

  “I’m swell. Never better.” He turned to a stunning girl beside him with short ginger hair wearing a violet and cream sleeveless dress. “This is Martha, my fiancée. We’ve been following all the stories in the paper about you. We’re plumb proud at what you’ve done.”

  Martha leaned in and extended her hand. “Dobbs has told me all about you, how you taught him to drive a pony cart when you were kids.” She smiled sweetly. Innocently.

  Mittie’s head flashed a warning. Had he told her that she was the one who crippled him? Ruined his life? She held the fountain pen, poised to autograph the photo. “Did he?” was all she could squeak out.

  Dobbs leaned in. “When we heard you were coming, I told Martha we had to come and see you.”

  “I’m honored. I truly am, and I think of you often.”

  Behind him, someone shouted, “We don’t have all day. Let’s get the line moving.”

  Bobby gave her a cautionary look and a surreptitious motion with his thumb to hurry them along. Mittie ignored him.

  “Dobbs, I’m so sorry for the accident…for your injury. I wanted to call you—”

  “We were silly, stupid kids. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.”

  “But the operations…” The limp.

  “A rousing success.” He thrust the photograph at her.

  She scrawled her signature and watched as they walked away, arm in arm. She had more of a limp from a sprained ankle than he did.

  Gypsy pranced her way to victory in her five-gait class the next morning, and after shaking hands with the judges, Mittie stayed to watch the next class. April Showers, whom the announcer said was from a stable in Jefferson County, looked magnificent and won handily, putting both her and Gypsy in the finals for the Five-Gait World’s Championship. At dinner that night, Mittie asked her dad about the change in April Showers’ stable.