“"I’'m working,”" he said.
“"No work, drink!”" she said, plopping down on his lap.
He pushed her off. “"Efharisto. Thank you, but I’'m busy.”"
She pouted and disappeared into the undulating crowd.
J.J. checked his stopwatch: less than 2 hours for the record. Then he looked at Mitros, the man standing still. He seemed so calm amid the whirl of dancers, so tranquil despite the pulse of tambourines.
J.J. wanted peace, too. He gazed into Mitros’'s strangely hypnotic eyes, and soon his mind fled Folegandros. He was back in his apartment in New York. An old woman watered a window box of plastic sunflowers, grimy imitations of the real thing. And then he was sitting on a porch under a darkening sky, watching ten-foot-tall, gray-striped, mammoth sunflowers turn their heads toward the sun.
Her name—--Willa—--ricocheted through every pathway of his cerebral cortex. He heard Emily’'s voice accusing him: “"You don’'t know the first thing about love.”" There were flashes of lightning in the sky, and then he was struck by a bolt of understanding. For the first time he saw his own life clearly. He had traveled the world in search of something labeled greatness and had actually found it with a capital G. But because it was unquantifiable, unverifiable, he had failed to recognize it.
Now he sat like a man made of stone, watching another man try to make history by doing absolutely nothing. He was verifying inertia. Authenticating nothingness. All the searching, all the chasing, all the roads had brought him to this dead end. He had to wonder: Who was the real world record holder for standing still?
He came out of his trance to the loud sound of guitars and lutes, hands clapping, feet stomping, and the breaking of plates and glasses. Mitros’'s eyes did not waver, but J.J. shook his head slowly. He had no choice.
He rose up from his official post at the little table. He slammed the rule book shut. Threw down his clipboard and his stopwatch. Pulled off his blue blazer and hurled it in the air. He slipped through the dancers, walked directly up to Mitros, stared into his piercing eyes, and said, “"I’'m sorry.”"
Then, without even saying adeeo—--good-bye—--he turned and raced for the door.
TWENTY
Willa worshipped in the last row of the First United Methodist church.
She prayed for Wally harder than she had ever prayed in her life. Such a good man. A sweet man. An honorable man. He couldn’'t die now. She blamed herself for not taking his devotion seriously enough. It had been truly epic, and she hadn’'t seen it. How she must have hurt him. She begged God to help Wally. And she asked for forgiveness.
Never had she seen folks so worried about the same thing. Even the great flood of 1935 didn’'t compare, old-timers said. For days there had been a silence over the town, an eerie hush, and scarcely anyone left home. There was no carousing in the bars on Friday night, no keno at Jughead’'s, no bingo at the VFW.
Last night she had closed her eyes for sleep with a feeling of loathing and awakened to the same fear. She couldn’'t shower and dress fast enough. Even the old Ford knew this was no time to fuss and started without complaint. She turned on the radio and heard Righty Plowden’'s voice. He was on Country 104 to make a special appeal. The latest reports from the hospital were bleak. Wally’'s condition was critical and worsening. Nate Schoof and Otto Hornbussel had been summoned to his bedside at 3 A.M., and a minister was at the ready. “"No one recovers from a coma this deep,”" Righty said solemnly. “"Let’'s dedicate today to Wally. Let’'s pray for him at church, pray for him wherever you are.”"
Willa turned off the radio and slowed down for the traffic around the hospital. Vehicles from all over the state were lined up on the shoulder of the road, and the parking lot was jammed. Bouquets and cards for Wally covered the steps of the main entrance.
The old brick church at the corner of Fifth and Kansas was also overflowing. She spotted her parents in the last row. They had saved a space, and she wedged herself between them. Pale light in shades of red and blue streamed down from stained glass windows. It felt good and safe.
After hymns and a sermon, the congregation prayed silently. Willa thought she could feel the intensity of their petitions. She could hear the whispers of her mother’'s offerings to God. Someone coughed. A baby whimpered.
And then the tranquility was shattered by an amazing sound, far off, beginning faintly, haltingly, then steadily growing louder. Heads looked up from worship. People rose to their feet. Willa clutched at her mother’'s hand. They could not believe the noise.
The roar was clear and unmistakable—--it was the snarl of Wally’'s grinding machine. It boomed through the church and all across Superior. But how was it possible? Wally was in a deep coma in the hospital. And yet the grating grew.
For years they had all turned away, trying to ignore this noise, but now Willa ran toward it from the church with the congregation flowing behind her. She saw friends streaming from their homes. From all directions they rushed toward the sound coming from Wally’'s farm.
They followed the road north out of town, past the windmill, then took the shortcut, marching across the Bargen family’'s fields. Arm in arm, the folks of Superior hurried to the meadow where the airplane had crashed.
There in front of Wally’'s barn, they saw a man standing next to the great machine. He had giant tinner snips in one hand and a chunk of airplane in the other. The expression on his bruised face was absolutely determined. This man, the outsider, was grinding down the last pieces of the 747.
He was the last soul on the planet who would ever have imagined eating sheet metal. But suddenly the whole world had looked entirely different to him.
J.J. had traveled to Greece and back to get to this place and this moment. He knew for the first time what he wanted in life. He knew where he needed to be, though he had no idea if they would take him back, let him become a part of this special place.
The return trip to Superior reminded him of another world record: the longest continuous voluntary crawl—--forward progression with one knee or the other in unbroken contact with the ground. The mark was 31.5 miles set in 1992 by Peter McKinlay and John Murrie of Scotland. J.J. felt as if he had traveled more than 8,000 miles on his hands and knees to come back to this town.
He saw the folks gathering in the cornfield. In silence they watched him as he pushed the metal down into the teeth of the contraption. Then he took his finger off the red button and the machine stopped grinding. He cleared his throat.
“"I know I let you down,”" he began. “"I’'m sorry for what I did.”"
He searched the crowd for Willa but could not find her. What if she hadn’'t come? What if she had left Superior? He wanted to explain to her more than anyone. The words kept coming…....
“"I never really understood what Wally was doing with this plane. But now I know. It was an act of unselfish love, and I hijacked it for a business opportunity.”"
He saw Nate Schoof, arms folded across his chest.
“"I hope you’'ll accept my apology,”" J.J. said, “"and forgive me for any harm.”"
There was hardly a murmur. Perhaps there was nothing he could say to convince them he really cared. All he could do was the one true thing he knew and felt.
He took the red bucket from its place beneath the contraption. He mixed water with the shavings and made a porridge that he stirred with Wally’'s wooden spoon.
“"This is for Wally,”" he said, and then he took his first bite of the 747. The gritty goop scratched his throat on the way down, but he kept eating. Spoon after spoon. He could feel the eyes of the town on him. He didn’'t care what they thought. He would finish the 747 all by himself, no matter how long it took.
He would do it for Wally. He would do it for himself.
Then he saw Nate break away from the crowd and come toward him. J.J. stood up, spoon in hand, unsure what Wally’'s best friend would say or do. The science teacher’'s face was inscrutable. Then Nate opened his arms wide and hugged him
. A good, strong hug.
“"Welcome home,”" Nate said. He walked quickly to the ladder beside the remnants of the plane’'s fin. He climbed up a few rungs, pulled a loose chunk from the well-picked carcass, then went to the contraption. He had watched Wally feed the beast a thousand times, and now he flipped the switch and shoved the metal down into the grinder. It had only been a week, but how he had missed that hideous roar. The machine churned and chugged and finally spit out a good bucket of grit.
With the old wooden spoon, he mixed the grindings with a can of SpaghettiOs that he found in Wally’'s house. Then he proceeded to clean his bowl. He knew the warnings about the health risks, had watched them pile up on his buddy’'s kitchen floor, but he didn’'t care. If love had protected Wally, now it would protect him too.
A single file of townsfolk took shape and snaked across the field. Everyone wanted to eat a piece of plane. Everyone wanted to take a stand for one of their own. Shrimp stepped forward next. He hauled a hefty piece of the vertical stabilizer—--six pounds, he reckoned—--to the machine and jammed it into the gnashing teeth. Then, mixing the shavings with a few cans of Green Giant sweet peas, he ate every single bite. Stuffed with aluminum, he trudged to his car. The official police weigh-in was that day. The 747 would be his godsend, too.
Word swept across the town. Trucks began rolling up with families toting casseroles and Tupperware filled with Sunday dinner leftovers. The line zigzagged across the pasture, past the windmill, and over two gentle hills. One by one, the proud residents of Superior filed forward to partake of a giant, spontaneous, potluck jumbo jet picnic.
Mrs. Crispin of cookbook fame set up beside the great machine. With homemade preserves from her larder—--strawberry, peach, and plum—--she mixed the grindings in large pots.
Meg Nutting looked doubtfully at the bowls. “"Wish you had cherry,”" she said, and took a good-size heap of peach.
Otto Hornbussel, in his pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers, did the same. “"Hope this doesn’'t trigger Alzheimer’'s,”" he said with a twinkle. Then he reached for J.J.’'s hand. “"You’'re okay by me.”"
Righty clapped J.J. on the back. “"You had us fooled pretty good,”" he said.
The flat-faced waitress from the Git-A-Bite smiled for what could have been the first time in her life. Cynical reporters jettisoned their detachment and joined the line.
Early and Mae Wyatt ate a few bites. Young Blake used his hands to stuff his face, and then tried to slip some of the grindings into his pockets to keep forever. J.J. stopped him. “"No cheating,”" he said.
All day and into the evening, old and young, husband and wife, brother and sister feasted together on the last morsels of the 747, as the pictures were broadcast live to the country, in bedrooms and boardrooms, and beamed via satellite to every corner of the world.
Even in his coma, Wally heard the grinding.
It dug its way into his unconscious and woke him right up. He opened his eyes to a horrifying sight. One thousand people trampling through his field. His great machine spewing smoke. He had promised Willa he would stop eating the plane. He had sworn to her it was over. But now …...
The picture sharpened and his eyes focused. He was in a forest of flowers and balloons. His meadow was an image on a television screen hanging above his hospital bed.
The door flew open and Rose rushed in.
“"Oh, thank God,”" she said. “"You’'re awake.”"
“"What the hell’'s going on?”" Wally asked.
“"You’'ve been in a coma for a week. We thought we had lost you.”"
He rubbed his eyes and scratchy face. “"No, I mean what’'s happening at the farm?”"
Rose went to his side, looked up at the screen. “"They’'re finishing what you started, Wally. They’'re showing you how much they care and how much they want you to get well.”"
He stroked his chin. “"Can’'t believe it,”" he said. “"I heard the grinding. It was like my machine was calling to me.”" He flipped television channels. The live images from the field were everywhere. On CNN, Michel Lotito was blubbering that no one had ever helped him eat anything before.
Then he saw Willa, the very last person in the single-file line. Everyone else had swallowed a share of the plane. Now just the navigation and strobe lights were left. She picked them up, took them to the contraption, and ground them up. Then she put some strawberry jam in a bowl, stirred in the grit, and, with a big smile, ate the last bites of the airplane.
The 747 was gone.
The crowd in the field cheered.
With a swipe of his large hand, Wally brushed the tears from his cheek, then pushed the mute button on the remote. He turned to Rose, all pink and pretty, with a silver ribbon in her hair. She had her eyes fixed on him.
“"I made a world-class fool of myself,”" he said. “"I ate an airplane for a woman who doesn’'t love me. How many people can say that?”"
“"If loving someone who doesn’'t love you back makes you a fool, then we’'ve got two in this room, not just one.”"
“"Come on,”" Wally said. “"What are you talking about?”"
“"Think about it. Who folds your socks, cleans your fridge, and picks ticks off Arf?”"
Wally considered all the magically made pot roasts, the ironed shirts, the neatened cupboards, and, especially, the long walks and talks over the years. “"I hope I said thank you. I’'d be in a heap without you. But I never thought—--”"
“"It’'s okay,”" she said, busying herself with his pillow. She fluffed it and put it back behind his head. “"I didn’'t want to get mushy when I knew we were just friends.”"
Now Wally looked at Rose with new eyes. He noticed her shiny brown hair and the sweet way she filled out her uniform. All at once, he saw someone who’'d taken care of him while he’'d been looking elsewhere. Someone who stood by him without asking for a thing. Rose was his dear and loyal friend and yet he hardly knew her.
“"I feel like a fool all over again,”" he said. “"I should have noticed a long time ago, but I guess there was a 747 in the way.”"
He reached out for her hand. “"Rose, I’'m sorry.”"
“"Well. The plane’'s all gone,”" she said.
Wally had mischief in his eye. “"When do you get off work?”"
“"Right now.”"
“"You know what I’'m going to eat for you? I saw a locomotive in the junkyard in Hastings—--”"
She grinned. “"Whoa, not so fast, big boy. You’'ve got some healing to do before you go eating anything for me.”"
Wally wiggled under his great mound of white sheets. “"Please don’'t quit on me, Rose.”"
“"Now, why would I do that?”" She came closer to him, put her hand on his forehead. “"How do you feel?”"
“"I’'ve had better days,”" he said. “"But I feel hopeful.”"
“"That’'s good. Me too.”"
He looked up at the IV bag dripping down into his arm. “"I’'m hungry. When they let me out of here, can I take you to supper?”"
“"Sure, Wally,”" she said with a chuckle. “"As long as it’'s no-fat, no-iron.”"
“"Sounds delicious.”"
Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Wally grabbed Rose and, before she could protest, pulled her down. And he kissed her.
TWENTY-ONE
Burl Grimes stood on a motor oil crate in the middle of the field. It was 92 degrees, and yet the hospital chairman was clad from head to toe in mortuary black. Willa felt almost faint from anxiety.
“"I have another announcement,”" Burl said.
The crowd gathered around. A hush fell. When he was sure he had their attention, when all of the cameras were pointed, he began.
“"On behalf of the hospital board, I am pleased to announce that Wally is out of his coma. He’'s watching us on live television this very moment. Our boy is back.”"
The town hooted, waved, and jumped up and down. Unprepared, overcome, Willa fought her tears. Thank you, God, for answeri
ng our prayers. She hugged her parents, and when she released them from her embrace, she turned and found herself face to face with J.J. Smith.
“"Hi,”" he said.
“"Hi,”" she said quietly.
There was pain in her eyes and a look that scrambled his thoughts. All the way back from Greece, he had prepared remarks about the size and quality of his feelings, but now the text and data fled. He searched through the jigsaw of fractured thoughts, hoping to say the right thing. He didn’'t want to scare her with his feelings, he didn’'t want to embarrass her if she didn’'t feel the same way. Above all, he didn’'t know how to wipe away the hurt of what he had already done.
“"Glad Wally’'s okay,”" she said.
“"Me too,”" he said.
“"Your nose looks better.”"
He smiled, then said one true thing: “"I miss you.”"
It was a simple start. The first few words would lead him to others. “"I haven’'t stopped thinking about you for a minute,”" he said. “"I …... I …... I love you 65.”"
Willa’'s lips turned up in a wry smile. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “"Yeah, that’'s just your oxytocin talking.”"
Zing. Right in the frontal lobe.
“"I deserved that,”" J.J. said.
“"I was hoping I’'d get to use that line.”"
“"Well, it’'s more than my oxytocin. A lot more. I just don’'t know how to put it into words.”"
“"Don’'t try,”" she said.
“"Please. Just walk with me for a few minutes, okay?”" He was desperate.
Night was beginning to fall. Mist settled over the fields. Fireflies glowed.
“"Just a walk,”" she said.
They started toward the indentation in the earth, the great gash in the ground, the last vestige of the 747.
“"I used to think I had love figured out,”" J.J. said. “"With all my research and the burns on my heart, I decided it didn’'t exist at all. Just a bunch of neurotransmitters and some primal instincts.”"
With hesitant sideways glances, he drank in Willa, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. With her, he had everything. Without her, oblivion.
Ben Sherwood Page 17