A Way Home
Page 28
There was a deep drone from overhead. Paul looked up and saw the plane—one of the private planes that based at the airport forty miles away. Planes were no novelty, but Paul never saw one without an expressed wish that something would happen—not necessarily a crash, though that wouldn’t be bad. but much rather something that would bring the plane down for a forced landing, so he could run over and see the pilot get out, and maybe talk to him or even help him fix the trouble. “Let me know next time you’re at the field,” the pilot would say.
Paul sloped, stopped, then went to the shoulder and sat down with his feet in the dry ditch. He watched the plane. It dipped a wing and circled, went off and came lower, made a run over the meadow. Paul thought he was going to—well, of course, he was going to land!
The wheels touched, kicked up a puff of yellow dust that whisked out of existence in the prop-wash. They touched again and held the earth; the tail came down, bounced a little, and then the plane was carrying its wings instead of being carried. The wings were orange and the fuselage was blue, and it was glossy in the sun. The wings wobbled slightly as the plane taxied over the lumpy meadow, and Paul knew that if he held out his arms and wobbled them like that he would feel it in his shoulders.
The motor barked, and the propeller blades became invisible as the pilot braked one wheel and turned the ship in its own length. The propeller, in profile, was a ghostly band and then a glass disc as the plane swung toward Paul. It snorted and Wobbled across the meadow until it was within twenty feet of the fence and the ditch. Then, with a roar, it swung broadside to him and the sound of the motor dwindled to an easy pwap-tick-tickety-pwap, while the pilot did knowledgeable things at the controls. Paul could see him in there, plain as day, through the cabin doors. The plane was beautiful; standing still it looked as if it were going two hundred miles an hour. The windshield swept right back over the pilot’s head. It was fine.
The pilot opened the door and vaulted to the ground. “Glory be! You’d think they’d have a field built in town after all these years.”
“They never will,” said Paul. “Nice job you got there.”
The pilot, pulling off a pair of high-cuffed gloves, looked briefly at the plane and grinned. He was very clean and had wide shoulders and practically no hips. He wore a good soft leather jacket, and tight breeches. “Know anybody in town, son?”
“Everybody, I guess.”
“Well, now. I can get all the news from you before I go on in.”
“Say—ain’t you Paul Roudenbush?”
Paul froze. He hadn’t said that. There were sudden icy cramps in the backs of his knees. The plane vanished. The pilot vanished. Paul sat with his feet in the dry ditch and slowly turned his head.
A maroon coupé stood by the ditch. Its door was open, and there, one foot on the running-board, was Mr. Sherman. Sheriff! Me for the brush!
Instead, he licked his lips and said, “Hi, Mr. Sherman.”
“My,” said Mr. Sherman, “you give me a turn, you did. Saw you sitting there so still, figured you’d been hit by a car or some such.”
“I’m all right,” said Paul faintly. He rose. Might as well get it over with. “I was just...thinkin’, I guess.”
Thinking—and now he was caught, and the thoughts raced through him like the cars of the forenoon freight; thoughts from hot places, cold places, far places. Stock market, car, claw claw plane. Women, women, cigarette lighter, landing field. Thoughts that were real, thoughts that he made up; they barrelled on through him, with a roar and a swirl, and left him standing, facing the highway and Mr. Sherman, who had caught him.
“Thinking, eh? Well, I’m right relieved,” said Mr. Sherman. He got back in the car, slammed the door, stepped on the starter.
“Mr. Sherman, ain’t you—”
“Ain’t I what, son?”
“Nothin’, Mr. Sherman. Nothin’ at all.”
“You’re a weird one,” said Mr. Sherman, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m heading back into town. Want a lift? It’s near eating time.”
“No, thanks,” said Paul immediately and with great sincerity. Paul watched the maroon coupe move off, his mind racing. The car was going into town. Without him. Mr. Sherman did not know he was running away. Why not? Well; they hadn’t missed him yet. Unless...unless they didn’t care whether he came back or not. No. No, that couldn’t be! The car would go right past his house, soon’s it got in town. Wasn’t much of a house. In it, though, was his own room. Small, but absolutely his own.
The trouble with the other ways to go back, it took time to make a killing in the stock market and get married. It took time to acquire a plane. It probably took quite a while to get part of your hand cut off. But this way—
Suddenly he was in the road screaming, “Mr. Sherman! Mr. Sherman!”
Mr. Sherman didn’t hear him but he saw him in the rear-view mirror. He stopped and backed up a bit. Paul climbed in, gasped his thanks, and sat still, working on his wind. He got it all back just about the time they turned into the Township Road.
Mr. Sherman glanced abruptly at the boy. “Paul.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I just had a thought, You, ‘way out there on the pike; were you running away?”
Paul said, “No.” His eyes were more puzzled than anything else. “I was coming back,” he said.
THE END
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