I study Willie’s face. It’s the face of a gentle and good man. It’s not furrowed with lines of bitterness and anger, like my father’s. It’s the face of a man who has made peace with his life. Who is perhaps trying to bring peace to mine.
I think, he and Malachi are most likely only a few years apart, and there is a world of difference between them. Willie is a frail reed, while Malachi is as strong as a tree. I hope it’s more than good genes and physiology. I hope it’s the love of horses that makes the difference, the passion that drives me to get up the next morning, because I want to be like Malachi, staying strong and riding forever. I don’t want to spend my end years fading to a whisper, hovering between barely existing and dying, and not doing either particularly well.
* * *
My worry over Malachi won’t quit. Maybe he got thrown by now; I picture broken ribs, a broken leg, a fractured hip. I get up and walk to the window, and despite all the posted signs on the hospital walls, guiltily turn on my cell phone to call him.
“Just got him back,” he reports proudly. “He’s in the paddock eating hay.”
“How’d you manage?” I whisper, so as not to disturb Willie.
“Took a rope with me and lassoed him in, then ponied him home.” He pauses and I know what he’s going to say. “He needs his own paddock, missy. Toby and the others are out to get him.”
“I’m not fencing in a paddock just for him,” I say. It’s the same old discussion. “Just keep them all busy with extra hay until I get home. And maybe hose his leg. If he was able to run around the woods for a couple of hours like that, he’s fine.”
“Okay.” Malachi sighs. “But by the time you get home, hosing or not, until you get him fenced by hisself, I ’spect he won’t have a leg left to stand on.”
* * *
I know I’m being stubborn. It’s a trait I got from my father. He would set his jaw and not give an inch. Stubborn to the end, literally, to the end. I think about this Lisbon thing, and the ongoing battle I have with Malachi, but I don’t have the thousands of dollars right now to fence in another paddock, just for one horse. David has offered to pay for it, but this is my farm, mostly supported by me, while David supports the house expenses. I have made sure I can take care of it and myself, that I will always be able to take care of the farm and myself. David has offered to fence in the paddock, to repair the hay barn, to buy me a new tractor. He used to offer to marry me. I try his phone again. Voice mail.
“Why don’t you say yes to David?” Sandra always used to ask me. “It’s not like men are lining up around the corner to marry you.”
She knows about lines, since she has married five times. Maybe six. I can’t remember whether Harrison, her current husband, was also number three, or whether that was Donald Harriman. Though we are on opposite sides of the commitment coin, it’s the same issue. We both need an escape clause for if somehow the men in our lives wind up acting like our father.
What happens if David escapes through my escape clause?
* * *
I decide to let Willie sleep and get some coffee in the cafeteria, maybe take a cab back to Rowena’s house and book a ticket home. Willie is tired, spent. He doesn’t need to open his heart and reach into the past to retrieve the pain he has kept there. He doesn’t need to do that for me. It might be too much of a burden. Rowena can tell me his stories. I brush my hand over his to say good-bye. His skin is cool, soft.
“Don’t go,” Willie says. He takes the canula from his face, but his eyes are closed.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” I say softly.
“Wasn’t asleep,” he says, grinning, eyes still closed. “I was just lying here and thinking about what I was going to tell you next.”
Chapter 14
“Bloody hell! The fucker just died on me!” Sergeant Lindsey Davies, of the Royal Air Force, was incensed. The cramped cockpit of the Vultee Valiant could barely contain his hulking frame and huge fury. “It revved properly, then died,” he thundered. “What if I had been in the middle of a chandelle?” He gave Fleischer a piercing look, but Fleischer didn’t notice; he already had the engine cover open and was hanging into it, puttering around inside. Ten minutes earlier, a messenger had pulled Fleischer from the wash rack to race him across the base and onto the runway where Davies was fuming impatiently in his dead plane. Fleischer had barely enough time to grab a satchel of tools and call out for Willie to come with him.
“Damn thing just came out of the wash rack,” he remarked to Willie, as the jeep bounced at breakneck speed along the airstrip.
“Connections can’t be dirty,” Willie had replied, as puzzled as Fleischer.
“No. And they’re tighter than a duck’s ass,” Fleischer agreed. “There’s something else going on.”
Willie didn’t answer. He didn’t like being called out of the wash rack. It wasn’t safe, he thought. Not safe at all, to be put out there to solve something that he was sure, was absolutely sure, was going to be blamed on the coloreds, whether it was true or not.
* * *
Fleischer tinkered with the wires running to the engine while Willie handed him the tools. Davies, mollified by the sight of the two men sweating in the hot sun and fiddling with his engine, was restored to good humor. He raised his goggles up over his forehead and opened the chin strap of his brown leather flight helmet before sitting back in the cockpit to casually light a Camel, all the while bemusedly watching them.
“Think you’ll have it flying before the war ends, mates?” he asked, taking a long draw from his cigarette. “I rather think the bloody thing’s run out of coal.”
Fleischer straightened up and put his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to keep journals,” he said, annoyed. “And turn them over to us, so we know when problems occur. Write everything down that acts funny or even looks funny.”
Davies blew a smoke ring over Fleischer’s head. “Journals are for schoolgirls,” he said coolly. “What am I going to do at five thousand feet with a 109 on my arse and the engine on fire? Send you a love note?” This struck him as extremely amusing; he threw his head back and laughed. “My dear Yankee Sergeant, I seem to be crashing at this most inopportune moment. . . .”
Fleischer opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by the sound of a jeep screeching to a halt behind him. He spun around to see Major Seekircher jump out, leaving the jeep running, and the door hanging open like a yawning mouth, as he stormed over to Davies.
“Sergeant Davies,” he started.
Fleischer backed up and saluted, as did Willie. Seekircher returned the salutes. “Finish what you were doing, Sergeant,” he said to Fleischer. “I want this plane flying.” He turned his attention to Davies. “You!” he said. “I need a word with you.”
Davies blinked innocently. “A word, sir?”
Seekircher took a deep breath. “Our phones have been very busy these past few days with complaints from the good citizens of Montgomery.”
Davies raised his eyebrows, but kept the grin. “That so? Sir?”
Seekircher pursed his lips and folded his arms in a show of authority, though they all knew that the American officers had no jurisdiction over the RAF. None whatsoever. “It is a violation of base regulations to stage dogfights over Montgomery or any other part of this state.” He glared at Davies. “It is also a violation to bounce on the local highways or to buzz the local livestock. You’ve been the cause of several recent auto wrecks, and the area farmers are complaining that the cows have stopped milking from the stress. We don’t allow American pilots to fly around in our Alabama skies like a bunch of wild cowboys, and we won’t tolerate it from the RAF. Any pilot disobeying these rules will be disciplined.”
Davies gave Seekircher a broad smile now. “Perhaps another round of calisthenics in your pleasantly sunny climate will improve our morale? We’re big fans of your famous discipline drills and formation training. Especially those of my men who’ve already been in combat. Important for them to know how to sta
nd in a straight line for two hours.”
The major’s face reddened with indignation. “I don’t care,” he huffed. “An army is judged by its discipline. We’ll see who’s running the show on this base.”
Davies pulled his goggles off and began to polish them against the front of his flight jacket as the major ranted on. “I knew right away there’d be problems when the RAF sent over flying sergeants, instead of officers who came up properly through the ranks,” the major snapped. Davies stifled a yawn. Seekircher stood on his toes to deliver his ultimatum. “I want your entire squadron turning out at oh-six-hundred tomorrow morning for a round of calisthenics.”
“Why, Major,” Davies replied evenly, “my men wouldn’t even be up yet.”
Fleischer, struggling to contain his pleasure at Davies’s arrogance, stared into the engine. Willie, also trying not to smile, looked down, concentrating on the way his bootlaces were knotted together. The major stormed back to his jeep in frustration, and roared away.
“Intense sort of chap,” Davies commented, “isn’t he, now?”
Fleischer ignored this remark and continued working on the motor. “Try it again,” he finally said, stepping back from the plane. Davies turned on the dynamotor. It rattled to life; the plane sputtered violently and rocked back and forth on its wheels. This was normal for the Vultee Valiant, this wild, eardrum-splitting, bone-rattling shake that worsened in the sky when it hit cruising speed.
“Perfect,” said Fleischer. But it only lasted for a moment before the engine died again. “Damn.” He pulled on a pair of insulated gloves to protect his hands from the scorching metal, and fiddled with the engine again.
“Glad you’re giving it another go,” Davies said to him, grinning sarcastically. “I have a vested interest in staying alive. And maybe while you’re in there, you can find the cause of the crashes.”
“Well,” Fleischer replied casually, looking up at him, “we do know what’s causing a lot of them.”
“And what might that be?”
“The way you Brits are flying them.”
Davies raised his eyebrows and studied Fleischer for a moment. “Welshmen,” he finally said. “Now, if you lads can impress me with your American know-how and actually fix this kite, I’ll buy you both a Fuller’s.”
“Might be the mixture control, sir,” Willie suggested to Fleischer. “The flyboys always have a problem with it.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Fleischer replied, then gestured to Davies. “Let me in there.” Davies jumped out and pulled off his helmet, his light hair drenched with sweat. Fleischer climbed into the cockpit and sat down. He examined the controls, turned a few dials, turned the engine on. The plane shook back to life with a huge puff of smoke before he shut it down again. “Yep,” he said to Davies. “Nothing wrong. You must have confused the mixture control with the propeller control, while changing from low to high pitch. The mixture control was in Idle Cutoff. It’s a common enough mistake, but it stops the engine.” Fleischer gave it a satisfied pat and turned it on again. “All you needed was a little American know-how,” he shouted over the roar and gave Davies a sly smile before turning off the plane.
The two exchanged places once again, Fleischer back on the ground, Davies in the cockpit. Davies pulled his goggles down over his eyes and turned on the engine. It shook awake. “Ah yes, the Vultee Vibrator,” he yelled over the noise. “I’ve got a milk shake in me bollucks from flying this thing!” He gestured to Fleischer. “Why don’t you check your maintenance work firsthand, Sergeant? Take a spin with me. If you trust it, I guess I can trust it.”
Fleischer bristled at this. “I have confidence in my work,” he yelled back. Davies simply smiled and waited for an answer to his invitation.
Fleischer looked over at Willie, then back at Davies, back and forth between the two men, before finally climbing into the second cockpit, right behind Davies. “Wait for me, Jackson,” he called down just before closing the canopy. “We’ll be back in a few minutes. Gonna teach this limey a thing or two about flying.”
* * *
The plane raced down the airstrip, the prop spinning into invisibility, the silver body swaying from side to side, before it lifted off in a great metallic drone. It climbed to the white clouds; the sun glinted off its shining wings. Willie swallowed hard watching it, a silver jewel slipping through the blue sky, easing in and out of the white puffs that hung high over the airfield. He wanted to fly. He wanted to fly so badly.
The plane went into a steep climb, turning at the same time, a chandelle, then it spiraled back down, only to lift up again. Suddenly it stalled and dove toward earth, and Willie sucked his breath in sharply and waited. The plane banked at the last minute and climbed again. Davies was playing games, Willie realized. The climb was followed by a snap roll, a spin, and a Cuban Eight. A moment later he had to throw himself to the ground as Davies buzzed over him to a landing. Willie got back on his feet and brushed himself off. He walked toward the plane as it rolled to a stop about fifty feet away. Davies lifted the canopy and pushed his goggles to his forehead, still smiling. Fleischer slowly climbed from the rear cockpit and jumped down onto the tarmac, then hunched over his boots for a moment, his face pale.
“Enjoy the ride?” Davies asked him, innocence written all over his face.
Fleischer straightened. “Motherfucking son of a bitch limey. Motherfucking—Welshman,” he spat out, then straightened his shoulders and beamed. “I loved it.”
Chapter 15
The offer of a Fuller’s was hard to forget.
“We need to collect our debt,” Fleischer said to Willie. “I’m not sure what a Fuller’s is, but I think Davies promised us a couple of beers, and I want mine.” It was the end of their shift, and Fleischer had just dismissed the men from the wash rack. The September evening felt cloying; the threat of rain hung in the air, collaborating with the flattening heat. They were in fatigues; great rings of sweat rimmed their armpits and made dark shields across their backs. The thought of a cold beer was irresistible. Davies had dropped by the wash rack more than a few times to remind them he would be more than happy to pay up his debt to both Fleischer and Willie.
The problem was, there was no place the three of them could have a drink together. The airmen’s club on base was restricted to whites, as were all the USOs in Montgomery. And rarely did the Americans mix with the RAF cadets in the first place.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Fleischer confided to Willie, “but he does owe us.”
“Don’t worry about it, Sarge,” Willie mumbled to Fleischer. He wasn’t all that happy to be included. He had his own friends; actually, one—August—and though their conversations were sometimes painfully slow, due to August’s limited comprehension, they were safe. Colored and white people didn’t mix in Alabama. Not if they didn’t want trouble. And it seemed to him that Fleischer just didn’t get it. He acted like it was just fine to be friends, like he didn’t know or didn’t care that there could be consequences. But they couldn’t mix. Colored and white, they just couldn’t mix.
“I don’t need to go with you guys, anyway, Sarge,” Willie said.
They had finished hanging away their gear, Fleischer stuffing his into the corner of his locker, as he usually did; Willie, more meticulous, hanging his on the hook he had carefully installed inside his locker. He propped his face mask over a wad of newspaper to help dry it out and put it alongside his headgear on the top shelf. The early evening sky was already reddening in preparation for the next day’s heat, and he and Fleischer stood together, watching a half moon rising in the distance. “It might be easier if you just met the sarge in town,” Willie said, shrugging, the inference being, without him. He just wanted to get back to his barracks; this was getting too complicated.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind knocking back a few,” Fleischer replied. “But that Welshman invited the both of us.”
Willie shook his head. “I don’t need to go,” he said again. It would be a direct
road to trouble.
The squadron fell into formation, ready for their march to their barracks. The mess hall and dinner would be their next activity. Willie looked over, wishing he could join them and get away from this conversation.
“Well, there’s a movie tonight,” Fleischer continued. “Betty Grable. How about we meet when it’s over? I’ll find the Welshman and tell him maybe we can grab that Fuller’s after the show.”
There had been posters put up all over the base about the new movie, A Yank in the R.A.F., with Betty Grable and Tyrone Power. The plot sounded pretty stupid, but at least it was a diversion. Willie had been thinking of going with August. Betty Grable was a real looker.
“Okay, Sarge,” Willie said slowly. “Maybe I’ll see you there.” He didn’t hold much hope out for Fleischer’s social plans, but maybe the best way was just to humor him and keep watching his own ass.
* * *
The audience was impatient for the movie to start. The base movie house, packed with both cadets and servicemen, filled with catcalls as the show started with the Movietone newsreel. Armed Forces were fighting in the Philippines. They were rounding up the Japanese in San Francisco; it wasn’t going well at all. But the audience didn’t want to hear it. They’d had a bellyful of discouraging news, and they wanted Betty Grable. The news focused on France now, the narrator speaking over a scene of German officers enjoying drinks and conversation at a French café with smiling, obliging waiters.
In the Shadow of Alabama Page 11