by Sarah Sundin
“I thought I was the only one who felt this way. My parents say it’s for Mariko’s safety. The city fired her husband, no one would sell to her, and the milkman wouldn’t even deliver to her.”
Walt shook his head and kept his voice down too. “Can’t even help with the war effort. Eddie wanted to join the Air Corps with me, but they wouldn’t take him.”
She glanced down the row. “It’s sad when those who want to serve aren’t allowed to.”
“Yeah.” He followed her gaze and her line of thought. “Nothing wrong with George’s mind. He’d be great at a desk job, free another man to fight.”
Allie leaned closer. “I hesitate to ask, but what about Art? Is he 4-F also?”
“Nope. 1-A and raring to go. His dad needs him at the store, made him promise not to join up. Art can’t wait for his draft notice.”
“His father must be proud of such a respectful son.”
Walt shrugged and looked up to the white farmhouse. Grandma stood on the porch and beckoned through the circle of oak trees that screened the house from the wind. Lunch must be ready. Walt waved in acknowledgement. “Yeah, Art’s respectful—too respectful.”
“Too respectful? How can that be?”
“Sure, we have to honor our parents, but we have to honor God first.” He stood and held out his hand for Allie’s bucket. “Hey, everyone. Lunchtime.”
Instead of the cold cut of a bucket handle across his palm, warm pressure enveloped his hand. Allie—she thought he was helping her up.
His throat clamped shut. Oh Lord, not now. Don’t let me freeze now.
Allie got to her feet and released his hand. “My parents aren’t Christians.”
“Huh?” He swallowed hard. Maybe the deal wasn’t stupid if he couldn’t talk when he touched her.
“They think they are, but they’re not.”
Not what? He reeled his mind back. “Not Christians?”
“They think church membership makes them Christians, but in eighteen years at St. Timothy’s, nobody talked about God the way Betty did—not just her words, but the way she lived.”
“And you wanted what she had.” He liked knowing more about her, but what did it have to do with Art and his dad?
“Yes, her assurance of God’s love, her joy in his presence. It’s what I wanted, what I needed.” Allie headed for the farmhouse.
Oh yeah, lunch. Walt held out his hand again. “Here, let me take your bucket.”
“Thank you.”
She fell silent, and the distance across the green and brown striped field seemed longer than when he was a boy and hungry for Grandma’s pie. He should say something, but what?
“St. Timothy’s.” Allie’s eyes fixed on some point way past the farmhouse. “It feels so claustrophobic and petty, not joyful and peaceful like my church in Claremont.”
Walt made a face. “Sounds like you need a new church.” She turned to him. “That’s my quandary. How can I disobey my parents?”
Now he saw the connection to Art’s story. “The real question is: how can you disobey God? You have to pray and find out what he wants you to do.”
“I want to be where I can serve the Lord and do some good, but a family should worship together. Besides, I can’t imagine walking into a strange church all alone. Why, I wouldn’t even know where to look for a new church.”
“If you’d like, I’ll pray for you.”
“Would you? You don’t know how much I’d appreciate that.”
Walt’s cap slipped back, and the curl flopped onto his forehead. With a bucket in each hand, he couldn’t do anything about it, but he didn’t care. Allie had smiled at him, confided in him, and wanted him to pray for her.
“Hey, Walt.” George pointed to the old wooden barn and winked.
Walt shot his friend a warning glare.
Betty pulled on her fiancé’s arm. “Georgie, once we’re married, you’ll have to tell me. That story’s been around since high school.”
“Sorry, darling, I promised.” George nodded to Walt.
He nodded back and leaned his forearms on the rough split rail fence. He could trust his friends not to tell stories told in confidence, even foolish boasts.
From around the corner of the corral, Allie gave him a curious tilt of her head. Walt rolled his eyes, and she smiled. Good. She understood.
An old red and white cow ambled toward him. Walt offered some grass. “Hiya, Flossie.”
Grandpa Novak swung the corral gate open. “She can’t hear anymore, you know. Stone deaf.”
Walt nuzzled Flossie’s fuzzy nose. “She can read my lips. You’re still the prettiest girl in town, Floss. See, she knows me. She’d better. I named her.”
“Yeah. Original,” Art said with a grin.
Another head tilt from Allie. This one he could answer. “Hiram Fortner owns a dairy nearby, has a statue of a cow by the gate. Everyone calls her Fortner’s Flossie.”
“Except she disappeared the day before Pearl Harbor was bombed,” Grandpa said. “Some kids pulling a prank, no doubt.”
“Yeah,” Walt said. “If Jack hadn’t been at Pearl, I would have suspected him.”
Grandpa chuckled and unbolted the barn doors. “That boy could never stay out of trouble. By the way, got a letter from him the other day.”
“Yeah? I haven’t heard from him for a while.” Walt left the group behind and followed his grandfather into the barn. He savored the smell of hay, old wood, and livestock.
“That boy thinks he and his B-17 can take on the Japanese single-handedly.”
“Great bird. Now we need to get Ray in a Fort too.”
Grandpa mumbled and scratched his nose—the Novak nose. The only time Walt liked his nose was when he was with Grandpa.
“What?” Walt asked. “Ray needs to get out of that easy training job.”
Grandpa shook his head. “Nope. Ray’s a quiet soul. He’s not cut out for the rough-and-tumble of combat like you and Jack.”
Walt’s shoulders felt straighter and broader. Grandpa thought he could handle combat.
“Okay, boy, put those Army muscles to use. Let’s get the tarp off old Jenny.”
Walt sprang forward, eager to prep the biplane for flight. The men worked in silence, another reason Walt loved the farm. Grandpa never talked much. In Walt’s opinion, his parents had named the three boys well. Ray after Grandpa Garlovsky, soulful and musical. Jack after Dad, outgoing and driven. And Walt after Jacob Walter Novak, although he was glad his parents had reversed the names. Jacob was so old-fashioned.
“Jenny hasn’t flown since Ray’s last leave. Helped with the crop dusting.”
The rudder felt stiff, so Walt squirted oil on the hinge. “Don’t you think Ray wants to go to combat?”
Grandpa snorted. “Ray doesn’t want to go to combat any more than you or Jack want to be pastors.”
“Huh? Jack’s wanted to be a pastor all his life.”
“No, your father’s wanted him to be a pastor all his life. Sooner Jack realizes that, the better.”
Walt wiped his hand on a rag. True, he could never picture Jack in the pulpit—Jack, who was always coming up with schemes and getting Walt to cover for him. Still, Jack was a grown man and could pick his own career. And he had Dad’s approval while Walt didn’t. Grandpa understood, though. “You know, I never thanked you for how you encouraged me, stood up for me.”
Grandpa grunted—but an appreciative grunt. “Didn’t think the Army trained a bunch of sentimental fools. Come on, boy, let’s get Jenny in the air.”
Before long, the plane sat in the pasture. Walt slipped on his leather flight jacket. “Who wants a ride?”
Art was first, as always. The men climbed into the biplane, and Walt started her up. The engine’s roar sounded almost as sweet as the duets with Allie. He glanced down at her and saluted, hoping he looked dashing and competent.
“Come on, Novak, let’s go,” Art called over the engine. “At least I can pretend to fight the enemy.”
Once he was over the town, he tapped Art on the shoulder, shook the stick, and pointed to Art. “Take the controls,” he shouted.
Art gave him a thumbs-up. Walt pulled out his camera and leaned over to get aerial shots of his hometown. He’d received the camera for a college graduation gift and used the first batch of film on planes. Now he’d been away a year and wanted more—his family, friends, and home.
He took back the controls and wheeled Jenny toward the farm so George could have a ride. A crosswind on the landing allowed Walt to show off his deft hand with the controls. Too bad Allie wouldn’t know how tricky a crosswind landing could be.
Walt and Art hopped out onto the grass.
“Boy, am I jealous,” Art said. “You get paid to do that.”
Walt flipped off his goggles. “Would you believe they pay me extra? Hazardous duty, they call it. Don’t tell them, but I’d fly for free. Ready, George?”
“You betcha.”
“No.” Betty tugged on George’s arm. “Oh, darling, not today, not three days before the wedding. I can’t bear to lose you now.”
“I won’t—”
“But darling, the Army calls it hazardous for a reason. Please, not today.”
George sighed and took Betty in his arms. “All right. Just this once.”
Oh brother. Walt wanted one more ride, but Grandpa was busy with chores, Dorothy had never gone up, and Allie was too proper for an adventure. Or was she?
Allie hadn’t taken her eyes off the plane. Walt recognized that look. He’d seen it on the faces of his fellow cadets the first day of flight school. He stepped in front of her. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
Allie’s eyes widened, green as those cadets. “I’ve never flown before.”
“Want to?”
“Maybe.” Her lips barely moved.
He grinned. Yep, she might be the one for him.
Betty let out a scream. “No, Allie. I need you in the wedding.”
Despite Betty yanking her arm, Allie didn’t break her gaze with Walt. “Would it be like Art’s flight? No aerobatics?”
“No loops, no snap rolls, no dives, I promise.”
Betty hugged Allie’s arm. “Don’t believe him. He did it to George.”
“Just once,” George said, “and I asked for it.”
Walt shuddered. “Yeah, and I had to clean out the plane afterward. Never again. Only when I’m alone.”
“All right,” Allie said.
Walt stared at her. “You’ll go? Wow. Come on, let’s get you suited up before this whiner changes your mind.”
Her eager smile told him the whiner wouldn’t win. Good. The woman had some spirit. He took off his flight jacket and handed it to her.
“Don’t you need it?”
“Nah. Gotta get used to the cold. B-17s fly at over twenty thousand feet. Minus twenty degrees up there, sometimes colder.”
He helped her with the leather flight helmet, careful to concentrate on the buckle, not on the soft skin under her chin. Then he stepped back to inspect his work. His jacket hung over her hips, the goggles covered her gorgeous eyes, and curls stuck out under the helmet. Cutest copilot he’d ever had.
“Okay, Allie, up you go.” He laced his fingers together to brace her foot. “Is that ‘Allie up’ or ‘Allie oop’?”
She laughed and climbed into the front cockpit. “If I slip, it’ll be ‘Allie oops.’”
Boy, did he like her. He climbed into the rear cockpit, nudged the plane across the golden pasture, and released her into the air. Allie’s hands clamped the rim of the cockpit, and her curls whipped around her neck. After he leveled off, he put his hand on her shoulder. “How’re you doing?” he shouted.
Allie’s smile shone as bright as Walt’s hopes. “I love it.”
Yeah, she might be the one. Not only was she an attractive, intelligent woman, but she played the piano and liked to fly. She actually liked to fly. Most amazing—he could talk to her even though she wasn’t taken. No doubt about that. No one had ever asked her to dance, and he had a hunch no one had ever told her she was pretty. He wanted to be the first. Too bad he didn’t have Ray’s way with words or Jack’s way with a grin and a wink.
He’d just have to wing it. Walt chuckled at his unintentional pun. He tapped Allie’s shoulder and pointed down at Antioch. She craned her neck to look over the edge, then turned and shouted something he couldn’t hear. He shrugged. Allie cupped her hands together.
“Yeah. Like toys,” he said.
She nodded and looked down to the miniature town in its grid along the river. Sure would be nice to take her into the hills or up the river. Still plenty of fuel. As a farmer, Grandpa would get unlimited fuel once it was rationed, but Walt didn’t want to abuse the privilege.
He headed over the riverbank and poked Allie’s shoulder. “Want a swim?” He pulled the stick to the right and depressed the right rudder pedal. Up went the right aileron, down went the left, and Jenny went into a tight right-hand turn.
Allie screamed, but the laughter in her scream made Walt smile.
Now he could impress her with the crosswind landing. He circled the white farmhouse and the weathered gray barn to approach from the south. The wind from the west had picked up, but not enough to worry him.
Walt lowered the upwind left wing and applied right rudder pressure to keep Jenny from turning left. Surely Allie could feel the struggle of the little plane against the wind. Boy, was it swell.
With flaps down and the stick forward, he eased the plane down, all the time compensating for changes in wind currents.
Now for the fun part—the momentary, one-wheeled landing required with a crosswind. That’d give Allie a thrill. About ten feet from the ground, Walt pulled the nose up for the flare to lose airspeed and settle to the ground.
Then he saw Flossie.
“Walt!” Allie screamed. “A cow!”
“I see her.” At one o’clock, wandering into his path, and deaf—stone deaf.
Too late to get airborne again. Too little speed, too short a field. The left wheel touched down. If he turned to avoid the cow, he’d go into a ground loop, maybe flip the plane. But if he hit the cow . . .
“Lord, I need your help here.”
The right wheel touched down. Flossie’s backside rushed up before him. Walt eased the left rudder down enough to angle the nose away from the cow, but not enough to send them into a spin. “Oh Lord, move that cow or stop this plane.”
Allie screamed. The plane shuddered and bumped down the field.
He applied the brakes as hard as he could without nosing the plane over. The right wingtip clobbered Flossie’s rear end. An angry moo. The plane bounced to a stop.
Walt clenched the control stick. His breath came hard and fast. Oh, swell. He wanted to impress Allie and he almost got her killed. Now she’d never fly again. She’d never speak to him again. All because he watched her and not the field. Stupid, amateur, almost fatal mistake.
Allie turned to him slowly, her face white.
“You okay?” He dreaded her answer.
She nodded. “How’s the cow?”
The cow. Walt glanced to Flossie, who trotted away with loud, indignant moos. “She’s awful mad.”
Allie laughed. She actually laughed, and she kept on laughing. Walt joined in, relieved that they were alive and intact, and amazed at Allie’s good humor.
Betty ran up to the plane. “Allie! Allie! Are you all right?”
She nodded, still laughing. “Oh, Walt, the cow—the way she mooed.”
Fresh waves of shared laughter lifted him higher than any aircraft. He swung out of the plane and held up his arms. “Come on, Allie. Stop laughing long enough to get out of that death trap.”
“I don’t think I can stop.” She climbed out onto th
e lower wing.
He put his hands on her tiny waist and lowered her to the ground. Her laughter tumbled sweet in his face, and it was all he could do not to hug her close and never let go.
“Say, Walt,” George said. “Give me your camera. I’ll get a picture.”
“Great idea.” He took off his goggles, then Allie’s.
“Oh, not me.”
“Yeah, you. You’re my copilot.”
The smallest smile crossed her lips. “Promise never to show my parents? I don’t want them to know their only daughter played Amelia Earhart.”
“See, you did something your parents wouldn’t approve of, and you survived.”
“Barely.” The sparkle in her eyes stirred up all sorts of strange and wonderful things in Walt’s chest.
He rested his arm along the fuselage behind Allie. Maybe when the fellows at Wendover saw the picture, they’d think she was his girlfriend. Who knew? Maybe by then, she really would be his girlfriend.
5
Thursday, June 25, 1942
“Oh, good,” Betty said. “The men are already here.”
Allie crested a grassy dune, and the San Joaquin River stretched wide and sparkling and gray blue before her. In a small cove, a lone willow tree trailed lacy branches over the beach.
Betty and Dorothy spread a blanket on the sand, and Allie set the picnic basket on top. She squinted at two men in a rowboat not far from shore. George, long and skinny, waved to the ladies. Art, smaller but sturdier, shielded his eyes before he added his greeting. A silver ripple formed in the water behind the boat, and Walt popped up. He smoothed his hair from his forehead, waved, and swam toward shore.
Allie helped Betty and Dorothy with another blanket. Walt had been so kind the last few days. Betty was appropriately absorbed with her fiancé, Jim and Helen had sequestered themselves with the baby, and Dorothy, for all her protests of not caring one whit for Arthur Wayne, stayed by his adoring side. Walt’s company shielded Allie from loneliness.
Betty and Dorothy stripped to their bathing suits, and Allie removed the blouse that covered her yellow gingham suit. Walt’s ripple approached the shore. Allie paused. It didn’t seem proper to remove her wraparound skirt in front of him.