“You want to take over?”
“I’d like to very much, but I’m rusty. I haven’t flown in so long, it wouldn’t be smart.”
“Since when did you do anything smart?” Horne remarked as he banked the J and began looking for other planes.
Melvin was peering eagerly over the side of the cockpit at the fraternity house, which was almost directly below. He had not thought much about the fraternity since the collapse of his relationship with it, other than being conscious of a vague, festering injury, as though he had been bitten; but seeing the defenseless house beneath him, and the people inside so unaware of who was overhead, he became excited. He thumped on the fuselage and pointed. “Let’s go! Come on!” he shouted, and looked at Horne in the mirror.
Horne did not answer; he continued turning and scanning the sky until he was satisfied there were no other planes in the area. Then he looked down with a studious expression, locating the house and inspecting the angle of the hillside. He circled again, and observed the smoke from the chimney. Finally he pulled around in a swift vertical bank, flipped the airplane on its back, and started down with the sun on the opposite side of the house so that afterward, when people looked up, they would not be able to see anything—the J would be climbing into the sun and the numbers on the wing would be invisible.
Melvin felt himself being drawn down. The greenhouse rattled and hummed as the J spiraled down, and the sunshine struck him full on the head, the warmth of it penetrating his helmet. He glanced at the instrument panel: the altimeter needle was unwinding and he thought of the four French cadets who had been sent to Pensacola for a course in dive bombing and who, apparently enraptured, dove straight into the middle of the target and plopped out of sight like ducks in a shooting gallery: un, deux, trois, quatre! He was a bit shocked at how close Horne had come to the earth on the previous dive, and now as he looked ahead he was horrified. His jaw sagged, his eyelids drooped, a chimney shot by the wingtip, the plane slowed and sank toward the fraternity-house lawn as Horne rammed the propeller into low pitch and then, rattling and roaring, they were across the street and somebody’s bicycle and the sign in front of the doughnut shop and the rim of the football stadium and going steeply up. Melvin immediately loosened his harness and twisted around in the cockpit. The front door of the house burst open and frenzied little figures were leaping into the snow He shook his fist at them. “That’s what I like to see—fraternity spirit!” he called. “And let that be a lesson to you! Come on,” he said to Horne, “let’s do it again!”
“You’re out of your head. We’re leaving this area right now. Take over. Give us a good five thousand feet. Out of binocular range,” Horne added, and tapped the ash from his cigar.
“Did we break some windows, do you think?”
“What do you want to do, go back and ask?”
“No, but I’d just like to find out.”
Horne muttered and wagged his head. “We got the job done, why do you have to go back and investigate everything? Leave it alone! Forget it! I don’t understand you. Head for Kansas City. The phone company in this neighborhood’s going to be busier than sonny boy at the circus, so I’d as soon be identified somewhere else. We can let down on the other side of the city to show our numbers and give us an alibi.”
“What if we’re the only J up today?”
“If we were,” Horne said patiently, “I wouldn’t be flat-hatting, bet your life. Three other flights checked out ahead of us, and in the loft I heard a couple of boot ensigns talk about coming over Lawrence this afternoon.” He shifted around in the cockpit and squinted in the direction of Olathe. “There!” He jabbed with his cigar. “Just below the horizon, bearing zero-nine-zero. Two pigeons. I bet they’re not six months out of Pensacola. Well, good luck, boys! You’re either quick or you’re dead these days, that’s God’s truth.
“You know, I used to be like you,” he continued, “but I’ve learned a few things since we saw each other last. When I got overseas I learned something I don’t think you’ll ever understand because you never fought for this country. Like McCampbell, the more I think about it. Maybe he knew from the start what had to be done, but he never said a word—he just did it.”
After a moment Melvin asked, “What did you learn?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Horne said. “Except I feel different. I feel proud—I really do! Every time I put on this uniform I feel proud. And people on the street look at me. They look at the wings and then they take another look at me. They feel close to me, I can tell. I’m sort of a cop, you might say. It’s a good feeling.”
They were over the suburbs of Kansas City. Ahead lay the gaping, crenulated skyline and the wide shining bend of the Missouri. They flew down a bright sheaf of railroad tracks to the Union Station. The station resembled a mausoleum, or an old warehouse, with patches of sooty snow on the roof, and a curving line of yellow taxicabs in front. Across the road on the mall, between the two squat, banklike museums, rose the great fluted shaft of the Liberty Memorial.
“By the way,” Horne remarked as Melvin guided the plane around the Memorial, “when I talked to your old man on the phone he said to be sure and tell you he was coming to the university for dinner with you soon. He didn’t say when.”
“He drives up occasionally. Listen, he once told me that on his troopship going to France during the first war the soldiers would sometimes break out cheering. Cheers would just swell from the ranks, according to what he says. That’s curious, because all the time I was in the Navy I never once felt like cheering. Did you?”
Horne looked at him in the mirror. “Are you kidding?”
“That was my reaction exactly,” Melvin said. “I can remember all kinds of different sensations, such as being bored or scared or infuriated by some stupid officer like Monk, for example. And plenty of times I had a tremendous sense of relief, on account of having gotten down alive, you know. But I just can’t understand why anybody in the service would cheer.”
“Times change.” Horne inspected his cigar and champed on it comfortably. “Used to be the soldats were eager to save the world. No longer. Now all anybody wants is to save his skin. No more illusions, no dreams. Things are rough these days.”
“Suppose there was to be another war. Would the attitudes change again?”
“There wouldn’t be time for an attitude. You’d be ionized before you even knew war was declared.”
“If that’s so, why is there so much talk about civil defense? This idea of stationing people on rooftops to watch for enemy planes—why, if you compute the speed of the new jets together with the bomb trajectory, it becomes obvious the spotter would get squashed before he could focus his binoculars. But the government plans to spend millions of dollars manufacturing helmets and arm bands and printing leaflets. Or this idea of bomb shelters. If there wouldn’t be time, why bother?”
“Ask me an easy one,” Horne said. “But you might as well make preparations, why not? It won’t do any harm. It might do a little good, and most of all it keeps the citizens occupied. When you’re busy you don’t think. If a civilian figures a bomb shelter or a tin helmet is going to save him—fine! Let him think so. Why not? It makes him feel better.”
“I suppose a few people really could reach the shelters in time. Don’t you think so?”
“Sure! You might save half a million, several million maybe in towns and cities that weren’t hit right at first. There’d be fifty times that many dead, of course, no matter if you got shelters for everybody from Rover to Betsy. It’s like beef on the farm,” he explained. “What you do is, you keep them pacified until it’s too late to do anything about the situation. They’re in the slaughterhouse before they figure it out. That’s how you got to handle the citizens. You encourage them to put on a tin hat and dig a hole in the ground and everything’s fine. The government’s got the right idea—set up the program, get the testimonials, and hope for the best.”
“But—”
Horne hit the
control stick and the plane jumped. “Why ask me? I don’t run the firm.”
“I was just wondering.”
“So are we all. I said it wouldn’t do any harm, that’s all I said, and it might do some good.”
“But is that so? The more I think of it, the more I feel that the longer you cooperate with this sort of reasoning the more you’re contributing to the sense of urgency and panic. It actually makes the situation worse.”
“I got worries enough without worrying whether I’m contributing to urgency and panic,” Horne said. “Frankly, what worries me is how I’m going to get rid of all this lard. I don’t even play golf any more. I head for the BOQ as soon as I get off duty and sit around and get so stupid drunk that by chow time I can’t tell a pork chop from the skipper’s wife.” He cranked himself higher in the cockpit and peered at the sky, which was overcast with icy stratus clouds. “Holy jumpin’ Jesus—look at that stuff move! Another twenty minutes and we’ll get blown halfway to Kentucky. It’s time we secured. Where’s Kansas City?”
They looked along the river, but the city was nowhere in sight.
“We should have started back sooner,” Horne said. “I’ll take over.” He cleared the engine and put the SNJ into a shallow diving turn that carried them swiftly across the frozen brush and tanglewood along the shore and over the sandbars and hurtling over the rooftops of a town.
“I think I know this place,” Melvin said.
Horne shoved the throttle forward, rolled into a vertical turn, and pulled the SNJ around the circle so tightly the wings crinkled.
“I know where we are,” Melvin said while the turn drained the blood from his head and sucked the microphone from his lips, “There’s the military academy. This is Lexington.”
Sam Horne looked over the side of the cockpit. “Yuh, you’re right. There’s the battlefield on top of the cliff. And there’s that spooky house where they were hanging each other. All right, we’re in business again. Olathe should bear approximately west by southwest.”
Snow was falling when they landed, and as they taxied toward the hangars a red beacon replaced the directional lights on the squadron tower.
“Better stay over and take off for Washington when the weather lifts,” Melvin said. “We’ve got room enough for you at the apartment.”
And Horne, after going upstairs to check the aerology reports, said he would.
30
Night had fallen when Melvin and Horne reached Lawrence. The town was covered with snow. The wind whistled down the street. The basement apartment was dark.
“Is this a good idea?” Horne asked. “Women don’t like their husbands bringing home strangers. Besides, it looks like she’s already gone to bed.”
“My wife won’t mind,” Melvin said confidently. “She’s heard me talk about you so often she’ll be delighted. I wonder why there aren’t any lights on.” He turned up the collar of his jacket, jumped out of the station wagon, and hurried down the steps with Horne right behind him.
“It smells like something’s burning,” Horne said.
“I know,” Melvin said. “I wonder what it is.”
“You better open the door and find out,” Horne said, stamping his feet and blowing through his fists.
“I think I just dropped the key in the snow,” Melvin said. “I can’t see anything, it’s so dark down here. Have you got a match?”
Inside the apartment there was a crash; a dog barked, a door slammed.
“If I were you, I’d look for the key in the morning,” Horne said. “I think something’s on fire.” He raised his fist to pound on the door but at that moment the door opened, Hephzibah looked out, gave a shriek, and vanished.
Melvin rushed in, but stopped in amazement. In the center of the apartment stood what appeared to be a new aluminium garbage can, a green sales tag dangling from one of the handles. Dozens of little packages were scattered on the floor. The room was dimly lighted by candles. An English sheep dog with a nose as black as a prune and a long pink tongue dangling stupidly from its mouth like a comedian’s necktie was crouching on the sofa. The dog reared up with its nose pointed at Melvin, soared like a rug over the back of the sofa, and went bounding into the bathroom, where it gave an immature but tremendous bark. The kitchen was full of smoke.
“You’re home!” cried Jake Isaacs. “Ah, lieutenant!”
“Ech! Tch!” Hephzibah muttered, striding back and forth wringing her hands. “Such a night, such a night! Ech! Ech!”
“Where’s Jo?” said Melvin.
“I’d better be going,” said Horne.
“Take off your things, lieutenant!” exclaimed Jake. “You can’t leave now, you just got here!”
“Where’s Jo?” said Melvin.
“Really, I think I ought to get back to the base,” said Horne. “This weather may clear up and I’ve got to get to Washington.”
“Washington, lieutenant? You’re just passing through? I’ve been looking forward to a little visit. You can’t be in such a rush.”
“Listen, what’s going on here?” Melvin said. “Where’s my wife? What’s happened to her? Will somebody please tell me what’s going on here?”
“She’s not feeling very well, I’m sorry to say. She’s in the bedroom. Nothing serious. The fact is, she won’t come out. Take off your hat, lieutenant.”
The sheep dog came soaring from the bathroom and collapsed on Melvin’s feet.
“What’s this? Where did this dog come from?” he demanded, becoming excited, and ran to the door of the bedroom. The door was locked. He rattled the handle and tapped on the panel. “Jo?” he asked. “Are you there?”
She did not answer.
“Are you all right, Jo?” he called.
Still she did not answer.
“Did you know there’s a big dog in the living room? Down! Get down!” he said sharply to the dog, which was standing up like an old friend or a drunken cadet with a paw across his shoulder and was gazing into his face with a look of devoted admiration.
“Ach! Schön!” Hephzibah murmured, “Liebling!” picking up the dog in her arms as though it were a child. She walked away, nodding and crooning, and the dog did not struggle.
“Whose is it?” Melvin said. “I never saw it in the neighborhood.”
“It’s a puppy by the name of Bundy. A birthday present from Louis to Leah,” said his father.
“That’s a puppy?” Melvin said. “How big does it get?”
“Nobody knows. Louis neglected to inquire. It eats a pound of horsemeat like that!” He snapped his fingers. “Very affectionate.”
Melvin rapped on the bedroom door and said, “Jo? Why don’t you answer? Is anything wrong?”
“The cake fell. That’s when she began to cry. Just then the lights blew out. It’s been snowing heavily for an hour, a power line must be down.”
“Horne and I wondered what that burnt odor was. We thought something was on fire.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t the cake. You were smelling the steak.”
“I can’t figure out why she would be cooking steak,” Melvin said after a moment. “This is ordinarily the night we have casserole or chipped beef.”
“It’s your anniversary. That’s the reason.”
“It is not my anniversary,” Melvin said. “We just got married last summer.”
“You’ve been married six months. These things are important to women. Nobody knows why.”
“She doesn’t usually get upset. Something else must have happened.” He turned and stared at the garbage can and the packages on the floor. “What’s that? What’s in there—in those little brown paper packages?”
“Ah! I’ve been waiting for a chance to explain. In fact, it was then the difficulty began. She ran into the kitchen while I was explaining.”
“Jo?” Melvin said, rapping on the door. “Are you all right? Why don’t you come out? 1 want you to meet a friend of mine.”
“I really ought to be leaving,” said Horne. “You’ve pr
obably got some things to talk over and I—”
“Nonsense, lieutenant!” said Jake. “You’re staying for dinner. We’ll be delighted to have you.”
“What are we going to eat?” Melvin said. “It sounds like everything’s burned up.” He walked into the kitchen and his father followed him. The beginning of a salad lay on the drainboard. There was a bottle of wine with two glasses; evidently she had not been expecting guests. Melvin looked into the broiler at the steak, which was as black as leather. He tapped it with a fork. There was a saucepan on the stove. He lifted the lid and fanned away a cloud of steam.
“What was this? It looks like boiled pine cones.”
“Artichokes, I believe. I love artichokes,” his father said, peeping over his shoulder. “Possibly they’re still good.”
“Get away,” said Melvin to the dog. “I haven’t got any horse-meat.”
“He’ll eat the steak.”
“I may eat it myself,” Melvin said. “I don’t know why there’s always so much confusion everywhere I go. I’m really getting sick and tired of everything. I’m just about to do a flip, and I don’t mean maybe!” As he listened to himself talk he began to grow excited. “I come home from Olathe looking forward to a nice dinner and a quiet evening and it looks like a hurricane struck the place! The dinner’s all burnt, my wife won’t come out of the bedroom—she won’t even speak to me!—and there’s a big dog I never saw before that acts like it lives here. I’d just like to know what’s going on, that’s all! Is that asking so much?” The lights flickered, came on, and he paused.
The lights went off again.
“It doesn’t matter what I do!” he said bitterly. “Nothing ever turns out right.” He looked at his father, who shrugged.
“There should be a delicatessen in the neighborhood. I’ll run out and get a little something we can eat.”
“I lost my appetite,” Melvin said.
“Consider your guest. What about his appetite?”
The Patriot Page 46