The Moonflower Vine

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by Jetta Carleton


  “When are you going to have any fun?” said Mathy.

  “Fun!” said Leonie. “You mean chasing around with boys?”

  “Something like that.”

  Leonie tossed her silky head. “I’ll chase—when I find the right one. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Where do you think you’ll find the right one?”

  “In Europe!” said Leonie.

  “What do you want—a baron, or the Prince of Wales?”

  “Why not?” said Leonie.

  “All right, but you’d better cut your teeth on somebody closer home.”

  “Who’s around here, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Cousin Bobby!” said Mathy, doubling up with laughter. “No, really, Leonie, one of us ought to have some fun this summer. And if Papa won’t let me, then it’s got to be you. Anyway, it’s your turn, you’re the oldest. Now who can we find?”

  The answer came a few days later, literally dropping out of the sky.

  Leonie and Matthew were driving out of town one morning (on their way to Clarkstown, where they commuted each day to teachers college) when they saw an airplane over Seabert’s pasture. “My goodness!” said Matthew, craning his neck. “I believe it’s going to land.”

  “Watch where you’re going,” said Leonie.

  “It is—it’s coming down!”

  “Look out, Papa! You’re going off the road—turn the wheel, turn the wheel!”

  They slid neatly into the ditch. Matthew had to get out and push while Leonie steered. By the time they got on their way again, he was greasy, sweating, and all out of sorts.

  Behind them, the plane swooped into the air again, made another pass over town, and flew back to the pasture to land, drawing behind, like the Pied Piper, all the loafers on Main Street and all the children who could escape their mothers. Waving triumphantly, the pilot climbed out. He was young, broad-shouldered, burned golden by the sun, and he was dazzling. The word spread through the town, reaching a group of high school girls about midafternoon, as they sat listlessly eating birthday cake on a shady lawn. Of one accord, the organdy flock rose out of the grass and fluttered away to Seabert’s pasture, uttering their innocent mating cries. The pilot was there, taking people for rides. He swept the crowd of girls with his magnificent glance and pointed a finger.

  “Me?” said Mathy.

  “You,” he said. He swung her aboard and buckled her into the seat. “You’re not afraid?” he said.

  “No,” said Mathy, as calm as a saint.

  Up they went, wobbling and sputtering into the June sky, where they promptly turned upside down. Then they did a loop and a barrel roll and came sloping down into the lespedeza.

  Callie nearly had a stroke when she heard. And she heard right away, because Mathy came home with the pilot. She had brought him to Leonie. She kept him there till Leonie and Matthew arrived home from Clarkstown.

  “Well, for the mercy land of goodness!” said Matthew as he went up the walk.

  “Hi, Prof!” Ed Inwood rose out of the porch swing and came down the steps. Profligate Ed Inwood, baiter of teachers and stealer of pretty girls. He gripped Matthew’s hand in both of his. “I’m glad to see you, Prof!”

  “So that was your airplane we saw this morning!”

  “Yeah, she’s mine,” said Ed and without further ado began to recount his adventures.

  Like Othello to Brabantio, he spoke of disastrous chances, of moving accidents and hairbreadth scapes. Leonie and Mathy listened in rapt silence.

  Four years had passed since he left Shawano (following his elopement with Alice Wandling, though he did not mention this). In that time he had worked in Kansas City, St. Joe, and Chicago and had learned to fly. He had barnstormed with other fliers, repaired planes in Texas, and acquired a plane of his own. “Won it in a poker game—rebuilt it damn near by myself!” Since then he had skimmed about the country, dusting crops, frightening cows, and giving rides at fairs. Having won a sort of fame at this wild and private enterprise, he had come back to Shawano to regale the homefolks.

  “My, my!” said Matthew, half in admiration, half in reproach (the boy was either a fool or a prevaricator or both). “What do you plan to do now?”

  “I’ll hang around home awhile—work the fairs in this neck of the woods and live off my brother-in-law!”

  “I thought perhaps you planned to get into some line of work now.”

  “I kinda figured I was in it.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Matthew said with a tolerant smile, “but isn’t this more of a sideline—a sport?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Prof. It’s an industry. There’s a lot of future in aviation. Where can I go but up? Unless I get killed, of course. And I won’t,” he added, stating a fact.

  “I certainly hope not. Have you—uh—remarried?” said Matthew.

  “Remarried? Oh, you mean Alice?” Ed laughed. “I guess you couldn’t call that much of a marriage. We were just a couple of kids—a good thing her folks busted it up or we’d have busted it up on our own. She was a nice kid, but—” He shrugged. “I saw Alice a year or so ago when I was in Kansas City. She was going to business college. Her folks moved up there, you know. By golly, she’s got plumb fat!” He laughed again. “No, I’m not married. I don’t know—I met a lot of girls, but I never stayed long enough in one place, I guess. You land in one of those little towns, out in some pasture, and you hitch a ride in and get a room at some ten-watt hotel. You’re there a night or two and you’re gone. I bet I’ve slept with the plane about as often as I slept with a—in a bed. I remember one time up in Nebraska—” And he was off again on another tale. He talked and talked till supper had all but dried out on the back burner and Callie asked him to stay.

  “Thanks just the same, Mrs. Soames, but I promised my sister. Geez, I didn’t know it was so late! You and I always did have a lot to talk about, didn’t we, Prof?”

  He was back the next afternoon and again the day after, arriving in an old jalopy around the time Matthew and Leonie got home.

  “Here he comes again,” Callie said impatiently, about the fourth time this happened. “What does he keep hangin’ around here for!”

  “Because of Leonie,” said Mathy.

  “That had crossed my mind.”

  “Haven’t you noticed the way he looks at her?”

  “I guess I hadn’t. My land, I hope Papa doesn’t notice! He’ll have a fit.”

  “Oh, phooey to Papa!”

  “Now you stop talkin’ like that.”

  “Well, Leonie’s grown up! She has a right to have a little fun. And she’d better have—she’s going to turn into a fussy old maid before she’s twenty-five. You wouldn’t want her to do that, would you?”

  “Well, no—”

  “Somebody had better loosen her up a little. If she and Ed could kind of go together this summer—it doesn’t have to be serious—it would be good for her.”

  “Maybe so. But my goodness—Ed, of all people! He is awful cute, though.”

  Ed did indeed cast admiring glances at Leonie, who was lovely to behold. (She was slender, a little taller than average, and stood as erect as her principles, bearing herself with the cool grace that comes of inner convictions. Her head sat proudly on a slim neck, the fair hair pulled tight and coiled like a silken rope in the back. Her brow was smooth, the eyes soft-brown and candid, her face serene and serious, lit up now and then by the sudden paradox of her eager childlike smile.) But the bulk of Ed’s attention seemed fixed not on Leonie but her father. He came in the afternoons and followed Matthew through the chores. Sometimes he came back early in the evening and talked some more. He talked of planes and radios and the insides of cars, things which Matthew knew or cared little about. He talked of travels, of people he’d met and books he’d read. (Half-read, thought Matthew; Ed always skimmed the surface, hit the high spots, only half-understood.) He had picked up new ideas and terms. Names all but unknown to Matthew and vaguely distressing peppered his speech: Mencke
n and Russell, Freud and Sinclair Lewis. He tossed words around glibly, as if he knew what he was talking about. Glittering bits of assorted isms and ologies showered like confetti over Matthew’s cautious tenets. He got tired of defending the Kansas City Star. He was tired of hearing that Calvin Coolidge was the pawn of big business and Americans a race of boobs. He did not care to discuss the Scopes trial any further. (It had disturbed him considerably at the time, since he couldn’t make up his mind whose side he was on.) And he had little patience with newfangled notions of morality. Psychology or no psychology, he was still responsible for his actions, and there was such a thing as sin.

  Ed annoyed him considerably. Beyond this, Matthew had not quite forgiven him Alice. Not that he cared about her any more; but the old wound to his pride still pained him in certain weather. After ten or twenty minutes of Ed, he took to excusing himself, retiring gratefully to the history of the secondary school in Missouri, or how to build a course of study.

  Deprived of his agon, Ed turned to Callie and the girls. He often lingered for half an hour longer, visiting with them. It was known that later in the evening he had other places to go and other girls, or a girl, to see. But these were not discussed. And in the interval between Matthew’s departure for upstairs and Ed’s departure for parts unknown, Mathy did her best to get Ed and Leonie together. With even more effort, she saw that they were left alone. As sure as she did, however, Leonie had to excuse herself and go in to study.

  Hearing her come upstairs one night, Mathy went into her room. “My land, Leonie! Why didn’t you stay down there?”

  “Downstairs? What for?”

  “I go to all the trouble to get Mama out of the way, and you won’t take advantage of it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ed! Why don’t you give him a chance?”

  “Ed?” said Leonie, incredulous.

  “What do you think I brought him home for?”

  “You brought him for me?”

  “You should have seen the trouble I had! I made him come—I pestered him.”

  “Oh, Mathy! You didn’t tell him—”

  “Of course not!” said Mathy. “That would have been dumb. I used Papa for an excuse—you know how he and Papa used to fight! I told him Papa would be real proud of him now and he had to come and tell him all about it. The other girls were so jealous they could have killed me!”

  Leonie laughed. “You’re the beatin’est kid I ever heard of.”

  “I wanted you to have first chance at him, Leonie.”

  “Honey, what in the world made you think I’d want him?”

  “Gee whiz, Leonie! He’s tall and handsome and cute and he’s a flier! What more do you want?”

  “He’s still Ed Inwood,” said Leonie, “and he didn’t even finish high school.”

  “Oh, you make me so mad sometimes!” Mathy banged her head against the wall.

  “Listen, I remember Ed Inwood when he was a smart-aleck kid in long brown cotton stockings. Just because he’s been away for a while, that doesn’t make him something special.”

  “But he’s an aviator!”

  “That doesn’t make him any hero. All that takes is a lot of nerve, and he’s got plenty of that.”

  “You sound just like Papa. Gee, Leonie, he’s just the right age and the right height for you, and both of you are so blond and good-looking…. I know he’s not an Italian baron, but I thought you’d like him.”

  “Well, honey,” Leonie said, softening, “I do, but not—that way.”

  “That’s too bad. ’Cause he’s crazy about you.”

  Leonie raised her eyebrows. “How do you know?”

  “I can tell.”

  “I don’t know how. I certainly haven’t noticed it.”

  “You don’t look. You’re always too busy.”

  “Well, I have to be. I’m going to make something of myself, and I can’t afford to waste my good time.”

  “How can you waste it if you don’t have it?” said Mathy.

  “Hm?”

  “I don’t think it wastes time to have a little fun now and then.”

  “Mathy, you have got to think of something besides fun! My word, I hope he doesn’t get the idea I return the feeling!”

  “Not if you act like this, he won’t.”

  “I certainly hope not. He needn’t get any ideas about me—I’m not Alice Wandling!”

  “I guess he could like somebody different from her.”

  “I don’t care if he could. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”

  “I gathered that,” said Mathy. “Good night, Baroness.”

  5

  A week went by before Leonie, sweating over her books one night, looked up to see Mathy tiptoe into the room. She closed the door behind her and kicked up her heels in a kind of a Charleston, singing in a loud whisper. “ ‘Two left feet, but ain’t she sweet, That’s Sweet Georgia Brown!’ ”

  “You kids were making an awful lot of noise down there,” said Leonie.

  Mathy giggled. “I thought sure Papa would come downstairs and hit us with the Bible or something.” She took a scrap of paper out of her pocket. “Hey, Leonie, listen to this.” She read:

  “Sing we for love and idleness,

  Naught else is worth the having.

  Though I have been in many a land

  There is naught else in living.

  And I would rather have my sweet,

  Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

  Than do high deeds in Hungary

  To pass all men’s believing.”

  “Where did you get that?” Leonie said.

  “Ed said it to me and I wrote it down.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “Out of a book in the public library in Chicago. Somebody by the name of Ezra Pound wrote it. Did you ever hear of him, Leonie?”

  “I think I’ve heard of him.”

  “We don’t have anything by him at school.”

  “From the sound of him, I don’t wonder at it,” said Leonie.

  Mathy folded the paper and put it back in her pocket. “I thought it was kind of nice.”

  “How come Ed was quoting it to you?”

  “We were just talking—about books and things, and he said he liked it. Leonie, do you think Papa would let me go down to Eldon on Saturday with Ed?”

  “Good land, Mathy, of course he wouldn’t! What do you want to go down there for, anyway?”

  “Ed’s going down to some picnic and take people up for rides—he gets two dollars for everybody he takes up. He said he’d take me along if Papa would let me go.”

  “He wouldn’t let you do that in a million years.”

  “Oh, I know it.” Mathy flopped down on the bed. “Darn!”

  “You better not let him hear you say that.”

  “I wish he’d let me go. It’s not like it was a date or anything—we certainly wouldn’t dance! And it’s not even at night. It would just be for the day.”

  “I don’t think you ought to be riding in an airplane anyway,” said Leonie. “It’s dangerous.”

  “I don’t care. I love to fly! It’s just wonderful, Leonie—you ought to let Ed take you up sometime.”

  “No, thank you. And don’t you go up any more, either. Once is enough.”

  “I’ve been up twice.”

  Leonie looked up at her sharply. “When?”

  “That first day, and then one day this week.”

  “Does Mama know about this?”

  “Huh-uh. She thought I was over at Ruthie’s. I was, but Ruthie and I went downtown and Ed was there and he took us out to the pasture and took me for a ride. Ruthie wouldn’t go—she’s scared.”

  Leonie took the pins out of her long hair and combed it with her fingers. Her face was severe as she looked at Mathy through the mirror. “I’m not going to tell Mama on you, because it would worry her to death. But I want you to promise me you won’t go up any more.”

  “Oh, Leonie!”
<
br />   “Honey, it’s too dangerous. And if something were to happen, and if I knew you were going up and I hadn’t stopped you—Don’t you see? I’d feel responsible. I just couldn’t let anything happen.”

  “Well…gee, Leonie, nothing’s going to happen.”

  “You never know,” said Leonie, braiding her hair.

  “Not with Ed—he knows what he’s doing.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I just know.”

  “Just because Ed can drive an airplane it doesn’t mean he’s Commander Byrd.” Leonie braided fiercely.

  Mathy lay on her back singing softly, “ ‘Two left feet, but ain’t she sweet—’ ”

  “I wish you’d stop that silly song,” said Leonie.

  “You know what?” said Mathy, sitting up. “Ed’s handsomer than Commander Byrd.”

  Leonie stopped, braid in hand, and peered at her through the mirror.

  “ ’Night,” said Mathy and went off to bed.

  Leonie wasted no time. Dressing for school the next morning, she called her mother upstairs. “Mama, I think you’d better keep an eye on Mathy.”

  “What’s she done now?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? She’s getting a terrible case on Ed.”

  “Oh, now!” Callie laughed in disbelief. “I know she thinks a lot of him, but—”

  “I’ll say she does.”

  “He’s just a kind of big brother to her.”

  Leonie hooted. “She doesn’t consider him a big brother.”

  “Why, he’s so much older than she is,” said Callie. “He’s your age!”

  “That’s just the point. I don’t want to sound conceited or anything, but I have a pretty good idea it’s me he’s interested in.”

  “That’s what she says.”

 

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