The Golden Angel

by Gilbert, Morris

  Erin sat there as the two spoke quietly to her and felt a warmth toward them. She saw how careful they were being not to accuse her, which she appreciated. She finally rose to leave and kissed them both, saying, “I’ll call a cab.”

  “No, I’ll have James drive you home,” Mark said. “What’s the use of having a man working for you if he can’t be a chauffeur once in a while?”

  “I’m glad you could come see us,” Lola said when Erin left to get in the car with James. “I hope you’ll be back soon.”

  “I will, Grandmother—and thank you.”

  ****

  Erin arrived back at the café after the noon rush and threw herself into her work, making up for lost time. Erin worked hard the rest of the day, and several times she passed Quaid, who gave her a strange look but only nodded at her. Erin knew he felt the barricade she had put between them. That evening when she said good-night and turned to go up to her apartment, he stopped her.

  “I’ll be leaving soon, Erin.”

  At his words she felt, strangely enough, not a sense of relief but one of emptiness. It was what she had decided must be done, but now that it was actually happening, she was unsure of her reaction. She knew she shouldn’t ask him to stay, so she turned to face him, standing stiffly. “If that’s what you want,” she said, biting the words off.

  “I’ll stay until the weekend. I don’t think I’ll leave much of a vacancy. You’ve been very helpful, and I appreciate it.”

  Erin turned and walked away, fighting back tears at her feeling of loss.

  For the next two days they maintained a guarded truce, and finally, on Saturday night, after he had cleaned up as usual, he went into the office that had served as his bedroom. He came out with a cheap suitcase he had bought for the few clothes and personal items he had collected, including the razor that had belonged to Lena’s second husband. Erin asked, “Where will you be living?”

  “I’ve got a job, of sorts. Hotel clerk over on Water Street.” A wry smile briefly stirred the corners of his mouth, and he shook his head. “The name of it’s the Royal, but it’s not all that imperial, I’m afraid.”

  “Will you live there?”

  “Yes, a room comes with the job.” He was holding the suitcase loosely in his left hand, and for a moment she thought he might put his other hand out. But instead he simply nodded and said, “Well, I’ll say good-bye now. I owe you a lot, Erin. Most people would have had me jailed.”

  “I’ve done nothing. You’ve earned everything back many times.”

  “Good-bye. I wish you well.”

  He left without offering to shake hands, and Erin stood stock-still. She heard the door close and went out to lock it. As she did, the clicking sound gave a note of finality. She could see through the glass as he crossed the street and walked swiftly along, a tall shape appearing lonesome under the streetlights. She turned away, knowing that something had passed out of her life she had not wanted to lose.

  ****

  “Hey, Miss Erin, I’m lookin’ for Quaid.”

  Erin looked up from the table where she was clearing the dishes. It was after the noon rush, and she was surprised to see Hack Phillips. “He’s not here anymore, Hack.”

  “Not here! I thought he was workin’ here.”

  “He . . . decided to take another job.”

  Phillips considered her for a moment and said, “You know where?”

  “Yes, he’s working at a hotel as a reception clerk—the Royal, over on the East Side. Are you here for an air show?”

  Phillips grinned and shook his head. “No, it’s worse than that. I’m leaving next week for Pennsylvania. Getting married. Tying the old knot.”

  Erin smiled and then came forward and took his thick, muscular hand. “Congratulations, Hack. Tell your bride I think she’s getting a good husband.”

  “What do you know?” he grinned. “I’ll probably be the world’s worst husband.”

  “Don’t you dare.” A feeling of gratitude came to Erin as she remembered how he had offered his plane so freely. She leaned forward and, being almost as tall as he was, could reach his cheek to give him a kiss. “There. I won’t be at the wedding, but there’s the kiss for the bridegroom.”

  “I hope it brings me luck. This bridegroom may wind up in the poorhouse. I’m going to try to go into business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Trucking business, if I can sell my planes. I need the cash to get into the business with my brother-in-law. He’s a good guy, but we’ll be starting out from scratch. I’m excited about it, though.”

  “You’re going to sell both planes?” Erin knew Hack owned the plane he had let her use, as well as another one.

  “I’ll have to. I’ve got a couple guys interested, but nobody’s come through with the cash yet.”

  “How much do you want for them, Hack?”

  Phillips stared at her. “You mean for you? For you and Quaid?”

  “Well—yes, for me.” She listened as he named a figure, and her mind was working quickly. “Can you give me time to talk to someone?”

  “Sure, Erin. You want to call me?” He pulled out a slip of paper and wrote a number on the back. “I’ll be there for two days. If I don’t sell ’em here, I’ll have to fly ’em through and try to sell them in Pennsylvania. But it’d be a relief to leave here with the cash.”

  “I’ll do my best, Hack.”

  As soon as Phillips left, Erin began making her plans. She went at once into the kitchen and said, “I need to take the rest of the day off. Can you take over, Lena?”

  “Of course I can take over. I may have to take a switch to those trifling waitresses, but we can handle it. Where are you going?” she inquired.

  “Just some business. I’ll tell you when I get back.”

  She ran up the stairs and changed clothes. As she did so she found herself breathing more rapidly. She was stirred with excitement, but she calmed herself enough to kneel beside her bed and ask God’s wisdom. “God, I’ve made so many foolish mistakes, and I’m not very smart. I want to do this, so I’m asking you to help me if it’s your will.” After praying briefly, she got up and left the apartment. She took a cab over to Water Street, to the Royal Hotel.

  The driver turned to give her a doubtful expression as he stopped at the front door. “Are you sure you want to go in there? It’s not fit for a lady, so I hear.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Erin smiled. “Will you wait for a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Erin entered the hotel and saw that Quaid was not at the desk. She walked over and said to a young man who didn’t look old enough to shave, “I’m looking for Quaid Merritt.”

  “He’s on nights now. He’s in room 220, and his key’s here. I expect he’s there.” He winked at her decisively. “If you don’t connect with him, I’m always here, baby.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Erin said. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, if even that, and she shook her head at the thought of the world in front of him.

  She ascended the stairs, found room 220, and hesitated. Am I sure I want to do this? What will I say? Thoughts rushed through her mind, but then she shook her head and drew her lips into a tight line. She had the same expression on her face that she had had when she had faced that lion out on the plains of Africa, along with Nbuta. “All he can do is say no,” she muttered. Lifting her hand, she knocked on the door, and almost at once it opened. Quaid was standing there in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet. Surprise washed across his face, and he said, “Erin—come in. But maybe you’d better not.”

  “I want to talk to you, Quaid.” She pushed past him, and he studied her, then shrugged his shoulders and closed the door.

  “Hack came by looking for you. . . .” She rushed through her story and then said, “I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m going to my grandparents. I can sell the café for part of the money, and I think they’ll lend me the rest.
You know what I want to do.”

  In the silence that followed, Erin was afraid he would say no out of hand. She studied him carefully but saw no sign of drink on him, which was a relief. “We can do it together, Quaid. You’re an excellent pilot, and you can teach me what I don’t know. A woman needs a man in this business; I know that. Will you go with me to talk to my grandparents?”

  Quaid stood there, his head tilted to one side. He studied her thoughtfully, then nodded. “I think you’re crazy, and I think I’m crazy, too, for agreeing. But I’ll go with you.”

  Relief rose in Erin. She had not known until that moment how desperately she wanted him with her in this venture. However, she had one thing to make plain. “We’ll be partners, fifty-fifty, but no drinking, Quaid.”

  “I found out that’s not so much of a problem anymore. If I have to drink, I’ll tell you about it, and I’ll leave.”

  A smile came to Erin, yet she hesitated. Finally she put her hand out, and when he took it, she said, “One other thing. This is just business. You understand that?”

  Quaid’s hand was warm, and she felt the power of his grasp. “I thought it might be that way,” he said simply.

  “You agree?”

  “I agree to try.”

  Erin knew it was not a complete surrender, but she said, “All right. I may have to remind you of this. Can you come with me now?”

  “Let me get my shoes on, and I’m ready to go.”

  ****

  Mark and Lola listened carefully to Erin while Quaid sat quietly by her side. The Winslows could see that their granddaughter desperately wanted them to approve of the tall man. There was no time, really, for anything but a quick judgment—and Quaid spoke little—but he met their eyes with an honesty that impressed them both.

  “ . . . and so you see, I know I can sell the café for a profit. There was a couple in the other day from out of town. They were very nice, and they’re here looking for a venture. They looked the place over, and they actually made a very good offer. I think I can actually get a little more. Here are the figures, Grandfather.”

  Mark looked at them quickly and said, “It seems like a good profit.”

  “It’ll be enough to pay off what I owe you and some more besides, but this is what Phillips is asking for his planes. Then we’d need some capital to operate on until we can make some money.”

  Mark studied the sheet and said, “It’s a very risky business, Erin.” He turned to Quaid and said, “What do you think of all this?”

  Quaid spoke slowly. “You said it right, sir. It is a very risky business.”

  “You mean dangerous?” Lola demanded quickly.

  “Well, there’s always some danger in flying, but I meant it might not work out economically. Most of these air shows operate on a shoestring.”

  “Will you be responsible for Erin’s safety?” Mark asked.

  “I’ll make it as safe as I can, Mr. Winslow, but it’s not like running a café. You know that. It’s not as dangerous as flying over France in the war, but it’s not the safest job in the world, either.”

  The conversation went on for some time, and in the end Quaid and Erin stayed for supper. They both knew that Erin’s grandparents wished to find out more about him, and it was with relief that Erin saw that he was laying himself open. He told them about his experiences in the war and how afterward he had not done well. He made no excuses and ended by saying, “I’m a good flier, but I know there are others around who are probably better.”

  “But none of them would come in with me on this, would they, Quaid?” Erin put in.

  “I don’t know,” Quaid shrugged. He suddenly smiled and said, “I think we’re both crazy.”

  Mark Winslow suddenly laughed aloud, and as soon as he did, Erin’s heart leaped, for she saw that her grandfather liked Quaid. She saw that her grandmother did, too, and things went easier after that. They spent more than an hour going over the figures, and finally Mark and Quaid went off to Mark’s study to go further into the financial possibilities.

  Lola said, “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Erin?”

  “Oh yes! More than anything.”

  “I’m worried about all kinds of things. As Quaid said, it’s a dangerous job. But there’s one danger that you haven’t mentioned.”

  Erin stared at her grandmother. “What do you mean?”

  “The danger that you might fall in love with this man. You’ve already mentioned how you’ve struggled over your feelings for him.”

  “We have an agreement on that. It’s just business.”

  “Maybe so. Time will tell.”

  Erin stared at her grandmother and shook her head firmly. “I won’t fall in love with him.”

  Famous last words, Lola thought, but she enfolded her granddaughter in her arms and kissed her. “We both wish you well, dear. We want you to have a life that you can take joy in.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Practice, Practice, Practice!

  A series of tiny voices came faintly to Erin as she sat at the small desk in front of the single window. It was still dark outside, but a gray wash of antiseptic light threw shadows from the chestnut tree outside her window. She flexed her fingers, which ached from having written so long, and watched as a small war took place on the ground among a group of feisty sparrows. For a moment she wondered what collective noun to call them—a herd of sparrows?—a flock of sparrows?—a pride of sparrows? Smiling slightly at her own foolishness, she watched as the tiny birds fought over the bread and seed that she had put out for them the night before. Two of them were rolling and tumbling over each other in a furious battle. Erin shook her head and spoke aloud the first line of a poem: “ ‘If birds in their nest agree, why shouldn’t we?’ ”

  The sounds of the boardinghouse came to her faintly as people began to stir. From the next room she could hear a muted snoring, much like a miniature sawmill. She had been irritated by it at first but had eventually grown accustomed to it. From directly beneath her room came the faint sounds of Mrs. Foster already moving around the kitchen. She glanced around the room illuminated by a single bulb that burned steadily from the floor lamp beside the small desk and, for a moment, missed her apartment over the Elite Café, of which she had grown fond. When she and Quaid had taken rooms at Mrs. Foster’s boardinghouse, her room had been like a prison for her. It was comfortable enough, though not at all ornate. The floor was adequately covered by a blue rug, worn thin by the passage of many footsteps. The wallpaper was old and faded, but tiny birds on it still chirped their eternal song. The massive walnut bed was strong enough to support the weight of a rhinoceros, but was comfortable enough, and the linens were clean.

  Picking up her pen, Erin took up where she had left off in her letter to her parents:

  I sometimes miss the nice apartment over the café, but we’re trying to make our money go as far as possible. It was wonderful of Grandfather and Grandmother to finance this wild scheme. Nobody else would have done it. My room at the boardinghouse is nice enough, and it doesn’t matter much anyway because I don’t spend much time in it.

  I thought that being a flier would be exciting, but it’s nothing but practice, practice, practice! I always felt that you were a fairly demanding man, Dad, but Quaid Merritt is a slave driver.

  We leave the house every morning at dawn, usually before Mrs. Foster serves breakfast. We sometimes eat a doughnut and have a cup of coffee at a café near the landing strip, and then we work on the planes. Quaid is never satisfied! He’s made me learn every part of both planes, which at first looked alike to me but are as different as Belle and Joe. You remember that team of oxen? They looked alike, but Joe was meek and mild, and Belle was a devil inside cowhide. The planes are that different to me. Mine, number one, tends to veer to the left a little on takeoff. It goes into a shuddering dance when I exceed the proper speed as if to complain with me about being misused.

  After we go over every inch of the planes and check everything that can
be checked, we take them up, but first I have to listen to Quaid’s lecture. Every day he goes over the same things so that I can say it backward, but I listen. He’s a wonderful flier! I can’t imagine anyone better. He has taught me so much, but as I said, he is a slave driver.

  We go up and practice, repeating things over and over again. Quaid says I have to do it so often that it becomes automatic and I don’t even have to think.

  And he’s right, of course. Our first show will be in four days. It will be right here in New York, and we’re just a small part of it. Somehow Quaid talked the owner of the big air show into letting us do a few things. We’ll get paid a little, but mostly Quaid says it’s for experience. Since he doesn’t need any, he means my experience!

  Erin started when a knock broke the silence, and she capped her pen at once. “All right. I’m coming, Quaid.” She got up and grabbed a light jacket. She was wearing jodhpurs, a man’s cotton shirt with the top button unfastened, and shiny black boots. She opened the door and found Quaid waiting impatiently. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ve got a lot to go over today.”

  Erin muttered her assent, and the two walked outside. They could not afford taxi fare, so they walked to the airfield, which took almost forty-five minutes. Quaid’s legs were much longer, and at times, deep in thought, he would forget to shorten his stride to compensate for her shorter legs. As they forged ahead through the early-morning light, Erin thought, He could even keep up with Nbuta. . . . She noted that his face had color in it, and that his cheeks had filled out so that he no longer had any appearance of a sick man.

  Reaching the airfield, they stopped at an all-night café. They took their seats in the café, which had only four other customers, all sitting at separate tables. A woman came over wearing a white uniform with a mustard stain on the pocket. She had black curly hair and sleepy-looking, rather sensual black eyes. Erin noted that the waitress looked at Quaid and not her. “Good morning, Quaid.”