The Golden Angel

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Hello, Bessie. I guess I’ll have a short stack. Same for you, Erin?” Receiving her nod, he smiled at the waitress, “And a gallon of black coffee.”

  “You gonna be in the show, Quaid?”

  “That’s right. Will you be there to watch us?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” She lingered for a moment, her hands on the table and staring directly into Quaid’s eyes. “Maybe you’d like to take me up sometime?”

  “Sure, Bessie. You name the day.”

  Bessie laughed, reached out, and pinched his earlobe. “All right, big boy. Then maybe we could go out some night—and then we’ll see where we go from there.”

  Bessie turned and left, and Erin saw that the encounter had not touched Quaid. She waited until the coffee came, and Bessie again had a smile for Quaid as she poured two cups. When the waitress left, Erin said, “I think you’ve made a conquest there.”

  Quaid looked up quickly. He picked up his coffee cup and stared down into it, then shrugged. “Not much of a conquest.”

  “She likes you, and she’s rather pretty.”

  Quaid shook his head. “I don’t have any time for Bessie. I’m thinking about that show.”

  His answer did not satisfy Erin. She knew so little about him, for he never spoke of his personal life. Finally she said, “Don’t you like women?”

  “Some of them.”

  “But not Bessie.”

  “I’ll take her up in the plane. She seems lonesome.”

  “I didn’t notice that. She probably isn’t.”

  Quaid studied her and smiled, sipping the coffee. He lowered the cup and moved it in a circular motion. “Interested in my love life, are you?”

  “Don’t you ever want to get married and have a family?”

  “Not to Bessie.”

  “I don’t mean to her!” Erin said. “I mean to . . . well, somebody else.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do I have to offer a woman? No money, no future.” He hesitated a moment and then put the full weight of his eyes upon her. “And no God.”

  Erin was surprised at the last qualification. “No God? Why is that?”

  “I guess I’ve missed out on that, Erin. I remember Abraham Lincoln had taken a blow one time, and he told somebody he was too old to cry, and it hurt too much to laugh.” He sipped the coffee again and said, “Sometimes I’m like that—an orphan. Too young to die and too old to play.”

  “You’re not old,” Erin said quickly. She leaned forward, and her voice was intense and had an earnest ring to it as she said, “You can do anything.”

  Quaid considered her words and studied her by the pale light in the café. He liked the way her eyes were set and the shape of them. Right now they looked blue, but he knew that in different lighting they would turn almost green—the color of the sea as he had imagined it. Now, however, he shrugged and said, “I don’t understand God. Why does He let little children suffer and die? And what about people in places like Tibet? They’ve never even heard of Jesus. No Bible, no preacher, no church. What happens to them? I can’t understand it.”

  Erin was disturbed by this, but she said quickly, “Quaid, if God could be completely understood, He wouldn’t be God. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t want a God I could completely understand.”

  “Don’t you ever get angry with Him?”

  Erin’s eyes blinked with surprise. She thought for a moment and nodded. “I suppose I do sometimes. But mostly it’s myself I get mad at.” She was disturbed by this cynical streak in Quaid and wished that he would be different. “Some people are never satisfied with God. I suppose when Moses struck the rock with a stick and brought the water forth in a miracle, some people thought he should have used a fancier stick. I don’t look at the stick. I try to look at the God who brings forth the water.”

  At that moment Quaid seemed open, but Bessie arrived and put the two plates of pancakes down. She managed to brush against Quaid as she said, “Enjoy the pancakes.” She put her eyes on Erin in a calculating fashion, and the smile she gave the younger woman was a challenge. “This is a good man. I may take him away from you.”

  Erin was confused and flushed. “Help yourself,” she said tartly. “He’s not mine.”

  Bessie laughed suddenly and shook her head in a taunting manner. She turned and left, and the two business partners applied themselves to their breakfast.

  ****

  The sunlight was bright as they stood under the wing of Erin’s plane, Quaid going over the maneuver one more time. Erin kept her eyes on him, noting that the corners of his lips had a tough, sharp set to them. He had long fingers, and from time to time he punctuated a comment with a cutting motion through the air. He had a man’s resilience and a rough humor that sometimes popped out—but he also had a temper hiding behind his quietness, which sometimes would flash forth as hot as fire.

  “Here’s what we’ll do.” He held up his two hands to illustrate. “We’ll fly wing tip to wing tip, then we’ll do a rollover just as we pass the stand. You’ll be the pivot, Erin. Hold the plane as steady as you can, and when you roll over I’ll take the big roll going over your ship, down beneath it, and up on the other side. I’ll have to cover more air, so the timing will be tricky. The quicker we do it the better it’ll look, but we won’t worry about speed today. We’ll go up, and we’ll do it ten times.”

  “All right. I’ll do the best I can,” Erin said. At his curt nod, she adjusted her parachute and got into her plane. Quaid always wore a parachute and had insisted that Erin wear one, as well. As soon as her engine roared into life, she took off quickly, and they climbed to one thousand feet. She knew that when the stunt was done, they would be at about fifty feet, but she saw the wisdom of having plenty of altitude to begin with. She glanced over at Quaid, who had brought his ship to hers, wing tip to wing tip, and she felt a little nervous. She had done plenty of rollovers but never with another plane following her every motion. She saw his nod and moved the controls. The ship rolled over smoothly enough, and she was pleased to see that Quaid stayed on her wing tip so that the two made a unit. As soon as they had completed the roll, she smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded, returned the gesture, and then made a circular motion, meaning, “Do it again.”

  The time passed quickly, and when they finally came down, it was almost noon. “Let’s get a snack,” Quaid said, and they walked to a nearby newsstand that served coffee and snacks. The proprietor, Charlie Herendeen, operated his domain from a wheelchair. He had lost both legs in the war, and he grinned as the two greeted him. “How about some coffee and something sweet, Charlie?” Erin asked.

  “Sure.” He kept a coffeepot on a portable gas stove, the brew always black and hot and fresh. All the mechanics and pilots had learned to trust his coffee. He poured them two cups of the scalding black liquid, then said, “Got some new candy bars.” He reached over and picked up one in each hand. “This is what they call a Mounds. This here one is an Oh Henry. Just came out.”

  “I’ll try an Oh Henry, Charlie,” Erin said. She took the candy bar and stripped the wrapping off as the two men stood talking. Quaid bought a copy of the Times, and the two sat down while they nibbled at the candy bars and drank the strong, rich brew.

  Charlie asked Erin, “How’s it going, lady?”

  “Real good, Charlie.”

  “I wouldn’t do what you two do for anything.” Herendeen shook his head woefully. “I want to keep on good old terra firma. Back when I had two legs I was a little bit more daring. Now I’ve got to keep what I have left in good shape until Resurrection Day. Then I’ll have my legs back again.”

  “Was it awful getting wounded, Charlie?” Erin had never asked him about losing his legs, but now she saw that it didn’t bother him to talk about it.

  “It was a mine. We roared out over the top, headed for the Krauts. I always went kind of crazy-like when we done that. Was almost up to ’em when somethin’ went off.” He shook his head i
n wonder and said, “It didn’t make a big bang, you know? Sounded kind of like—well, an unhealthy cough. The next thing I knew I was fifty feet in the air turnin’ over like a rag doll. When I lit in the mud, I looked down and saw I was gonna save money on shoes from then on.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” Erin said quietly.

  “Ah, I can’t be too unhappy. After all, I’m back home sellin’ coffee and candy to good-looking girls like you, aren’t I? Lotsa guys didn’t make it.”

  Quaid had been listening to this, taking his eyes from the newspaper. He nodded slightly in agreement, then said, “Listen to this. The latest thing is marathon dances. ‘In Houston after forty-five hours one couple was still dancing. They were twenty and nineteen years old, and they broke the world’s record for continuous dancing by a twosome. Immediately after, the young man collapsed and was rushed to a Turkish bath. The winning girl’s ankles were swollen to twice their size.’ ” He looked up and shook his head with distaste etched across his features. “How’s that for stupidity?”

  “Why did they do it?” Erin wondered aloud.

  “For money, of course. That’s the reason most people do things,” Charlie said. “There’s always a big prize. Most times they’re poor kids who don’t have much of a chance.”

  Charlie Herendeen was eating peanuts thoughtfully. “I thought the war was gonna make this country better. ‘Save the world for democracy.’ That’s what Wilson said, but I don’t see it that way. Things are gettin’ worse.”

  Both Erin and Quaid listened as Herendeen went on in a mournful fashion. And, indeed, both of them could see what the postwar years were doing to America. The old notions of propriety had been weakened by the war in Europe, and now big businesses were encouraging consumers to pursue happiness through cars, clothes, cigarettes, and cosmetics. The new morality had rendered prohibition obsolete almost as soon as it had been ratified. Bent on pleasure, Americans were eagerly discovering speakeasies, jazz, and shorter skirts. In the battle for equality, women had gained the right to vote, and many were throwing off more traditional forms of dress and comportment and becoming “flappers” with their short hair, flattened breasts, and liberal use of profanity, tobacco, and alcohol. It was a different America for those who had grown up here and a puzzling one for newcomers like Erin.

  After finishing their coffee, the two said good-bye to Charlie and then walked back to the field and practiced until four o’clock. When they finally landed, Erin climbed slowly from her plane and leaned back against it. When Quaid came over, she shook her head. “I thought I was fairly strong, but I’m worn out. I don’t understand it. It’s not hard work like I’ve done before at the café or back home in Africa.”

  “It’s the close attention that does it,” Quaid murmured. “You go home and get some sleep. I’ll come along later.”

  “All right, I think I will.”

  “Maybe tonight we’ll go out and sample some of Luigi’s spaghetti.”

  “That sounds good.”

  ****

  The spaghetti was indeed good, and what was more, it was cheap. As Luigi himself served them, a broad smile showed very white against his swarthy complexion. He had brought them two glasses of wine, which Quaid accepted but Erin did not. He drank hers also, and when he saw the concern in her eyes, he said, “Don’t worry. I won’t get drunk on two glasses of wine.”

  “I’m proud of you, Quaid. You haven’t had a drink since we started practicing, have you?”

  “When I have something to do, I don’t need liquor.”

  “Are you worried about the show?”

  “No, you’ve done fine, Erin. I never saw a quicker student.”

  The compliment warmed her, and she said, “You know what I’d like to do?”

  Quaid was winding his spaghetti around his fork. When it was all balled up, he looked up at her and said, “What?” and then put it into his mouth.

  “I’d like to do a wing walk.”

  Quaid stared at her, chewed the spaghetti, and swallowed it. “You can forget that.”

  “I could do it, Quaid—I know I could! I’ve always had good balance, and I’m not afraid of heights.”

  Quaid shook his head, picking up a piece of Italian bread and slathering it with butter. “Nothing doing,” he said firmly. He put his fork down, reached over, and seized her arm. “You’ve got steady nerves, but I wouldn’t risk it. It’s just too dangerous.” The light overhead struck against the solid regularity of his features. The scar on his forehead showed white, and his gray-green eyes seemed brighter. As he held her arm, time seemed to slow down, and Erin became acutely aware of his tough, masculine shape as he sat across from her.

  Erin did not try to pull her arm back, but kept her eyes fixed on the intensity of his gaze. “Please let me try it,” she pleaded. “We can’t make it unless we’ve got something special.”

  Quaid released her arm and picked up the wineglass. He sipped the wine, then put it down and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll make it with the stunts we have or not at all.”

  Erin desperately wanted to convince him. “You don’t know how unhappy I’ve been all my life, Quaid. I’ve told you how stupid I am at books—” He started to protest, but she over-rode him. “I’ve always done poorly at books. But if I can do this one thing well, I’ll be happy.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  His brusque words brought her up short. She was aware of the fatalistic streak that ran through this man, brought on not by the war but by his failure afterward. She leaned forward and spoke with her usual intensity. “Why do you say that? If we succeed, we’re happy. It’s failure that makes us bitter.”

  Quaid fell silent for a moment, and all that could be heard was the quiet stir of the restaurant—the tinkle of wine being poured at other tables, the soft laughter, the talk about them. But Quaid had shut all this out. “I had a friend,” he said in a tone that was barely audible. “His name was Jamey Hunt—a fine pilot. He had a girl back in Texas. The war was almost over and everybody knew it. Jamey was talking about going home to marry his sweetheart. I was going to go with him for the wedding, and then three days before the armistice he got shot down. His plane caught on fire. None of us had chutes, so he burned up.”

  Shocked not only by the horror of the story but also by the raw pain she saw in Quaid’s eyes, Erin could say nothing.

  They finished their meal in silence, and Quaid suddenly said, “Let’s don’t end the evening like this. Every time I talk about the war I make everybody miserable. There’s a new Harold Lloyd movie down the street. Let’s go see it.”

  “All right, Quaid.”

  The two walked to the movie theater, and for an hour they watched the antics of Harold Lloyd. He had become even more popular than Charlie Chaplin, so they both surrendered themselves to the comedy and forgot any thoughts of the war.

  They left the theater and walked slowly back toward Mrs. Foster’s boardinghouse. Erin longed to ask him again about wing walking but knew that the time was not right. I’m going to do something that will make people notice me, she thought. And if walking on the wing of an airplane will do it, then that’s what I’ll do!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jo and Rev

  Despite her earlier confidence, Erin felt weak in the legs as she stood beside her plane looking at the grandstand. Quaid noticed this instantly and reached out and turned her toward him. “Are you scared?”

  “No!” Erin was acutely conscious of the firm touch of his hands on her shoulders. When he dropped his hands, she said, “I’m a little nervous, all right, but I’m not afraid.”

  Quaid nodded shortly. “That’s good,” he said. “It’s a bit like going into action, I guess. I was always shaky before I took off in France, but once we were in the thick of battle I didn’t have time to think about it. That’s what all the practice has been for, Erin, so that when we’re actually flying you won’t be thinking about the crowd or anything else—only about the plane. You become a part
of it.” He studied her carefully, then said, “You look nice.”

  Erin flushed slightly. She was wearing a pair of whipped-cord jodhpurs, over-the-calf black boots that were as shiny as she could make them, and an emerald green blouse with a light tan jacket over it. She carried her parachute in one arm and clutched her helmet and goggles in the other. The crowd roared, and both turned to look at a plane as it flashed by the grandstand upside down, the pilot nonchalantly waving at the crowd as if he were driving by in a car at ten miles an hour.

  “Come on, we’re next,” Quaid said and turned to go to his own plane.

  Erin strapped on her parachute, pulled on her helmet, and pulled down her goggles. She climbed into the cockpit, and when she nodded, the mechanic spun the propeller. The engine caught at once, breaking into a cacophonous roar. She felt the vibration through her whole body, and turning, she saw Quaid give the signal to take off. He grinned at her, and she smiled back as she pushed the throttle forward. The Spad answered obediently, and when she had taxied out to the airstrip, she looked in all directions to be sure the way was clear for takeoff. She was aware that Quaid was fifty yards behind her, and then the two climbed, gaining the necessary altitude.

  Quaid pulled up beside her, wing tip to wing tip. The routine had been ground into Erin so firmly that it was as Quaid said—she did things automatically. She was concentrating on the plane, and she felt every quiver of the wings and every movement of the fuselage. She made tiny adjustments without having to think, and when Quaid gave the signal, they went into their routine. As the wind screamed through the wires, she felt exhilarated and knew that it was going to go exactly right. She seemed to hear Nbuta speaking, his deep voice repeating what he had told her back in Africa: “Always have courage, my daughter. . . .”

  ****

  Erin taxied up to Quaid’s plane, and the area was filled with activity. She turned the engine off and climbed out of the airplane, noting that Quaid was also climbing out of his plane. When he stepped to the ground, she went to him at once.