“I don’t know.”
He started to rise but stumbled a little when he realized he was missing a leg, his eyes darting around looking for the appendage that was under his arm. “Well, let’s go find out . . .”
I rested my hand on his shoulder again in an attempt to keep him settled. “No, Lucian, let’s not.”
“Bullshit, let’s go see . . .”
Ignoring his protests, I stripped the jacket off and pushed him back on the sofa, plumped a cushion under his head, and laid the battered leather A2 over him along with the blanket. “Plenty of time for that in the morning.”
The lion patch was near his face now, and he pointed at it again in a slurring stupor. “Thirty-Seventh Bombardment, my old squadron.” His eyes wobbled as they climbed to mine. “Figured we could use all the luck we could get.” He expelled a burp/breath, and it smelled like a distillery.
I sat there for a while, listening to him breathe, aware that I was no longer tired, and also aware that it was Christmas Day. I pulled the antiquarian copy of A Christmas Carol out of the inside pocket of my coat that I had thrown on the chair and, cradling it in my hands, it opened itself again to where I’d left off and to sentiments I was evidently not meant to escape: “. . . no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused. . . .”
My father, the man who had given me this book, a gift from his father and his father before him, had once told me that it was not what you did in this life that you regretted, but the opportunities you allowed to pass you by. I liked thinking that we had all been very courageous but it was possible, as I’d explained to the medical technician back in Durant in the belly of Steamboat, that it wasn’t that we had been so brave or bold, but that we’d simply traded one fear for another—afraid of what we were about to do for the fear of what we might not.
“How come you didn’t tell me she was a Jap?” A scratchy voice and two dark eyes looking at me from under the brim of the Stetson I had pulled down over his face broke my holiday reverie.
I sat there in the lounge and thought about why it was I hadn’t mentioned it. “I didn’t think it mattered.” His eyes juggled some more but stayed with mine. “Does it?”
He took a few more breaths before resting his face against the jacket, his eyes shifting to his name tag. “You’re sure that’s why you didn’t tell me?”
“Yep.”
The dark eyes slowly receded into the shadows. “Well, you should’ve.”
I tipped my hat back and, figuring the bleeding had stopped, pulled the gauze from my nose. Thinking he was already asleep, I quietly said to myself, “And why is that?”
He startled me when the mumbled words traveled from under the bound brim of his hat. “Could’ve appreciated the irony.”
EPILOGUE
She still clutched the garment bag close in her lap, and I could just see where the skin grafts had been done on her hands and where a few teardrops had fallen, marking the black vinyl. Her head rose, and she wiped the moisture from her eyes, gazing at the blinking Christmas lights outside the plate-glass window of Lucian’s apartment at the Durant Home for Assisted Living, the whistling sound still accompanying her words, a vestige of her damaged throat from that car accident, decades ago. “I’m sorry.”
I sat on the sofa next to Dog and watched Lucian scrub a hand across his face.
“No one told me the entire story until after my grandmother died—you see, my mother and father were killed in the accident and she never wanted to talk about it, so I didn’t know.” She hugged the bag even closer. “My uncle told me the story as best he could from what he’d pieced together in letters that they discovered in a cedar chest. She kept mentioning a sheriff, a man who had saved my life. I have the letters . . .” She loosened her grip and gestured with the bag. “And this.”
Lucian lifted his tumbler and studied her.
“There aren’t that many of these around, you know?”
The old Raider said nothing.
“It wasn’t that hard; I mean there weren’t that many men who . . .” She glanced at me and then back to him. “I knew there was a sheriff, but your age didn’t match up with what I’d been told. I checked the rosters for the Doolittle Raider reunions and saw your picture and the name; saw that you were a small man . . . No offense.”
Lucian sipped his bourbon.
“Anyway, I wanted to bring this back to you, and thank you.”
His voice cracked like the ice in his glass. “For what?”
Her voice whistled in return. “Saving my life.”
“Excuse me?”
She looked confused. “I want to thank you for saving my life.”
In the silence, we listened to the muted Christmas carols in the hallway as the wind pushed against the plate-glass windows of Lucian’s apartment just like that blizzard so many years ago. “Young lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“For flying the plane . . .”
He shook his head.
“But . . .”
“That’s a wonderful story, young lady, and I’m very happy that you were able to survive your ordeal—but if I had anything to do with that, it’s not something I remember.”
She glanced at me and then looked back at him. “You are Lucian Connally?”
He set his tumbler down and reached across the chessboard to snag the bottle. Pouring himself another liberal dose of medicinal Kentucky, he looked at me but spoke to her. “Yes, ma’am, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I just don’t recall that event. You have to remember that I’m getting advanced in years and don’t have the clearest recollection of things.”
She took a deep breath and licked her lip in exasperation. “Are you telling me you didn’t pilot a B-25 slurry bomber with a burned child from Durant to Denver on December 24, 1988?”
He remained immobile but then lifted his glass and took a strong pull. “I don’t recall that, and it seems that would be something I’d remember.”
She sat there for a long time and then suddenly stood. “I appear to have made some sort of mistake.”
Lucian nodded, amiable. “Oh, that’s okay; I do that sort of thing all the time.”
She reached over and took hold of the winged back of her chair, looking almost as if she might faint. “I’m . . . I’m terribly sorry that I’ve wasted your time.” I stood and stepped toward her, taking her hand and assisting in steadying her. “I, um . . . I should be going.”
The old Raider rose from his chair and looked her in the eye, allowing a long moment to pass. “Well, I appreciate your coming by and I’m truly pleased that things worked out as well as they have for you.”
She leaned on my arm, and I stood there with her holding on to me as I listened to the soft wind of her breath. “Yes.”
“Safe trip home.”
—
We stood in the hallway; Bing Crosby was crooning “White Christmas,” but the young woman, Dog, and I were only partially listening to the song filtering down from the recessed speakers in the ceiling.
She stood against the wall with the garment bag still folded in her arms and the whistling in her voice aggravated by the emotion she was fighting to hide. “That didn’t go as I expected.”
“Things generally don’t with Lucian.”
Her eyes came up to mine, and the tears were freely flowing. “Why did he do that?”
I pulled a bandana from the depths of my coat and handed it to her, Dog following our conversation, understanding its importance as he moved past me and toward her. “Oh, it’s kind of hard to explain, but he doesn’t do well with thank you’s, or anything with an emotional basis.”
She reached down and stroked the big beast’s broad head. “I just wanted to thank him.”
“I know you did, and I’m sure he appreciates the effort.”
She gestured with the garment bag again. “And give this back to him.”
I sighed and nodded, looking at the scuffed toes of my boots.
Her hand paused on Dog
’s head as she looked up at me. “Were you there when he left me this?”
I shook my head. “No, when he woke me up the next morning he wasn’t wearing it, but I didn’t ask.”
Her turn to nod. “My uncle says my grandmother was asleep in the room with me but found it lying at the foot of my hospital bed when she woke up.”
I moved closer, leaning against the wall. “I guess he thought you needed the luck.”
She smiled and wiped more tears away.
“Signature Lucian; he likes pulling off the miracle but not waiting around for the applause even years later.” I slid closer, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. “I think it might’ve been that Steamboat rubbed a little luck off on you himself.”
“The plane?”
“Nope, the horse.” I took a deep breath and spoke softly. “Do you know why he was called Steamboat?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He was a rodeo horse, a bucking bronco of legendary repute—anyway, he broke his nose early in his life and from that day forward he whistled when he breathed, like a steamboat.”
She smiled and then covered it with a hand. “Like me.”
“Like you.” I smiled and watched as she continued to pet Dog, but then she stopped, composed herself, and sidled a few steps away as if she were leaving. “Don’t you need a ride?”
She turned and shook her head. “No, it’s just a short walk to the motel my husband and I are staying in; if it’s okay, we’ll pick up the car at your office in the morning and then drive the rest of the way to San Francisco in the next two days.”
“Okay.” I thought of Isaac Bloomfield sitting at a dying woman’s bedside, still carrying the weight of thinking he had robbed a young girl of her voice. I took a step to catch up and nodded down the hall. “There’s somebody else in a room over in the other wing of the building I’d like to introduce you to, if you have the time—someone I think would really appreciate talking with you.”
“All right.” She paused for a moment, then her slim hands unzipped the garment bag and pulled the vintage leather jacket from its protective cover to hold it out to me. It looked exactly as it had all those years ago—the captain insignia, the name patch, even the arrowhead with the lion looked familiar. “Could you give this to him?”
“I think he’d rather you have it.”
She still held it out to me. “I’d rather not.”
I dropped my head in submission. “Certainly.”
She began handing it to me but then pulled it back. “But if you don’t think he’d mind, there is one thing I’d like to keep, as a memento.”
“Sure.”
She unsnapped the front pocket of the old A2 and delved a hand inside, pulling something out and then handing me the jacket. “Please tell him thank you for me?”
“I will.” I watched as she took a few more steps, holding her hand close to her body.
She stood there with her clenched fist at her side. “Just in case you or he are wondering, Steamboat is at Ellsworth Air Force Base in the museum, just outside Rapid City.”
I thought about that night, and how the vintage aircraft had kept us alive with a little help from Lucian, Julie, Isaac, Mrs. Oda, and, I guess, me. “Maybe I’ll throw him in my truck and take him over there to see her someday.” I smiled down at Amaterasu. “Whether he likes it or not.”
“I think maybe you should.” Taking a breath, she paused and looked at the fist that had risen to her chest. She finally smiled. “I think the flight meant more to him than he’ll admit.” She stood there for a moment more and then extended her hand. Slowly she opened it for my inspection, and there lay the tarnished beaded and belled trinket that had hung in the canopy of the B-25.
Steamboat.
—
For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit www.penguin.com/johnsonchecklist
The Spirit of Steamboat Page 12