The Flying Cutterbucks

by Kathleen M Rodgers

  “But then I thought about the upkeep. The sandstorms we get,” Clay finished after a moment, his voice nudging her back.

  Breathing in the scent of sandalwood and Clay beside her, she wanted to reach out and touch him. Instead, she blathered on nervously about how she’d pulled into a motel on Highway 84 outside of Lubbock the other day and asked the proprietor why the swimming pool had been filled in. “You can’t miss it,” she rushed on, “the kidney-shaped lawn in front of the entrance. The blue rim with black numbers painted every few feet. It’s a dead giveaway.”

  Clay nodded, studying her. “Yeah, I know the one. It’s right off the highway.”

  “The lady behind the counter was real nice. She told me the maintenance got to be too much. Blamed it on sandstorms — just like you said — and nothing to stop the wind.”

  Clay shook his head, pressing his lips together in a boyish pout. “I’d be pissed if I was a kid staying there. So you’re standing on the rim at the eight-foot mark, imagining yourself diving in, but all you can see is a plot of grass and an urn with flowers in the spot where the diving board had been. Damn, I’d feel cheated.”

  Trudy turned, catching a glint in Clay’s blue eyes. How they shimmered with mirth sometimes when he looked at her.

  Averting her eyes, she bit her lip and stared out at the backyard. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. Having your own pool is nice at times, but…” — her voice was a quivering mess — “I guess it boils down to who you choose to go swimming with.” She left it at that.

  He blinked at few times as if trying to comprehend. Finally, he said, “I see.”

  But of course he didn’t. How could he? Clay had no idea what weird crap she had put up with over the years. The pool incident was just one of many.

  A long silence passed between them.

  After a moment, she gestured at Hercules. “Why don’t you and your guard dog show me the rest of the place?”

  Hercules growled.

  Trudy reeled back, heeding his warning. She’d dealt with her share of passengers and fussy lapdogs over the years. Hercules needed to gain her trust. “Do you have any treats?”

  “Aw, so you’re going to bribe him. C’mon, follow me.”

  At the kitchen island that also functioned as a room divider, Clay reached under a bin and pulled out a small container and peeled off the lid. “Here you go. Make him work for it.”

  “I’ll have him eating out of my hand, Clay Cordova. You watch.”

  Clay leaned against the counter, looking amused.

  Selecting a few heart-shaped treats, she leaned toward the dog cradled in Clay’s arms and kept her voice even. “Okay, Mister Hercules. Don’t take a finger.” The dog followed her every move, his eyes bulging from his tiny head. When he snapped at the treat, she pulled back. “Okay, let’s try again.” Using the same soothing voice that calmed nervous fliers, she held the treat toward him. This time Hercules nibbled politely and waited eagerly for the next round. After a few more tries, he allowed her to pet the top of his head.

  “Good boy,” she cooed.

  Clay let out an exaggerated sigh. “That’s a relief. I’d hate to have to choose between you and the dog.”

  Tossing her hair back, she caught the slight smirk twitching at the corners of his lips. His dimples pulled her toward him like a magnet. Sweet Jesus, he could flirt.

  So she flirted right back. “Well, I know my place. And I know who’s the boss around here.”

  Another devilish grin caused her heart to sputter. The same closed-mouth grin that captured her attention in civics class their junior year. Clay stashed the bag of treats and shifted the dog in his arms. “C’mon, let’s go see the rest of the house.”

  The three of them paused in front of a white oak bookcase built into the west wall. Besides books, the shelves were devoted to photos of a dark-haired beauty with Clay’s dimples but lighter complexion. The girl in the photos went from a gapped-tooth firstgrader to a middle school spelling bee winner to an older version of the girl in a variety of caps and gowns and honor society cords.

  Trudy’s heart clutched. Her voice throbbed in her ears when she spoke. “Your daughter?”

  Clay picked up a photo. “This is Cinda. Short for Lucinda.”

  Trudy put on her brave face. “She’s named after your mother.” To Trudy’s knowledge, Clay had no idea she’d lost a child. Mentioning her would dampen the mood, taking the joy from Clay’s face as he stared at his daughter’s photo.

  Shifting Hercules again, Clay picked up another photo and passed it to Trudy. In the picture, Cinda’s dark bobbed hair and fringed bangs framed a confident grin. A handsome blonde woman several years older leaned against her.

  Trudy’s gaze shifted between the two women then up at Clay. “Cinda’s mother?” A twinge of jealousy ripped through her core.

  Clay shook his head. “That’s Roxy, my daughter-in-law. They waited until it was legal in all fifty states.” He beamed like any proud father.

  “Oh, wow,” she exclaimed, feeling stupid. After working with people of all persuasions, Trudy should’ve known better than to make assumptions. Of course the attractive blonde was Cinda’s wife, not her mother. “Do they live around here?” She passed the photo to Clay and scanned the rest of the bookshelf. No sign of his ex anywhere.

  “Seattle. Cinda’s an attorney. Makes more money than her old man. And Roxy’s a child psychologist.” He placed the photo back on the shelf. “Let’s go see the rest of the house. Then we can grab a bite to eat.”

  As he led her through a wide opening into a short hallway, she felt a sense of relief at Clay’s acceptance of his daughter. Trudy didn’t want to spend time with a man intolerant of others. They peeked into a guest room/combination study to the left, a generous hall bath in the center encased in tones of cream and brown granite and tiles on the countertop and floor.

  “Nice bathroom. I like how you kept the shower and tub separate. Pretty snazzy.”

  “The original floor plan had three bedrooms. I wanted to create the illusion of space so we sacrificed the third bedroom for a bigger guest bath and master suite.”

  Stepping back, he let her pass into a generous room filled with natural light and a king-sized bed with a mission-style headboard carved out of white oak. The headboard matched the nightstands and the coffee table in the living room.

  Wiping her brow, she hoped he hadn’t noticed the slight tremor in her hands or the quiver in her voice as she commented on the space. She gazed up at the transom windows on the north wall. “This room has good energy. Your whole house does.”

  He strode across a Navajo rug at the foot of the bed and pressed a switch on the north wall. “Check this out.” Automatic blinds built into a large windowpane opened and closed. “It’s for lazy people.” He laughed and walked back toward her.

  She lingered at the foot of the bed, and glanced at the brown and teal throw pillows lined against the headboard.

  “Do you always make your bed so neatly?” she joked, feeling her face and neck turn crimson.

  “Only when Hercules and I are expecting company, right, boy?” He ruffled the dog’s ears.

  Back in the big room, Trudy waited while Clay took Hercules out to potty. As the dog trotted off, Clay shrugged into a black jacket and rubbed his hands together. The temperature must be dropping.

  Glancing back at the bookshelf, she recognized a small photo stashed up high atop a stack of green and silver books lying on their sides. Yearbooks! Approaching the stack, she felt her throat tighten as she stood on her tippy toes and gaped at the young couple grinning back. Senior prom! Clay looked so tall and handsome in a tuxedo with a green bowtie and platform shoes, but the sunburned girl in a flowered formal with enough ruffles to trim a pair of kitchen curtains? What had she been thinking back then? Not to mention the mop of ringlets that spiraled downward in tight coils from a hot curling iron. Trudy covered her mouth and giggled.

  How long had he been displaying their photo? Maybe he’d stu
ck it up high at the last second when she rang the doorbell earlier.

  The sliding glass door slid back and she turned quickly from the bookcase. Hercules scampered toward her like they were best friends.

  Bending, she rubbed him behind his ears. “Oh, so now you like me do you? Just ’cuz you think I’m the treat lady.”

  Clay blew out the candle and tossed a doggy toy up on the couch. “Go to your place, Little Man.” Hercules jumped on the couch and settled his chin on a pillow, his large eyes trained on his master. “If a burglar tries to break in, you know the drill.” Hercules lifted his head and snarled through bared teeth.

  Trudy laughed at the dog’s antics.

  As they went to leave, Clay’s hand grazed the small of her back. “Didn’t you bring a warmer jacket? It’s getting cold out.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Before she’d left her mother’s place, she’d tried on three outfits. At the last minute she went with her old standby: warm leggings and riding boots and her favorite long cardigan, a thick wooly number with deep pockets and a hood she could throw over her head.

  Near the front door, she recognized a piece of Mexican folk art that hung on the wall. Pausing, she reached out and brushed her fingers over the colorful figure of a woman in a long blue robe with rays of sunshine forming a halo behind her. “This hung in your mother’s house. I know it’s Our Lady, but I forget what it’s called.”

  “A Retablo. Or altarpiece for you gringos,” he teased.

  Admiring the sacred figure, she recalled the time she and Georgia attended Saturday night mass with Clay. Before he picked them up in his mother’s Ford LTD, Momma Jewel had instructed them that they weren’t allowed to take communion at Clay’s church because they weren’t Catholic. When their mother was out of earshot, Aunt Star took them aside and said, “You girls waltz up that aisle like everyone else, stick your tongues out at the priest, and let him dole out his wafers and wine ’cuz God won’t know the difference.”

  Trudy chuckled at the memory. “Remember that time Georgia and I took communion at your church? Your mother about fainted.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty funny. Poor Mom, she thought Father Griego was going to excommunicate her.”

  Halfway out the door, she handed Clay the keys. “You drive.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You trust me?”

  “I better,” she kidded, “you’re a cop.”

  But his question lingered. She’d known him since high school. Yet there were all those lost years. Part of her was afraid of divulging certain secrets. And the other part was afraid Clay might become disenchanted once they got intimate. She wasn’t perfect anymore — Preston had assured her of that — and she sure wasn’t sixteen.

  Watching Clay aim the key fob to unlock the car, she realized something. He’d carted Hercules all over the house, never once stopping to set him down, not even after Trudy gained the little dog’s trust. Had Clay been hiding behind the dog the whole time, using him as a buffer until he took him outside? What if Clay was just as nervous as Trudy?

  She bit her bottom lip and grinned.

  After she slid into the passenger seat and buckled in, she glanced sideways at Clay. While she instructed him on how to adjust the seat, she breathed in the scent of sandalwood that followed him from the house to the car. Watching him fiddle with the knobs, she began to associate the intoxicating scent with Clay.

  Backing out of the driveway, they headed east, zipping through neighborhoods that went from flattop stuccos to sprawling brick ranches with circular driveways. He pointed out new parts of Pardon she’d never seen. He stopped in front of a gated community and let the engine idle.

  “This one’s only been here a couple of years. You like it?”

  She gawked at the pueblo-style neighborhood of elaborate homes with golden tan walls and palm trees shooting skyward. “Sandstone Oasis, huh? One thing’s for sure, those palm trees aren’t natives.” She glanced at Clay. “You know anyone who lives here?”

  “Sure,” he shrugged, tapping the steering wheel. “Doctors, lawyers, a judge. I can sweet-talk the guard and see if he’ll let us in?”

  Was he trying to impress her? She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she’d seen her fill of gated communities back in Dallas. Seems like everywhere she went these days, walls were going up where people had money. “Clay, I have another place in mind. A place you weren’t allowed to go as a kid. Not until you met me. ’Cuz you didn’t have the right ID.”

  He frowned for a second and then his face broke into a wry grin. “Let’s do it. We’ll take the back roads.”

  Gunning the engine, they sped out of the affluent side of town and headed west.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ghost Town

  THE CAMARO cruised across the overpass and descended toward the entrance of the front gate. Clay tapped the brake as they approached the guardhouse. No armed airman stepped out to greet them or asked to see their IDs. No black and yellow barrier arm went up to let them pass or stayed down while a guard interrogated them on their need to come on base. All military insignia had been stripped from the building, the windows boarded up.

  Clay glanced at Trudy. “I remember the first time I came on base with you. You were driving your mom’s station wagon. Georgia was with us.”

  Trudy leaned against the headrest and sighed. “I was so nervous that day. I’d never driven on base before.”

  Clay slowed the Camaro to a crawl as they passed by the former guardhouse, its gray paint chipping away from neglect. “The young airman working the gate that day got an eyeful.”

  She twisted in her seat. “Whaddya you mean? All I remember is feeling like a fraud. My hands were clammy as I gripped the wheel and tried not to brake too hard. And then Georgia had to go and poke her head out the window and inform the guard I’d just gotten my driver’s license.”

  Clay made a face. “Yep, and then she asked the guard if he thought she still looked pretty, even with a mouthful of braces.”

  “That poor airman,” Trudy snickered. “He probably thought we were a bunch of spoiled brats.”

  Clay wiped his brow in an exaggerated fashion and laughed. “I’m sure he enjoyed every second you sisters graced his presence. When you rolled down the window and flashed your dependent ID, his eyes bugged out. The dude was probably expecting a mom and a carload of kids. Not some hot-looking babe in a tangerine halter-top and cutoffs.”

  Her mouth fell open. “How can you remember what I was wearing? That was decades ago.”

  He waggled his brows. “Trust me, I remember.” His voice rose an octave, like a teenage boy whose voice is caught somewhere between adolescence and adulthood.

  They stayed on the main road that snaked around the golf course, now gone to seed. Even the airpark was gone. Trudy rolled down her window and gazed at the empty space where a display of fighter jets once rested on poles next to bronze plaques that told their history. “I wonder what happened to the jets?”

  “Maybe they went to a museum?” Clay offered, sounding hopeful.

  “Or the scrapyard,” Trudy countered, a tone of pessimism creeping into her voice.

  Clay drove her by the hospital where she’d been born, where Bogey spent his final days before being flown to Lubbock for some last minute miracle that didn’t come.

  They motored by the base theater, commissary, and BX. Not a car or person in sight, only pigeons and sparrows roosting on rooftops, parking lots, and telephone wires. Trudy gawked up at the red and white checkerboard water tower that rose like a lonely sentry over the place. She read the faded words “Pardon Air Force Base” out loud. “At least they didn’t try to cover up the name.”

  Later, as they meandered through base housing, Trudy rolled down her window again. “All these quarters sitting empty.” She glanced sideways. “It’s a shame these houses are going to waste. Couldn’t the city or state offer them as affordable housing?”

  “I’ve been saying the same thing,” Clay nodded.

>   He stopped the car in front of a sprawling one-story home with a huge orange brick chimney and a big circular driveway. “This where the head honcho lived?”

  Trudy gazed at the house, the largest one in the cul-de-sac. “Yeah, the wing commander lived here. Daddy called him ‘The Big Enchilada.’ Guess that wasn’t politically correct back then.”

  Clay let out a quiet chuckle. “How come you guys didn’t live on base?”

  She shrugged. “My dad was a bit of a rebel. He liked having his own space.” She fiddled with a button on her cardigan. “You know he built the sunroom at our house. He wanted to buy more land when he got back, open up a go-cart place, but then…” She gazed out the window, then over at Clay. “Let’s go down by the flight line.”

  They headed across base, careening past the base chapel, the rec center, rows and rows of empty barracks, the headquarters building vacant along with the tall flagpole. “This place looks like a ghost town,” Trudy said. “The footprint of the military is still visible, but nothing’s being done to preserve it. Once it lost its mission, its purpose, the Air Force just let it go.”

  Clay didn’t say anything, just nodded.

  After a while, Trudy said, “I’ve felt like that at times, Clay, that I lost my mission. My purpose, especially after I lost —”

  Oh, God, not now. I’m sorry, baby girl.

  “After I lost my desire to keep flying,” she recovered quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her change in tone, the sadness that overtook her at times.

  He took his gaze off the road long enough to acknowledge her, and she could tell he’d been listening with his whole self, even while driving.

  “Over there.” She pointed to a plain-looking structure sitting not far off the road. “Pull in there. That’s my dad’s old squadron.”

  They parked and got out. Trudy craned her neck and gazed skyward. “If you listen, you can almost hear the jets.”