The Flying Cutterbucks

by Kathleen M Rodgers

  Their hands stuffed into their respective pockets, they walked side by side toward the building. High overhead, a metal clamp clanged against an empty flagpole where her Dad’s squadron flag once flew.

  She peeked through a grimy window. “Anybody home?” Her forehead rested against the cold glass, her breath fogging the window.

  “I bet if you listen closely, someone will whisper back.” Clay’s voice caressed her in all the right places.

  She glanced over her shoulder, breathing in his boyish grin so warm and tender, his dimples tempting her to come closer. He looked so sexy standing there in his jeans and cowboy boots, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. Stepping away from the window, she fought the urge to reach out and poke him. To tag him and run, make him chase her, like a couple of kids on a playground.

  I’ll show you mine if you show me yours…

  She blushed, feeling both impish and wild.

  God! Where did that come from? He did that to her, brought out another side of her she’d almost forgotten. “Come on, let’s skinny through that open gate.”

  A red and white “restricted area” sign dangled from a chainlink fence that separated the old squadron building from the ramp and taxiway. Another sign said: “No Unauthorized Personnel Beyond this Point.”

  Clay hesitated, always the cop following rules.

  “So who’s gonna stop us? You see any sky cops around?” she teased.

  He glanced around as if he needed to check, just in case. “You’re right.” Then he held out his hand, and they slipped past the old warning sign and through the opening in the chain link fence and walked out onto the ramp.

  “Over there.” She pointed. “That’s the direction he took off from.”

  Clay’s hand felt warm and reassuring as they strolled farther out onto the tarmac. Weeds sprouted through seams and cracks in taxiways, the high plains reclaiming its own.

  “The day he left, I had the urge to run after him, to catch him one last time, to give him one last hug. But he was too far out; he’d already crossed those lines where only jet mechanics and other pilots were allowed to go.”

  Brushing hair out of her eyes, she saw something move out beyond the edge of the runway. She stared hard, trying to make out the grayish-yellow shape. Was it a coyote loping along or a tumbleweed? Whatever it was moved again and then disappeared.

  The wind howled around her like an invitation, and she took off running down the center of the runway, her arms outstretched like wings. “Come on,” she hollered over her shoulder. “This is the last place I saw him alive.”

  She ran until she was out of breath, until her lungs burned, until the sound of jet engines spooled down in her memory. The runway stretched on before her with no end in sight, and she turned to see Clay’s dark silhouette framed against the azure sky. Even from this distance, she could see his arms stretching outward as if he were waiting to catch her.

  Like all those times Shep Cutterbuck threw his young children in the air…

  Gulping, she brushed the heel of her hand over the dampness wetting her cheeks.

  Fixing her eyes on Clay, she whispered into the wind, “Is he the one?”

  Daddy’s robust voice reverberated back to her like a sonic boom. Bird Strike!

  That was not the response she’d wanted to hear from the only man she’d ever trusted, besides Clay. A wave of disappointment slapped against her as she watched a large sandhill crane approaching. The bird soared gracefully overhead, almost at eyelevel, and landed on the other side of the runway. So this was Daddy’s sign for her to keep moving, to keep searching. Sandhill cranes were notorious for getting sucked into jet engines and could ruin a pilot’s day. During squadron parties at their house on Seven Mile Road, Trudy had listened hungrily to her dad and the other pilots as they talked with their hands about flying.

  And yet, as she glanced back and forth between the crane and Clay, she remembered something else, and her heart quickened with hope.

  There was another time Daddy used the term Bird Strike, and the memory flew back to her at the speed of light. She could smell the base bowling alley; see Daddy in his Bermuda shorts, the ones that showed off his bowlegged calves. He picked up a sky-blue bowling ball and turned to wink at Trudy and her siblings. Clad in rented bowling shoes, he glided to the spot where he released the ball and sent it rolling down the center of the lane until it smacked against the pins, knocking them all down. “Bird strike!” he yelped, throwing his arms up in victory.

  “Bird strike!” she yelled and took off running down the center of the runway, her focus on the man whose eyes mirrored the sky.

  Barely five feet away from him, she blinked in confusion as Clay snatched his cellphone from his jacket pocket and glanced at the screen. “Hey, baby,” he said, waving Trudy over.

  A woman’s voice, strong and self-assured, a hint of Latino in her accent, resounded into the cold air. “Hey, Papa. How’s your Saturday going?”

  “I’m standing in the middle of a runway at the old air base and gazing at the most beautiful woman.” He wrapped his free arm around Trudy’s waist and pulled her close. Their first embrace since they were kids, and she breathed in his scent, brushed her cheek against the side of his face.

  Shaking, she grinned stupidly at Clay’s phone, at his beautiful lips forming words. Flipping her cardigan’s hood over her head, she listened with her whole self.

  “You’re at the old base? What are you doing th…” His daughter paused and then she squealed, “Oh my God! You’re with the stewardess.”

  Clay’s eyes shined as he nodded at Trudy. “Yes, ma’am.” His voice burbled with happiness.

  “Just be careful, Papa,” she warned. “You’ve had your heart broken before…”

  Clay closed his eyes and turned away. He’d failed to tell his daughter he had her on speaker.

  Glancing at the asphalt, Trudy hid her face beneath her knitted hood. She had no idea how many women had broken Clay’s heart. At their age, no telling how many hearts they’d broken between them. And yet…

  The sandhill crane flapped its wings, made a bugle call, and took off. Breathing deeply, Trudy watched it until it disappeared. She hoped the rest of the flock was out there somewhere on the horizon, waiting for the straggler to join up.

  Clay was still talking to Cinda. “Yes, honey, that time of year. I’ll make sure Hercules wears his sweater from now on.”

  Trudy froze in place, measuring every breath. Something moved again near the edge of the runway. She squinted into the late autumn sun high in the sky, welcoming the warmth. Whatever was out there blended in with the ocher-hued grasses of the plains. It moved again. By now she was sure it was a coyote, keeping a close watch on its territory.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Conquistador!

  November 2, 2016

  AUNT STAR’S voice jangled from the cellphone where Jewel had placed it on the kitchen counter with the speaker on high. “Sister, just because a man’s coming to dinner…I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

  “It’s not just any man,” Jewel shouted from across the room where she rummaged around inside the avocado green refrigerator. “It’s Trudy’s high school boyfriend!”

  “High school boyfriend?” Aunt Star shrieked. “Isn’t that like buying back your own hand-me-downs years later?”

  “It’s Clay Cor-do-va. The kids went steady their junior and senior years.”

  “Oh…the dashing boy whose mother made the best tamales.”

  “Clay’s a detective,” Jewel bragged, shutting the refrigerator door and setting a tossed salad in a vintage stoneware bowl and a bottle of vinaigrette dressing on the counter.

  “A detective?” Aunt Star’s shrill tone could’ve cleared the room. “In Pardon?”

  “He’s the oldest one on the force.” Jewel smiled knowingly like she thought she had the upper hand. “He graduated from New Mexico State and ended up back here.”

  Trudy sat a few feet away, li
stening to their conversation as she lounged in a Spanish-style leather armchair, flexing her legs after being on her feet all day. Up since dawn every day this week, she’d been sorting and cleaning and moving furniture around. Once she’d plopped down in the chair minutes ago, she didn’t want to budge. Every joint, every muscle, every bone rebelled.

  “A detective,” Aunt Star repeated as if she needed to try on this new information. Any unease got covered up with a joke. “Sister, you got any weed stashed in the house? First place he’ll check is the freezer.”

  Jewel winked at Trudy. “Nope, Trudy and I smoked it last night.”

  Aunt Star chuckled. “Ask that girl when she’s coming to see me. Now that she’s retired, she’s run out of excuses.”

  “Ask her yourself. She’s sitting right here on the throne.”

  “The throne? I thought you said you were in the kitchen.”

  Laughing, Trudy curled her hands around the scrolled ends of the walnut armrest, letting her fingers slide into the grooves where the ends resembled human fists. “Hey, Aunt Star. I’ve been on my feet all day. I’m relaxing in the conquistador chair. I moved it into the kitchen where the table used to sit.”

  “Oh, I always loved that chair, but it was buried under a pile of crap in the back bedroom. So where’s the table?”

  “In the sunroom,” Jewel cut in, ignoring the jab. “I’m enjoying that space again, thanks to Trudy. And you should see how she cleaned up the east wall here in the kitchen and rearranged some of the artwork. She even hung one of my old pageant photos.”

  Yesterday, after Trudy lugged the heavy masculine chair into the kitchen and polished the wood, Jewel cupped the side of her face and declared, “It looks so different in here. Funny how you can look at something so long, you don’t see it anymore.”

  Early this morning, Trudy walked into the kitchen and caught her mother sitting in the armchair, gazing at an old black and white photo taken moments after nineteen-year-old Jewel Hurn had been crowned Miss Eastern New Mexico. “I wasn’t exactly a pinup girl,” her mother said, flicking her wrist in the air and passing the photo to Trudy. “Star got all the curves, but I carried myself well, I had a winning smile, and I could twirl a mean baton. Remind me to take that other photo to Lupi next time we head into town. The one of me being crowned Miss Pardon New Mexico. Along with one of your dad in uniform.”

  Star sighed. “Well, Miss Beauty Queen, it’s about time you start enjoying that house again. Look at all the work Shep put into it. While you’re at it, why don’t you upgrade your appliances? I hate to break it to you, Sister, but avocado green’s been out of style for years.”

  Jewel frowned at the refrigerator humming by the side door. “My appliances are like me, old but functioning.”

  Despite the ravages of time, Trudy saw her mother at all ages, from the beautiful young woman she worshiped as a child to the dignified woman before her who never apologized for her wrinkles. She might joke about her age, but she never apologized.

  Grabbing two hot pads, Jewel turned toward the stove. The oven door squeaked when she propped it open. The savory aroma of roasted meat, potatoes, onions, and bell pepper permeated the air.

  “Smells good, Momma.” Pushing herself out of the chair, Trudy reached over and turned on a table lamp sitting atop a small red desk she’d carted out of Bogey’s bedroom. She checked her cellphone, no new messages from Clay, but he should be arriving any minute. It had been Jewel’s idea to invite him to dinner.

  After checking the roast, Jewel let the oven door shut with a bang, her editorial comment to her sister.

  While Aunt Star jabbered away about politics, Jewel tossed the hot pads on the counter, grabbed the cellphone, and padded toward Trudy. “How do I look?” she mouthed, twirling this way and that in sequined slippers, a pair of tailored slacks, and a silk blouse that matched the velveteen beret sitting at a jaunty angle atop her silver spiked hair.

  Trudy lowered her voice and placed her hands on her mother’s frail shoulders. “Like a gal ready for a night on the town.” This was the first time in weeks that Trudy had seen her mother in something besides velour warm-ups, pajamas, and knit caps.

  Jewel set the phone on the desk and adjusted the beret. “It’ll keep my head warm at least.” She ran an elegant hand over the top of the desk and picked up the phone. “Star…you remember the little gray desk in Bogey’s room?”

  Aunt Star stopped yapping mid-sentence and switched gears. “Of course I remember. I can still see him sittin’ there doing his homework without being prodded. Unlike two girls I know…” Her words drifted off, tinged with a mixture of joy and sorrow.

  Bending her head toward the phone, Trudy pictured her elderly aunt seated in her leather recliner, knitting caps for patients at the state hospital where she used to work once she left Pardon. “You kept us in line,” Trudy said, avoiding any mention of that awful night that hung between them, even though the burden of silence weighed heavier each year.

  Eyes glistening, Jewel spoke up. “Trudy gave that little desk new life. She painted it a bright red and set it against the east wall here in the kitchen.”

  “You can’t miss it,” Trudy joked, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted.

  “It’s poppy red,” Jewel informed her sister. “That’s what it said on the paint can.”

  “Poppy red? Well, you know what they say about poppies, don’t you?” Aunt Star cleared her throat, and Trudy knew what was coming, a case of one-upmanship between the sisters.

  Jewel tapped one foot impatiently and horned in, “I should know. I’ve lived it. They’re the color of sacrifice and remembrance.”

  Being a know-it-all, Aunt Star couldn’t resist. “You’re right, Sister, but did you know the American Legion hands out little paper poppies each year in exchange for donations to support veterans?”

  “Have you forgotten that I’ve given talks at the American Legion, the VFW, and the local Air Force Association Chapter?” Jewel barked back.

  After an icy pause, Aunt Star said, “Mercy, I need to run. You girls make sure you get out and vote. It’s high time we get a woman president running this country.”

  “I voted early,” Trudy volunteered.

  “Reckon I’ll cast my vote for the lesser of two evils,” Jewel groused. “I can’t imagine a man who brags about his sexual conquests getting elected, especially by women.”

  “Women make excuses for men all the time,” Star stated. “Even smart ones.”

  Trudy winced. She’d made excuses for Preston for too damn long. By the time she fled, he’d slashed a piece of her soul, whittled away at her self-confidence. Part of her was still healing, even after fifteen years.

  After Star hung up, Jewel grabbed a stack of dinner plates and silverware and headed into the sunroom. Alone in the kitchen, Trudy inspected the floor, pleased how the terra-cotta tiles shined after she’d mopped that afternoon. How many plates and glasses had been dropped over the years, the shard remains brushed into a dustbin and thrown in the trash. She’d recalled the time a cantaloupe rolled off the counter, how easily the melon bruised without splitting wide open.

  Walking over to the side door, she jiggled the handle out of habit. Ever since her talk with Georgia last week, Trudy imagined the door in a constant state of unlock. Flicking on the outside lights, she checked it one more time to be sure.

  A beam of headlights illuminated the driveway. Must be Clay. As she scurried around and bent to check her reflection in the side of the old toaster, her phone dinged with a new text message. Pulling her cell from her pocket, she peered at the display: Thank you for helping your momma get her house in order. Give my best to Clay. Stay strong. XO A.S.

  Heading toward the front door, Trudy breathed through her nose. What Aunt Star meant was stay silent.

  CHAPTER 16

  All Souls’ Day

  “YOUR KNIGHT in shining armor couldn’t make it, so he sent me.” Clay leaned against a porch post, his sheepish grin reeling her in o
ne dimple at a time. He held two floral bouquets in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other.

  Laughing, Trudy gazed at his tweed sport coat, open collar shirt, and pressed jeans. “You look nice. You must be freezing.” She opened the storm door wider for him to pass, the rush of cold air from outside a welcome relief from the heat that fired through her body the second she’d read Aunt Star’s text.

  “Forecast calls for snow.” He stepped inside and handed her the wine. “I like your ponytail.” He tilted his head, studying her. “You wore it like that in high school.”

  Biting her lip, she smiled at the expensive wine label and the compliment he’d so freely given. She’d read somewhere that an elegant ponytail on some women can act as a facelift. At the last minute, she’d gathered her hair in a satiny band right above the nape of her neck.

  Clay glanced around, getting his bearings as if he needed to shake off the last forty years since he’d been in the house. “I remember this room. The books, the kiva fireplace in the corner, your mom’s rock collection in the window, but that big screen TV is definitely new.”

  Trudy leaned in. “I’m trying to convince her to spring for a new living room set.” She gestured toward the gold sofa, the crushed velvet cushions sagging in the middle. “Money’s not the issue. It’s letting go of things she associates with…you know…my dad and brother.”

  His head swiveled this way and that before he strode across the room, the heels of his black cowboy boots tapping softly on the tile. He stared at the enlarged photo of her dad standing by a jet. “I lit a candle for him tonight at Mass, your brother, too. I stopped by the church when I got off work.” He glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “You know, being it’s All Souls’ Day.”

  He’d gravitated toward her dad’s photo before, back when they were teenagers. That didn’t surprise her. But for him to light a candle in honor of her dad and brother, two people Clay had never met? Her throated tightened. She envied his ease at announcing a good deed, a deed with no strings attached.