Barnstorm (13 page)

The wind sock above the airstrip hangar shifted in the morning breeze. There was no Diablo to announce the dawn of a new day. At late-summer, the crop dusting had eased off to a smattering of emergency, last-minute corn borer spraying. The upcoming autumn skydiving season would soon be here. Fall colors from ten thousand feet can be awe inspiring. Floating effortlessly through the air, toward the myriad of autumn leaves is peaceful– almost spiritual.

Inside the Sky Gypsy Café, it was business as usual. Deb was slinging hash at the flattop. Even though some airstrip business might have slowed, the cafe still attracted farmers and neighbors who needed a place to shoot the breeze. The three Liar Flyers held court, stretching the truth beyond reason. The kids loved it. Stories were repeated and retold again and again. When Bomber deviated or left out a detail, there was always a local wise guy to correct or get him back on track.

The Liar Flyers missed Trip. He was the butt of most of their abuse. Without Trip, Deb had to fend off their newly-focused attention on her. They were currently preoccupied at the corner table, a relief to Deb. They each took a turn in raising an eyebrow, wrinkling a nose, or twitching a lip. The object of their attention? Socrates. First it was Hooker, then Crash. Bomber had the least amount of patience.

“Stupid duck,” Bomber fussed.

“How’d Trip do it?” Crash wondered aloud.

Socrates kept alert. He didn’t fade. Never blinked. If he could talk, he would probably have been duck-billing abuse right back at the Liar Flyers.
Stupid ole geezers, why do I waste my time?
Bobbing his head, Socrates made it clear that their hypno-magic didn’t compare to Trip’s. Trip was special.
Stupid ole geezers.
If only he could talk. Once he faked them out. To lead them on, a few weeks ago, Socrates rolled onto his back and dangled his long neck over the edge of the table. He stretched out his wings and extended his webbed feet straight up in the air. Holding his breath, he played dead. It was Crash who flinched first. He started moving Socrates’ wings up and back and blew air into his mouth. Duck CPR. Socrates might be a stupid duck, but he wasn’t a totally stupid duck. He coughed into Crash’s mouth. Duck spit. The cafe went nuts. Crash ran into the men’s room and ate a whole bar of soap. Such was life for Socrates without Trip.

Everyone in the cafe missed Trip–particularly Socrates.

Most people sleep right through sunrise. For them it is easier to admire the sunset and play it backwards. Not the same. The Diablos of the world don’t strain to hit high notes at sunset. The smell of strong roasted coffee doesn’t compare at dusk. Fresh-baked biscuits might be good with fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner, but they’re better with breakfast sausage gravy and eggs.

Coffee mug in hand, Gerty stood on her kitchen-side porch and admired the splendor. The newly mown grass, cut close by the recently repaired lawnmower, stretched to accept a heavy-morning dew. Corn, now over six-feet high, promised a bumper crop. Quick math in her head, Gerty lamented that it wouldn’t be enough. Banker-man Mel Smith would have accepted an ‘almost’ payment. Robinson would not. Robinson would pounce and foreclose. A brief sigh back to reality, Gerty retrieved her walking stick. Zack spun and jumped because he knew a walk in the woods was at hand.

Gerty detoured toward the garden where Trip was up early, assaulting the weeds. “Mornin’, Buzz,” she chirped. “You’re up with the chickens.”

“It’s Diablo,” Trip complained as he attacked a dirt clod as though his hoe were a hatchet and Diablo’s neck the target. He beamed a measure of satisfaction as dirt exploded under his accurate hoe.

Gerty laughed in agreement, “That is one over-caffeinated rooster. Never seen the likes. He’s about to run my chickens ragged.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” as Trip wiped a mixture of sweat and morning dew off his brow, “he better settle down when Daylight Savings Time rolls around, or he’s gonna be introduced to my hatchet.” A large, dry clod was reduced to dust, again emphasizing Trip’s resolve.

“Zack and I are going to chase some squirrels. Want to come along?” Gerty asked.

“Thanks, but no. Added a few things to my list last night.”

“It'd be alright to ease up a bit,” Gerty said. “Amazing how much you’ve gotten done.”

“Go ahead, I’ll have everything done by lunchtime.”

Zack was ready for his walk. He deposited a stick at Gerty’s feet, translated in dog talk as–
come on old woman, I gotta multiply every minute by seven to get dog time.
Gerty would need a calculator for this higher order of mathematics, but she understood dog talk.

Picking up the stick and tossing it for Zack, Gerty scolded her beloved dog with, “Who you callin’ old woman?”

Skirting the edge of the cornfield beside the barn, Gerty paused to test an ear of corn. Head-high to her short frame, she touched the corn silks, pressing the soft, baby’s hair texture between her fingers. A cherished reminder of catching a young Luke behind the barn rolling corn silks in scrap newspaper. Recalling this rite of passage introduced a lonely tear to her cheek. A firm jerk on the corn husks revealed fully-filled rows of promising, yellow corn. Yes, it would be a bumper crop.

Another toss of the stick sent Zack leaping into the thick woods behind the barn. Gerty used her walking stick to move thick brush aside, protecting her face from low-hanging tree branches and blackberry brambles that earlier in the summer had produced pie filling and jam. Zack dropped his stick in the center of a clearing as he spun in a tight circle. Gerty had a quick brain flutter as to whether dogs ever get dizzy.

“Whew, ya gotta slow down Zack. These old bones can’t move as fast as Luke.”

Zack barked at the mention of Luke’s name. He ran up to Gerty as she settled to take a rest on an old, fallen log. Zack put his head in her lap and was rewarded with a scratch behind his ears.

“Yep, you were Luke’s dog.”

Gerty cradled Zack’s head in her hands and kissed him on the top of the head. She ruffled his head and arched the stick into the middle of the clearing. He turned and pounced. Back and forth for eternity, dogs never tired. Gerty’s next toss landed at the base of a tree near the edge of the clearing. Zack dropped the stick and barked at the tree as though the tree had barked an insult at him.

Gerty, still seated on the fallen log, slapped the side of her thigh and called out, “Come on Zack, fetch it back.”

She slowly rose and shuffled through fallen leaves and twigs to where Zack’s growls and barks continued. “Let’s leave the coons alone today, Zack. I didn’t bring Mr. Remington. Come on!”

Gerty had moved to Zack’s side. She grabbed his collar and tried to pull him away from the tree. Zack refused to move. If dogs could climb, he would have been in the top branches by now. Paws on the side of the tree, his barking was more insistent. Gerty looked skyward and tilted her head to one side to get a better view.

“What in the heck is that?”

Using her walking stick to retain her balance, she shifted position, shaded her eyes, and peered into the top of the tree. It was now clear; ropes, cords, and orange fabric fluttered in the mid-day breeze. While the individual pieces were clear, Gerty had yet to identify that it was a parachute. About the time she finally figured it out, Zack had pawed the ground and sniffed out Trip’s wallet from under a layer of leaves.

Gerty knelt, flicked some leaves aside, and retrieved the wallet. As she picked it up, Trip’s driver’s license fell out and landed face up. There he was, smiling straight up at her. Gerty picked it up, tightened her lips. She lowered to a seated position, wallet in lap, and examined the other contents. She fingered a business card, studied the information thoughtfully.
Buzz’s Crop Service
, an
address
, with
airplane logo
.

Reassembling the wallet, Gerty said to Zack, “Looks like something needs fixed.” With one final glance up at the parachute, Gerty sighed, “Squirrels are safe today, Zack. Let’s head back.”

The short walk back to the barnyard didn’t provide much think time. Gerty didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t fully developed a plan. Her mind flashed back to that first day she met Buzz, or Trip, or Steven Craig Morgan, or whoever he was, is. Lost, bewildered, staring up the barrel of Mr. Remington. The part-time farmhand who couldn’t gather eggs, who killed Thunderbolt, Mr. Clumsy Band-Aid on every finger, had blossomed into a regular guy. As Gerty rounded the corner of the barn, she gazed over fences, house, and barn covered with fresh paint. Every shutter was hanging straight.
But why did he lie? Who is this guy? Where does he belong?

Gerty took a second and watched as Trip stood in the barn driveway and cut lumber with a circular saw. One of the more shrill sounds on a farm. He did not see Gerty.

“Hey, Steven. What’cha workin’ on?”

Removing his ear plugs, he responded, “Huh?” He didn’t recognize that she had used his real name, rather than Buzz. “Lunchtime. Time to wash up.”

Trip nodded, put his ear plugs back in. The circular saw noise filled the barn as Gerty turned for one last look at Trip.

Alone with her thoughts, and still no plan, Gerty stood at the kitchen table. Removing Trip’s wallet from her pocket, she looked down at Zack for guidance, “Alright, Mr. Smarty Pants dog, what now?”

Zack plopped his chin on the floor as Gerty buried the wallet in the Hoosier drawer. Zack hadn’t developed a plan either.

Not many visitors drive up Gerty’s long, gravel lane. Maggie drives when she’s too lazy to walk the quarter-mile from next door. The UPS truck delivers books from Amazon when Gerty decides she needs to stay well-read and the county library pickings are a bit slim.

Gerty was enjoying a mid-morning coffee when the dust kicked up from the gravel lane. As the car parted the parallel rows of trees flanking the lane, Gerty recognized the approaching car.
Crap
, she thought to herself. It was the old, gray Crown Vic she had spat tobacco juice on in front of the bank. How did he find her? Persistent ole dude.

Gerty parted the drapes, peeked out the living room window. She motioned to Zack to be quiet, lie down. Zack obeyed. The passenger-side window had not been cleaned. It still sported a brown ooze stain like a badge of honor. This guy was probably going to demand that Gerty wash and wax his whole car to make amends for her minor transgression. Minor indeed.

Gerty pressed her back against the living room wall, hiding. She motioned to Zack to
shush
. Zack rested his head on the floor. The well-dressed, bearded gentleman exited his Crown Vic, briefcase in hand. Gerty couldn’t remember the last time she saw someone climb her porch steps with a briefcase. This couldn’t be good. Her brain sifted through ninety-seven scenarios as he neared her front door. All bad.
He’s an attorney, serving papers. He represents Robinson, he’s foreclosing on the farm. He’s evil, with dastardly intent.
His knock on her front screen door jolted Gerty out of her speculation.

“Mrs. Murphy, I’d like to talk with you.”

No way
, Gerty thought.

Knocking again, “Why is this so difficult? Mrs. Murphy? Hello?”

Frozen in place, Gerty pressed her shoulder blades against the fleur-de-lis wallpaper. Gerty had made herself as small as possible as the evil intruder peered into the living room window. Shading his eyes to look into the darkened room, he tapped on the window. Gerty was proud of Zack; he remained silent, brown eyes out the top of his sockets awaiting further instructions.

Back to the front door, the harbinger of the unknown again inquired, “Mrs. Murphy? Hello?”

Gerty heard the boards on her front porch creak as the purveyor of doom gave it up. The car door slammed, engine came to life, and a cloud of dust was again raised as the Crown Vic departed. He was gone.
Who is this mystery man and why is he so persistent?

Perceiving that these questions were rhetorical, Zack only barked once. No lecture or lengthy response was expected. Gerty waited for the gravel lane dust to settle before she walked onto the front porch. In an act of defiance, she arched a bold expectoration of tobacco juice over the porch railing.

☁ ☁ ☁

“It’s alright now, Zack,” she assured. “He’s gone. Goodness, that guy is taking a little tobaccy juice a bit personal.”

The morning routine began. A cool fog kissed Gerty’s cornfield. Diablo crowed.
Not bad for a trainee rooster
, Gerty thought. Zack barked his agreement as though he were a mind reader. The cats crawled all over each other as she poured some of Bessie’s best milk into their bowl.

“Might as well start our day,” Gerty said. “Let’s go, Zack.”

With a sigh, Gerty studied the airstrip business card she found in Trip’s wallet. Zack assumed his customary shotgun position as Gerty drove down her lane to the road. It was a half-hour drive to Clinton County, through canyons of tall corn and golden acres of oats, wheat, and barley. Gerty needed those thirty minutes to formulate a plan. She was not sure she had much of a plan as she pulled into Buzz’s airstrip parking lot.

As if on command, Zack jumped out of the truck cab and into the truck bed. After the genetically-induced, three-circle dog turnaround, he laid down. Gerty emptied a jug of cool well water into his bowl and gazed up at the airstrip sign on the side of the corrugated steel hangar.

“Here goes nothing,” Gerty said as she gave Zack one last scratch behind his ears. The scene in the Sky Gypsy Café was about the same as the day Trip parachuted into her life. Deb was at the flattop. Bomber was sitting at the lunch counter supervising, more appropriately, pestering Deb. Crash and Hooker were at a corner table trying to get Socrates to do whatever it was that Trip could make that stupid duck do. That elicited a double-take from Gerty. Buzz had finished some sort of transaction with a customer. After they shook hands, without looking, Buzz pivoted and bumped into Gerty. Her nose was pocket high on his airstrip work shirt so she had a perfect view of the stitched name ‘
Buzz’
above his pocket.
So this is the real Buzz.

Buzz grabbed her shoulders to steady her, saying “Whoa, excuse me, ma’am. You okay?”

“I’m fine, young feller. I haven’t danced with a man this handsome in years.”

“Neither have I,” came the wisecrack from Deb at the flattop. “Aren’t you sweet,” Buzz teased.

Still developing her plan, Gerty continued, “Who do I talk with about some crop dusting? I need to zap a corn fungus in my north-forty acres.”

“Almost too late for that, sweetheart,” Buzz said.

“Worth a try,” Gerty continued. “Unless it costs a fortune.”

Buzz led Gerty to the lunch counter, suggesting, “How ‘bout you chat with Deb here and I’ll be with you, soon as I finish up with Jim. Deb, cherry pie on the house.”

“Scoop of ice cream?” Deb asked.

“Gotta watch the figure,” Gerty said. “Iced tea any good?”

Deb nodded and turned to pour Gerty a glass. Bomber gave Gerty the once-over. He eyed her, head-to-toe. He removed the toothpick from his dry lips and pointed it at Gerty. “I’ll be watchin’ that figure for ya, missy,” Bomber promised.

Gerty politely demurred as she looked straight ahead. Her plans today had not included her quick do-si-do with a young buck thirty years her junior like Buzz, and she certainly had not anticipated getting hit on by an old fart ten years her senior. Deb returned to her rescue.

“Scoot, ya old turkey vulture,” Deb scolded Bomber. “Go help hypnotize Socrates. Git. Sorry, ma’am.”

Cradling her glass of iced tea, Gerty grinned, “That’s alright, honey. It’s when they pay you no never mind. That’s when you know it’s over.” Taking a short sip, she motioned toward Socrates, “I know I’ll be sorry for asking. What’s with the duck?”

“They are tryin’ to hypnotize Socrates. A handyman used to work here who could make that duck roll over and play dead.”

“Trained a duck to play dead?” Gerty almost choked as she thought of Trip’s egg gathering exploits that had run afoul. “Easy there, ma’am,” Deb comforted. “You okay?”

“Play dead, huh?”

“Strangest thing. Stupid duck would foller him ‘round like a lost puppy. Trip up and left a couple-a-months ago.”

“Got fired, huh?

“Oh, no,” Deb said. “Maybe a little confused, but, a good guy.”

Socrates let out a woeful quack, as though he had been injured. Deb had about had enough of the Liar Flyers for one day. She excused herself from Gerty and marched over to the corner table. She flipped her dish towel at Crash and Hooker, barely missing drawing blood on their ears.

“Git that stupid duck outta my cafe,” Deb scolded. “The health department’s gonna close me down.”

“Would be ‘cause of the food,” Crash teased. “Won’t be ‘cause of any stupid duck.”

That last wisecrack put Deb over the edge. She snapped her dish towel off the back of Crash’s bald head. The ensuing melee gave Gerty the opening she needed to vacate the premises. She had the information she needed.

Buzz broke up the commotion and escorted Deb back to her lunch counter. Still a bit flustered, Deb knocked over Gerty’s glass of iced tea. Like a Rube Goldberg perpetual motion machine, each little disaster seemed to create another.

“Easy, settle down,” Buzz encouraged. “Where’s my grandma crop duster?”

“Bomber propositioned her and I think she ran for the hills first chance she got.”

Bomber shrugged his shoulders in plausible deniability.