Authors: Wayne; Page
Trip hoed in the garden as a Honda Accord pulled into the barnyard. Trip looked up from his work, smiled as his already splendid day was about to improve. He dusted off his hands and walked to greet Dorothy.
“Nice day,” Dorothy said as Trip opened her door.
“It is now,” Trip smiled.
“Learn that from your momma?”
“Nope. Deb,” Trip admitted.
“Girlfriend?”
“Don’t have one. Used to work with Deb at. . .” he trailed off.
“At where?” Dorothy asked.
“Long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Come to see Gerty? She went to town,” as he nervously kicked the ground.
“I’ve got time,” she repeated.
“Want to take a walk?”
“Sure,” Dorothy smiled. “Where’s the popcorn?”
Trip looked puzzled for half-a-second, then blushed as he recalled their recent encounter at the county fair. Dorothy took the lead around the side of the barn, stopping at the edge
Trip removed the blade of grass from his mouth and said, “Better not go in there.”
“Boogie man?”
“It’s full of brambles, poison ivy.”
“Nah,” Dorothy knew better. “I used to hunt mushrooms and pick blackberries in here.”
That forced Trip to recall that she had been Luke’s fiancé when he was killed in Afghanistan. She probably knew this farm better than he did.
“Let’s go,” he surrendered.
They weaved their way through the thick woods; throwing hickory nuts at squirrels. Trip held a branch aside so Dorothy could duck under. After a five-minute wander, Trip stopped and sat on a fallen log.
“Here’s the spot,” he said, meekly.
“What spot?”
Trip patted the log beside him, indicating,
have a seat.
“What’s all the mystery, Buzz?” she quizzed. “Ya rob a bank? Bury the loot here?”
“No. I’m not Buzz.”
“Oh, really? Who are you?”
He was shocked at how quickly he had spit it out.
I’m not Buzz.
He had dreaded this moment for two months. Rehearsed. Practiced.
I’m not Buzz. Had he really said it out loud?
Thought he might sneak it out with Maggie a few times. Lost his nerve every time. He had trouble visualizing coming clean with Gerty. Then, all of a sudden, here, now. And with Dorothy. He had never been this comfortable around a girl his own age. But he was comfortable with Dorothy.
I’m not Buzz.
He almost had to shake the cobwebs loose as Dorothy’s question was trapped, suspended in mid-air, unanswered. Then he blurted out the truth, “Trip.”
“Trip?”
“Well, that’s my nickname.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Steve.”
“Nice name, Steve. Doesn’t tickle the nose like Buzzzzzz.”
“You’re funny.”
“So, who is Buzz?”
“Hero. Coach. He’s a pilot.”
“That’s cool.”
“Smart guy, he has a good head for business.”
“So, Mr. Buzzzzzz impersonator. How’d you end up getting hired by Gerty?”
Pointing to the parachute hanging in the tree above their heads, he said, “I dropped in.”
“Is there a short version to this story?”
“My parachute crash landed in that tree.”
“You a skydiver?” Dorothy seemed impressed.
“Not exactly.”
“How many times ya jumped? Hundreds?”
“Once.”
“Once!? And you crashed into a tree? No wonder they call you Trip.” Dorothy giggled, “You should quit while you’re ahead.”
“I thought you were in cahoots with Robinson when we first met. Workin’ at the bank and all.”
“He is a jerk,” Dorothy said emphatically. “Why didn’t Buzz come looking for you?”
“He’s probably mad at me. He didn’t know I jumped. He jumped first.”
“The pilot jumped first? And this guy is your hero? Why didn’t you go back?”
“Thought he’d fire me. Accuse me of stowin’ away in his plane.”
“So you quit. Ran away.”
“It’s complicated,” Trip said.
“Why’d you lie to Gerty?”
“Didn’t mean to. I couldn’t go back. Didn’t have anywhere to go. The first lie just happened–fell out of my mouth. There’s more.”
“This oughta be good,” Dorothy said as she rose to her feet.
The whole truth came out on the walk back to the barnyard. The Liar Flyers. His fear of heights. His clumsiness. The plane crash. Trip came clean. It felt good to get it out. The description of Socrates caused a brief laughing spell that caused Dorothy to double over.
“You’re kidding, about the duck?”
“Nope, all true.”
“You have a pet duck?”
“Probably should have left that part out.”
“That’s the best part,” Dorothy laughed again.
“And you’re not mad?”
“Kinda funny. No one will believe you.”
“You did.”
“Ya gonna tell Gerty?”
“I’ll make a mess of it.”
“You told me,” Dorothy encouraged.
“You gotta help me.”
“Sure,” Dorothy agreed. “You just invited me for supper.”
“I did?” he asked as he opened her car door.
“Tomorrow night. See ya, Buzzzzzz.”
A hand on his shoulder, she gave him an innocent pat. Then, a quick smooch on the cheek. A very light touch. Trip slid his hand around her waist, gently pulling her closer. He returned the favor, but on the lips–with a bit of a linger. They both smiled as Dorothy got in her car and drove away.
Trip couldn’t imagine the day getting any better.
Mel Smith’s bank kept farms like Lester and Gerty Murphy’s half-a-step ahead. Loans for seed corn in the spring were always, almost always, paid back after the fall harvest. A temporary, short-term loan for that unexpected tractor overhaul required only a cup of coffee and a handshake. Buying more land had its complexities that involved the Farm Credit Bank or Land Bank in addition to Mel’s local bank.
Bank consolidations and acquisitions over the last twenty years had changed everything. The Robinsons of the world had gobbled up small county banks. Mega, too-big-to-fail bank holding companies replaced a handshake from Mel Smith with cold-hearted business deals. Robinson’s only interest in Highland County was the development opportunities presented by new freeway off-ramps and small family farms where he held the mortgage.
His Cleveland-based bank holding company was small by comparison to the New York behemoths whose tentacles stretched around the globe. His stretch into Highland County was enough to make Gerty’s life miserable. His forty-story corporate headquarters dominated the Lake Erie skyline. The wood paneling, plush carpet, and crystal chandeliers screamed
-so’
Robinson and his crony developer, Sam Butler, were sequestered in Robinson’s corner office overlooking Lake Erie. Hovering over maps scattered on a conference table, their world of high finance never cared about the Gerties they steamrollered.
“Closed on the Ames and Black properties last week,” Butler bragged.
“Twenty-seven days and we’re home free,” Robinson assured.
“Biggest fish we’ve ever landed. Deal is worth millions. Better not slip away like Indianapolis. That crashed on your watch. Murphy status?”
Robinson cringed at the mention of Indianapolis. He had been within a gnat’s eyelash of eclipsing the King of Prussia Mall in Pennsylvania as the largest mall in the United States. Then zap. One recalcitrant landowner holdout smack-dab in the middle of the development site, and it was over. Zoning Commission balked. City Council got cold feet. You name it–it happened. All on his watch. Robinson swore that never again would he let the little people stand in his way. Gertrude Murphy was one of those little people.
Back to the issue at hand, Robinson answered the Murphy status question with a cold and impersonal, “Courthouse steps is scheduled. I hear the old woman is already packing boxes.”
“Without Murphy, we’re dead,” Butler overstated the obvious.
“In the bag, guaranteed,” as Robinson gazed at his yacht in the marina below.
The dreaded dinner date was almost over. Trip had premonitions of awkward eternities of silence. He had played this evening over in his mind ever since Dorothy weaseled the invitation. No matter how much he had rehearsed clever witticisms, he consistently lost his nerve and they fell like crumbs of cornbread on the kitchen floor. As Gerty’s blackberry pie was being devoured, Trip was relieved that his worst-of-worst fears had not come to pass. Dorothy was comfortable and engaging. Gerty was Gerty; what’s not to like? Gerty was unsuspecting that the evening was planned to drop his bombshell. It was just another farm supper with friends around the kitchen table.
Picking at the layers of flaky crust before her, Dorothy lamented, “Wish I could bake like this.”
With all of the aplomb of a Julia Child, Trip opined, “Can’t be all sweetness. Takes a tad of bitter or sour to balance the sugar. Just like life.”
“Really?” as Gerty pointed her fork.
Dorothy, not sure if she had missed something, nodded a quick encouragement toward Trip–
go ahead, tell her.
Trip had rehearsed the ‘tell her’ all day. He knew what to say, he had no idea how to say it. Or how to start. So he reverted to
“Gerty?” he started.
“Yes?” Gerty responded, as she started to clear the dishes.
“Got somethin’ on my mind,” Trip continued.
“Other than cooking tips?” Gerty quipped.
“Go on. Tell her,” Dorothy encouraged.
“Tell me what?”
“I’m not. . .”
“You’re not, what?”
“I’m not. . . Buzz.”
“So, who are you?” Gerty asked, as she returned some plates to the Hoosier.
“Trip, uh, S-Steve,” he said with a quaver of a nervous stammer.
Still at the Hoosier, Gerty opened the drawer and removed the wallet she found in the woods. Gerty tossed the wallet on the table in front of Trip.
“You mean Steven Craig Morgan?”
“How long you known this?” Dorothy asked.
“About a week longer than you.”
“I’m really sorry,” Trip apologized.
Trip felt a strange mix of relief and regret. Now that it was out in the open, he welcomed Gerty’s input on how to handle his airstrip problem. Dorothy gave him a reassuring wink.
Gerty patted Trip on the shoulder as she said, “Let’s sit out front and figure this out.”
As Gerty led the way, Trip whispered to Dorothy, “I don’t recommend the chewing tobacco.”
The foot-high layer of wheat straw had once again been deployed to compensate for the pickup truck’s aging shock absorbers. Box-upon-box of garden vegetables and jars of jellies and jams were nestled into the back of the truck. Egg cartons were double cushioned for the bumpy ride to town. Maggie had graciously contributed a case of her clover honey.
“You won’t get much money,” Gerty said.
“Not the point,” Trip responded.
“Why bother?”
“I haven’t worked that out yet,” Trip admitted as he made room for one last peck basket of cucumbers.
Gerty was a regular at the Thursday, Highland County farmers’ market. It didn’t amount to a hill-a-beans compared to her monthly mortgage payment, but it did provide pocket cash. More importantly, it was weekly social time for Gerty.
Gerty had begged off on this Thursday. The pending foreclosure was wearing on her. She had lost some of her usual spark. Feeling that she had let Lester down, she sensed that the end was near.
Trip volunteered to climb this parapet of hope. He argued that the garden was his. He had taken over weed control. He did the harvesting. He was going to town today whether Gerty went or not. However, today would be different. He didn’t pull in the customary corner lot at the abandoned gas station south of town.
He drove into the center of town and backed Gerty’s truck into a parking space in front of the bank. He sat on the lowered tailgate with his feet dangling, facing the bank. Beside him on the tailgate, he placed a gallon pickle jar, seeded with dollar bills and coins. Taped to the truck bed was a hand-lettered poster that read–
Save Gerty’s Farm
. Gerty would never have approved of such a ploy. But Gerty wasn’t here.
“You’re not making my life any easier,” Mel Smith observed as he walked to work.
“Make a donation,” Trip challenged. “Take a sack of onions.”
“Robinson will be here any minute,” Mel pleaded.
“I look forward to meeting him,” Trip smiled.
Mel shook his head and climbed the steps of the bank that used to be his. Passersby chuckled at Trip’s novel approach to marketing as they stuffed money into the re-purposed pickle jar. Trip bagged vegetables and had trouble keeping up with demand.
“How much for these tomatoes?” a lady in a floral-print dress asked.
“I don’t know,” Trip responded. “Throw some coins in the jar.”
Trip had figured out the answer to Gerty’s question–
what’s the point?
The point wasn’t the money in the pickle jar. The point wasn’t selling garden produce. The point was–public relations. The point was–tick off Robinson.
Dorothy arrived at work and challenged Trip, “You sure this is a good idea?”
“I haven’t worked all that out yet,” Trip said.
Doing a quick estimate of the amount of money in the pickle jar, Dorothy said, “Money in your jar won’t make a dent.”
“Depends on what you’re tryin’ to dent,” Trip argued.
As Dorothy shoved a dollar bill into the jar, Robinson pulled his Mercedes in his usual handicap parking space next to Gerty’s truck.
“This your idea of a joke?” Robinson scowled.
Trip ignored the comment as he tossed an egg in the air, deftly catching it.
“Worthy cause,” Trip said to Robinson. “Want an egg?”
The Sheriff walked by, grinning and shaking his head at the scene before him. He made a quick addition to the pickle jar and turned to walk away.
“Come on, Sheriff,” Robinson smirked. “This can’t be legal.”
Pausing a second, the Sheriff surveyed the situation and removed his ticket pad from his hip pocket. Trip hadn’t figured on paying a fine today, not part of his master plan.
“Yer right,” the Sheriff agreed. “Definitely a violation.” Robinson, smug in victory, glared at Trip. The Sheriff tore the ticket from his pad and handed it to Robinson.
“Handicap parking,” the Sheriff announced. “Move your car.”
Robinson rolled his eyes and reached for the egg that Trip was tossing. In a rare return of his previous clumsiness, Trip fumbled the egg. It splatted on Robinson’s shoe. Trip’s satisfied grin belied the conclusion that his previous clumsiness had returned. Or, his aim with the egg was on-target. His strategy might have actually made a dent.
☁ ☁ ☁
“A pity jar?” Gerty sighed.
“Four hundred dollars,” Trip responded.
“Appreciate that,” Gerty frowned. “But a pity jar?”
“Sorry I embarrassed you in town.”
“Oh, I don’t embarrass quite that easy,” Gerty continued as she maneuvered the pickup truck around the country road potholes. “What upsets me the most? I didn’t get to see the egg on his foot. Pity that.”
Trip got goose bumps on his arm as Gerty pulled into the airstrip parking lot. He hadn’t been here in over two months. Dorothy and Gerty had helped Trip rehearse for this moment, but he suddenly felt stranded. All alone.
“We gonna sit out here all day?” Gerty asked as she encouraged Trip. “You ready?”
“Not sure.”
“You’ll be fine,” Gerty assured. “I’ll go in first.”
“Give me a minute,” Trip said. “I’m comin’.”
Gerty entered the Sky Gypsy Café and resumed discussing her non-existent crop-dusting needs with the real Buzz. As Buzz leafed through a pesticide brochure, Gerty glanced over her shoulder. No Trip.
Trip fidgeted and finally summoned the courage to leave the safety of the truck. Rather than enter through the front door of the cafe, Trip chose to detour through the back of the main hangar. Inside the dimly lit hangar, sunlight leaked around the ill-fitting side door. As Trip opened the door, he was silhouetted, bathed in sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the dim hangar interior, he fumbled to find the light switch.
One flick and Trip was greeted by a familiar, yet strange new world. Two of the old Stearman biplanes had been partially restored. To his shock and amazement, the PT-17 had been returned to her original glory. The bright blue and yellow paint glistened and almost begged–
fly me, fly me
.
Trip slowly opened the door to his bunkroom. It hadn’t been disturbed since he left. He touched the Blue Angel poster on the wall and tapped the model planes suspended from the ceiling. It was comfortable. Even though he was apprehensive about his upcoming confrontation with Buzz, now he was comfortable. He turned off the light and headed through the hangar to the tarmac.
Buzz’s new jump plane beckoned in the full sunlight. For a moment Trip contemplated commandeering the plane and taking off for Mexico. Or at least somewhere far away from here. On second thought, crashing two of Buzz’s planes was probably not advisable. He indulged in a brief, pre-flight walkaround.
Trip inspected his way to the opposite side of the jump plane, away from the cafe tarmac window. Only Trip’s lower body was visible to those inside the cafe. Ever-present when there was trouble to brew, Bomber was the one who announced that something was amiss.
“Hey, Buzz,” Bomber shouted. “Looks like somebody’s messin’ with yer brand new jump plane.”
Out the door in a flash, Buzz yelled, “Hey! What’cha think you’re doin’?”
Trip rounded the nose of the plane as Buzz ran across the tarmac. Deb, close on his heels, stopped, hands on hips when she eyed Trip.
“I’ll be,” Deb exclaimed.
“Crap,” Buzz said as he came face-to-face with Trip.
“Nice plane,” was all Trip could muster.
☁ ☁ ☁
The usual crowd had gathered around a table in the center of the cafe. The Liar Flyers hovered too close for anyone’s comfort, but that was their normal routine. Bomber once again eyed Gerty and nodded his approval. Similar to their first encounter, Gerty ignored him and tried to keep her distance.
“Unbelievable,” said Deb, as she shook her head at Trip’s recounting of his close call with death. “You musta been terrified.”
“How long did you fly the plane?” Bomber asked, giving Gerty a brief respite.
“Stuff happened so fast,” Trip said. “And I wouldn’t exactly call it flyin’.”
“And the parachute?” Buzz asked.
“How’d ya know when to pull the rip cord?” Crash asked. Hooker jumped in and admitted, “You may have pilot blood after all.”
Directing his attention to Gerty, Buzz accused, “No corn fungus, sweetheart?”
“I do need a better corn crop,” she grinned. “But I don’t think crop dusting would help now.”
“You should see her farm,” Trip bragged. “Nice place.”
“A lot better since you dropped in,” Gerty said. “He’s painted everything. Procured me a new rooster. Fixed my tractor-” Bomber interrupted, “--Trip? Fixed?”
Almost everyone around the table voiced ‘
fixed?’
at the same time.
“Time for me to go,” Gerty announced, as she slid her chair back from the table.
“Thanks for taking care of Trip,” Deb said.
Trip lowered his head and bit his lower lip. This can’t be goodbye. He and Gerty exchanged mournful looks as she limped off to her truck.
“Gotta go,” she insisted. “Eggs need gathered.”
As Gerty held the truck door for Zack, he hesitated and did not immediately jump into the cab. He looked around, and in dog speak communicated–where’s Trip?
“He’s gone, Zack,” she said with a quick lump in her throat. “Let’s go.”
Gerty settled in behind the wheel and turned the ignition. Trip had exited the cafe and was standing at her side window. “Don’t go,” he said.
Patting his hand, she said, “You fixed it just fine. You belong here.”
“Belong?”
“Follow your dream.”
“Where do I belong?” he pleaded.
“You’ll figure it out. Stop by whenever you need an egg.”
Double-clutching the gear box into reverse, Gerty backed away from Trip. As she disappeared down the country road, Trip was left in the cafe parking lot, alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his past. Or was it his future? And how alone would he be? And for how long?
He turned to walk back into the cafe as Socrates waddled around the corner and flew into his arms.