Authors: Betsy Byars
“Belt tight?” he asked.
“You bet.”
Now that they were heading directly into the wind, the J-3 hardly seemed to be moving over the ground at all. As the plane began to sink toward the runway, the turbulent air coming over the hills to the west began to bounce the plane around.
Birch reached for the support bars and held on tight. Behind her Ace barked in sharp protest.
The J-3 touched down on the hard earth once, twice, and finally a third time. Then it slowed to a stop at the intersection to the ramp.
“Now the fun begins,” Pop said tensely.
“What? We’re down!”
“We’ve got to turn one hundred ten degrees to the ramp. It’s one thing when the wind is blowing straight toward us, but when we turn and that wind gets under the wing—Birch, you better get out and hold it.”
“What? The airplane?”
“Hold onto the wingtip and steady it.”
“Pop, I weigh one hundred pounds. I couldn’t hold an airplane down, especially if the wind wanted to take it up.”
She undid her seat belt and climbed out. “Now I have done everything,” she mumbled. She went carefully around the back of the airplane, as Pop had taught her, and took the left wingtip.
As the plane started around the corner, the wind gusted and tried to lift it. Birch opened her mouth to scream as the wing picked her up on her toes.
“I’ve got it,” a voice said in her ear.
Birch whipped her hair from her eyes and turned. A boy was behind her. His hand stretched around hers onto the wingtip. It was a miracle. Even if it had been an ugly boy, it would have been a miracle, but this boy was not ugly.
Birch was aware she could let go, but she didn’t. Together the two of them walked the J-3 around the corner, guiding it to the ramp.
Pop cut the engine and said, “Let’s get this thing tied down before the wind blows it over.”
A man with a sun-cured face came out to help them, but the boy already had the left wing tied down. His movements had a western quickness, like something out of a rodeo, Birch thought.
“It’s too much wind for me,” Pop told the man.
“For me too,” Birch told the boy. “I bet we were the only people in the air today.”
“The only ones we’ve seen.”
The boy moved to the right wing. Birch moved with him. “Even our dog—this is Ace—” Birch reached into the cockpit.
“Hello, Ace.” The boy paused to scratch him behind one ear.
“It was even too much for Ace. He barked for the first time since we left South Carolina.”
The boy finished the right wing and moved to the tail of the plane. Birch went along.
“You folks are from South Carolina?” he asked.
“Yes, where are
you
from?”
“Here.”
“Oh.”
“You folks planning to spend the night in Lordsburg?” the man asked.
Birch said quickly, “I am. I promised myself that if I got down safely I wasn’t going to get back in the airplane today.” She looked at Pop.
He said, “I pretty much promised myself the same thing.” He took off his glasses and blotted his face on his sleeve.
“My son’ll be glad to drive you to a motel.”
“We’d appreciate it.” Pop looked at his watch. “Birch, it’s only nine o’clock in the morning. What are we going to do all day?”
Birch glanced at the boy. The dry hot wind seemed to be blowing them together. “Oh, I don’t know … recover.”
The man said, “Pete, get the car and drive these folks into town.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Pop checked the ropes again, and Birch said, “Pop, that boy—Pete—tied them perfectly. He—”
Pop looked up. “Where’d Ace get to? Ace!”
A mouse-colored dog with a flea collar was disappearing around the hangar. Ace was trotting behind, trying to get the dog’s attention.
“That’ll do, Ace,” Pop said.
Birch ran after Ace and scooped him up. “That dog’s too big for you. You’re not in her league.” She brought Ace back to the J-3.
In the parking lot, the boy was starting an old station wagon.
“Pop,” she said, “you know what worries me when we have a day like today—or yesterday?” She grinned. “Or the day before that?”
“What?”
“That we’re going to have to turn around and go home. We’re going to do it all over again, only the other way. Like, we’ll hang over El Paso for forty-five minutes again, we’ll go over those Van Horn mountains, we’ll land on that access road, we’ll—”
“The reason we’re flying so low is because of the head winds. The higher we get, the stronger the winds are. On the way home, we’ll have tail winds. We’ll be at five thousand feet instead of five hundred. You won’t even recognize it as the same place.”
“Is that a promise?” She broke off as the station wagon stopped beside them. “I’ll ride in the front with Pete,” Birch said quickly. “You and Ace just sit in the back and relax.”
“P
OP, DO YOU REALIZE
that this is the first date I’ve ever had in my life,” Birch said. Pop was watching the Weather Channel so he didn’t react. “Look at those winds,” he said, shaking his head. “No wonder we had trouble.”
“And it’s with a cute boy. Don’t you think he’s cute, Pop?”
“What?”
“Don’t you think Pete’s cute?”
“Pete?”
“The boy!
The
boy! The one I have a date with!” Now she had his attention.
“You didn’t say anything about a date. You said you were going to a movie.”
“That’s what a date is, Pop—going to a movie. I can’t wait to write my best friend Bibi. Bibi’s had a date, but his mother drove them. His mother kept spying on them in the rearview mirror.”
“I don’t know what your mother’s going to say about a date.”
“Do you think I look fifteen? That’s how old I told him I was.”
“You ain’t but thirteen.” Pop looked as bewildered as if he’d begun to lose track of the years.
“I couldn’t say I was just thirteen because he has to be sixteen to drive.”
“You’re going in the car?”
“Yes, Pop, I wish you’d had some other kind of shampoo besides Tegrin. I’m afraid he’s going to smell Tegrin in my hair and think I have dandruff.”
“How’s he going to smell your hair?”
“And I wish I had something else to wear!”
She overturned her knapsack and shook out the contents. Some underwear, a T-shirt, and a box of poems fell onto the bed. She reached out to replace the box, then changed her mind and left it where it was.
“Your mom is not going to approve of any date. I know she’s not.”
“Oh, Pop.”
“That’s why you didn’t mention having a date when you called home.”
“Oh, Pop.”
“You knew she wouldn’t approve. Does she let you go out on dates at home?”
“It’s never come up. Nobody’s ever asked me. Oh, that’s his station wagon. Pop, he’s here. Now please, please don’t say anything to embarrass me.”
“Birch, you behave yourself.”
“Like that! That’s exactly the kind of thing I don’t want you to say.”
“And don’t you be late.”
“I won’t. Pop, you’re acting like a mother hen. I promise you have nothing to worry about.”
“I can’t help it.”
As Birch waited for the knock on the motel room door, she said, “You know what I wish, Pop? I wish tomorrow would be windy and the next day and the day after that. I wish we’d be stuck in Lordsburg a whole week. By that time Pete and I could be going steady.”
Pop straightened in alarm. “Steady?”
“Pop, do these jeans look all right with this shirt?”
“Birch, quit rattling on.”
“I can’t help it. I’m nervous. I know the shirt doesn’t look good with the jeans, but these are the only clean things I’ve got. Oh, what am I going to talk about?”
“Talk about airplanes.”
“Tell me one thing to say that’s not stupid, and I’ll feel better.”
“Ask him if he’s a pilot.”
“Then what?”
“Ask him how long he’s been one—what kind of plane he flies. I could talk to pilots all day.”
“Why isn’t he knocking? I know I heard his station wagon backfiring. What’s he doing out there?”
She pulled the curtain aside and shut it with a gasp. “Oh, Pop, he was combing his hair, and he saw me looking. Oh, Pop, I could just die. And he looks super—a hundred times better than I do. He’s probably getting back in the car. He’s probably leaving!”
There was a knock at the door. Birch took a deep breath and opened it. She smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Birch said quickly, “We’re going, Pop.”
“Well, don’t you be late, Birch. If the wind lets up, I want to take off early tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t. Maybe you should give me the room key, Pop, so I won’t disturb you when I come in.”
“I’ll be up,” he said firmly.
Birch closed the door, and she and Pete crossed the parking lot to the station wagon. Birch swallowed again and said, “By the way, I meant to ask you this afternoon—are you a pilot?”
“No, I just hang around the airport because of my dad.”
“Oh.”
“Are you one?”
“No, I fly sometimes when my grandfather wants a break, but you couldn’t call me a pilot.”
“Oh.”
Birch was beginning to hate that word. They got in the station wagon, and Pete combed his hair again while Birch swallowed.
“You know what my favorite signs are from the air?” she asked in desperation.
“Signs?”
“Yes, you know, like, billboards. We fly so low that I can read billboards.”
“Oh.”
“My favorites are
The Thing.
Ninety miles to
The Thing.
Don’t miss
The Thing.
I’d love to know what
The Thing
is.”
“A two-headed lizard.”
“What?”
“A two-headed lizard. It’s pickled.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, that’s what my cousin told me. She says it’s a big gyp.”
“I am so glad you told me that. Now I won’t mind missing it one bit.”
Birch swirled into the motel room. Pop had fallen asleep on his bed, but he roused. “What time is it? What time is it?”
“Four o’clock in the morning.”
“What?”
“I was teasing. It’s ten-thirty.” She sat down on the bed. Her hand dropped to her side, touching the box of poems, which lay as it had fallen from her backpack.
“I had a good time, Pop.”
“Did you behave yourself?”
“Yes.” She took the lid off the box. “Pop, would you like to hear one of Granny’s poems?”
“Is that what you’ve been carrying around in that box?”
“Yes. You want to hear one?”
“I reckon not.”
“Why not?”
“I never would listen to them when she was alive. I don’t reckon I got any right to listen now.”
“Yes, you do. And—oh, here’s one of my favorites, Pop. And at the top it says ‘For Earl’ so I know she’s talking about you. Can I read it?”
“I guess I can’t stop you.”
“I would have known you
Any place
I would have recognized
Your face
Would have stretched my hand
To trace
The kind line of your smile.”
There was a silence, and Birch let it stand. She took a deep breath without breaking the stillness.
“That’s a poem that doesn’t have any, well, mystery to it. What Granny’s saying is that no matter where she had seen you, she would have known that you were meant for her.”
“I suppose.”
“But sometimes, Pop, poems are mysterious. Take this one. Can I read it?”
“If it’s not about me. I liked hearing the one, but that’ll do me for now.”
“It’s not. I don’t know who it’s about.
She reached to the bottom of the box and brought out the last poem. She breathed in and out as if she needed to store up some air before she read.
The baby took one fluttering gasp
Two …
Three …
Each softer than the last.
Four …
One more. …
Passed. All past.
She lay the poem with the others and looked down at them as she spoke.
“It was written on my birthday so it has something to do with me. I thought at first,” she went on carefully, “that mom and dad’s natural baby had died and I had maybe taken her place.”
“You didn’t take anybody’s place.”
“I know that now.”
“Your mom ought to be the one talking to you about this.”
“Mom isn’t here. And I’m ready to hear it. Besides I want you to tell me.”
“You ought to be able to figure it out,” he said stubbornly avoiding it.
“I think I have, but I need to hear it.”
Pop sighed. “Well, you were born and you were perfect—a big, beautiful baby girl. And while they were working on you, doing whatever it is they do to new babies, the doctor said, ‘Well, it looks like there’s another one.’”
Pop swallowed.
“This was a surprise even to the doctor and nurses.”
He ran his hands through his hair and fell silent.
“And the second baby came,” she prompted.
“Yes.”
“And died.”
“Yes. Oh, it was a little, bitty thing—two, three pounds at most.”
Birch closed her eyes against the pain. She thought she had been ready to hear it, but she wasn’t so sure now.
“Was it a boy or girl, Pop?”
“Girl.”
“I guess she didn’t have a chance, being so little.”
“Little babies have lived before, Birch, but there was something else involved—about the heart. I don’t remember the word for it. Your mom will know.”
“Did they name her, Pop?”
“I believe they called her Clare.”
“And her whole life could be put into one little short poem. Seven lines.”
“I guess.”
“Seven lines I’ll remember for the rest of my life.” She closed the box of poems. “Thank you, Pop, for telling me.”
I
T WAS THE NEXT
morning. Birch was in the front seat of the J-3. “I feel good, Pop,” she said, “and it isn’t just because of the date. I have been dreading hearing about”—she paused—“Clare, and dreading it. I’ve even had nightmares. And now that I have heard it—and Pop, this is to your credit. You told it in a very unhurtful way.”