Authors: Susan Crandall
“Come on, Henry. These bush hounds are eating up our little exhibition. We can make this big if you’ll back me up once in a while. Who wouldn’t want a life like this over working twelve hours a day, six days a week, in a smelly meat-processing plant or shoveling coal in a steel mill? There’s no shame in admitting you want something and going after it. You need to stop being afraid Gil’s going to up and leave you.”
“You aren’t?”
“If Gil
really
wanted to be alone, he would have left you standing in Uncle’s pasture that first morning.” Her smile turned devilish. “Flyboy wants us here. He just won’t admit it.”
At that moment, Henry understood the real root of his fear, a fear that had grown stronger day by day. It wasn’t his worry over losing a place to hide, to reinvent himself. It wasn’t missing out on the rare opportunity to work on an airplane, or losing the connection he felt to Peter when he was with Gil. Mercury’s Daredevils had become his home. His family.
That awareness brought with it the kind of deep-seated peace he hadn’t felt in years. He hadn’t even known it was missing until it slipped back into his soul.
On the heels of that realization was the certainty that disaster would soon come to call.
G
il’s recovery was remarkable. Even that first customer wouldn’t have guessed the man had been out all night drinking. By one o’clock, black Model T’s and a few fancier and more colorful makes—Oaklands, Studebakers, Henry even spotted a Pierce-Arrow and a Stutz Bearcat—were parked cheek to jowl with wagons, buggies, and horses along the side of the road. Shops had been closed, fields abandoned. Boys walked prized bicycles through the gate, parking them within eyesight—not that anyone kept eyes on the ground when Gil took to the air and performed loops, spins, and barrel rolls.
The first time Henry had seen Gil do a loop, his ears had told him the carburetor was gravity fed, which meant that when it was upside
down the engine didn’t get gas. When he’d asked Gil about it during their first day together, he’d said that it wasn’t a problem, as long as you got the plane upright while the prop was still turning fast enough to restart the engine.
“And if you don’t get it turned over in time?” Henry had asked.
“If I have enough altitude, I can nose it down and use the wind speed to turn the prop.” Gil had sounded quite matter-of-fact.
“If you don’t have the altitude?”
“I’ve done plenty of dead-stick landings.”
“Dead stick?”
“Prop is wood. No power and it sits there like a dead stick.”
“You glide? Steer using those flapper things on the wings and tail?”
Gil had given Henry one of his few true smiles. “You always steer using those ‘flapper things.’ If you’re going to talk airplanes, you need the lingo or you’re going to sound like an idiot.”
Henry hadn’t argued the point, but it seemed an extremely slight risk; so few planes were around he’d probably never come across someone who could tell the difference.
“The flaps on the wings are ailerons. They control banking. The wood posts between the wings are struts. The tail has a rudder behind the vertical stabilizer; it works same as a rudder on a boat.” Gil had used his hands to demonstrate the movements. “The stationary crosspiece is the horizontal stabilizer. The flaps on the horizontal piece are the elevators, move the nose up and down.”
It had been Henry’s first flight lesson. At that moment, he had begun to love the beauty of the whole, not just the wonder of the engine. As he learned more about piloting, his respect for Gil’s extraordinary talent in the cockpit grew. He had put that plane into a spin just to teach Henry how to pull it out. Even after the instruction, Henry was pretty sure if
he
ever lost it to a spin, he was just going to be one dead pilot. With increased knowledge came the ability to tell when Gil was pushing too far—even for his skills.
Such as now, when he turned the Jenny upside down while on a much-too-low pass over the field.
Henry stood on his straw bale, megaphone to his mouth, adding ballyhoo to their exhibition. Words died in his mouth. What in the hell was Gil doing?
People went wild, yelling and waiving their hats in the air.
Turn it over. Turn it over.
Turn it over.
Gil might be good at dead-stick landings, but inverted dead stick was impossible, no matter how good a pilot he was.
At the engine’s silence, a unified gasp came from the crowd.
Turn it over.
Henry’s eyes stayed on the prop.
Over. Roll over
.
Gil finally turned the ship right side up.
Henry’s stuttering heartbeat filled his ears. He leaned forward, as if his physical urging could keep the plane’s speed up.
Gil was headed straight for dense woods. With no power.
Then the engine caught, thrumming once again. It had only been seconds, but to Henry it had been an eternity.
Gil pulled up and banked left, barely clearing the trees. Cheers and whistles rose after the breath-held quiet of the pasture.
Cora’s voice came over Henry’s shoulder. “Now that, Kid, is the monkey’s eyebrows . . . to make every one of those people stop breathing like that.” She thumped him on the back. “Just think how much better it’ll be with a wing walker.”
He was surrounded by lunacy. Pure lunacy.
He turned to tell her to forget it, but she was already throwing her leg over the motorcycle and zipping Mercury into her jacket. At least since the dog was with her, he was assured she’d steer clear of that damned ramp.
Henry took up the megaphone again as she and Mercury took the field, starting off with some crowd-pleasing, dirt-tossing figure eights. Cora’s uncommon show of female daring was nearly as unique as the appearance of an airplane. When she stopped and the engine idled, Mercury barked and howled for more. The dog was a natural showman, just like Cora. Henry was surrounded by attention-grabbers. This was to his advantage; to most people watching the show he was no more than a hand to take money and a voice in the background.
Gil made a pass overhead. He waggled his wings and flew off, giving Cora the field. She rode balanced with her knee on the seat, then navigated through the course she’d set up that morning, plucking hankies off various obstacles as she raced past.
Then, her routine completed, she rode pell-mell to the end of the field, stopped, and unzipped Mercury from her jacket.
Henry flashed hot. He dropped the megaphone and took off at a run. “No!” She revved the engine twice and took off with a rooster tail of grass clumps and dirt.
She hit the boards good and square and shot off the end. She shifted her weight, landing on the rear wheel. But the motorcycle hit the ground hard, causing her to jerk the handlebars. The front wheel wasn’t perfectly straight when it hit the ground. She wobbled wildly, but somehow saved it. She’d only been airborne for about ten feet, but the crowd reacted as if she had flown halfway across the pasture.
Henry’s teeth hurt from his clenched jaw. His tight fists pumped as he ran.
Selfish. Spoiled. Bull-goddamned-headed.
She swung the bike around as she stopped, raising her fists in what Henry was beginning to think of as her Warrior Maiden pose. Her careless attitude blurred his vision
.
Mercury barked as he raced up and launched himself into Henry’s arms. The jolt brought him back to his senses. He drew up and forced himself to stand there while he drew deep breaths and got ahold of himself.
By the time he and Mercury reached her, she was surrounded by a dozen adoring boys still in knickers. A newspaper photographer was setting up a camera-topped tripod, asking to take her picture. She rolled the motorcycle back on its new stand and held out her hands for Mercury. Henry bit his tongue and handed the dog over. She posed astride the bike with his furry, doggled face sticking out of her jacket. Henry had never seen anyone look so pleased with herself. Which went through him like a red-hot dagger.
Gil landed the Jenny and people finally stopped oohing and aahing over Cora and began to drift away. Henry jerked her aside. “That was
so damned stupid!” The words shot from between his clenched teeth. “You could have broken your fool neck.”
“It’s my neck.”
His fingers dug deeper into her arm.
“Ouch!”
She tried to pull away, but he held tight.
“Yes, it is.” Henry barely refrained from shaking her. “And I reckon you’re welcome to break it when no one is looking. But we need to make sure these stunts are going to work every single time before doing them in front of an audience.”
“But that’s what they like! Daredevils!”
She was so damned green. “They like
the idea
of a daredevil. It’s excitement they want; the
possibility
of disaster. But none of these people wants to see a woman get broken to bits. Not one! That kind of publicity can ruin everything. You have big ideas for this show.” He pointed a finger in her face, his own face heating up. “Keep that in mind when you get the itch to do something this stupid again. If the newspapers get convinced we’re going to kill someone—especially a woman—if they decide to write about our foolish recklessness instead of about our amazing show, we’re through.”
He
was through. Accidents brought investigations . . . and the law.
Her eyes grew wide. “I never thought of it like that.”
“Well, think on it.” He leaned over her, his breathing rough. “When public opinion turns against you, nothing you do will change the course.”
Henry snatched Mercury from her arms and walked away, his hands shaking hard enough that the dog’s ears quivered.
“Henry!” she called after him. “Come on. Don’t get in such a lather.”
He knew better than to stop. He’d been lucky Mercury had saved him.
Throughout his life, Henry’d had plenty of practice controlling himself. He’d thought himself a calm person, able to weigh out consequences, put reason before reaction. Only lately had he become aware of the danger that lived behind the bars he kept on his emotions.
Something had been growing. Building. Once it broke free, it thrashed like a wild beast, wounded and blind.
H
enry sneaked out of camp while Gil and Cora were still talking to the hangers-on. The weather had closed in and put their day to an early end, a reprieve for Henry. He needed some time alone to sort himself out. He walked under a gray shroud of sky that draped itself clear to the ground; a hot summer sky that should, but wouldn’t, rain. The air smelled of sluggish rivers and his lungs felt clogged with wet cotton. The dense air bent, muffled, and amplified the sounds of birds, of his footsteps, of a barking dog.
He moved through the stifling haze separate from the world. Looking not outward, but in toward his deepest self.
His temper still simmered, just below a boil. Was that the price for locking it away all of his life—a restless soul on the verge of eruption, edgy and volatile?
Airing out the soul posed a certain danger. Open that door just a crack and the currents stirred the cobwebs, revealing the shrouded shapes beneath, things he’d fooled himself into believing he could leave behind.
It was growing dark as he neared town. The thickening of people and vehicles all seemed to be flowing in a single direction, toward a large white tent in the center of a firefly-studded field. The canvas top glowed with light from within. A melody rose and fell, distant and broken, yet the scraps he could hear were familiar. He strained to listen. He knew that song. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and could feel his ma on one side and Peter on the other. They’d been in a tent similar to this one, arm to arm with their neighbors, riding the beauty of the music. He’d been too little to know the words, but he’d liked the way all of the voices came together as one sound. He remembered how his insides had grown quiet and calm. He’d been . . . safe.
He opened his eyes and let himself be drawn into the flow of people, across the field and into the airless tent.
“Welcome, brother,” a man said as Henry filed past, and “Welcome, sister” to the woman behind him.
There were no chairs. People crowded close to the stage, shoulder to shoulder, oblivious of the heat. Paper paddle fans with a picture of Jesus bathed in a heavenly glow fluttered below chins, waved over babies. On the stage stood a woman in a white robe, flowing sleeves moving as she led the crowd in song.
Henry stepped out of the slow, steady tide of bodies and stood near the wide opening of the entrance.
Next onstage was what looked to be a family, outfitted with guitar, a banjo, and a tambourine. They did a couple of songs unfamiliar to Henry that set the crowd to clapping and offering shouts of “Hallelujah.”
Then a young girl, maybe ten or eleven, dressed in all white stepped onto the stage, her holy Bible held high over her head. The place got so quiet Henry heard his own breathing.
“Many of you have come tonight for the Lord’s healing. And he will heal you. He
will
heal you. But first, come to Him with your troubles and your sins. Let Him carry your soul to glory so your body may follow.” Her voice was amazingly strong and loud for such a little thing.
“The devil is sin!” She waved her Bible in the air, her voice even louder.
“Amen.”
It seemed Henry’s was the only silent voice.
“The devil is darkness!”
“Amen!”
“The devil is hate!”
“Amen!”
“You must repent for your
sin
!” She smacked her hand against the Good Book. “Spurn
hate
!” Thump. “Shun the
devil
!” Thump. “Yes, brothers and sisters, do this and embrace the word of the Lord, God Almighty.
“Do not fall for the devil’s lies, his denouncement of the Word, his blatant rejection of Adam and Eve and the wonder of God’s creation. ‘
Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature.
’ ”
Her voice had built to a shout. Then it dropped low. “There are those who say God did not make man. Those who try to tell you man came from ape . . .”