Authors: Susan Crandall
Her voice, the people, the tent, all faded.
One word kept echoing in Henry’s head:
hate
. Hate was the devil. Disaster must be his child.
When had Henry’s hate started? No one was born with it, were they? When he’d beaten the crumbs and scraps of it back and stuffed it away, had it grown in the darkness like a fungus?
All of the petty childhood cruelties, all of the death, all of the loss—when had he turned all of those corners that led from disappointment, to hurt, to anger, and ultimately to hate?
Looking at the whole of his life, he saw the moment when the real hate started.
If he’d understood the dark, manipulative forces of jealousy, his life on the Dahlgren farm might have been different. But even after his jagged, cutting childhood, he’d been slow to learn too many lessons. At first he’d been deluded—or maybe outright deceived—into believing Mrs. Dahlgren was his only adversary on that farm. It turned out the enemy you didn’t see coming was the most dangerous.
From the outset, the three littlest Dahlgren sisters had been giggly and curious, spying shyly around corners and from behind bushes—against their mother’s admonitions. Over time Henry had coaxed them into the open, using games and kindness the way a person would use a handful of grain to lure a timid but starving fawn. However, the four older girls, with the exception of Emmaline a few days after that first Christmas, hadn’t exhibited much interest in him at all, offering only the occasional sidelong look when they passed at an influenza-avoiding distance in the barnyard. At the time Henry had assumed they were simply more obedient to their mother’s rules than the young ones. An idea that turned out to be laughable.
Once the epidemic had passed, the three little ones openly trailed behind him like puppies. He fished lost shoes out of the mud, retied hair ribbons, and answered endless questions about everything from
where butterflies came from to where their favorite pig had disappeared to during slaughter season. That last one had been tricky, but he’d managed to tell it in a way that didn’t leave them crying over their morning bacon. As they’d grown older, one by one they’d joined the ranks of the distant older sisters. All except the youngest, Johanna, who, up until Henry had been forced to flee, occasionally still spent time with him. She rarely asked questions though. She was self-conscious of her stammer, which hung up most severely on the
J
in her own name. Henry couldn’t blame her for staying quiet. Her sisters pelted her with relentless teasing, and her mother was convinced that a sharp rap on the knuckles at each hung-up consonant would break the offensive habit.
Henry worried about Johanna now that he was no longer there to offer her silent solidarity.
One morning, eighteen months after Henry had moved into the Dahlgren barn, he’d been surprised when Emmaline, the second eldest, stopped as they passed one another as he was headed to roll up the carpets and carry them outside to be beaten. She told him that with the epidemic over she would like them to be friends. Then she pulled a gold chain bracelet from her apron pocket. On it was a nickel-size, gold four-leaf clover. “Keep it in your pocket. It’s lucky. Orphans need luck.”
Henry had barely gotten his stunned “Thank you” out of his mouth before she walked on. He looked down at the shiny charm in his hand. Henry had no idea if it was real gold or not. He looked at Emmaline’s retreating back, feeling as if maybe his luck was turning.
He spent the rest of the day feeling the warm presence of friendship in his pocket.
The next morning Mr. Dahlgren was waiting outside at the barn door. “Young Henry! Do you have something to tell me?”
His tone made Henry’s mouth go fresh-straw dry. Mrs. Dahlgren might consider Henry a farm animal, but Mr. Dahlgren had always favored him; treated him like a son, even if he did live in the barn.
“I don’t think so, sir.”
Mr. Dahlgren frowned and stayed quiet, waiting for an admission.
Yesterday’s chores ran through Henry’s mind. All done. No shortcuts taken. No mistakes that he could think of.
“I don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Do you have Emmaline’s gold bracelet?”
Henry reached into his pocket. When he opened his palm, the charm lay there like a burning accusation.
Mr. Dahlgren’s gaze cut to the kitchen door. For the first time, Henry noticed Mrs. Dahlgren and Emmaline standing there. Emmaline’s shoulders shook with hanky-muffled sobs.
“She said it disappeared from the top of her dressing table yesterday—after you had been in the house to carry out the rugs.”
Henry shot a jittery look toward Emmaline and her mother. On her most charitable days Mrs. Dahlgren’s expression looked as if she suffered from dyspepsia. That day she was red faced with fury. Her fists opened and closed at her sides, looking as if it took all of her restraint not to fly down those back steps and club Henry to death.
Confusion swirled a cold, crackly leafed wind in Henry’s soul. Had Emmaline gotten in trouble for giving it away? Had she lied to lessen her mother’s anger? Why not just ask Henry to give it back?
He faced Mr. Dahlgren and held the man’s gaze with the conviction of the truth. “Emmaline gave it to me yesterday, sir. For luck.”
“Ah, Henry.” Mr. Dahlgren heaved a sad sigh. “What am I to believe?”
The truth!
“I didn’t take it.”
“If you want something, you should come to me. I will make sure you have what you need.”
“I didn’t take it! I would never—”
Suddenly Emmaline was beside them. Her blue eyes glittered with tears and she gasped at the sight of the gold bracelet in Henry’s hand. “Oh, how could you, Henry? After all Papa has done for you—after he took you for his
son
?” That last word held the poison of bitterness. She snaked her hand around her papa’s arm and clung tight. “How could you steal from us?” She sounded as heartbroken as Mr. Dahlgren looked.
“You gave this to me! Right here on this path,” Henry shouted. Hot, shameful tears stung his eyes. “Tell him!” The image of the book lying in the mud came into his mind. He’d thought it had been just a reaction to his newness. Jealousy over the gift.
Emmaline shook her head as if he were a pitiable idiot. “Why would I give it to you? Papa gave it to me for my seventh birthday. It’s my favorite thing in all the world. Right, Papa?”
The disappointment in Mr. Dahlgren’s eyes cut Henry deep.
“I didn’t take it! Honest. Why would I?”
“Please give it back to her.” Mr. Dahlgren’s voice was flat.
Her hand came out, palm up.
Henry dropped the gold clover into it, staring into her eyes, trying to shame her into telling the truth.
She closed her hand around it and turned to walk back to the house. As she did, she gave Henry the tightest,
coldest
smile he’d ever seen.
That day laid the foundation for what was to come. As careful as Henry tried to be, Emmaline somehow always outmaneuvered him, making him appear responsible for taunts and damage to her possessions. Mr. Dahlgren always admonished Henry in a halfhearted way that said he had doubts about his daughter’s claims. Mrs. Dahlgren’s favorite punishment was the only one in her control, the withholding of food.
Henry grew to hate Emmaline in a way he’d never thought possible.
She’d been his nemesis. And in the end, she’d won.
God damn it, she’d won.
H
enry slipped out of the revival tent, no closer to settled than when he’d come in. It seemed anger relived was as powerful as anger in the moment.
A hand touched his arm. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the dark, but he knew it was Cora even before she said his name.
“Did you follow me?” His voice was sharp. Lashing out felt good.
“Jeepers, Henry, what’s eating you?”
He clamped his teeth together and shrugged his arm away. “I just want to be left alone.”
“In a tent crammed with people?”
“Damn it, Cora! Leave. Me. Alone.”
“Come on, Kid. Don’t be mad. I’m sorry I did the ramp. What more do you want me to say?”
He started walking, hoping she didn’t follow.
He heard her trotting along behind. “Well, to be perfectly honest, you surprised me. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
He stopped and spun around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You actually showed some emotion—although I wish it hadn’t been anger with me. But still. Bully for you! Where I come from, nobody says what they’re thinking and certainly not what they’re feeling. And you, Henry Jefferson, you always think before you open your mouth, measure the consequences. You’re afraid for anyone to see inside you.”
He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple. “You make me sound like Gil.”
“No. Gil’s different, a charred and burned shell protecting the soft flesh underneath. But you, you’re just deliberately cautious.” She touched his arm. “Something made you that way.”
“You don’t know either one of us, Cora. This business we’ve got going will work a whole lot better if you leave it that way. Neither of us needs to be unearthed.”
“Oh, come on! I just meant it seems like you’ve been knocked around by life. What deep, dark secrets could a nice fella like you possibly have?”
He looked beyond her. Breathing in. Breathing out. “No secrets here.” In. Out. “And leave Gil alone. We’ve already pushed our luck with him.”
She waved his words away. “I promise I won’t dig into Gil—I kind of like all of that mysterious brooding.”
She was such a silly girl. “Then pretend I’m a mysterious brooder, too.” He sighed and rubbed the throbbing in his temple. “I just want this show to work.”
“Me, too. So, on that score”—she made an
X
over her heart—“no more stunts in front of customers without first perfecting them. Thank you for believing in our show.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Now come back to camp. Gil’s opened a fabulous can of beans.”
He wanted to send her on her way, to spend the night wandering through the darkness on his own. But it was getting late and camp was a couple of long, dark, lonely miles away. Who knew what kind of trouble might find her?
She held on to his arm as they walked, until Henry pulled it away. Everything grated on him, even her touch. For a while he thought she’d at least give him the peace of silence. Then she said, “Do you believe all of that faith healing and Bible banging? Or are you a follower of Darwin?”
He shrugged, hoping his lack of response would discourage talking.
“And that was just a little girl doing the preaching! Not that I don’t think girls can become preachers . . . if that’s what they want. It just seemed she’s too young to know anything about the real world.”
“You’d be surprised what a kid her age could have experienced.”
“Well, I think it’s all theater—ballyhoo. You just don’t come in there blind as a bat and walk out fully sighted because a little girl says so.”
“Hard to say. I left before the healing started.”
“And I don’t think you have to choose between God and Darwin. I mean, what if evolution
is
God’s plan? How are we to
know
?”
“Stop talking. My head hurts.”
“Look there! You said what you thought again. This could be a real breakthrough.”
“I mean it. Shut the hell up.”
She sucked in a little breath of surprise.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
He left her at their field with Gil and walked on into the night. Alone.
8
E
ven though Gil gave a lot of lip service about giving Cora no special treatment, he was obviously keeping their stops on main routes and relatively short distances apart for her motorcycle rides. It drove Henry crazy that neither Gil nor Cora would acknowledge that. They’d been hopscotching from town to town, skipping back and forth across the state line between Illinois and its neighboring states of Iowa and Missouri, having varied success. When a town proved to be a total bust, logic would say Gil should have blamed being tied to a planned route, should have insisted that he could have eliminated it as a stop by flying over and seeing the lack of interest. A couple of places had even had a barnstormer through in the previous month. But after that first complaint, Gil never again mentioned the loss of spontaneity because of the addition of Cora and the motorcycle.
Logic also said, between the amount of badgering he took from Cora and the fruitless stops, he should have dumped Cora and Henry weeks ago. Even more telling of Gil’s deeper feelings was that
MERCURY’S DAREDEVILS
was emblazoned on the sides of his beloved Jenny. Naturally, it had been Cora’s idea. For the first time and only time, she had teamed a little of her charm with her determination to persuade Gil. Plus she’d plied him with some fine moonshine before she’d made her final push. She’d started out with more outlandish suggestions such as pulling a banner behind the plane to advertise (the poor bird’s engine was taxed enough carrying Gil and Henry and a small amount of supplies). It had been a compromise in the end, facilitated by Henry—
who’d also sketched and painted the lettering and some flames on the tail. After his somewhat inebriated agreement, Gil did as always and just ignored the new paint job—approval by abstention.
All considered, Cora was probably right; Gil did want them around. Not that Henry was eager to test the theory.
After the ramp incident and the tent revival, Cora seemed less cocksure of Henry. As she should have been, considering all she didn’t know about him. Still, he felt the loss with a sharpness that surprised him. Oh, she still teased, but something about it was more reserved now, a reluctant wariness showing deep in her eyes. From that first day when he’d pulled her from the water, it had been him and Cora as a team with Gil an essential, yet distant, participant. Now there had been a shift. She showed a new closeness toward Gil. Henry wondered if he’d made a huge mistake in staying away that night, leaving Cora in her wounded mood alone with Gil; for that had clearly been the turning point, the slight shift in her allegiance.
It was done. Like so many other choices Henry had made, it couldn’t be changed. He knew Cora’s distance was for the best. It prevented him from making another foolish mistake.
He’d been distracting himself by focusing all of his mental energy on the airplane. There was something to be said for the uncomplicated nature of a relationship with an inanimate object. In that one single aspect, he understood Gil completely.
The better he got to know the Jenny, the more apparent it became that the main things holding her together were baling wire and a big heap of faith. The wooden and cloth plane was built on an accelerated wartime schedule and was designed to be used only in the short term as a trainer. The old girl was already on borrowed time. A steady stream of ideas paraded through his mind, not just to keep the plane hanging together, but to improve her. All of them required at least some cash, which was coming in at a rather haphazard flow. His wish list was steadily growing.
Henry sat in the rear cockpit as they flew over southern Illinois coal country, readying for his first solo landing. He’d come a long way since he’d first put his hand on the throttle and edged it forward, sending his
heart into double time and taking his breath away—for the first time not from the propeller wash. Gil had informed Henry before they’d taken off that he was as much on his own as if he sat in the plane alone. Sink or swim, the Jenny was in Henry’s hands. As the miles disappeared and the landing neared, his heart hammered as if he’d run ten miles. And he completely forgot to breathe.
If he made a successful solo landing—
please, God
—he could call himself an aviator. Only not in front of Cora.
Part of what Gil had been training him to do since their first trip together was to continually scout the ground for a likely landing place.
Emergency landings don’t give you time to look around; keep that in mind every mile you fly.
Flat as possible.
No cliffs. No big trees. Lakes can be good, but keep in mind, hitting water is no softer than hitting land. Shrubbery, tree stumps, and mature corn crops help dissipate energy and slow you down in a field that’s too short.
Henry had taken the lesson to heart. Whenever he was at an altitude that wouldn’t allow for a long glide, he always knew where he’d put down if the engine quit.
They’d passed over the Marion courthouse and he spotted a likely field for their show. Henry checked the cows below to figure out the wind direction.
Ass end to the wind.
He banked the plane for a low pass to check the field more closely, confirming the wind direction by the movement of the grass. After Tilda, Henry didn’t trust cows.
His hands were sweaty on the control stick and his stomach had tied itself into a knot, simultaneously creating both the worst and the best feeling he’d ever had. The field looked good. He couldn’t decide if he was glad or disappointed. Now that the moment was upon him, he felt totally unprepared—just as Gil had said he would. At least Gil hadn’t trained in a plane that risked someone’s livelihood. Besides, the Jenny wasn’t just a meal ticket to Gil, she was his whole life. And then there was Gil’s actual life.
There wasn’t enough fuel to fiddle around and take another pass. This field looked good, so it was a go.
What if he’d missed something, a tree stump or a boulder in the high grass?
Gil signaled from the front cockpit for Henry to set down.
That helped. Still, confidence in the field was only part of it. He needed confidence in his own ability. Hesitation and second-guessing had no place in the cockpit. Assess. Decide. Execute.
Henry circled and made his approach. He pulled back on the stick a bit, pulling the nose up slightly, setting the pitch for landing. Throttle back. They dropped lower, lower. A crosswind caught the plane, pushing them sideways from the landing spot, heading them for the cornfield on the right.
Destroying crops sets up entirely the wrong tone for negotiations with a farmer.
He fought the crosswind by crabbing the plane, using the stick and the rudder, aiming for the landing spot he’d picked on his pass. The ground was rushing up, the corn like a rolling green sea. They crossed the fence.
Nose up, kill more speed.
Dropping. Dropping. He should be feeling the wheels hit by now. Had he overshot?
He had to get the plane on the ground or he’d be out of room. A safe landing that ended in a fence was no better than a crash landing.
The wheels hit hard. The Jenny bounced into flight again. He had to get that tail skid on the ground. He killed the engine and kept the stick in his lap. The wheels hit again. It was so bumpy it rattled his teeth. The tail finally lit and began to drag and slow them.
What he wouldn’t give for some brakes.
He leaned to the right, looking ahead around the nose and loosened his grip on the stick. They were going to stop with yards to spare.
He, Henry Schuler, homeless orphan, was an aviator. An aviator! Peter wouldn’t believe it. Hell, Henry hardly believed it.
His tense muscles finally relaxed as they rolled toward a stop.
Suddenly the front dropped. The plane nosed down.
The tail’s coming over.
Gravity shifted. Henry was on the upswing of a seesaw.
His lap belt cut in as his body jerked forward. He stopped moving at a downward angle ten feet off the ground.
What the hell happened?
Gil was silent as he pushed himself out of the front cockpit and slid forward off the lower wing to the ground. Henry braced his feet on the rudder bar and unfastened his lap belt, wondering how Gil ever kept his concentration hanging by the thing during inverted flight.
Henry climbed out, disappointment filling his stomach and shame coloring his cheeks.
Words stuck in his throat as he stood staring morosely at the Jenny, her nose in a shallow ditch that had been camouflaged by the grass, her tail in the air.
After a second, Gil slapped him on the back. “Good job, old boy!”
Henry’s horrified gaze cut to Gil. He appeared to be sincere—and he had a purpling goose egg on his forehead.
“I nearly killed your plane.”
“When I was in training, most fellows not only killed the plane on their first landing, but themselves, too. The plane’s still got her tail and wings. You look hale and hearty.” Gil smiled at Henry with what looked like pride in his eyes.
No one had looked at Henry like that since Peter had left home. Henry had almost forgotten what it did to a person’s insides.
“You corrected for that crosswind. You didn’t panic when she hopped. I didn’t see that ditch either. It’s all part of flying.”
Henry’s eyes lit on the splintered prop. “Ah, hell.” He put his hands on his head and walked in a circle. “Damn. Damn. Damn it to hell.”
“We’ll need a new propeller.” Gil’s voice was matter-of-fact.
“How much?”
“Around fifty dollars.” Then he looked at Henry. “Do we have it?”
Henry had become the unofficial accountant, handling the intake, paying for supplies. He even divided their shares at the end of the week—not that there was ever much left to divide. “We do. But it should come out of my share. It might take some time for me to get it covered though.”
“Did we take the money for Cora’s replacement chain out of her cut?”
“No, but—”
“Our shares are after operating expenses. Fixing broken stuff is operating expenses. Besides, we can’t let Cora know you were piloting or she’ll be all over me to teach her. A woman on a motorcycle is bad enough. A woman aviator . . .” Gil visibly shuddered.
Henry didn’t think now was the right time to mention Cora had ideas for getting airborne that had nothing to do with piloting. Gil was going to be resistant enough, and Henry had a feeling Cora was right, they were going to have to step up their act if they were to keep drawing a crowd. The barnstormer who’d beat them in harvesting several towns had a wing walker; when Mercury’s Daredevils arrived, they were already second-rate. In the exhibition business your act had to provide the most thrills or you were doomed.
“We’ll telegraph for the propeller when we get to town,” Gil said. “Might take a week to get here. Maybe a little less, since we’re right on a rail line.”
“You and Cora shouldn’t get nicked because of my—”
Gil’s eyes nailed Henry with their fierceness. “Before you started working on the plane, I’d never gone three weeks, let alone six, without something grounding me. I count us money ahead. And Cora had better not say a word about it. She needs to learn the money has to keep what we have glued together, not buy more to maintain or line our pockets.”
Henry didn’t think a desire for money fueled Cora’s wanting a bigger crowd, a more daring performance. If she just wanted money she’d marry a Father Time. No, it was something else entirely. She seemed to need excitement and the adoring eyes of strangers the way most people needed a good square meal; not as an aspect of vanity, but a necessary part of survival.
No sense ruffling Gil’s feathers by saying that aloud right now either. “So now what?”
“We’re going to need help getting the tail down and pulling her out of this gully.”
Just then, Henry noticed a middle-aged man with a thick mustache trotting across the field toward them. He was red faced and huffing
when he reached them. “Ever—body—all—right?” He stopped, put his hands on his knees and sucked in a few deep breaths. “I seen that tail go up and knew you was in trouble.”
“Fine,” Gil said. “Could use some help getting out of the ditch.”
“Need more’n me? Got my son back at the barn.”
“Him, too.”
The man nodded. “Name’s Gather. Hugh Gather.”
“Gil. This is Henry.” Henry nodded at the man and Gil asked, “This ditch run all the way across?”
“Nope. Only ’bout ten feet long. You managed to hit it right square, you did.”
Henry groaned.
Gil gave him a that’s-how-it-goes look. To Gather, Gil said, “We’re here to sell rides. We’d like to use your pasture. We’ll give you a percentage of the take.” Gil’s approach, although short and to the point, had certainly improved. Henry felt a twinge of uselessness. “And we’ll
all
make more money if you keep this little incident to yourself.”
“I didn’t see no plane get tipped in the ditch. No, sir.” Gather stuck out his hand. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Bloody Williamson.”
“Bloody Williamson?” Gil and Henry asked together.
“Don’t you folks read the newspaper? Mine trouble. Strikes. Been nothin’ but beatin’s and guns and lynchin’ round here for quite a spell. Had ourselves a regular massacre of scab foreigners last year. Course, bootleggers is still a problem. But the Ku Klux Klan’s gettin’ involved in the fracas, cleanin’ things up.
“Got me a cousin over to Ohio writes me that every paper in the whole country’s callin’ this Bloody Williamson, on account of it’s Williamson County—and all the killin’.”
Henry looked at Gil, wishing like hell that he hadn’t just ruined their chances to get out of here. And that Cora weren’t riding all alone on that motorcycle.
“Oh, now, don’t look like that, boy,” Gather said to Henry. “Most of the trouble’s been up Herrin way. And unless you’re scabs, bootleggers, or gangsters, you’ll pro’bly be just fine.” Gather winked.
Henry said, “I need to get to town. Cora’s alone.”
“Oh, now, I’m just joshin’ ya,” Gather said. “Ain’t all that bad right now. And the Klan’s all about protectin’ womanhood and virtue. That’s why they come, to rout out the lawlessness, get rid of them bootleggin’ foreigners that habituate to wine. Klan’ll make this a place for decent Americans to live again.”