Authors: Susan Crandall
“Sure you’re okay?” Henry’s own eye throbbed. He figured it for a shiner.
The cow walked between them and stepped into the pond. Henry dodged, but her flitting tail caught his cheek. “You’ve got a real sassy attitude there, Tilda.”
The kid laughed, then started coughing again.
There was a whir as the plane, now on the ground, bumped along the rough pasture coming toward them. The propeller and engine sounded different from when it was airborne. Henry looked through the trees, eyes and heart drawn to the machine. The plane swung sideways before the engine shut off. It took a second for the propeller to come to a jerky stop.
Henry got up and went to get a better look. He might never see an airplane again. A clump of green leaves stuck in the tail skid. That pilot couldn’t have cut it any closer.
“Dear God, is he okay?” the pilot shouted. He was out of the plane by the time Henry reached the wingtip. The man’s leather helmet was in one hand and his goggles hung around his neck. His face was sooty. He looked like a reverse raccoon.
“Says he is.” Henry heard the pilot thrash through the trees behind him, but kept his eyes on the plane, listening to the pops and clicks as
it began to cool. The upper wing had a wider span than the lower; the two were tied together with wood poles and a whole lot of wires and turnbuckles. The entire plane looked as if it were held together by wires running in all sorts of angles, above the wing, between the wings, between the body and the tail. The purpose of the half-circle hoops under the tips of the bottom wings was a mystery.
He reached out slowly, laying his fingertips reverently on the gray fabric of the wing.
“Damned idiot!” the pilot shouted. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”
“Pretty smart talk from a fella who’d rather crash his plane than lose a race!”
That voice sounded even younger than Henry had thought.
“
You’re the one
who crashed—” The pilot’s words cut off. “Ho-ly hell.”
Henry turned. The kid had pulled off the leather helmet and was standing with hands on hips. Not a kid. A
girl
. . . with a long, brown braid . . . wearing
trousers
and lace-up knee boots . . . racing like the devil on a motorcycle.
“What?” she asked, raising her chin. “Embarrassed to be beaten by a woman?”
“The one whose machine ends up mangled after a tie is the loser,” the pilot said. “And a fool to boot.”
“You both look like idiots to me,” Henry said as he walked toward them, wringing the water out of the hem of his shirt, his shoes squishing. “If I had either one of those machines, I sure wouldn’t treat them like that.”
They both turned to Henry and said, “Well, you
don’t
.”
Henry stopped short.
“Sure you’re not hurt?” The pilot sounded more disrespectful than worried, which rubbed Henry the wrong way.
“Yes, I’m sure! Too bad the motorcycle didn’t fare as well.” Her voice slid down a steep hill from defensive to sad. “My brother wouldn’t like it.”
“You have a brother who lets you get out on that thing and do dangerous stunts like this?” The pilot had a point.
“I said he
wouldn’t
like it. He’s dead.”
“If his judgment was anything like yours, he was probably killed on that motorbike.”
Henry cringed.
Who talks to a girl like that?
“His was worse actually.” A whole lot of I-dare-you
was in her voice. “Signed up and got killed by German mustard gas.”
German.
Familiar guilty dread crept over Henry. Would the stink from that word ever leave him?
The pilot sucked in a breath as if he’d been gut-punched. After a few seconds he said, “Sorry. I’m an ass.”
“Obviously.”
It got quiet again.
While those two stood and stared at one another, Henry went to check the motorcycle.
HENDERSON
was written in gold letters across the rectangular gas tank. He wasn’t familiar enough with motorcycles to tell if it was an expensive model. The front fork looked okay, hard as that was to believe. The front wheel was tweaked too far to rotate, its fender twisted. The chain drive remained in place, even though the guard had been ripped half off and would flap like a broken wing once the motorcycle got moving.
He reached down and grabbed the handlebars. When he pulled to right the cycle, his feet slipped in the mud and he landed on his backside.
Tilda mooed loudly, making sure the pilot and the girl looked Henry’s way. That cow was really itching to turn into a side of beef.
“Now who looks like an idiot?” the girl said.
The pilot walked toward Henry and gave him a hand up. “Charles Gilchrist. Call me Gil.”
“Henry S—Jefferson.”
“What’s the
S
stand for?”
Stupid.
“Sam-uel.” All the way with the red, white, and blue.
Gil turned toward the girl, his voice sounding the slightest bit apologetic. “And you?”
“Cora Haviland—of the New York Havilands.” The way she said her name made Henry think he should have heard of her family—as if she were a Carnegie, Ford, or Rockefeller. Henry didn’t know anything about society, so he glanced at Gil. He didn’t look as if her name meant anything to him either.
She nodded toward the cow. “You’ve met Tilda.”
Henry swiped his forehead again and felt the slime. “Unfortunately.”
He and Gil got the motorcycle up on its wheels. It was like wrestling a boar hog. No wonder he’d fallen on his ass.
Cora took it out of gear. Gil lifted the bent wheel and they rolled the cycle on its rear tire to the tree line and leaned it up against a trunk. That’s when Henry realized the flat-bottomed, U-shaped piece of metal on the ground near the tree row must have been a stand that could be rolled under the rear wheel to hold the cycle upright. He went over and picked it up. He didn’t see how it could be repaired, but hooked it under the seat anyway, so it stayed with the motorcycle.
“Not sure how you’re going to get it home,” Gil said.
“Is it far?” Henry asked.
“A mile or so. But we can’t just go dragging it up the lane.” She shot a challenging look at them, as if she was daring them to argue about the
we
part. “Mother thinks it’s long gone.”
If her mother didn’t know about the motorcycle, how did Cora explain dressing like that?
Gil didn’t look confused at all. He just raised a brow. “Quite the rebel, are you?”
“Flyboy, you have no idea.”
C
ora insisted that taking the motorcycle home by way of the road was out of the question. Only an approach from the back of the barn wouldn’t risk being seen. Whatever way they went, Henry figured it was going to be a whole lot easier to move the cycle if that front wheel turned. He tugged on the fender and straightened it enough to allow the wheel to pass through. Then he picked up a thick, downed tree limb
and tried to lever the rim until it was true enough to spin. Gil stood off to the side with his arms crossed, telling Henry it was a waste of time. Which turned out to be right.
“Do you have any ideas?” he asked Gil.
“Too heavy for the three of us to carry any distance.” He glanced at the sky, impatience on his face. Then he looked at Cora. “If you keep this thing in the barn, your father must know you have it. Maybe he could bring a wagon and the three of us men could lift it in.”
“He’s dead, too.”
Henry couldn’t believe how matter-of-fact she was when she talked about her war-killed brother and her dead father. Maybe the crash had knocked her head and she didn’t know what she was saying. She was a girl, after all. The Dahlgren girls cried over everything: baby birds fallen from the nest, moths trapped in spiderwebs, mud on their dresses. They even got weepy when anyone mentioned the name of a barn cat that had been trampled by a mule years before. From his first day on that farm, Mrs. Dahlgren had preached to Henry that girls had delicate sensibilities and it was every male’s duty to protect them. One of Henry’s jobs had been to scout the chicken yard and henhouse before the girls went to fetch the eggs in the morning, just to make sure no foxes had raided and left a bloody trail of chicken guts.
He was starting to think chicken guts wouldn’t even make Cora blink.
“Well, then,” Gil said, “I say we park it in this tree row for tonight, out of sight. Miss Daredevil here can get some help and haul it home tomorrow.”
“Hey!” Henry said. “She’s just a girl. We have to help. Besides
you’re
the reason she wrecked.”
“Just a girl!” Both Cora and Gil said. Henry wondered how two people who’d barely met could chime in with the exact same words twice in less than fifteen minutes.
Cora’s mouth snapped closed, as if she realized she was starting to argue against what she wanted to happen.
Gil looked to be gritting his teeth. “Look.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “She wrecked because she used poor judgment. Women and machines don’t mix. Who would have thought a
girl
would be out here tearing around a farm field on a motorcycle? This”—he shifted his finger to the motorcycle—“is
not
my fault. And in about forty minutes, I’m going to lose the light and be stuck in this pasture until sunrise tomorrow. Which will be
her
fault.”
“Ducky, then.” Cora sounded as if she were agreeing with good news. “You’ll have all night to help us get this back to the barn.”
Henry looked at the sinking sun. “Where were you heading? You from around here?”
“I’m not
from
anywhere, but I need to get to the next sizable town sooner rather than later.”
“Why?” Cora asked. “The day’s almost over anyway.”
“I need people in a number greater than the two of you and gasoline for what I do. County seats are the best bet.”
Cora looked puzzled. “A business that requires people and hooch; now there I can see lots of possibilities. But people and
gasoline
? What exactly
do
you do?”
“Barnstorming.”
Henry didn’t want to show his ignorance, so he kept quiet.
“What in the Sam Hill is that?” Cora asked. “Got anything to do with bootleg?”
Even out in the country, enough people ignored the Volstead Act that it barely seemed like a crime.
“No.” Gil gave her a scowl—Henry was beginning to think that was the man’s normal face. A weary, angry tension steadily vibrated under his skin.
“So what is it?” Cora asked.
“I buzz over a town, do a few stunts to get people’s attention, then find a field to land in. The curious always come.”
“For what?” Henry felt bolder now that Cora had admitted she didn’t know what barnstorming was, but one look at her face said she’d already figured it out.
“Rides,” Gil said. “Five dollars for ten minutes. If they want a loop or a barrel roll, it’s extra.”
Five dollars!
No wonder he needed a town full of people—bankers and lawyers and the like. Henry’d give his right arm to fly in that thing, but five dollars was something he couldn’t imagine ever having to spare.
Cora tilted her head. “You make enough kale to live on just by selling a few rides?”
Gil made a face that wasn’t quite a smile. “I make enough to keep my plane in the air. That’s all I need.”
“So where do you plan to sleep tonight?” she asked.
“Camp, like always.”
“Well, Aunt Gladys’s arthritis says it’s going to rain. If you help me get this motorbike back to the barn, you can sleep there.” Cora raised a brow. “
And
you can come in for dinner. I’m sure I can talk my uncle into letting you use the field for your barnstorming, too.”
The thought of a hot meal nearly made Henry cry like the Dahlgren girls.
Gil looked at the sky.
“Sounds like a good deal, Gil.” Henry tried to keep the needy hope out of his voice. “You won’t get far before dark anyway.”
Gil stood there looking stubborn. “Not enough people around here to make this pasture worthwhile,” he finally said.
“But you’re already here,” Cora said. “Why not cash in before you move on? I know
I’d
like a ride, so you have your first customer already.”
“What about you?” Gil asked Henry. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“I’m on my way to Chicago. Got a job waiting. I could use a place to sleep tonight.”
Inside.
Where no one will find me.
“Your uncle’s name is Haviland?” Not one Henry was familiar with, but what if it wasn’t Haviland and Cora’s uncle knew Anders Dahlgren?
“No. It’s Fessler. Aunt Gladys is Father’s older sister.”
Henry nodded. Fessler was just as unfamiliar as Haviland.
Gil looked at Cora. “You’re sure your uncle will go along?”
“Ab-so-lute-ly.”
“All right. Deal.”
Henry’s mouth started to water. But his hopes for a quick meal were squashed when Gil said they had to tie down the plane before they could leave it. He retrieved a cross-peen hammer, three lengths of rope, and a couple of stakes from the plane.
Cora watched them with her hands on her hips. “Afraid it’ll take off without you?”
The thing was designed to ride on the wind.
She
said weather was coming in. Gil was right, women and machines didn’t mix.
Gil gave a head shake and went on about his business. Henry didn’t feel it was his place to explain.
Gil finished tying the tail rope to the trunk of a nearby tree. Then he wiped his hands on his thighs. “That should do it.”
Cora nudged Henry’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Kid.”
Kid? She looked eighteen, nineteen at most. But he kept his mouth shut. Right now, the less said, the less likely questions would be asked.
He focused on supper. During his time on the Dahlgren farm he’d forgotten how to live hungry.
G
il carried the front of the motorcycle by the bent wheel while Henry pushed from the rear, feeling as if he were herding a reluctant donkey. Cora walked alongside, steadying the balance. Tilda followed them all the way across the pasture to a back gate that led to a cornfield. When Cora closed the gate behind them, the cow bellowed like an abandoned kid.