The Flying Circus (22 page)

13

T
he creek continued to rise, even after the storm left behind silence punctuated only by tranquil bird-chirping. Henry shivered, unable to believe an hour earlier he’d been suffocated by the heat. He’d tried to dig his knees deeper into the bank, hoping to get better leverage, but had no luck. He could only move his elbows forward about six inches before they jammed into solid dirt. Debris pressed against his forearms, leaving them pinned uselessly over his head.

He tried to wiggle and worm toward his feet, but only wedged his shoulders tighter.

Blind animal panic set in. He yelled for help until his voice started to fail.

He forced himself to stop, to lasso that panic and rein it in.
Use your head. Breathe. In. Out.
Yelling was useless. The nearest farmstead to the Browns’ was only a small bump on the horizon.

Someone will come.
Gil will come.

That brought a slow parade of ways Gil could have died: a cracked skull from a hailstone, impaled by debris, his body lifted and tossed by the tornado, struck by lightning, crushed by a fallen tree. Or was Gil trapped alive somewhere? His return to the field was Henry’s only hope. Unless the farmer came out to check on his cattle. Doubtful it would be in the next little while; Henry had seen the house and barn being hit.

Sooner or later someone would come to check on the Brown family. Later was definitely feeling both more likely and too late. Being
trapped was terrifying, but the complete loss of the sense of time rattled him nearly as much. The only timekeeper he had was the slow, steady rise of the creek up his side and back.

There wasn’t a lot of light, but staring at the exposed roots and rocks less than a foot from his face was starting to set off the crazies again. He closed his eyes, hoping to keep a rope on his bucking panic. The smell of wet earth and water seemed even stronger. Buried alive. His eyes snapped back open.

Not for the first time today, he wished with all of his soul that he’d gone with Cora and left Gil to his self-destructive ways. Being consumed by guilt was preferable to the death he now faced. The water was halfway up his shoulder blade.

Then he heard it. Footfalls.

“Here! I’m here! In the creek! Help!”

The steps came closer. Henry let out a breath of sweet relief. “Under the tree! I’m pinned against the bank. Heeeeere!”

He heard the branches of the fallen tree rustle.
Oh, thank you, God.

Then it grew quiet again. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

No answer.

“Here! Help me! Hurry. The water’s getting deeper.”

He listened carefully for a voice over the rush of the water.

The branches rustled again.

“Can you hear me?” Henry shouted.

Footsteps splashed into the creek.

“Here. West bank. Under the tree.” His voice squeaked the last bit. “Say something!”

Mueooooooooo.
The tree shook.

Henry screamed, the hoarse sound of it bouncing back in his face. He thrashed, his movements restricted and useless. He screamed again. And again.

H
enry walked through the woods near the Dahlgren farm. The hunting rifle Mr. Dahlgren had given him for his fifteenth birthday rested
in the crook of his arm, barrel down, just as Mr. Dahlgren had taught him. Fall leaves called for slow, careful steps. He was hoping to spot the big buck that had been eluding him for two years. That deer hadn’t grown into an eight-point by being stupid. Henry had come home from his last four hunting excursions empty-handed. He could never bring himself to shoot a doe.

He walked into the wind. He’d seen plenty of large tracks along this area for weeks. But the best sign was that he’d found a fresh buck rub on a tree not twenty yards back. A big one.

He slowed with even-more-careful steps.

Sweat beaded on his brow—anticipation, not heat.

Step by step. Minute by minute.

Then there the beast was, in belly-high dry weeds on the far side of a thicket of bush honeysuckle that was dotted with berries that looked like beads of blood. The buck rubbed a tree, working to shed the velvet from his antlers, totally unaware of Henry’s presence.

He quelled his excitement and moved with deliberate slowness, raising his rifle to his shoulder, sighting the deer carefully. Ever since the day he’d received the rifle, he’d practiced, sharpening his skills. One-shot kill. Anything less was cruel.

He slowed his breathing and pulled the trigger.

The buck dropped instantly.

Henry stood stock-still for a disbelieving moment.

Then he trotted toward his kill, pushing through the scrub.

When he looked down, his body went numb. Emmaline’s head grew out of the buck’s body, magnificent eight-point antlers sprouting from her blood-soaked blond hair. A blue hair ribbon clung to the weeds nearby.

Her eyes moved and looked up at him. “What have you done, Henry?”

“Henry?” Pause. “Henry?” Pause. “Hennnnry!”

Henry jerked awake, his heart hammering. It was pitch-black.

“Gil.” It was a whisper. He tried again. “Gil! Here.”

“Henry?” The voice sounded farther away.

The water wasn’t yet hitting his ear. He twisted, trying to cast his voice outward. “Gil! Here! Here!”

“Henry!”

“In the creek. Under the tree. Stuck.”

Footsteps. The branches rustled.

“Where?”

“West bank. In the curve.”

Gil splashed into the water. Henry thought he caught a glimmer of light.

“Here!” he called, hoping the sound of his voice would draw Gil to the right spot.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Just pinned.”

Henry heard more branch rustling and Gil grunting. “Ahhh, Christ.”

“That bad?”

“I need tools. And help.”

“Are the Browns all right? Maybe they can—”

“I’ll be back.”

“Wait!” Henry called stupidly; he wasn’t getting free until Gil got help, but he felt like a kitten being abandoned in an alley.

Gil was already gone.

Henry kept himself from losing his mind by mentally repairing the damage he imagined the Jenny had received. With the felled elm, he knew it had to be more than hail tears in her skin.

A rooster crowed. It sounded close enough to be sitting in the branches over his head. The light grayed before he heard Gil’s voice again. He was talking to another man.

A saw set to wood. It cut through in a few minutes. Then another. Branches.

“I see your feet!” Gil called. “We couldn’t find the felling saw in the barn rubble . . . lucky to find a saw at all. I think we should use the shovel to dig you out. It’ll be faster.”

“Good. Do it!” The water was still rising, but slowly. It tickled his ear now.

After more sawing of branches, and after what felt like a full day of digging, Henry was pulled out by his feet.

Gil fell to his knees in the water and grabbed Henry to his chest. “You gave me a scare, old boy.”

Henry couldn’t believe he was laughing. “Me, too.”

Gil helped him to his feet. Then Henry looked around. In the calm gold light of sunrise, the devastation was sharp and clear. A dead cow was under the fallen tree on the other side of the creek. Barn boards, shingles, a fringed pillow, and an iron kettle were caught in the wire fence, which miraculously stood intact. He looked beyond to where the Jenny should have been and saw only a hole-riddled lower wing.

“Where is she?” Henry looked full circle.

Gil pointed to the far side of the cattle pasture. “There.”

The engine sat nearly upright, exhaust tubes buried in the ground, the propeller facing the sky.

“And there.” He pointed upstream from the wing. The tail lay upside down, held off the ground by the vertical stabilizer. The painted flames now billowed downward instead of up. “And who knows where else.”

Henry’s gaze widened. Gil’s description of the war came to Henry’s mind. Skeletal trees, some twisted and bent over, tops hanging from raw, ropy fibers, while other trees appeared untouched. Half of the barn roof sat in the middle of a wheat field, the other half either carried too far to see or smashed to pieces. A lightning rod stuck out of a nearby tree trunk like an arrow. The tractor had landed on the henhouse. A good portion of the roof was gone from the Browns’ house; the outside wall of one bedroom was missing, leaving it looking like Johanna Dahlgren’s dollhouse. The bed inside the room was as neatly made as morning.

Henry looked to Mr. Brown. “Your family?”

“All fine. We rode it out in the storm cellar.”

The three of them stood there, knee-deep in water, staring at the randomness of the destruction in the deceptively beautiful light of the early-morning sun.

14

G
il’s mourning didn’t set in right away. He and Henry were too busy helping the Browns recover what they could of their possessions and burn what wasn’t salvageable. Days went by with their bodies exhausted, their minds focused on the Brown family, and their eyes averted from the scattered pieces of the Jenny.

The worst job had been dealing with the cow, whose carcass couldn’t be left in the creek to spoil the water. Once they’d cut it free from the tree, Brown’s single mule hadn’t been strong enough to pull it up the slight bank, and the tractor wouldn’t be operable until damaged parts were replaced. They’d had to dismember the poor cow before it could be dragged in pieces to where it was burned. The second that decision was announced, Gil had remembered he’d promised to “help Mrs. Brown clear the henhouse.” Even Henry, used to butchering season, had been thankful there had been only one bovine casualty.

Finally, the time had come to say good-bye to the Jenny.

Henry and Gil salvaged what could be sold: the prop, the engine, the mag, the altimeter, a few cables, the rudder, one wheel. Mr. Brown let them use the mule to wrestle the engine onto a skid and drag it closer to the house, where it would wait to be shipped when Gil telegraphed with the future buyer’s information.

The Jenny’s funeral pyre burned fast and bright as Gil and Henry stood side by side, paying silent homage as they watched the flames dance and the smoke rise. At least this was one death Henry didn’t
have to mourn alone. He would never admit it out loud, but this loss felt as heavy and sad as any other he’d ever suffered—for a
machine
. It was shameful.

But it wasn’t just the machine. He was saying good-bye to yet another life. Would it be good-bye to Gil, too? That airplane had been what bound them together. Without it, without Cora, Gil was sure to fall off the wrong side of that edge he’d been teetering on.

They stood there until the flames died and the embers cooled. It took a surprisingly short time considering the miracle against gravity the machine had wrought and the significance it had in their lives.

The schedule for Hoffman’s Flying Circus was still in Henry’s left pants’ pocket, having suffered only dampness during his entrapment. He wasn’t sure Gil could survive if he was cast back into Cora’s atmosphere; hell, Henry wasn’t sure
he
could survive it.

But she was right, Hoffman would find a new pilot if Henry and Gil waited too long.

Henry finally spoke. “What now?”

That two-word question seemed to hit Gil like a hammer blow. He sank to his haunches and covered his face.

Henry laid a hand on Gil’s shoulder and waited.

The day was at its colorful end, the wide sky streaked with what Cora called “baby colors.” Henry had thought it a contradictory choice of words for her unsentimental nature.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Henry said with a pat on Gil’s shoulder.

Gil shook his head as he rose to his feet. Then he turned and walked out of the field, probably in search of a drink. Henry couldn’t blame him, not this time.

B
y the next afternoon there was still no sign of Gil. Henry went into town in search of him. As he walked, he saw the path of the tornado clearly marked by a trail of flattened crops and twisted trees. On either
side was a scattered-debris field. He passed a broken bed frame a mile from the nearest dwelling, a soggy rag doll, and a family Bible. Hoping the owners were safe, he picked up the doll and the Bible. He’d leave them at the telegraph office when he sent his message to Hoffman and hope they found their way back home.

He tried to quell the niggling fear that Gil hadn’t gone to town for a drink but had kept on walking. Surely he would at least have said good-bye. By the time Henry reached the main drag, he hadn’t been successful in quieting his unease.

He was glad to see that the little downtown had been spared the brunt of the storm. Some shingles were missing from a church steeple, a few tree limbs were downed and windows broken along with hail-dented cars, but all roofs still sat on top of their respective buildings and life appeared to putter along normally. As Henry walked among the ordinary and the undamaged, he felt as if he were finally emerging from a nightmare—or a battlefield.

Henry made his stop at the telegraph office, then went to ask around about Gil. He wasn’t overly worried about lawmen—whom he avoided in general. This small town rocked by the tragedy of the storm was far from Indiana, and Henry Jefferson had been traveling for months without hounds on his heels. He wasn’t safe, he’d never be that. But the heavy hand that had threatened to flatten him seemed much farther away.

On his third query about Gil it was suggested—with an uncomfortable expression—that he check the mercantile.

An attractive war-widow who looked several years older than Gil owned the business. She led Henry back out the front door of the shop and up a narrow staircase that opened between two storefronts. Upstairs was a tidy apartment. Starched doilies rested on the chair backs, and a vase of colorful zinnias sat on a table. An empty liquor bottle and two glasses were on another table. One had lipstick on the rim.

“Forgive the mess. I was running late to open the shop.” She swung open a bedroom door. “He was such a wreck, I couldn’t bring myself to wake him.”

“Sorry for your . . . inconvenience, ma’am.” She didn’t even ask Henry’s name or why he was looking for Gil.

She smiled sadly. “Lots of folks around here have needed some liquid encouragement to get through the aftermath of that storm. No shame in it.”

Apparently, there wasn’t much shame in a lot of things. Gil was sprawled on his belly, one arm hanging over the edge of the mattress. One bare leg stuck out from the sheet. While Henry’s face grew hot—and undoubtedly an unmanly shade of red—the widow didn’t seem the least embarrassed by what had obviously gone on last night.

“I’ll let you roust him out.” She started to leave, then stopped. “He’s really worried about letting you down.” She slipped out the door, and Henry listened to her soft footsteps going down the stairs. He took a bit of satisfaction from the widow’s comment. Cora had been right all along; Gil didn’t want to be isolated, not deep down. Henry wondered if he’d ever get the man to admit it enough to let himself fully live again.

Henry shook Gil awake, got him into a cold bath, and then to the café down the street. As they sat staring at cups of black coffee, Gil finally spoke. “Listen, kid. I—”

“Hey, I’m not your keeper. She seems like a nice lady.” Henry had something else he wanted to talk about. “Guess you’re over that kiss with Cora.”

“That shouldn’t have happened.”

“I won’t argue there.” Henry made himself ask, “So why did you do it?”

“Things were . . . heated.”

“Things have been heated between you two plenty of times before.”

“Listen, it doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”

“It might matter.”

“Why?”

Henry steeled his heart. “Do you love her?”

After the slightest hesitation Gil replied, “No.”

“Then why did you send her away? The truth.”

Gil took a long sip of coffee, then kept his eyes on it after he’d set it back down. “I told you before. She’s going places. You should have gone, too.”

“Well, yeah, now that the Jenny’s gone, that’s pretty damned evident.” Henry stirred cream into his cup. “What happens now? Will you finally go home?”

Gil’s eyes snapped up and Henry saw something he’d never seen in them. Fear. “No.”

“Then what?”

Gil shrugged. “Earn some money. Then find a new plane.”

“What if I told you I could get you back in a plane? Right now.”

“And how would you do that?”

“Hoffman offered you a job. They’re losing a pilot.”

“You mean he offered that when I had a plane to contribute.”

“Yes. But he’s still losing a pilot. Reece Althoff won’t let him miss the opportunity to get you on board, Jenny or no Jenny.”

“What about you?”

“He offered me a job, too.”

Gil scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “You know it won’t work.”

Was he talking about Cora? Or working with a larger crew? In either case Henry’s response was the same. “Only if you don’t want it to.”

“You should go. You can fly the fourth plane for Hoffman. You’re ready. I just can’t—”

“If you don’t love her, it shouldn’t matter. Just let that mistake of a kiss go, like you’re obviously planning on letting the lady in the mercantile go.”

When Gil raised his eyes to meet Henry’s, Henry read the naked truth. This was going to be a whole lot more complicated—and more painful—than he’d imagined.

With no other real options, he’d just have to do as he’d advised Gil. Let go of his own unrealistic feelings for Cora and focus on making his life worth something.

T
he telegram from Hoffman arrived at the Brown farm the next day.

SORRY FOR LOSS OF JENNY-STOP-WELCOME ABOARD-STOP-MEET IN LIMA OHIO 30 AUGUST

If they joined up on the thirtieth, that’d give them three days to practice before the Labor Day show. Plenty of time.

Henry handed the telegram to Gil and waited for his response.

Gil’s eyes narrowed as he read it, then he shot Henry a cold, withering look that, back in the beginning, would have scared him shitless. “You accepted for me.”

“What’s to lose by giving it a shot?” Henry said calmly, holding eye contact. “How much worse off will you be if you decide to leave in a few months—or even weeks? At the very least you’ll have more money in your pocket—that much closer to buying another plane.”

Gil didn’t respond.

“So it
is
Cora.” If Henry was willing to toss his heart under her boots to keep flying, why couldn’t Gil? Henry was willing to take the risk of traveling through Indiana to get there. Perhaps something inside him was as self-destructive as that inside Gil. Only a fool would return to Indiana, where no matter how many months it had been, they weren’t going to forget a murdered girl. Of course, Henry couldn’t very well admit that to Gil as incentive to buck up.

“No.”

“If that’s true, there is no downside in going with Hoffman. You’re going to have to tolerate being around people to earn the money to replace your plane. Why not this, doing something you like that pays better than average? Or I suppose you could just give up and become the guy who used to be a damn good pilot, but now just knocks around romancing lonely widows and drinking himself to death.”

Gil grabbed the front of Henry’s shirt and yanked him until they were nose to nose. Henry didn’t flinch. He stood there with his eyes locked on Gil’s, waiting for this to go one way or the other. Right now he didn’t care which; the monster in the cellar was pounding on the door. Delivering a few punches might feel real good, but he wasn’t going to take the first swing and render that door useless.

Gil’s voice was tight and his teeth gritted when he said, “I thought I told you I don’t like being shanghaied.” He let go of Henry’s shirt and shoved him back a half step.

“Shanghaied!” Henry shrugged his shirt straight. He concentrated on his breaths and held his temper. “Goddammit, I’m not just trying to get you to do this because
I
want it. I will go without you. But you know in your gut this is your best shot. Why in the hell are you fighting it?”

Gil didn’t respond.

Henry started to walk away. “I’m going to buy train tickets. Should I buy one or two?”

He made himself keep walking, counting his steps. Their daredevil money, pooled with what Henry still had in his pockets of his own share, was just enough to buy two day-coach tickets; he’d checked the fare when he’d been in town yesterday. That would wipe them out. If Gil didn’t go, Henry would hand over everything that was left.

Finally Gil called, “Buy two.”

O
nce the train crossed the Illinois/Indiana state line, Henry felt as squirmy as the devil in church. He pulled his hat low, then thought that might make him look suspicious, so he resettled it higher off his face. Gil was snoring in the seat next to him, and Henry wished he could disappear into sleep. His stomach grew more sour with each eastward mile.

He nudged Gil awake to change trains in Frankfort, then had to make a stop in the lavatory to throw up before they boarded the next train. He was glad Gil was too groggy to question Henry’s sprint to
the men’s room. The Nickel Plate line would take them through the most dangerous and most familiar stretch of their journey—north and northeast right through the section of the state where Henry had lived . . . and Emmaline had died.

Just handing his ticket to board challenged his nerves. It was now possible to run into someone who either knew him or recognized him from the newspapers. He kept Gil partially between himself and the man who checked their tickets as they boarded.

“Let me have the seat by the window,” he said when Gil started to sit down first.

“Sure.” Gil seemed to take a real look at him for the first time in hours. “Hey, you’re looking a little peaked.”

“That’s why I want by the window, in case I need air.”

“Hope it isn’t catching.”

“Don’t think you need to worry about that,” Henry responded automatically, then regretted it. But Gil didn’t ask any more questions. A rare moment when Henry was glad of Gil’s silent ways.

It felt as if the train stopped at a depot every five minutes and lingered there an hour before chugging on to the next stop. They rolled into Muncie, the closest station to the Dahlgren farm, still some miles away, and yet smack-dab in the lap of the Delaware County sheriff. Henry got clammy again, his saliva ran hot, but he managed not to be sick.

“Folks,” the conductor said from the front of the car, “we’ll be here for thirty minutes, so if you’d like to get off and stretch your legs, feel free.”

Gil stood. “Coming?”

Henry didn’t dare open his mouth to answer. He shook his head and waved Gil on.

“Want a newspaper or anything? You can catch up on Indiana news.” Was he taunting Henry? Did he suspect?

Four months. Was Emmaline’s murder still making the newspapers?