The Flying Circus (28 page)

She rubbed her arms and he draped his jacket over her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She pulled it closed around her. “I honestly don’t know. He set off something inside me. But to be perfectly honest, I have spent so many years fighting
against
things, figuring my way
around
things, that I’m not sure how to let myself just
feel
.” She stopped and faced him. “Does that make any sense at all?”

“It does to me.” Then he asked the question he knew he must, ignoring the one his heart wanted answered. “Are you going to be able to work with him?”

“Of course. Why would you even ask such a thing?”

“No romantic hoo-ha, remember? If the tension between you two gets under Jake’s skin, someone will have to go.”

“There was nothing
romantic
about me and Gil. It was all . . . fire.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s worse.”

“Well, stop worrying. I’m not an idiot. And wedding vows have a way of dousing that kind of fire.”

He was fairly certain if the fire between Cora and Gil had been left to burn without the suffocation of Gil’s wedding vows, it would have blazed bright and hot, leaving at least one of them in ashes. Flames
were damned dangerous. When he blinked, he saw Emmaline’s blue hair ribbon snagged on a low limb, fluttering in the breeze, its innocence a horrible contrast to the violence that followed.

He shook the image out of his head.

“I just wish I knew why he didn’t tell me right away,” she said. “Why he let me . . . why he let this thing between us continue.”

Because he couldn’t bring himself to kill the one thing that made him feel alive.
“There is a lot going on inside him that has nothing to do with you.” Henry realized too late the sharpness of his tone.

Her eyes jerked to meet his, and a little of that fire flashed in them. He couldn’t blame Gil for wanting to be consumed by it.

“I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” He decided to put a final bucket of water on those embers just in case she had second thoughts about fanning new life into them. “They have a child.”

Her eyes flashed again. “That doesn’t make him any more or less married.”

“No. I suppose not. I don’t know why—”

“Henry! I only brought it up because I wanted you to know that it didn’t amount to more than a few moments of craziness. It’s over and done. I don’t want it to mess up everything. When the season starts again, we’ll all go back to the way things were.”

“All right. I’ll stop worrying.” And he should. But a blanket of disappointment settled upon him.
The way things were
.

“Good. Now, let’s go dance before the band packs up for the night.”

By the time they reentered the ballroom, the band had shifted to more subdued music. Cora led Henry by the hand to the center of the crowd. She turned to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what I’d do without you, Henry. Thank you for being here with me.”

They started to dance.

Be happy your family will, for now, remain intact. As long as Gil comes back.

It was a fear he’d refused to give voice to. But it was a possibility. If Gil didn’t come back, would it change things between Henry and Cora? He felt traitorous just thinking the question.

He concentrated on the feel of her hand in his and focused on tonight, on Cora and the Hollywood-induced idea of a make-believe starlit future.

As the sway of the music continued and the night grew deep, she worked her way closer until her head rested on his shoulder and her body pressed against his. They shuffled in the same square foot of floor for an eternity, his cheek against her forehead, the rich and the famous fading away entirely.

20

S
aturday morning Henry and Cora took the electric trolley and went to a bakery that looked like a Dutch windmill for doughnuts and coffee. Cora was so eager to get to Santa Monica that she could barely eat.

“Hey,” he said. “Us getting there isn’t going to make the air meet start any earlier. Relax.” He finally gave up on his last doughnut because her bouncing leg was shaking the table, slopping his coffee over the rim of his cup.

They hopped on a Red Car that was packed to the gills and arrived at Clover Field just before the gates opened, bought their tickets, and went in. The first thing that struck Henry was the size of the crowd, bigger than any he’d seen for the flying circus. And the field itself was something. An actual
air
field, with smooth runways and three large hangars. It gave aviation a sense of permanence.

Three forty-foot-tall, black-and-white-checkered pylons laid out the triangular race course. The center pylon was set closer to one end than the other, making one end turn just short of a complete reversal of direction and the other end a little wider. The turn at the center pylon was wide and looked fairly easy. An orange wind sock sat atop each of them. Henry realized just how low the pilots would be racing. Better for spectators. More dangerous for fliers.

Cora used her charm and their ties to aviation to get them past the ropes and onto the flight line, where they could talk with the pilots and Henry could check out the planes. The poster had said the racers hit nearly two hundred miles an hour. He wanted a good close look at
machines capable of such speeds. What kind of props were they using? What engines? How were they maximizing the horsepower?

Inside one of the hangars, he struck up a conversation with a man named Cliff Henderson, a Nash automobile dealer in Santa Monica. An avid pilot, he offered a free plane ride with every car purchase. Even before Henry learned another thing about the man, he knew Henderson was an expert at promotion. It turned out he was even better than Henry imagined. Henderson had organized a group of stunt fliers, the Black Falcons, that performed at Clover Field almost every weekend and always drew a crowd. Imagine that. A fixed-base operation that drew a steady crowd. It gave Henry hope for roots someday. The downside was that it would have to be some place with a large population, not exactly what he thought of when he dreamed of a home.

“You know we’re launching an around-the-world flight from here this coming year. It’s going to help put Santa Monica on the map as an aviation center,” Henderson said. “Army crews. Going to be flying modified DT-2s, Donald”—he motioned to the large Douglas Aircraft building at the west end of the field—“is calling them Douglas World Cruisers. History
right here
, young man.” Someone across the hangar whistled and motioned that he needed Henderson. He nodded to Henry before he walked away and called over his shoulder, “History!”

History. Henry wasn’t used to its treating him kindly. Henderson had said that carrying passengers was the next big thing—for real travel, not just for the experience. Seeing Douglas Aircraft’s large building and this crowd made him realize aviation had a real future beyond barnstorming. Maybe Henry was on the right side of history for once. He just had to make sure he looked ahead and adapted to that future before it ran over him.

What if he was free and clear to choose? Would he continue to live a gypsy life? Or would he pick a place to settle, to design and build his own planes? Sooner or later all of the old army-surplus planes would be gone, and then the market would open up. Maybe he could set up an operation like Clover Field somewhere in the Midwest. Give flying lessons.

Foolish thoughts. He would never be free and clear to choose. Not unless he did something about it.

Cora had been unwilling to stand still while Henry talked to Henderson and had ventured off on her own. She came back so excited she could barely string a sentence together. “You won’t believe it! I just got a man from Fox News to agree to come to Mississippi and film the midair plane transfer. This is going to be so good for the circus! He said with war veterans and a woman in the show, he was sure he could get the newsreel into the theaters—at least in the Midwest and South.” She flung her arms wide. “Look around! This crowd just proves how wild people are for aviation!”

“They’re filming here?” Henry looked around.

“Of course! Airplanes are big news.”

He made a mental note to keep a wary eye out for a cameraman cranking away.

The aerobatic competition was the first event of the day. Henry watched pilots fly much better planes than Gil’s Jenny, performing maneuvers he’d seen Gil do every bit as well, if not better. Henry wondered if he’d be able to talk Gil into entering one of these—maybe Jake would let him use one of the circus planes. There was a cash prize. Gil could use it to help replace his Jenny. And Jake could use the win to promote the prowess of the circus pilots.

During the break between the aerobatics and the races, Henry and Cora stopped at a vendor and bought sandwiches and bottles of Moxie—“guaranteed to produce vim and vigor.” Henry worried it might just send Cora flying without a plane. They sat in the shade of a wing to eat. “If you don’t slow down, you’re going to choke to death,” he said to her.

“No time to sit here and lollygag. I need to find out as much as I can from these racers before they start.”

“I doubt they’re going to be overly interested in talking until after the race. You know how you are before we do a show. All concentration and snippy answers.”

“But what if they leave before I get a chance?”

“Cora. Easy. We haven’t even seen a race yet. It might not be anything you’ll want to pursue after you do.”

“Speed. Danger.
Competition
. Trophies. Cash winnings. What’s not to like?”

“My guess is cost might fall into that category.”

The announcer called the first racers to their planes.

Cora tossed her lunch in the trash. “Come on! We want to be right on the flight line.”

Henry drained his soda and followed her.

They found a spot not far from one of the checkered pylons at the end of the field, where the planes would jockey for position as they circled as tightly as possible.

Two Jennies taxied to the end of the runway. They cut power back to idle at a white line. One wheel was chocked on each plane, on a rope that would pull them free simultaneously. The man with a hand on the rope watched a man just in front of the planes holding a flag. Henry assumed the eyes of the pilots were on the flag, too.

The flag went up. The chocks were pulled. The flag dropped. The planes throttled forward.

The roar of the engines got Henry’s blood moving faster.

Cora bounced on the balls of her feet, her hands fisted in front of her waist.

The planes got airborne, one slightly before the other. The announcer said the race would consist of three laps around the course. The checkered flag would be dropped at the halfway point in the straightaway after the third complete lap.

As Henry watched the planes make the first turn, the danger of pylon racing was starkly clear. It wasn’t just the speed and the low altitude. Both planes needed to hug the turn as tightly as possible, which set one slightly lower than the other; or banking just to the outside. The pilot with the higher or closer line was completely blind to the location of the other craft. It was nerve-racking just to watch. He felt confident that if Cora had any feel for flying at all, she’d see how short her skills fell.

By the third lap, the planes were spaced, reducing the chances of a mishap.

He looked at Cora, hoping to see resignation, or at least trepidation. Instead, euphoria bloomed on her face.

“That is insanity,” he said, jabbing a finger toward the pylon. “Pure and simple.”

“I want to do it!”

“Your flying skills aren’t nearly good enough.”

“But they will be. As soon as we get back to Mississippi, I’ll start to train. I have some of the best pilots in the country to teach me, after all.”

“And what are you going to race?”

“I’ll figure it out. And you’ll be my mechanic, won’t you? I just know you can make any plane competitive.”

“You overestimate my skills. And yours.”

“Bushwa! We’ll start with local races, little ones. Then we’ll work our way up to the Pulitzer Trophy.”

“Those are some big aspirations, lady.”

“What’s the point of little ones?”

The next two racers were taking off. Cora and Henry turned their attention to the field.

This race was closer than the first, planes and pilots evenly matched, lifting off wingtip to wingtip. On the second lap, Henry saw disaster coming right before it happened. As the planes came out of the sharpest pylon turn, the lower plane lifted into the higher. Both planes tumbled out of control. Henry shoved Cora to the ground, throwing himself on top of her. Bits and pieces rained down. Sharp blows landed on his head, his calf, his shoulder. The ground shook as one ship met the earth. Henry looked from under his arm. One plane was a disintegrating comet of fire tumbling down the flight line. A large chunk of the other had landed directly opposite him, about twenty yards away.

The pilot was slumped forward in what was left of the fuselage and engine, not moving. Licks of fire were starting; they wouldn’t stay licks
for long—nothing was more flammable than the dope on the skin of a plane.

Henry jumped up and sprinted to the wreckage. The heat was already building when he vaulted onto the stub of lower wing. He grabbed the pilot’s shoulder and jerked him back to release the lap belt.

Henry was too low to get any leverage to pull out the man’s dead weight. Not enough was left of the turtleback to climb on. He grabbed the edge of the cockpit and jumped in. Pain stabbed his left arm. He looked down and saw a wood splinter the size of a carrot sticking out of his shoulder. The fire was getting hotter.

He straddled the man’s legs, grabbing him under the arms and heaving him up. It felt as if someone were ripping the muscle from the bone in his left arm.

Two other men reached the plane. They grabbed the pilot and pulled him the rest of the way out. The backs of Henry’s calves felt as if he’d backed into a woodstove. He vaulted over the side and hit the ground running, putting distance between himself and the possible explosion.

The pilot was safely away, on the ground, surrounded by people. Cora wasn’t one of them.

Henry looked around. Cora was facedown right where he’d left her. A few other people were down, clutching wounds, screaming, bleeding.

“No. Nononononono.” He regained his senses just before he yanked her up into his arms. He looked for wounds, blood.

None.

Moans and yelling and chaotic motion surrounded them.

He turned her over, slow and easy, checking for injury.

“Cora!” He patted her cheeks. “Cora!”

He scooped her up, ignoring the firebrand in his shoulder, and carried her toward the ambulance that had raced up and was loading the pilot. Henry hadn’t taken two steps when a whoosh of noise and heat came from behind him.

He kept moving.

The rear doors on the ambulance were closing as he got there. “Wait! Wait, goddammit!”

A white-clad man started toward the driver’s door and kept moving. “We gotta get this one to the hospital. They’ve called for another ambulance.” Then he finally looked at Henry. “You look worse off than her. Better sit down.”

Henry kept walking.

“Y
ou’re quite a celebrity,” the silver-haired nurse in a starched, white dress and pointy-winged cap said as she finished securing Henry’s shoulder bandage. During the fishing of splinters out of his muscle and cleaning the wound, he’d passed out. He squinted at the clock. Apparently for a good fifteen minutes. “There are five reporters out there waiting to talk to you.”

“Can you get rid of them?” He started to sit up, but she put a hand on his good shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Too late for modesty. You’re already a hero—even if a reluctant one. Every nurse in the hospital has been flittering around here to get a glimpse of the man who climbed into a burning plane and carried an unconscious woman a half mile with a wooden stake stuck in his shoulder.”

“The plane was barely on fire when I climbed in.” And he doubted he could have carried Cora another step when a man near one of the hangars had guided Henry to his car and driven them to the hospital.

The nurse gave him a sidelong look. “Well, your singed trousers and the blisters on your calves say different.” She shrugged. “We’ll all get to judge for ourselves soon enough. The fella from the newsreel is out there, too. He got it all on film. Said he couldn’t have better footage if he’d been shooting a moving-picture scene. You pulling that pilot out, then walking away with the lady in your arms while the fire billowed behind you. I, myself, can’t wait to see it!” She nodded to the white enameled basin filled with bloody cloths and the shard of wood. “Want to keep that for a souvenir?”

“No, ma’am.”

Cora appeared in the doorway, a nurse right behind her saying, “Miss, please. The doctor said for you to rest.”

“I’m fine.” Cora held an ice pack to the darkening bruise on her chin and jaw.

The nurse looked torn between picking her up and carrying her back to bed, and hoping she collapsed right where she was and knocked herself out again.

The silver-haired nurse went to the door and put a hand on the other nurse’s shoulder. “We’ll leave you two alone for a bit.” She looked at Henry. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Don’t even try to get up yet. The stitches will need to come out of that shoulder and your head in about a week.”

His fingers went to the back of his head and felt a shaved spot. He hadn’t even noticed the cut, but the back of his shirt, on the table near the basin with the splinter in it, was soaked in blood. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Cora came close. “Next time you feel the need to save me, don’t.” She wiggled her jaw. “I feel like I’ve been coldcocked.”

“You have.” By the time Henry, with Cora in his arms, had climbed in the car near the hangar, her eyes had begun to flutter. By the time they stopped in front of the hospital, she was insisting she could walk on her own. He’d carried her in and was greeted by a flurry of nurses. He refused to let them take her from him, sticking with her throughout the doctor’s examination and pronouncement that she was fine except for Henry’s having knocked her out when he shoved her to the ground. Only then did he leave her and have his own wounds looked at.