Authors: Susan Crandall
His life collapsed in on him in that instant. He started shaking all over. It stunned him when he realized it was from anger.
Cora was doing him another kindness. Or was it an act of pity?
No. She knew nothing of his past. When she did, it
would be
pity. Or would she hate him for his heritage, his actions, or his lies?
“Henry?” She took the gift off his lap. “Lie back.” She offered him a sip of water, then put her hand over his clenched fist. “You need to rest.” Her other hand stroked his brow. “Shhh. Just close your eyes.”
He did, because he didn’t want to look at her, torn as he was between shoving her away and burying his head in her shoulder and sobbing like a child.
22
C
ora honored Henry’s request to be alone. He’d hurt her feelings. He needed to apologize. He would. After he’d slept awhile. After he’d locked that monster back in its cellar. Why had her kind gesture, the simple offering of a Christmas gift, set off such a flood of resentment?
He fell asleep with his eyes on that ribbon-tied box sitting on the chest of drawers, feeling as if it were just another boy chasing him with a stick, trying to kill Heinrich the Hun.
When the door opened a few hours later, it was Nell, not Cora. “Now that you can eat, we need to keep you filled up, build up your strength. I thought it’d be easier for you this way. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it the first time.” She nodded to the tray, carrying a stoneware coffee mug. It made Henry think of Gil’s young mother covered in dust from the pottery. Life had treated him as harshly as it had treated Henry, maybe more so. Henry wondered what was happening in Ohio. Was Gil finally coming to terms with his guilt? Was he finding a way to have a life with the family he supported but did not take part in?
With his right arm, Henry got himself and his pillows arranged so he could sit against the headboard. He liked it that Nell stood and waited patiently, not fussing and fluttering to move his pillows for him. He picked up the mug with a “Thank you.” The broth was nice and salty and not so hot that it scalded.
“Cora had to go into town. She’ll be back in time to bring you your supper. Do you want me to sit for a bit?” She brushed her hands on her
apron. Bits of her hair were escaping from where it was put up at the back of her neck. A flour smudge was on her cheek. Henry smelled bread baking.
“No. Thank you, though.” He was enough of a burden to her already. “I’m going back to sleep when I finish this.”
She smiled. “Good. That’s exactly what the doctor said you should do for the next few days.” She started toward the door. “Well, then. Call out if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Nell. Reece is a lucky man.”
“He knows. Mostly because I remind him on a regular basis.” She closed the door softly behind her.
Henry knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Not until he figured out how he was going to explain to Cora—and how he was going to handle going back to Indiana and present his story. Go to Mr. Dahlgren first? Walk directly into the sheriff’s office? He had visions of an angry mob ready to lynch him, much like the one he’d read about in
Huckleberry Finn
. But this time they would not be run off and shamed by mere words. This time the rope would win.
He finished his broth and set the mug on the bedside table. Then he laid his head back on his stacked pillows to think.
The next thing he knew, darkness had fallen.
A shadow was sitting in the straight-backed chair. “Cora?”
She got up and turned on the light.
“What time is it?” As he moved, he noticed he was less shaky. And the pain in his shoulder was easing up.
“Nearly seven.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”
She didn’t seem interested in his apology. She swatted it away with a half sheet of paper in her hand. “Forget it.”
“I want to talk to you—” He stopped. Now that he’d got a good, clear look at her, he saw her eyes looked feverish. “Something’s happened?” The paper in her hand was a telegram. “Is it Gil?” He sat up, his heart accelerating.
“No. No, I didn’t even think . . . I didn’t mean to scare you.” She sat
on the edge of the bed. “It’s good news. I’ve been asked to fly in a race in Miami in late January.”
“What? By who? You don’t race.” No one in his right mind would offer a plane to someone as unseasoned as her.
“A man I met at Clover Field. He wants to gain some attention for his new aircraft design. He thinks having a woman pilot in a race against men will be a huge selling point—even if the plane doesn’t win.”
“ ‘Such a great plane, even a woman can fly it’?” Henry hoped his sarcasm knocked some sense into her.
“Henry!”
“Just back up.” He rubbed his forehead. “Do you know anything about this man’s design skills, or his plane? I mean, I have a hard time believing that an unknown woman pilot was his first thought when he decided to promote his plane. There
are
a few women pilots out there who have already made a name for themselves—why not ask one of them?”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence. I happen to be very good at marketing my skills.”
“Can’t argue that. So who is he?” It was going to take some finesse to wipe that blinding stardust out of her eyes. “Anyone we’ve heard of?”
“Frank Evans. Lives in Texas. This is his first plane, he calls it the EV-1; one of a kind. So far. It’s been flying for a few months. He can’t fly it himself because he’s in a wheelchair—he was a flight instructor for the army. Student crashed with him in the plane.”
“Maybe Gil knows him.” Henry had never heard of Evans. “The plane’s been tested?”
“I just said it’s been flying for a few months. It just hasn’t been raced yet.”
“Flying it and testing it are two different things. What kind of flying has it done? What stresses has it undergone? How many hours are on it? How is Evans assessing its handling if he can’t fly it himself? And you can’t just hop in an unfamiliar plane and race it. You need to get to know it. Hours of flight time.”
“Well, he’s having it flown here this week. You and Reece can check it out all you want and help me get to know it. Then I’m to fly it to Florida for the race—more hours of flight time. His pilot will pick it up here afterward.”
“Cora, you can’t navigate. How in the hell are you going to fly it to Florida? And why doesn’t he just have
his
pilot race it, at least for this first run?”
“You’re my mechanic, so you’ll be with me. Besides, Miami’s right on the coast. All I have to do is fly east, then follow the shoreline south. And I already told you, he wants a woman pilot.”
“His idea, or yours?” Henry frowned. “Let me see that telegram.”
“I’ve already agreed.” She handed it over. “That’s where I was this afternoon, sending an acceptance telegram.”
“Four or five weeks isn’t enough time for you to prepare. You do remember what happened in Santa Monica.”
“I won’t know until I try. Henry, you know I’m careful, that’s why I’m still alive.”
“You’re still alive because you’ve been lucky.” His tone was harsh. “Plenty of careful, talented people end up in pieces on the ground. Plenty. If you want to race, you have to do it right. A rushed effort is going to get you, and maybe someone else, killed.”
“I won’t fly it if I’m not ready.”
“By whose assessment?”
She huffed. “Yours. As long as you’re reasonable and not overprotective.”
“You need to tell Frank Evans that’s the condition for you to fly. He needs to know beforehand, so he has a backup plan.”
Or nixes the idea of you flying in this race altogether
.
“It’s not going to be a problem because I’m going to be ready. Did I mention he’s paying me, win or lose?”
“Money to buy your own coffin?”
“Come on, Henry! I’m not as stupid as you seem to think. And I’m not interested in hurrying into an early grave. I know my capabilities.”
“But do you know your limits?”
She stared at him for a moment. “There are no guarantees in this business, you know that. It’s all about calculated risk.”
“My point exactly.”
“What more do you want? I hardly think Evans wants to have his plane crash in front of his financial backer—especially when he’s wanting to recruit more so they can start production. Which is why he’s paying me either way, so I don’t take unnecessary risks to win.”
If the man had gotten someone to finance his design, it must have some merit. “I want to talk to the pilot when he gets here. Learn more about the plane. And if I check out this ship and find it to be lacking, you have to promise me you’ll pull out. Otherwise, no deal. I won’t be your mechanic and you can fly all over the South trying to find your way to Miami on your own.”
“Fine. But I’m sure it’ll pass muster. It flew from Texas to Clover Field and back. We just didn’t get to stay long enough to see it fly.”
At that moment reality kicked back in. He’d been caught up in a pointless argument. He could stick around long enough to check out the plane. But beyond that . . . “I wish you’d talked to me before you sent that telegram. I can’t go to Miami. I have to go back to Indiana.”
“What are you talking about? Why?”
“You’d better sit down. It’s . . . a long story. I should have told you and Gil months ago, but one thing led to another and . . . now here we are.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t like the way you sound right now. What’s going on?”
He supposed it was a coward’s way, telling the least offensive truth first. He justified it by convincing himself he had to start at the beginning in order to paint a clear picture of why the later events unfolded as they had.
“My name isn’t Henry Jefferson. It’s Henry Schuler.”
“I assume you have a reason for changing it?” She appeared curious, not yet repulsed. He looked into her face, memorizing it before the way she looked at him shifted forever.
He told her of his childhood, his German parents and how the war had changed everything. He told her about Peter. She took his hand in
hers as they shared slow, silent tears over brothers lost. The condemnation of his heritage did not come. He knew drawing this out was only a tactic to delay the end of this life, the one that had treated him the most kindly, where he’d found a place, and the start of yet another.
He told her about Anders Dahlgren, his promises and the quick undoing of them. About Mrs. Dahlgren and the seven daughters. About his life in the barn. About the poisonous relationship he had with Emmaline and how he should have done things differently.
Then he stopped. He didn’t have to tell her more. Let her think the reason he’d changed his name was to avoid dealing with prejudice against Germans—that when he’d realized Gil was probably a veteran that had sealed the deal. He could go back to Indiana on some pretense and just never come back—or simply complete his cowardly cycle and sneak away in the night. He would never have to face the change in the way she looked at him.
Then she touched his cheek and looked into his eyes. “There’s more.”
He recalled all of the times when he’d looked into her eyes and had the urge to confess. Now he turned from her questioning gaze.
“Henry.” Her hand turned his face toward her again. “Tell me.”
Being a coward had made him a liar, the thing he detested most in all human nature. He could not lie to her anymore. She deserved the truth. And he was tired. So tired.
“Henry?”
His eyes stung with the effort to hold back tears as he absorbed the last of her compassion. Then he forced the first words from his lips.
He started with the day before he’d fled Indiana.
T
he May Day picnic was at the Chautauqua grounds. Normally Henry wouldn’t have gone, but Johanna Dahlgren had asked him specially. She was going to perform the maypole dance. She’d never been picked before. “I-I-I know y-yy-you can’t g-go with us. Mmmama said. B-b-but will you come? She c-c-can’t keep you from a puh-puh-blic picnic.”
He would have walked through fire if Johanna had asked. This was such a simple thing. He’d gotten Mr. Dahlgren’s permission, since it was a regular workday for Henry. Mr. Dahlgren had seemed quite happy that Henry was coming. Johanna might be Mrs. Dahlgren’s embarrassment, but she was Mr. Dahlgren’s obvious favorite.
The maypole was to be performed at two o’clock, so Henry timed his arrival for about thirty minutes before. He didn’t want Johanna to think he wasn’t coming; he also didn’t want to hang around feeling out of place any longer than necessary. He’d put on his best shirt, cleaned his nails, and brushed his shoes. They were plenty dusty by the time he reached the grounds. He was still glad he’d bothered.
The Chautauqua grounds were just outside town. The road was deserted. Everyone would have arrived early for the daylong event. It always drew a big crowd—only the sick, hermits, and outcasts like Henry missed it—coming as it did after the sunrise-to-sunset work of the long planting season. He was still about a quarter of a mile away when he heard something crashing through the woods on the right side of the road.
He stopped, expecting to surprise a deer. Instead, he got the surprise. Emmaline burst from the brambles, her eyes red and swollen, tears on her face. Her lips were bruised and the front of her blouse was unbuttoned. She didn’t look scared. She looked furious—a look Henry was plenty familiar with.
She skidded to a stop and seemed to just now notice she was out in the open.
Her cold eyes narrowed. “If you say a word about seeing me, I’ll tell Papa that you attacked me.” She started to button her blouse. A faint bite mark was on her breast.
Henry almost asked if she was all right. But she obviously wasn’t.
“I mean it. Get away from me or I’ll start screaming rape right now!”
He hesitated. If something had happened to her, he owed it to Mr. Dahlgren to help her.
She grabbed the front of her blouse as if she were going to rip it back open. “No! No, Henry!” Then loud enough someone might actually hear: “No! Stop! Henryyyy, no!”
He took off running. Back toward the farm.
Halfway back to the Dahlgrens’, he almost turned around and went back to find Mr. Dahlgren and tell him that he’d seen Emmaline and something was wrong. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that she’d been up to something she shouldn’t. She didn’t seem traumatized. The threat was only to ensure Henry’s silence. But with the way she’d been acting lately, the things she’d been telling Mr. Dahlgren Henry had done, it wasn’t going to take much for her to truly convince everyone he’d attacked her. And that was the most troublesome of all. All she had to do was scream once and he’d be finished.
He sat on his bed the rest of the afternoon, anticipating the arrival of the sheriff. Waiting for Mr. Dahlgren to burst into his room with a shotgun.