An Impossible Distance to Fall

by Miriam McNamara

  Copyright © 2019 by Miriam McNamara

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Kate Gartner

  Cover image credit iStockphoto

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3545-3

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-5107-3546-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the band of misfits who help me soar and catch me every time I fall

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  MOM SAID DAD WAS DEAD, THAT HE’D FLOWN HIS BIPLANE JENNY OUT over the water and kept going until he ran out of gas—but Birdie refused to accept it, and now she had proof. She smiled ferociously at the paper clenched tightly in her hands. It wasn’t the words on the flyer that had brought Birdie here, to the boardwalk of Coney Island on a sunny June afternoon. It was the grainy black-and-white photograph printed beneath those words.

  Dad’s Jenny biplane.

  She had recognized it instantly, when she saw the flyer pasted up at the grocery back home in Glen Cove. That was Dad’s plane, his Curtiss JN-4D, its name painted in loopy cursive on the side: Pretty Bird. She didn’t need to see it in color—her mind painted the image canary yellow and bright blue.

  Birdie stuffed the flyer into her pocket and shook her hair back—or tried to. She was beginning to sweat, and her long hair was sticking to her neck. A boy about Birdie’s age, smoking a cigarette with a couple of pals, caught her eye and winked. She gave him a quick grin but spun away, before he might think her available. Even if she hadn’t seen David in a few weeks they were as good as engaged, and she knew he’d come around once the bank uproar died down. By the time she saw him next, he’d be dying to kiss and make up.

  Birdie pushed her way to the front of the boardwalk and peered over the railing. Though it was still early June the beach was teeming with bodies, most of them in bathing suits. Couples sat with screaming children, boys in groups furtively sipped from flasks, and girls with glaringly white skin packed onto towels. Farther down she spotted an empty patch of beach cordoned off, and a few planes lined up close to the low tide line where the sand was dark with moisture. Birdie bounced on her toes as she caught a flash of canary. She knew it! One of the planes was bright, bright yellow.

  It was so like Dad to pull something like this. If one venture didn’t pan out he would be on to the next, so fast that failure couldn’t catch him. She was furious with him, of course, for taking off without a word to her. But maybe he’d thought she wouldn’t want to come. Maybe he’d thought she’d prefer to stay while their whole life crumbled around her.

  He’d better beg very convincingly for forgiveness when she found him.

  She pushed her way down the boardwalk. The crowd thickened the closer she got to the planes, people jammed in elbow to elbow. After a block or so she shoved her way back to the railing and squinted down, and any lingering doubt vanished.

  It always made her body feel light when she saw it. Her limbs anticipated liftoff, her lungs opening up to take in the rush of wind. Birdie loved Dad’s Jenny as much as he did, maybe more. He’d flown her in it a thousand times. She loved the feel of the plane shuddering as the engine revved. She loved how her heart picked up when it accelerated. She loved how her stomach dropped when it soared. She loved damp air fogging her goggles, she loved the sun baking the top of her cap, she loved being so far above the roads and people and trees and buildings. She loved Dad roaring at her, “For the love of God, Birdie, sit the hell down!” and having the wind whip away the force of his words as she stood in the front cockpit, soaring, arms outstretched, just out of reach.

  Two planes sat on either side of Dad’s Jenny, one black with yellow stripes, the other red and silver. A few people milled around the planes, gesturing and smoking cigarettes. None of them was Dad, but no matter. Where Pretty Bird was, he would be close by.

  “It’s twenty-five cents to see the show.”

  Birdie started at the voice behind her. She turned, and something about the dark, challenging eyes that met hers, one thick arched brow lifted, reminded her of Izzy. But this girl had tight curls piled messily on top of her head, not Izzy’s sleek dark bob—and this girl was covered in tattoos. A sequined, dark-red costume with one shoulder strap and a short flounced skirt exposed arms and legs covered in images. Strange birds, twisting vines, sinister figures, palm trees, the devil, angels, the moon, the sun—the whole world, practically—marked her skin, all the way down her arms to her knuckles, down her legs to her soft-looking slippers, and all the way up to the strand of pearls wound three times around her neck.

  Birdie couldn’t imagine what Dad and Mom would do if she got even one tiny tattoo. Well, Mom would disown her. Dad, though—she couldn’t remember Dad ever disapproving of her, but a tattoo might do it.

  The girl cocked her eyebrow higher and shook the box in her hands, coins rattling inside. She was taller than Birdie by a head, but Birdie was used to that—most people were, and she refused to be intimidated. She drew herself up on her kitten heels and turned back toward the beach, lavender silk skirt swishing beneath the hem of her unbuttoned yellow-and-blue tartan coat. “That’s my dad’s plane,” she said, pointing.

  The girl looked her up and down. “Twenty-five cents to see the show,” she repeated, enunciating as if Birdie hadn’t understood her.

  Birdie heard the same thing echoed to her left: “It’s twenty-five cents to see the show.” A big, clean-shaven man
in suspenders was rattling his own box at a couple of men, his dark skin standing out in the overwhelmingly white crowd.

  “There’s no way I’m paying a quarter to stand on this boardwalk,” one of the men said, lip curled. “This here’s public property.”

  Birdie looked the other way—a skinny fellow with shiny black hair in need of cutting, wearing knickers and striped socks, was holding a box out as well, smiling gently as a young girl shyly dropped four quarters in for her family.

  Birdie had a little over forty dollars with her; she’d broken the crisp fifty Dad had slipped her for her sixteenth birthday to pay her way to Coney Island. She fished a quarter out of her pocket and held it up. “Robert Williams,” she said brightly, “the owner of the yellow-and-blue Curtiss Jenny just over there. Where is he?”

  The girl tilted her head. She looked over at the planes. She looked back. She held out her box again, and shook it just a little.

  Birdie resisted the urge to flick tattoo-girl in the forehead. She kept her teeth clenched in a smile and slipped her coin in, gentle and sweet.

  The girl turned to go.

  “Hey!” Birdie grabbed her wrist. The girl fumbled her box, a few coins clattering on the boardwalk. She huffed and crouched down to scrape them up. “Sorry,” said Birdie unconvincingly. “I just have to find my dad. I know that’s his plane, and I gave you a quarter.”

  The girl shook her head, lips tight as ever as she put her hands under the box and stood.

  “Please,” Birdie added, and was horrified to hear her voice catch.

  The girl studied her another moment, her face unreadable. “Go down another block,” she said at last. “Get up close to the beach, where Nathan’s Famous is. You’ll be able to see everything from there.” Then she turned. “Twenty-five cents to see the show,” she said, over the shoulder of the next person leaning over the railing.

  Birdie took a deep breath and exhaled. She tilted her face up to the warm sun and closed her eyes, listening to the distant tinkling music coming from the Ferris wheel a few blocks over until the tightness in her throat eased.

  She was so close to finding Dad. One surly, grubby girl couldn’t shake her up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WELCOME, WELCOME!” A VOICE THUNDERED OVER A MEGAPHONE. Birdie stuffed the last bite of her second hot dog into her mouth, wiped the mustard from her fingers with a paper napkin, and leaned over the railing as she finished chewing. The air was heavy with fried dough, popcorn, cigar smoke, and grilled meat. Two Jennys, one of them Pretty Bird, rattled to life as a couple of boys hauled on the propellers. The tattooed girl had been right—this was the spot. She’d be able to spot Dad clear as day from here.

  Birdie was sweating in her coat in earnest now, mouth sour with mustard. Her stomach fluttered as the black plane, painted like a bumblebee in yellow stripes, taxied away from the other. The flying caps made the pilots look like bugs with smooth leather heads, straps dangling like antennae, their goggles bulging like reflective eyes. The pilot had a mustache like Dad’s, but he was noticeably thinner. He could have lost weight since she saw him. Birdie could see the man grin as he yelled something to the fellows holding on to the wings of his plane. They let go, and the plane lurched forward.

  “I’m Merriwether,” boomed the voice behind the megaphone, “and I’d like to personally welcome you to my MYSTERY CIRCUS OF THE AIR!”

  Birdie couldn’t tell if a man or woman held the megaphone. The person wore a flying suit in a sensible shade of navy, and had a solid frame and wide stance. Cropped hair whipped wildly around a smooth but strong jaw, but that didn’t mean anything these days. Plenty of women had short hair.

  “There goes one of our AIR DEVILS now!” The plane bumped along the sand, picking up speed. A stretch of beach the length of three city blocks had been cordoned off. People standing at the end of the makeshift runway ducked and covered their faces as the Jenny lifted off, just clearing their heads. The pilot looped around, waving his cap at the crowd. Then he soared upward, the roar of his engine dulling to a whine as he climbed.

  “But what’s this?” Merriwether gasped into the megaphone. “This—this is highly unusual—”

  Birdie shaded her eyes and looked up. The plane listed to one side, dipping down—then it arched back up—there was black smoke trailing behind the plane! Birdie gasped as the crowd inhaled sharply with one collective breath.

  “There must be some sort of malfunction—ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for what you may be about to witness—”

  The plane careened down, then up—then looped, smoke still billowing behind—someone screamed and Birdie’s heart jumped to her throat—

  The man next to her shouted, pointing, “Wait a minute—it’s spelling something!” His words were echoed down the boardwalk.

  Sure enough, W-E-L-C-O—

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Merriwether roared. “‘Air Devil’ Charlie HIMSELF would like to personally WELCOME you to the show! Our last show’s tomorrow, tell your friends and family to come on down!”

  Birdie’s thrill at Charlie’s daring trick was cut with disappointment. Charlie. Not Mr. Williams, like customers called Dad. Not Robert, like men in suits called him. Not Bobby, like Mom did.

  He could have taken an alias, like a gangster might. It wasn’t like Dad had done anything so bad as those criminals, of course, but the way David and Izzy and everyone was treating her back home—and she hadn’t even done one thing wrong!—she could see how Dad might want to become someone else.

  “After tomorrow we’re headed to Chicago!” Merriwether continued. “Come in the morning for your last chance at a ride over Brooklyn! Only five dollars! See your home from a whole new perspective!”

  Charlie executed some impressive stunts, rolling and diving. With every swoop and roll, Birdie became more sure. Dad was a first-class pilot, but she’d never seen him fly like that. When the pilot landed and pushed his goggles up as he bowed to the crowd, her stomach flopped.

  Not Dad’s broad smile, not his crinkly eyes, not his confident wave.

  She breathed into the knot in her belly. That was only the first act; there was still a whole show to go.

  Pretty Bird was next to lurch down the beach. A pilot in the back cockpit of the Jenny—clean-shaven, but broad-shouldered—again, she couldn’t tell for sure—her stomach roiled, and she wished she had something fizzy to settle it.

  Dad’s plane looped around and dipped low, practically grazing the sand. Then it zoomed up, and Birdie ducked with the crowd as the bright-yellow plane zipped close and peeled up right over their heads, so close she could see the rivets in its underbelly. The plane rolled over, again and again, skimming the air just above the boardwalk.

  Another leather-helmeted and goggled person stood up in the front cockpit, flashed a lipsticked smile, and waved coyly at the audience, the hem of a short skirt visible—a girl was going up in the Curtiss Jenny. Birdie hadn’t even noticed a second person in the plane. The announcer blared over the megaphone, and Birdie gaped as she caught the girl’s name—the Death-Defying Darlena!

  “That’s something else, isn’t it!” the man beside her whooped. The girl leaned over as the plane buzzed above their heads, beaming and waving down, like she was a beauty queen in the back of a brand-new Studebaker in the Christmas parade.

  The plane tucked around and did a pass right in front of the boardwalk. Birdie squinted and saw—now the girl was standing on the wing. Speeding through the air, no safety net between the girl and the hard earth—Birdie gripped the railing, wishing it was Izzy’s hand, that Izzy was here to squeal with her and squeeze her hand back. Birdie had heard of people like this—wingwalkers. She’d pretended she was one once, dancing a goofy pas de deux with Izzy on the wing of Dad’s plane while it sat in the hangar—but she’d never actually seen anything like this.

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” said Merriwether, a rueful note coming through the megaphone. “This beauty’s gone and gotten herself engaged to a Brookly
n boy. Congratulations, Coney Island—you get to keep Darlena for yourselves when we leave tomorrow! We’ll surely miss her, ladies and gentlemen. We surely will.”

  Long, long legs soared out of the shortest skirt Birdie had ever seen, fringe tossing in the wind—but Darlena didn’t look cold at all, color bright in her cheeks, eyes flashing. She looked warm and bold. The girl swung around the bars between the wings and kicked her heels up coyly. She laughed and held out her hand so that the whole crowd could admire her engagement ring, and everyone clapped and whooped as she sped by. She didn’t look the least bit scared or unsure.

  Birdie imagined herself up there, with that smile that said everything was fine. Someone else might be frightened, if they were in her position, but Darlena was better than fine—she was flying.

  Birdie watched the girl swirl up and up, until she was a speck against the cold clouds. Even when she flew against the sun—Birdie didn’t blink.

  After Darlena, another plane—not a Jenny, but similar, painted a bright cardinal red with silver wings and tail—took off with a person in each cockpit. Birdie hadn’t expected that the show would thrill her like this, distracting her so she hadn’t noticed who flew the red plane.

  The plane nosed up, and up—straight up—until it was a tiny, buzzing insect, and Birdie couldn’t make out its red color against the sky. As her eyes trailed its shape, a speck detached itself. Merriwether was roaring over the megaphone, but Birdie focused all her attention on the speck. It fell closer, and Birdie saw it was a person tumbling through the air. This time she wasn’t nervous. She could tell the crowd felt the same—yelling and laughter swelled around her, instead of gasps and shrieks.

  A parachute popped open above the falling person, slowing their descent far above the sand. Helmet and goggles. Another man that could be Dad.

  The smooth white petal of his parachute rippled. It wrinkled along one edge as the other side sagged upward.

  And then it collapsed.

  The crowd screamed with Birdie as the man’s body plummeted. Everyone surged toward the railing and Birdie was squeezed against the splintered wood, her throat closing as the man’s legs windmilled frantically through empty space. He was almost eye level with the boardwalk, hands fumbling against his chest—