An Impossible Distance to Fall

by Miriam McNamara

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE MORNING SUN CUT INTO THE ROOM AT A SHARP ANGLE AS BIRDIE woke. She rolled over groggily, gaze coming into focus on Merriwether’s unmade, empty bed. Birdie rose stiffly and shuffled to the door, wiping sleep from her eyes. She heard voices coming from the back of the house and followed them down the hall, raking her hopelessly tangled waves into some semblance of a braid.

  At the kitchen door she paused, the disorienting heat she’d forgotten from last night flooding her when she saw June sitting with Oscar, Henry, and John on long benches at a splintered wooden table. They devoured thin pancakes that a red-faced, frizzy-haired Henrieta tossed from the griddle into a great pile in the middle of the table. The griddle sizzled and spat, and the air was filled with a sweet steam. Oscar glanced up at her, chewing. “Birdie!” he exclaimed, around a mouthful of food. He motioned to the bench next to him. “Sit! Eat yourself some food!” His good mood from last night seemed to be lingering.

  June nodded to her, but when Birdie sat down across from her the pilot seemed preoccupied, fixing her gaze on her plate as she spread jam on a pancake. Birdie made herself relax and make small talk with the boys. She pushed the feeling of those long fingers intertwined with hers from her mind, and gradually she could look at June again without feeling strange. Nothing had happened—just a disorienting, half-awake dream.

  Henrieta turned to throw a few more pancakes on the table. She clucked when her eyes landed on Birdie. “Is that dirty dress the only clothes you have?” When Birdie nodded ruefully, Henrieta shook her head. “My daughter left some clothes here when she married. I’ll dig them out and you can see if they suit. And there’s a tub in the attic—you look like you could use a bath. Oh—there is a phone as well.” Henrieta gazed at her, and she could feel the old woman measuring her—the make of her dress, the youngness of her face. “There’s someone you should call, to let them know you’re here?”

  After breakfast, Birdie lifted the black receiver of the phone in the front hall, then hesitated.

  Izzy’s face jumped to Birdie’s mind. Her wide, dark eyes, her crazy laughter. Izzy would die when she knew what Birdie was up to! She’d look at Birdie in that admiring way again, instead of avoiding looking at her at all.

  Birdie should call home first, though, and let Mom know where she was.

  Mom might accuse Birdie of running away like Dad did. “I had no husband, and now I have no daughter. You disappear like that, you are dead to me.” She might have already left Glen Cove and headed for Aunt Annie, one-upping Birdie by abandoning her. She might have been hoping that Birdie would choose to go upstate so she could escape to England on her own.

  She might be glad Birdie was gone.

  Birdie dialed Glen Cove with trembling fingers.

  “The Fletcher residence, please.”

  The operator connected her.

  “Izabel Fletcher speaking.”

  “Izz,” said Birdie urgently. “It’s me.”

  Silence. Then, “Birdie.” Birdie felt no texture to Izzy’s voice, no ripple that indicated pleasure or distaste. “You haven’t been at rehearsal.”

  Birdie plowed right in, talking fast—she shouldn’t dally long-distance on someone else’s phone. She told her how she’d gone to look for Dad at the show, Gilda-from-Chicago’s picture, how Darlena had left and Birdie had volunteered to take her spot—

  “You didn’t!” gasped Izzy. “Birdie!” Birdie thrilled at the note of admiration in her voice. Izzy was warming to her, she could feel it.

  “This pilot, Oscar, is sweet on me,” said Birdie, low, hoping to hook her even more—without anyone overhearing. “You should hear the sorts of things he says to me!”

  “Oh.” Izzy’s voice sounded disappointed.

  “What?”

  “Well, David?”

  “Oh, well. David hasn’t seem so interested since—since school ended.” But all of a sudden she remembered the breadth of his shoulders, the assuring press of his kiss. His tone half-serious when he’d teased about getting her a ring.

  “Really? He’s been going on about you. Went over to your house, apparently. To tell you he didn’t care what his parents thought, but then you weren’t there.”

  “He did what?” said Birdie, startled.

  “Very romantic, the way he tells it! He’s very torn up about it. Monty’s made terrible fun of him.”

  “Oh.” Birdie should feel more, shouldn’t she? David had been husband in her perfect plans. Columbia and Finch’s, the flat in New York …

  “David’s not the only one who misses you,” Izzy said hesitantly. “You should come back.”

  “Oh,” Birdie said, hope flaring. She cleared her throat and began again, lightly. “I’m coming back, don’t you worry. I just … I might as well see if I can track Dad down since I’m here.”

  Izzy made a scoffing sound. “Remember what my mom called your dad, after we went to see Peter Pan?”

  “’The boy who wouldn’t grow up,’” said Birdie. Of course she remembered. Dad had loved being compared to the star of the show, even if Izzy’s mom had said it to dig at him.

  “Remember how we almost died, watching them fly through the air?”

  Birdie remembered how they’d clenched each other’s hands so tightly. “And how! It was terribly disappointing, to find out it was all cables and line.”

  “Mom’s called him that ever since. And you ‘Tink,’ when she’s annoyed with you fawning over him.”

  Birdie grinned. Izzy had told her that before. “I don’t mind. Tink doesn’t need happy thoughts to fly—it just happens naturally.”

  The line went fuzzy, rustling. She heard Izzy’s voice at a distance—she must be holding the receiver to her hand and talking with her mother. After a moment: “I have to go.” Izzy’s voice was too loud, too formal.

  Birdie sighed. “It was good to talk.” Like we used to. Like we’re still friends.

  “It was really good,” Izzy whispered. “You’re coming back, aren’t you? Soon?”

  Birdie’s heart lifted. “Soon.”

  “Good.” A soft pause, then: “‘Bye, now!” Brightly.

  The connection went dead. Birdie gasped, like a line had been cut. She was falling through empty air again after a moment of being held aloft, weightless.

  When she looked up, Oscar was leaning in the kitchen doorway, looking rumpled and sympathetic. “You okay?” he asked. “You want to go on a walk or something?”

  She hadn’t said anything untrue. He had been flirty. He was flirting right now, whether he was in love with Hazel or not. “That sounds lovely,” she said sweetly, feeling revived. “Let me freshen up.”

  He told her meet him outside, and she put the receiver down as he pushed through the screen door. Her fingers lingered on the phone, heart accelerating. She should call Mom, she knew it.

  Birdie picked up the phone again quickly, before she could change her mind, and asked to be connected to Glen Cove, to the Williams’ residence.

  The phone on the other end rang and rang, but no one picked up.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “SO TELL ME MORE ABOUT THIS TRYOUT,” SAID BIRDIE. SHE AND OSCAR walked down a path in a strip of woods that lined a stream. It felt incredible to be clean, her scalp scrubbed and hair damp, wearing fresh clothes. But although Henrieta’s daughter’s old dress was a pretty cornflower blue, it was homespun and worn, like nothing Birdie had ever owned. It was too big to boot, the shoulders loose and the skirt hanging almost to her ankles. She was sure she looked quite plain. “What’s it for, again?”

  Oscar scuffed his lace-up oxfords along the dirt path. They were grubby but the leather was fine and matched his belt. His knit pullover had a hole in the pocket but was also well-made. “The NAR—the National Air Races. It’s a big trade show for all the airplane manufacturers and such, and there’s races of all kinds—speed, agility, those sorts of things. And then—drumroll, please—there’s the circus show!” He hopped up and tapped a tree branch
as they passed beneath. “You wouldn’t believe who’s supposed to be there! Lindbergh, Earhart, Louise Thaden …” He jumped up and tapped another.

  “Wow,” said Birdie, impressed. Those pilots were so good they were celebrities. It was crazy to think she could meet them—not that she was staying with the circus that long. She wondered why Mom hadn’t answered the phone. “No wonder you’re so set on getting that contract.”

  “It’s not just that,” said Oscar. “They say there’s Hollywood agents that come to the NAR, scouting for stunt pilots for the movies! Can you imagine? It’s Hazel’s and my dream to do something like that.”

  “I have an idea.” Birdie reached up to brush her fingers against new leaves that hung above the path. “A stunt that might nab the contract.” The idea had come to her after talking with Izzy. It made sense in her head, but she had a feeling it would sound pretty screwy if she said it out loud.

  “What are you thinking, pretty bird?” asked Oscar. “What sort of stunt?”

  Pretty bird. The familiarity of her old pet name made Birdie feel warm, and she decided to run it by him. “Did you ever see Peter Pan?” she asked, and told him what she’d been thinking.

  Oscar listened, eyes wide, as she detailed the stunt and a plan for a show to go with it. When she was finished, he nodded thoughtfully. “We can get thick enough wire, I’m sure,” he said. “I’ll take the Studebaker when Bennie and the others get here, and find a hardware store. We can make you a harness out of one of the parachutes.” His forehead furrowed. “I’ve never seen this done before. There’s a lot that could go wrong.”

  Birdie forced a light tone. “It’s more exciting if there’s a chance I could actually die, right?”

  “I did say something like that, didn’t I?” He laughed uncomfortably. “Well, if you think you’ve got this, I believe in you.”

  They strolled quietly through the bright, almost-summer woods.

  “Do you really think you can pull yourself back up?” Oscar asked finally. “I mean, from dangling under the plane? So we can land?”

  Birdie grabbed a low-hanging branch. “I got the record for arm strength for girls in school.” She did chin-ups, counting as she did it. “One, two, three … ten, eleven …”

  A slow smile spread across Oscar’s face. He lunged at her, tickling her armpits. “All right, all right, show-off! I believe you!”

  She squealed and twisted, letting go of the branch. Oscar’s hands stayed around her waist as her feet hit the ground and she stopped squirming. Their eyes locked and Birdie didn’t look away. For a breath Oscar held her, her hands clutching his arms. His eyes were brilliant blue in the dappled light.

  He exhaled in a rush and stepped away, and Birdie straightened her faded blue skirt with a last hiccup of laughter, no doubt in her mind that he was sweet on her. “You’re right. I’m a terrible one for showing off.” She skipped down the path ahead.

  “Well, so far I’m impressed,” he said. Birdie threw a smile over her shoulder, but he looked quickly and kicked a rock down the path.

  Of course he was feeling conflicted. There was Hazel, after all—the incredible Hazel, no less. And they were going to meet up with her that afternoon. Birdie stopped to wait for him to catch up, refusing to feel guilty. It wasn’t her fault Oscar was attracted to her.

  Oscar stopped, squinting into the underbrush. “What in the—” He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the path. She stumbled into the bushes behind him, and for a moment she thought he couldn’t resist the pull between them, that he was about to take her in his arms—

  He stopped short and whistled low. “You see that? What is it?” he said.

  Bones. Big bones crumpled next to a rocky outcropping. Flesh had rotted away, mostly, exposing a white lattice of ribs, a grimace of teeth. A harness. A bridle and reins.

  “Holy mackerel!” murmured Oscar.

  Harness shredded—reins like worn-out wire—

  She fumbled for Oscar’s arm, suddenly light-headed and shaky.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, it’s all right.” He pulled her against his chest and squeezed her gently. “It’s just a skeleton, Birdie. Whatever happened, it’s been gone a while.”

  She was so heavy, so much denser than air. Wires could snap, the harness could fail. She could fall from the sky.

  In stories, people just flew—all they had to do was believe hard enough, and it happened. In reality it took harnesses and wires. It took big wings and engines. It took luck.

  It took a lot to fight gravity and win.

  She’d pieced the story together from the rumors. Dad had invested a whole bunch of other people’s money—her schoolmates’ parents’ money—in the stock market, so he could make some extra cash for himself. He bought shares, and the price went up, and then he sold them, and he kept the difference.

  But then the market crashed, and the money was lost. He didn’t even get the original amount of money back. He got less.

  Much less.

  Apparently lots of people had done it—all sorts of bankers and investors. It was a thing that plenty of upstanding people did. Mom said it wasn’t a bad thing to do at all, so long as the market held. Dad had just been unlucky, like a lot of others had been. Even losing all that money—he could have eventually gotten it back and replaced it without anyone knowing, through regular bank business. But someone at the bank found out that Dad lost all the money, and they’d told somebody else—and once it got out, everyone in town went and tried to take their money out of the bank at the same time, and the bank ran out of money before hardly anyone had gotten theirs.

  That’s how a bank failed.

  That’s how Dad’s bank had failed.

  She and Izzy were going to get money from Dad for an egg cream at Henry’s Luncheonette before ballet. Izzy’s voice trailed off as they came around the corner of Glen Street and caught sight of the bank’s shining white columns and gleaming plate glass. A huge crowd surrounded the double doors, shouting and banging and rattling them, their collective voices a roar. It was very strange that the doors were closed and locked during business hours. The people—they seemed angry. Furious, even.

  Worse—they seemed frightened. Birdie’s insides twisted up.

  “What’s happening?” asked Izzy, her voice high. “Why aren’t the doors open?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Birdie, forcing herself to keep walking. “Remember when we saw that dog lying in the road last summer, and we thought it was dead? We were hysterical! But then when we rushed up to it, it turned out to be just dozing. It’s like that. Maybe the door broke and they can’t get it open.”

  Maybe, but it didn’t calm her nerves one bit. They approached slowly. Other girls and boys from school were standing on the outskirts of the crowd, curious.

  “It’s the Williams girl!” Birdie heard a voice call out. A man broke off and strode toward them, his mouth set. She almost didn’t recognize him—Mr. Greene, who owned the grocery around the corner. Every other time she’d seen him, he had a broad smile and a sweet for her.

  Birdie drew herself up, trying to mask her sudden panic. “Hi, Mr. Greene,” she said, sweet as she could manage, but it came out a squeak.

  Mr. Greene bent down so his face was right in front of hers, and she recoiled. “You tell your dad it’s no use avoiding this,” he spat. “He thinks he can just lock the doors and leave?” His eyes narrowed. “That’s our money in there. We got a right to it, no matter what. Bobby Williams owes us all our money, not a cent less.”

  “I don’t know … what …” Birdie’s eyes went wide as she looked around. Most of the people still crowded around the doors, but a good few were closing in on her and Izzy.

  Izzy turned suddenly and strode away, clutching her books, with her head down. Birdie started after her, but a woman grabbed her arm, fingers pinching. “That’s why you put your money in a bank! To keep it safe!” The woman was hysterical. “So you can get it back whenever you need it!”

&nb
sp; “Izzy, wait!” But Izzy was almost to the corner of her street—and then she was gone. The spring air suddenly felt icy on Birdie’s neck.

  A crash splintered the air, then a cheer. Birdie whirled and saw that one of the pretty triangular windows beside the doors had broken. A brick sailed through the air, shattering another.

  Mr. Greene stabbed Birdie’s chest with a finger. “You go find your dad, and you tell him he owes us,” he said. “Tell him we’re looking for him.”

  Birdie stepped away from him shakily. “There’s been a mistake, I can see that. He’d be happy to talk with you, I’m sure.” Birdie turned and pushed through the people closing in.

  She’d find Dad and he’d have some way to make everybody happy. He knew how to put a check in anyone’s hand, a smile on anyone’s face. Birdie broke into a run. She’d find him. She was sure he could fix everything.

  But she didn’t find him that day, or since—and everything had only gotten worse.

  Bennie, Colette, and Milosh pulled up in the Studebaker in late morning, as the boys roasted sausages in a skillet over another fire for lunch. Bennie complained of engine trouble that had begun about a hundred miles outside Elgin, but they had managed to get there all right.

  Oscar winked at Birdie as he asked Merriwether if he could use the car to go find a hardware store once Bennie took a look at the engine.

  “Sure,” said Merriwether. “You run your errand, and then we’ll go see Hazel.”

  “Is Hazel in Chicago?” asked Birdie, licking the last of the sausage off her fingers.

  Merriwether squinted against the bright midday sun. “Nope, she’s at a boarding house in Glenview, near the airfield. Still about a half an hour outside Chicago.”

  “When are we going into Chicago?”

  “We should go into the city this weekend,” called Bennie, his voice muffled on the other side of the Studebaker’s windshield.

  “I was thinking we would go dancing at the Mayfly again,” said Oscar.

  “I love that place,” said Merri. “Maybe Friday night?”

  Friday? It was only Monday now. “Can I get a train into the city from Glenview?” asked Birdie.