They reached the back door of a regular farmhouse, a nice place, but not a rich man’s house. Cora stopped. “You two are welcome to concoct any story you like to explain why you’re both stranded here at nightfall. I came upon you both in the pasture as I was returning from my nature walk—all civilized young ladies of breeding take nature walks. I’m quite enthralled with them. Sometimes I completely lose track of time.” She turned and stepped through the door.
Gil raised a brow to Henry and shrugged.
As they followed her into the house, Henry thought Tilda probably wasn’t the only troublemaker on this farm.
2
Cora’s aunt and uncle didn’t seem old-fashioned, or even all that serious. They were just like most farm folk Henry had ever met. Mr. Fessler had work-rough hands, a stooped back, steel-gray beard, and bald head. Mrs. Fessler had pure white hair and wore an apron over a plain housedress. What Henry couldn’t figure was how a girl whose family was New York “high-hat” and had more than one house ended up living on an Indiana farm.
Cora had brought them into the house through the back porch. A couple of trunks were sitting there. She’d stopped so quickly Henry had almost run into the back of her. She’d given a low, throaty growl and kicked one of the trunks hard enough that it scooted a couple of inches, even though the thunk said it was full. Then she’d gone on as if she hadn’t stopped at all.
Once in the kitchen, she’d made quick work of introducing him and Gil to her aunt and uncle, then disappeared to find dry clothes for Henry.
Mr. Fessler asked them to sit.
Mrs. Fessler went back to rolling out biscuits, but kept casting cool and curious looks toward Henry’s muddy clothes, scratched face, and throbbing eye while she worked. Mr. Fessler was more direct in his inspection, sitting at a scarred drop-leaf table with a newspaper and a cut-glass toothpick holder in front of him. Like most farm folks, they did not pry. But they were probably churning out all sorts of supposings about Henry in their heads. He felt obliged to satisfy their curiosity, if only to keep Cora out of trouble. Once he gave his fictional explanation for his pitiful state, Mrs. Fessler warmed right up. She invited Henry and Gil to dinner. They accepted as if Cora hadn’t already made the offer . . . Mrs. Fessler was the one cooking, after all.
As Mr. Fessler picked up the newspaper, he muttered a few polite words about the weather, the predictions of the Farmers’ Almanac, and the sad state of farm-commodity prices. It didn’t take long for things to fall quiet. Gil picked up a section of newspaper and opened it, just as if he sat at that table every day.
Henry watched their faces as they read, nervously searching for a glimmer of curiosity cast his way, a hint of recognition, a breath of shock. What had happened to Emmaline—that was the only way he’d allow himself to think of it, as if he’d had nothing to do with it—was surely in the newspapers. Maybe he was far enough away that it wasn’t front-page news.
He tried to sit still, but his hands didn’t seem to know where to settle. Too dirty to touch the table, they did a flighty rotation: knees, thighs, tucked under his arms, knees, thighs . . . the hands of a man with something to hide.
Mr. Fessler’s eyes stayed on the paper and Missus was busy adding two more potatoes to the pot. Still, Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on display, like the Incredible Fish Boy in the traveling freak shows, those that came to town one day and were gone the next. Something decent folk couldn’t help but part with a nickel to see, but would only look at from the corners of their eyes and always made up for it by muttering sympathy when they came out.
Cora finally came back. “You gentlemen are all set to use the lavatory.”
Henry was quick to volunteer for the first turn. He followed her through the house, up the stairs, and down a long, narrow hallway.
“Everything you need should be in there,” she said as she stopped at a door at the end of the hall. “If not, just give a shout.”
He thanked her and stepped into a black-and-white-tiled bathroom. He tried not to stare like a yokel at the fancy indoor plumbing, the claw-foot tub, and the big mirrors, at least until he got the door closed.
Just before it latched, Cora’s fingers wrapped around the edge and stopped it. He pulled it open far enough to see her face.
“Just so we have our stories straight, what did you tell Uncle Clyde?”
He looked down into her green eyes and was for an insane moment tempted to unburden himself of his whole story. “Family’s all dead and I’m headed to Chicago for work.”
“And?” She raised her brows, looking at his clothes.
“I tripped into the ditch while I was watching Gil’s plane. You passed us on your way home.”
“And Flyboy?”
“He told your uncle that he got caught short of his destination when the light started to go and he needed a place to land for the night. The pasture looked safe and he hoped Mr. Fessler didn’t mind him using it.” Henry paused. “Only he didn’t use that many words.”
She gave a quick nod and left.
Henry closed the door, then pressed his forehead against it. He tried to keep his lies as close to the truth as possible, but they still clung to his tongue, reluctant to leave his mouth. He hated lies. They always grew legs after they were uttered and ran out into the world all on their own. That’s when the real trouble started.
After a moment, he took a deep breath and went to the sink. He checked his eye in the mirror. It was going to be a shiner all right. With all of Cora’s thrashing around, he figured he was lucky he didn’t have a matching pair. There were cuts, too; not from Cora, but from his last horrible minutes on the farm.
He washed his face, neck, and hands, amazed at all that hot water with just the turn of a handle. A box of tooth powder was on the glass shelf under the mirror. He put some on his finger and ran it around his teeth. He needed a shave. No help for that. Luckily his beard was as fair as his hair and kept him from looking too much like a tramp. He combed his hair with his wet fingers and decided that was as good as it was going to get for now.
It had taken a couple of seconds to figure out how the flushing toilet worked. Once he did, he flushed it three more times, just to watch it. He stopped when Gil knocked and asked if Henry was all right.
After that, he got on with changing his clothes. The motorcycle wasn’t the only thing of Cora’s brother Jonathan’s that she hadn’t been able to part with. The shirt he put on had a monogram on the cuffs, JHW, and was much finer than any he’d ever touched. She’d given him a collar and collar pin, too, but Henry had never worn a collar before and felt foolish with the stiff, white band cinched around his neck. He took it right back off. The trousers were fine, too, although they were too big around the waist and he felt a little like a circus clown the way they hung from his suspenders. There were socks, dark with a pattern running up the side, and a pair of . . . slippers? They sure weren’t shoes. He changed into the socks, but put his own damp shoes back on.
He opened the door with his folded clothes in hand. Gil leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and his chin on his chest. He didn’t move. Henry paused and leaned close. The man was dead asleep.
Henry snapped his fingers under Gil’s nose.
Before Henry could blink, he was up against the opposite wall, with Gil’s forearm pressed against his throat hard enough to cut off his air. It took a second before Gil’s eyes changed, as if he were just now seeing, then he jumped away from Henry, looking at him as if he’d been the one to attack.
“Sorry.” Gil sucked in a deep breath and blew it back out quickly. “Sorry.”
Henry stayed against the wall. He was good at keeping himself in check, at least he had been until two days ago. Finally, he felt safe in moving. His hand went to his throat, as if his fingers could read the damage.
Gil ran his hands through his hair, then stepped closer, his bewilderment
replaced by anger. “Do not ever do that to me again.” He disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.
Henry stood there for a minute. He understood the kind of confusion he’d seen in Gil’s eyes, the kind that follows blind rage and unthinking action.
What dwelt in the darkness of Gil’s cellar? He was probably Peter’s age—the age Peter would be had he not gotten killed in the war. Henry wondered if Gil had gone to war, too. Some men came home different from when they’d left. A man in Delaware County, a teacher before the war, now walked around constantly dodging and ducking things only he could see and hear. Henry had no idea if Gil’s reaction was from the war or if he was just crazy on his own.
Once Henry’s breathing evened out, he picked up his dropped clothes and headed downstairs.
When he entered the kitchen, the smell of hot food grabbed all of his senses, driving away his ability to do more than breathe and salivate. Cora was alone in the room. She held out her hands, palms up. He stood there looking at her for a minute, trying to figure out what she wanted. She flipped her fingers. “Your clothes.”
“Oh.” Henry hesitated. It didn’t seem proper to have a strange woman handling your clothes, and his were particularly dirty and worn. “Um, just let me know whe—”
“Come on, now. I promise to give them back.” She snatched the clothes from his hands. He stood there like an idiot while she shook out the pants and shirt, then pulled two chairs close to the stove. She hung his pants on the back of one. As she was draping his shirt on the other, she asked, “Where are your drawers?”
“Beg pardon?”
She straightened and rolled her eyes. “Your underwear. You do wear underwear, don’t you?”
He crossed his hands over himself and took a step backward.
“Give the kid a break,” Gil said as he walked into the kitchen. “His union suit is no concern of yours.”
“But it has to be damp.”
“It’s fine,” Henry said quietly, avoiding looking at her. The underwear she’d given him upstairs was made of something fine and flimsy—almost girlish. There was only so much humiliation he was willing to take for the sake of a little comfort.
“Suit yourself.” She started toward the swinging door to the dining room. “Come on, then.”
Henry’s stomach tensed. “What?”
She stopped with her hand on the door, looked over her shoulder, and crooked her finger.
“Are we . . . I mean . . . aren’t Gil and I eating in the kitchen?” He’d never eaten in a real dining room; and he couldn’t say he wanted to start with a bunch of strangers he was lying to while wearing a dead man’s clothes.
“Don’t be silly.” She pushed the door open.
Gil followed her without visible reluctance. Henry trailed behind, wishing he had the nerve to just stay put in the kitchen where he belonged.
Mr. Fessler was seated at the head of the table. Cora’s aunt sat on his left, bib apron still in place. A stiff-looking woman wearing a dress with a lot of lace and beads and more jewelry than Henry thought any one woman owned, let alone wore all at once, sat at the other end. And she had on gloves. A fluffy, little feather was stuck in her hair. Her green eyes matched Cora’s.
“Mother, I’d like to introduce our guests. Charles Gilchrist, an aviator.” Cora had changed her voice, using the one she’d used when she’d said she was “of the New York Havilands.”
Gil moved to Mrs. Haviland, took her offered hand, and bowed over it. Cora’s mother got close to a smile, but it was too thin and held no warmth.
“And Henry Jefferson.” Cora motioned toward Henry. “Who is traveling through to Chicago.”
He stayed planted just inside the door and nodded. “Ma’am.”
Cora’s mother looked at him a lot like Mrs. Dahlgren used to.
He’d never minded living alone in a barn, but right now he felt like a hog let into the house and invited to the table. Sure, he knew to hold a door open for a lady and not to scratch himself in public, but he was, as he’d so often been reminded, “unfit for polite society.”
He wished he could hop up on his hog hooves and snort his way back into the kitchen—or better yet, right out the back door and on down the road. Only his hunger kept him where he was.
“Mr. Jefferson,” Cora said, “you may sit next to Aunt Gladys.”
Henry stood there for a second before he remembered he was Jefferson.
As he took the seat, he noticed Mr. Fessler looked about half-perturbed. “Apologize for the late hour, boys. Mrs. Haviland prefers to eat supper closer to breakfast. Since she’s our guest . . .”
Cora cast a grateful look Mr. Fessler’s way. “Uncle’s been so kind to make us feel at home and indulge us in our city ways.”
Henry sent a quick, uneasy glance toward Mrs. Haviland. He imagined changing her ways would be a lot like trying to change Mrs. Dahlgren’s. That woman thinks it was etched in stone and handed down from Moses. How many times had he heard those words uttered in Mr. Dahlgren’s thick Swedish accent? Henry wouldn’t ever again hear that man’s voice. Another cobweb gathered in his soul.
“Yes.” Mrs. Haviland offered a smile that reminded Henry of something reptilian, cold and scaly. Other than the eyes, nothing about the woman hinted that she and Cora were related. “I’m sure Clyde and Gladys will be happy to return to their usual ways.”
The way she said “usual ways” made Henry think that their usual ways might include dancing around a bonfire naked and eating their meat raw.
Cora and Gil went to the other side of the white-lace-covered table. He pulled out Cora’s chair for her.
Mr. Fessler said grace. Henry grasped on to the familiarity of it. After most of his mother’s teachings had fallen to neglect, grace had been one he’d tended.
After the “Amen,” he picked up his napkin and tucked it into his collar.
Mrs. Haviland cleared her throat loudly and looked at him with disgust.
Cora made a big show of taking her napkin, shaking it out, and putting it on her lap. Henry’s cheeks got hot as he grabbed the tail in his lap and inched the napkin from his collar.
Cora smiled at him, lifted her chin slightly, and turned her head to the side and her nose up in the air. High-hat. Then she winked and he felt only a little less stupid.
From then on he focused on not wolfing down his food and avoiding being drawn into conversation. Maybe everyone would forget he was there.
Cora spoke like a shy girl when she told her family how surprised and frightened she’d been when she’d seen Gil’s airplane land in the pasture.
“Oh, Uncle, you must go look at it,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything so dangerous and fast.”
Gil choked a little and reached for his glass of water.
Her mother’s face soured. “And you felt it proper to stop and engage with strange men while you were alone? Really, Cora. You must exercise better judgment.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Henry’s eyes snapped up to meet Gil’s. Cora had obviously changed more than her clothes in that shed.
“Mr. Gilchrist, did you learn to fly in the service?” Mr. Fessler asked in a way that made Henry think he was speaking more to rescue his niece than out of curiosity.
“I did. The Jenny . . . my plane . . . was a surplus trainer left over from the war.”
“A horrible thing,” Mr. Fessler said. “We lost Cora’s brother Jonathan in France. My great-niece’s son came back in one piece, but the shell shock ruined him. Tragic, just a tragic, tragic waste.”
Mrs. Haviland suddenly stood and dropped her napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
Mr. Fessler and Gil stood also. Cora and Mrs. Fessler stayed seated. After a second, Henry got the idea and stood until Mrs. Haviland had left the room.
As the men sat back down, Cora said, “Pl
ease don’t take offense, this happens all of the time. Mother simply detests any unpleasant topic of conversation at the table. She’s trying to teach us all a lesson.”
Mr. and Mrs. Fessler stayed quiet, but both of them looked more relaxed—more as they had in the kitchen when Henry had first arrived.
Henry wondered how it could be much of a lesson when the entire room felt better without Mrs. Haviland in it.
Cora looked at Gil. “You named your plane Jenny?”
“That’s not her name. That’s what she is, a Curtiss JN-4 . . . everyone calls them Jennies.”
A devilish twinkle came to Cora’s eye. “Ah, but she is a female.”
Gil looked perturbed. “All ships are shes.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Fessler said. “Because they’re the only females a man can control.”
“Clyde.” Mrs. Fessler sounded scandalized, but her eyes sparkled and a smile played on her lips.
“Sorry, dear.” He reached out and wrapped his blunt fingers around her blue-veined hand. It struck Henry as the most loving gesture he’d ever seen. “I don’t get the pleasure of masculine company very often. I lost my head.”
“You’re entitled, Uncle. After all, you’re always so outnumbered,” Cora said as if she were forgiving a transgression—and maybe she was. In the world of good manners, how would Henry know? “That’s one of the reasons I asked Mr. Gilchrist and Mr. Jefferson to dinner. And I know how you support our veterans. I told Mr. Gilchrist you might be willing to let him use your pasture for his . . .” She batted her eyes and looked at a loss. “What did you call it, Mr. Gilchrist?”
The Flying Circus Page 3
