The Flying Circus

by Susan Crandall

  “Oh.”

  “That’s all you can say?” Cora shook her head. “Harriet Chalmers Adams, then? She explored and photographed South American jungles, Mayan ruins, and the like—lectured extensively on it.”

  Henry shrugged. Despite all of his reading, he suddenly felt his lack of education.

  “You did hear about Howard Carter finding King Tutankhamen’s tomb in Egypt last fall? He was a man, after all.”

  “Everybody heard about that.”

  “That’s what I want!” She raised her hand in the air, startling the dog into raising his head. “To make my mark on the world. I want adventure. Discovery. I want to be known and remembered.”

  Henry wanted just the opposite.

  “And I’ll still do it. Carter proved you don’t need your own money—his was provided by a woman, by the way.” Cora relaxed a bit. “I will do it. Just you wait and see.”

  Henry thought riding a motorcycle like a madwoman with a dog in her jacket was probably a good start to getting folks to take notice.

  Cora pulled a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich from her rucksack. She handed half to Henry. “When do you think Gil’ll be back?” she asked, as if her arrival had nothing to do with driving him off.

  Henry shrugged. Hopefully not before I get you on your way.

  They ate in silence. Cora shared every other bite with the dog. If Henry’s sense of charity hadn’t been overpowered by his hunger, he might have done the same.

  He stole an occasional look across the campfire, trying not to be conspicuous as he considered the best way to make her leave. At last, the dog got the final bit of bread crust and lay down at Cora’s side. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder and began to slowly braid it. The light brown strands sparked gold in the firelight as her fingers wove with unthinking habit. The dog’s eyes closed. His matted fur was not in the least enhanced by the fire’s glow. Henry was pretty sure he and the dog shared yet another commonality in that.

  Henry chuckled as he thought of the dog trailing sausages and being chased by the butcher.

  Cora looked up. “What’s funny?”

  He shared a dramatized version of the thievery and how the terrier had hitched a ride out of town. Tears ran down Cora’s cheeks by the end of the tale. The dog didn’t seem to have anything to add—or refute. He did occasionally open his eyes, shooting Henry a curious look.

  “What made you stop and pick him up?” Henry asked.

  “Never can resist a stray.” She scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Give them the tiniest bit of attention and you get complete adoration in return.” She cupped the dog’s face in her hands and looked into his eyes. “I’m going to call you Mercury.”

  “Because of his color?”

  “After the Roman god Jupiter’s son. He was a bit of a thief, too, but was such a cutie that everyone forgave him . . . plus, he could fly.”

  She’s gotta go.

  “I think you may have overestimated the mutt’s charm. That butcher wasn’t swayed by those puppy eyes in the least.”

  She pulled the dog into her lap. “I’m sure darling little Mercury would never have taken those sausages if he hadn’t been starving.”

  The dog looked over at Henry so smugly that Henry wasn’t so sure. Maybe the pooch did it for the thrill—he did like riding the motorcycle.

  “He’s probably got a family somewhere,” Henry said. “It wouldn’t be fair to take him away. You know families grieve when one of their own disappears.”

  She shot him a look. “Don’t even waste your breath on that kind of crap with me.” Then she shifted her attention back to the dog. “Just look at him! If he has family, they don’t deserve him.”

  They sat quietly for a bit. Her eyelids begin to close as she watched the flames.

  He took one last stab at changing her mind. “You do know you aren’t going to be remembered for being a barnstormer. Money will stay scarce because that airplane is constantly hungry and ready to fall apart, and it gets first dibs on the cash. Maybe another avenue would be better for you to reach your admirable goals of fame and discovery.”

  “Everybody’s got to start somewhere.” She yawned as she lay down. “You know, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

  “Well, now, aren’t you a sage.”

  She laughed. “Not me. Lao-tzu. He was a Chinese philosopher. Good night, Henry.”

  Eventually Henry fell into a fitful sleep with little hope of leaving Noblesville in the cockpit of Gil’s Jenny.

  Gil returned early the next morning, red-eyed and grouchy. He nudged Henry with the toe of his shoe and dropped a brown paper bag in front of him. “Breakfast,” he said flatly, then sat down, lit a cigarette, and unfolded a newspaper.

  Henry rubbed his eyes and looked across the fire. Cora was gone. His words must finally have sunk in. He felt bad for her and her circumstance, but she was better off with her family no matter what she thought.

  How had he not heard the motorcycle start up?

  He opened the bag. It held half a loaf of brown bread and an apple. “Thanks.” As he pulled out the bread and tore off a chunk, he saw the motorcycle was still where it had been last night. His heart sank.

  “Where—”

  “Don’t. Talk.” Gil winced as if Henry had yelled.

  He finished the bread and ate the apple. Still no sign of Cora.

  He got up and walked around. He looked in the little copse of trees. No Cora. No Mercury.

  Standing by the Jenny, he heard something. A soft, piglike snuffle.

  He climbed up on the wing. Cora was asleep in the cockpit, Mercury curled on her lap. Cora was doing the snoring. The dog looked up and cocked his head.

  “Bet you need to visit the doggie outhouse,” he whispered as he lifted the dog from her lap. There, under the dog, clenched in her hand was the hammer they used to drive the stakes. Maybe she wasn’t as brave . . . or as foolish . . . as Henry had thought.

  He climbed quietly back down and set the dog off to take care of his business and went to take care of a little of his own. When he came back out of the trees, Cora was standing next to Gil, who seemed to be ignoring her as if she had really succumbed to Henry’s will and disappeared in the night.

  “Well, are we entertaining here today, or moving on?” she asked brightly. “I personally think we should move on. Get a nice early start. Maybe head to Lafayette. You know those engineering students at Purdue will be wild for a plane ride.”

  With a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Gil kept his eyes on the newspaper. “I am an aviator. I do not ‘entertain.’ ”

  Entertainment, excitement, spectacle—call it what you will—was exactly what Gil sold. Henry’s short acquaintance with Gil had given him enough insight into the man that he understood Gil viewed selling rides as a means to an end. That end was simple, to keep his plane filled with fuel and his feet off the ground. Regular meals resided as a distant third.

  And Purdue? Cora clearly wasn’t using good logic. Plenty of towns were closer that would require less fuel to reach and still had more than enough people for a good crowd. And those university kids—Henry didn’t feel at all good about going and mixing with them. Farm folk he understood. Of course, he kept all of these thoughts tight inside. His only concern now was making sure he was in the cockpit of that Jenny when it left here.

  Gil went on, “You can make whatever arrangements you want with Mr. Sowers for the use of the pasture for your little entertainment. We’re leaving.”

  We. He said we.

  Gil got up, dropped the newspaper on the ground, and walked toward the plane.

  Cora was right on his heels. Mercury was right on hers.

  Henry looked down at the newspaper and saw the headline for one of the front-page stories: MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR MURDERER OF DELAWARE CO. GIRL

&
nbsp; Somehow physical contact would link him more closely with both the words and the act, so he squatted and read it right where it lay on the ground.

  The man who brutally murdered eighteen-year-old Emmaline Dahlgren is still on the loose. Her body was discovered in a stream on the family farm earlier this week by one of her six sisters, who witnessed the murderer fleeing the scene.

  The Dahlgrens’ charity to a German orphan led to this unfortunate tragedy. Henry Schuler, the man sought by authorities for the crime, was taken in by the family five years ago. The troubled young man never adjusted to his new home or community and had shown aggression toward Emmaline on several occasions.

  Eighteen-year-old Schuler is over six feet tall with blond hair and blue eyes and was last seen traveling on foot.

  Dear God, how he hated that girl.

  Had Gil read it? Did he make the connection?

  Henry kicked the paper into the low embers of the fire, waiting until the edges began to blacken and curl before he got up and walked away.

  5

  Henry grew nauseated and clammy when he thought of the considerable number of people who’d been on this field yesterday looking at a tall, blond stranger and then gone home and read that newspaper. He knew he looked older than eighteen. He hoped a lot older. And neither Cora nor Gil had used his name. He’d never thought he’d be happy to have Cora call him Kid.

  He double-checked the road just to make sure the sheriff wasn’t already barreling his way. When he went to hustle Cora and Gil along to get camp packed up, Cora seemed as anxious to clear out as he was. Maybe she figured if she acted as if they were all leaving together, it would just happen.

  Henry vowed to himself to be smarter. He was used to keeping out of the way, but that was entirely different from hiding from the law. This time far more was at stake than banishment to the barn or a withheld dinner—even though when Mrs. Dahlgren had dictated the no-supper punishment, Mr. Dahlgren had always managed to sneak out a little something for Henry to eat after his wife had retired for the night.

  But overall, Henry had been too slow in seeing the risks on that farm. And it had led to his current predicament.

  Henry’s first Christmas Eve on the Dahlgren farm had come exactly twelve days after his arrival. He’d watched with a disjointed kind of sadness as Mr. Dahlgren dragged a giant evergreen into the house. Ma had always made Pa chop a tree, usually a pitiful, scrappy thing that probably wouldn’t have survived the winter. And they’d sung carols around it—at least Ma, Peter, and Henry had. He was used to missing his family, but the long, work-filled days kept him occupied in his waking hours and pressed him into an exhausted sleep afterward. But Christmas Day would be different. The only work that would be done was feeding the livestock. He would have an entire empty day stretched out before him.

  He thought maybe Mr. Dahlgren’s troubles inside the house were getting worse instead of better when it came to Henry. It was hard to tell. Mr. Dahlgren ate supper with Henry most nights. More than once, through the kitchen window, Henry had seen Mrs. Dahlgren arguing with Mr. as he headed out with two plates. It didn’t seem to sit well with the older daughters either. One time he’d seen Emmaline thrust herself between her papa and the door, refusing to let him pass. After a bit Emmaline moved and Mr. Dahlgren had come out. As the door closed behind him, Henry had seen Emmaline run from the kitchen. Henry felt bad about it. But he really liked his time with Mr. Dahlgren.

  Henry didn’t expect Mr. Dahlgren to eat with him that night. Not on Christmas Eve. So he stretched out on his cot and opened the book Mr. Dahlgren had brought out on Henry’s second night. Mr. Dahlgren had a big library and said Henry could read any book he wanted. He was still trying to figure out how he was going to choose a book if he wasn’t ever allowed in the house.

  He was only about three-quarters of the way through The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. That’s how he would fill tomorrow. Then he’d ask Mr. Dahlgren to pick something else; he’d done real good picking this one.

  Right at regular dinnertime, Mr. Dahlgren appeared with two plates. “God jul, young Henry.” He smiled and nodded. “Merry Christmas.”

  Henry sat up. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

  “I cannot stay long tonight, there are gifts and songs and too many high voices, but a papa must sometimes be strong.” He winked as he handed Henry his dinner. “But I did not want you to eat this important meal alone.”

  “Thank you, but you don’t have to stay.” Henry looked down at the plate heaped with more food than he used to eat in a week back home.

  Before long, Emmaline called from the house, “Papa! Papa, come now! You promised!”

  Mr. Dahlgren shook his head, but he was smiling. “I must go.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrapped, flat package. “I did not have much time, so I hope you will not be disappointed.”

  Henry stared at the package. “Disappointed?”

  “In your gift. Next year I will have time to plan a proper boy’s gift.” He handed the package to Henry and nodded for him to open it.

  It was a book. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  “For me to keep, sir?”

  “Of course!”

  “Thank you. I’ve never had a book of my own before.”

  “You will have many more. I have also ordered a periodical publication I think you will like. It is about machines and science. It will come in the post all year long.”

  Henry sat there staring at the book in his hand, unable to speak.

  Mr. Dahlgren put his hand on the top of Henry’s head. “You are a good boy. You deserve better than this barn. I will work on it.” He started to leave, then turned around. “Oh, and this book is about an orphan, too. You must see orphans can have the most amazing journeys.”

  “But Huck Finn wasn’t an orphan. He had Pa Finn out there running around.”

  “He was still left to fend for himself. Huckleberry was as alone as a boy could be.” Mr. Dahlgren nodded. “God jul, young Henry.”

  “God jul, Mr. Dahlgren.”

  Two days later Henry found the book splayed open in the mud of the pigpen when he got back from helping Mr. Dahlgren mend a fence. He snatched it up and tried to wipe off the mud, then tucked it in his coat before Mr. Dahlgren could see. How had it gotten out there?

  The next day, Emmaline had passed Henry on her way to the henhouse. She barely slowed when she spoke to him for the first time ever. “This was a very strange Christmas. First one that Papa didn’t give me a book.”

  She’d made it to the chicken-yard gate before Henry shook off his surprise that she’d spoken at all. The first thing that hit him was guilt; he’d received something intended for her. Then his stomach grew cold when her meaning sank in.

  He called after her, “All you had to do was ask for it.”

  She paused, halfway through the gate. “For what?” Then she went about her business of collecting the eggs.

  Staying on the move was probably better for evading the law than hiding in a city, where, once Henry got a job, people would grow to recognize him, to know him, including the local beat cop—he’d read about those in the newspaper. It would be best if people didn’t think he and Gil had only been knocking around together for a day, a week, or a month. Folks noticed the plane and the war hero. Henry was just a voice building the excitement. He needed to keep it that way.

  What if Cora does come with us?

  She was on Gil’s heels as he did his preflight. She could ruin everything just by holding them up now. Mercury seemed in collusion, tripping Gil at every turn.

  A woman in our act would make us seem more inviting, more family friendly.

  The dog grabbed one of the tie-down ropes and took off with it. Gil chased it ten feet before he realized it was useless. Then he yelled for the dog to come back . . . in a tone no creature in his right mind would respond to.

  H
enry tried calling, but the dog kept going.

  One sweet whistle from Cora and the mutt came trotting back and sat obediently at her feet, rope trailing from his mouth as the sausages had done.

  When Gil reached down to retrieve the rope, Mercury backed away with a growl. Henry saw just how much doggie loyalty could be bought with a shared half sandwich.

  “We might not want you to have that,” Cora said. “Not until we settle on a deal.”

  People will assume the three of us have been an act for a good while; Henry Jefferson the barnstormer will be one step further removed from Henry Schuler, the man on the run alone.

  Gil growled back and made a quick lunge for the rope. He missed. Mercury once again took off at a run, ears flapping and flopping with each bounding lope.

  There is no job in Chicago.

  “I can always call him back,” Cora said.

  Wasting time was a peeve to Gil, but could prove disastrous for Henry.

  People want new amusements. Radios. Moving-picture houses. Can I promote this act enough to support all three of us? People wanted more thrilling, more outlandish. And Cora is both in so many ways.

  He finally pulled Gil aside and pointed out that the motorcycle could match the Jenny’s speed, so it wouldn’t be all that difficult for Cora to follow them to their next location.

  “What’s the harm?” Henry asked. “She won’t last past the first rainstorm anyway. We’re just wasting time when we could be making money to take care of the Jenny.”

  Gil’s face was unreadable.

  “As long as she’s around, we can use the motorcycle to make runs into town for supplies. Maybe we can even attach a sign advertising that you’re selling rides. The motorbike will burn less fuel than the Jenny drawing a crowd. Lots of things could be easier.” Then Henry added, “At least until Cora gets tired of the whole business and goes home.”