The Flying Circus

by Susan Crandall

8

  Even though Gil gave a lot of lip service about giving Cora no special treatment, he was obviously keeping their stops on main routes and relatively short distances apart for her motorcycle rides. It drove Henry crazy that neither Gil nor Cora would acknowledge that. They’d been hopscotching from town to town, skipping back and forth across the state line between Illinois and its neighboring states of Iowa and Missouri, having varied success. When a town proved to be a total bust, logic would say Gil should have blamed being tied to a planned route, should have insisted that he could have eliminated it as a stop by flying over and seeing the lack of interest. A couple of places had even had a barnstormer through in the previous month. But after that first complaint, Gil never again mentioned the loss of spontaneity because of the addition of Cora and the motorcycle.

  Logic also said, between the amount of badgering he took from Cora and the fruitless stops, he should have dumped Cora and Henry weeks ago. Even more telling of Gil’s deeper feelings was that MERCURY’S DAREDEVILS was emblazoned on the sides of his beloved Jenny. Naturally, it had been Cora’s idea. For the first time and only time, she had teamed a little of her charm with her determination to persuade Gil. Plus she’d plied him with some fine moonshine before she’d made her final push. She’d started out with more outlandish suggestions such as pulling a banner behind the plane to advertise (the poor bird’s engine was taxed enough carrying Gil and Henry and a small amount of supplies). It had been a compromise in the end, facilitated by Henry—who’d also sketched and painted the lettering and some flames on the tail. After his somewhat inebriated agreement, Gil did as always and just ignored the new paint job—approval by abstention.

  All considered, Cora was probably right; Gil did want them around. Not that Henry was eager to test the theory.

  After the ramp incident and the tent revival, Cora seemed less cocksure of Henry. As she should have been, considering all she didn’t know about him. Still, he felt the loss with a sharpness that surprised him. Oh, she still teased, but something about it was more reserved now, a reluctant wariness showing deep in her eyes. From that first day when he’d pulled her from the water, it had been him and Cora as a team with Gil an essential, yet distant, participant. Now there had been a shift. She showed a new closeness toward Gil. Henry wondered if he’d made a huge mistake in staying away that night, leaving Cora in her wounded mood alone with Gil; for that had clearly been the turning point, the slight shift in her allegiance.

  It was done. Like so many other choices Henry had made, it couldn’t be changed. He knew Cora’s distance was for the best. It prevented him from making another foolish mistake.

  He’d been distracting himself by focusing all of his mental energy on the airplane. There was something to be said for the uncomplicated nature of a relationship with an inanimate object. In that one single aspect, he understood Gil completely.

  The better he got to know the Jenny, the more apparent it became that the main things holding her together were baling wire and a big heap of faith. The wooden and cloth plane was built on an accelerated wartime schedule and was designed to be used only in the short term as a trainer. The old girl was already on borrowed time. A steady stream of ideas paraded through his mind, not just to keep the plane hanging together, but to improve her. All of them required at least some cash, which was coming in at a rather haphazard flow. His wish list was steadily growing.

  Henry sat in the rear cockpit as they flew over southern Illinois coal country, readying for his first solo landing. He’d come a long way since he’d first put his hand on the throttle and edged it forward, sending his heart into double time and taking his breath away—for the first time not from the propeller wash. Gil had informed Henry before they’d taken off that he was as much on his own as if he sat in the plane alone. Sink or swim, the Jenny was in Henry’s hands. As the miles disappeared and the landing neared, his heart hammered as if he’d run ten miles. And he completely forgot to breathe.

  If he made a successful solo landing—please, God—he could call himself an aviator. Only not in front of Cora.

  Part of what Gil had been training him to do since their first trip together was to continually scout the ground for a likely landing place. Emergency landings don’t give you time to look around; keep that in mind every mile you fly. Flat as possible. No cliffs. No big trees. Lakes can be good, but keep in mind, hitting water is no softer than hitting land. Shrubbery, tree stumps, and mature corn crops help dissipate energy and slow you down in a field that’s too short. Henry had taken the lesson to heart. Whenever he was at an altitude that wouldn’t allow for a long glide, he always knew where he’d put down if the engine quit.

  They’d passed over the Marion courthouse and he spotted a likely field for their show. Henry checked the cows below to figure out the wind direction. Ass end to the wind. He banked the plane for a low pass to check the field more closely, confirming the wind direction by the movement of the grass. After Tilda, Henry didn’t trust cows.

  His hands were sweaty on the control stick and his stomach had tied itself into a knot, simultaneously creating both the worst and the best feeling he’d ever had. The field looked good. He couldn’t decide if he was glad or disappointed. Now that the moment was upon him, he felt totally unprepared—just as Gil had said he would. At least Gil hadn’t trained in a plane that risked someone’s livelihood. Besides, the Jenny wasn’t just a meal ticket to Gil, she was his whole life. And then there was Gil’s actual life.

  There wasn’t enough fuel to fiddle around and take another pass. This field looked good, so it was a go.

  What if he’d missed something, a tree stump or a boulder in the high grass?

  Gil signaled from the front cockpit for Henry to set down.

  That helped. Still, confidence in the field was only part of it. He needed confidence in his own ability. Hesitation and second-guessing had no place in the cockpit. Assess. Decide. Execute.

  Henry circled and made his approach. He pulled back on the stick a bit, pulling the nose up slightly, setting the pitch for landing. Throttle back. They dropped lower, lower. A crosswind caught the plane, pushing them sideways from the landing spot, heading them for the cornfield on the right. Destroying crops sets up entirely the wrong tone for negotiations with a farmer. He fought the crosswind by crabbing the plane, using the stick and the rudder, aiming for the landing spot he’d picked on his pass. The ground was rushing up, the corn like a rolling green sea. They crossed the fence.

  Nose up, kill more speed.

  Dropping. Dropping. He should be feeling the wheels hit by now. Had he overshot?

  He had to get the plane on the ground or he’d be out of room. A safe landing that ended in a fence was no better than a crash landing.

  The wheels hit hard. The Jenny bounced into flight again. He had to get that tail skid on the ground. He killed the engine and kept the stick in his lap. The wheels hit again. It was so bumpy it rattled his teeth. The tail finally lit and began to drag and slow them.

  What he wouldn’t give for some brakes.

  He leaned to the right, looking ahead around the nose and loosened his grip on the stick. They were going to stop with yards to spare.

  He, Henry Schuler, homeless orphan, was an aviator. An aviator! Peter wouldn’t believe it. Hell, Henry hardly believed it.

  His tense muscles finally relaxed as they rolled toward a stop.

  Suddenly the front dropped. The plane nosed down.

  The tail’s coming over.

  Gravity shifted. Henry was on the upswing of a seesaw.

  His lap belt cut in as his body jerked forward. He stopped moving at a downward angle ten feet off the ground.

  What the hell happened?

  Gil was silent as he pushed himself out of the front cockpit and slid forward off the lower wing to the ground. Henry braced his feet on the rudder bar and unfastened his lap belt, wondering how Gil ev
er kept his concentration hanging by the thing during inverted flight.

  Henry climbed out, disappointment filling his stomach and shame coloring his cheeks.

  Words stuck in his throat as he stood staring morosely at the Jenny, her nose in a shallow ditch that had been camouflaged by the grass, her tail in the air.

  After a second, Gil slapped him on the back. “Good job, old boy!”

  Henry’s horrified gaze cut to Gil. He appeared to be sincere—and he had a purpling goose egg on his forehead.

  “I nearly killed your plane.”

  “When I was in training, most fellows not only killed the plane on their first landing, but themselves, too. The plane’s still got her tail and wings. You look hale and hearty.” Gil smiled at Henry with what looked like pride in his eyes.

  No one had looked at Henry like that since Peter had left home. Henry had almost forgotten what it did to a person’s insides.

  “You corrected for that crosswind. You didn’t panic when she hopped. I didn’t see that ditch either. It’s all part of flying.”

  Henry’s eyes lit on the splintered prop. “Ah, hell.” He put his hands on his head and walked in a circle. “Damn. Damn. Damn it to hell.”

  “We’ll need a new propeller.” Gil’s voice was matter-of-fact.

  “How much?”

  “Around fifty dollars.” Then he looked at Henry. “Do we have it?”

  Henry had become the unofficial accountant, handling the intake, paying for supplies. He even divided their shares at the end of the week—not that there was ever much left to divide. “We do. But it should come out of my share. It might take some time for me to get it covered though.”

  “Did we take the money for Cora’s replacement chain out of her cut?”

  “No, but—”

  “Our shares are after operating expenses. Fixing broken stuff is operating expenses. Besides, we can’t let Cora know you were piloting or she’ll be all over me to teach her. A woman on a motorcycle is bad enough. A woman aviator . . .” Gil visibly shuddered.

  Henry didn’t think now was the right time to mention Cora had ideas for getting airborne that had nothing to do with piloting. Gil was going to be resistant enough, and Henry had a feeling Cora was right, they were going to have to step up their act if they were to keep drawing a crowd. The barnstormer who’d beat them in harvesting several towns had a wing walker; when Mercury’s Daredevils arrived, they were already second-rate. In the exhibition business your act had to provide the most thrills or you were doomed.

  “We’ll telegraph for the propeller when we get to town,” Gil said. “Might take a week to get here. Maybe a little less, since we’re right on a rail line.”

  “You and Cora shouldn’t get nicked because of my—”

  Gil’s eyes nailed Henry with their fierceness. “Before you started working on the plane, I’d never gone three weeks, let alone six, without something grounding me. I count us money ahead. And Cora had better not say a word about it. She needs to learn the money has to keep what we have glued together, not buy more to maintain or line our pockets.”

  Henry didn’t think a desire for money fueled Cora’s wanting a bigger crowd, a more daring performance. If she just wanted money she’d marry a Father Time. No, it was something else entirely. She seemed to need excitement and the adoring eyes of strangers the way most people needed a good square meal; not as an aspect of vanity, but a necessary part of survival.

  No sense ruffling Gil’s feathers by saying that aloud right now either. “So now what?”

  “We’re going to need help getting the tail down and pulling her out of this gully.”

  Just then, Henry noticed a middle-aged man with a thick mustache trotting across the field toward them. He was red faced and huffing when he reached them. “Ever—body—all—right?” He stopped, put his hands on his knees and sucked in a few deep breaths. “I seen that tail go up and knew you was in trouble.”

  “Fine,” Gil said. “Could use some help getting out of the ditch.”

  “Need more’n me? Got my son back at the barn.”

  “Him, too.”

  The man nodded. “Name’s Gather. Hugh Gather.”

  “Gil. This is Henry.” Henry nodded at the man and Gil asked, “This ditch run all the way across?”

  “Nope. Only ’bout ten feet long. You managed to hit it right square, you did.”

  Henry groaned.

  Gil gave him a that’s-how-it-goes look. To Gather, Gil said, “We’re here to sell rides. We’d like to use your pasture. We’ll give you a percentage of the take.” Gil’s approach, although short and to the point, had certainly improved. Henry felt a twinge of uselessness. “And we’ll all make more money if you keep this little incident to yourself.”

  “I didn’t see no plane get tipped in the ditch. No, sir.” Gather stuck out his hand. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Bloody Williamson.”

  “Bloody Williamson?” Gil and Henry asked together.

  “Don’t you folks read the newspaper? Mine trouble. Strikes. Been nothin’ but beatin’s and guns and lynchin’ round here for quite a spell. Had ourselves a regular massacre of scab foreigners last year. Course, bootleggers is still a problem. But the Ku Klux Klan’s gettin’ involved in the fracas, cleanin’ things up.

  “Got me a cousin over to Ohio writes me that every paper in the whole country’s callin’ this Bloody Williamson, on account of it’s Williamson County—and all the killin’.”

  Henry looked at Gil, wishing like hell that he hadn’t just ruined their chances to get out of here. And that Cora weren’t riding all alone on that motorcycle.

  “Oh, now, don’t look like that, boy,” Gather said to Henry. “Most of the trouble’s been up Herrin way. And unless you’re scabs, bootleggers, or gangsters, you’ll pro’bly be just fine.” Gather winked.

  Henry said, “I need to get to town. Cora’s alone.”

  “Oh, now, I’m just joshin’ ya,” Gather said. “Ain’t all that bad right now. And the Klan’s all about protectin’ womanhood and virtue. That’s why they come, to rout out the lawlessness, get rid of them bootleggin’ foreigners that habituate to wine. Klan’ll make this a place for decent Americans to live again.”

  Gil said, “We’ll get this plane moved later. Do you have a car or truck we could borrow?” To Henry he said, “If she’s not in town, we’ll start looking on the road.”

  “Road? Ain’t your lady travelin’ by train?”

  “No. She’s riding a motorcycle,” Gil said. Obviously he’d never had to tiptoe around public opinion before. Gather didn’t seem the kind of man who welcomed the progress of womanhood.

  Gather’s eyes got wide, then squinty. “Well now . . .” He looked to be making a decision. “Truck’s up to the barn. You’re welcome to use it to find your lady if you bring it back full of gasoline.” He said lady differently this time, as if he considered any woman traveling alone on a motorcycle and meeting up with two men to be far less than one. The implication irritated Henry beyond measure. He wanted to punch the man for his disrespect, but held his hands at his side; they needed that truck.

  For the first time he understood Cora’s complaint about the unfairness of the public attitude toward independent woman, that they were either immoral or suspiciously masculine. How quickly she’d begun to change his perspective. He recalled his shock at Cora’s initial appearance and over her asking for Gil’s cigarette. That shock seemed prudish to him now, and he felt a little ashamed that Cora still needed to remind him that women were equals now, the old Victorian ways were being left back “in the dark ages where they belong.”

  Change came slowly, no matter how justified. Some places were slower to come around than others and Henry hoped this wasn’t one of them; they needed to replenish their cash before they could move on.

  When he laid eyes on Gather’
s truck, he feared it didn’t have seven miles, the distance to town, left in it. Henry had to crank it so many times, he broke a sweat and nearly his arm, too. When it started, it coughed and ran rough. As it sluggishly chugged out of the barnyard, Henry prayed it wouldn’t die on the side of the road before they found Cora.

  The motorcycle always took longer to reach their destinations than the Jenny. Most roads weren’t good enough for Cora to travel anywhere near top speed, an unhappy discovery for her. Their plan always was, if she didn’t see Henry and Gil in a field on her way into town—as she wouldn’t today because they’d flown past Marion—the fallback was to meet Henry in the center of downtown. Originally, she was to stay put and Henry was to wander until he found her. But Cora wasn’t a woman to stay put when she could be talking up the exhibition. After that first time, Henry stayed put and let her find him. It simply expedited things.

  Gil pointed the truck toward Marion. He might not have said he was worried—or anything else for that matter because he’d gone silent—but his jaw muscles flexed and his fingers kept opening and closing on the steering wheel of the old truck.

  “I think we need to find another field to operate out of,” Henry said.

  “We already shook on it. It’ll be fine.”

  “But you heard him. He seems—”

  “We can cut back to just rides and keep Cora out of it. We’ll just do one day.”

  “I don’t like being stuck here.”

  “Don’t believe everything that old coot said. We’ll judge for ourselves.”

  The late-July sun beat down and the hot wind lashed Henry’s face. His tense stomach turned sour. He suddenly missed the cool rush of high-altitude air that he wouldn’t feel for at least a week. As self-centered as thinking about how much he’d miss flying was, it was better than thinking of Cora getting caught up in a shoot-out.

  Henry didn’t know if Gil’s wild driving was because of panic or if he was just a terrible driver. They hit every rut and pothole in the road, and Henry steadied himself by holding on to the door. Gil’s hands, so smooth on the control stick and the throttle, were erratic on the steering wheel; the side-to-side jerking of the truck was making Henry’s neck muscles cramp.