The Flying Circus

by Susan Crandall

  “We are a flying circus.”

  “You should look into vaudeville with a sense of humor like that. Give eighty-year-old ladies a real good laugh.”

  “Eighty-year-old ladies are not without their charm.” At least none of them would stomp on your heart. The three of them sat there for a bit. Henry used his knife to smooth out ragged edges of the stake Mercury had chewed.

  “So,” he finally said. “You haven’t changed your mind? I mean, if I had a family, I sure wouldn’t be spending Christmas alone in California.” She had made the break and her life was now her own. It seemed pointless to stay cut off from her family.

  “It would just be one big fight—Mother ashamed and disappointed, trying to get me to change my ways; me frustrated with her shallow views. We’re both better off if I stay away. I sent her a letter saying I had to work over the holidays.”

  “Going to Hollywood to gawk at movie stars . . . maybe get a peek at Valentino . . . is work?”

  “Henry!” His actual name had been coming out of her mouth more than Kid lately. “I wish I’d never told you about that tour. I didn’t say I was going to take it! The only reason I’m going is to check into stunting for the moving pictures. We can work in the off-season doing pictures, you and I—Gil, too, if he’s still around—”

  “Wait! What do you mean ‘if he’s still around’?”

  She shrugged.

  “He’s been better with this circus than he’s ever been—even without his own plane. That is, until you two lost your heads.” It came out more hateful than he’d intended.

  The breath she took was so deep he heard it. “Well. That won’t be happening again. No need to blame me if he leaves the circus.”

  “You think he’s going to leave?”

  “Who knows? You said it yourself, he’s broken.”

  “And you’ve finally given up on fixing him?”

  “I do not give up on things. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to talk about going to California and getting into the moving pictures; they always need stunt fliers.”

  “Because they keep dying off. Besides, you don’t fly.”

  “Of course I do. Jake taught me. I just prefer wing walking—which they also need in movie stunts.”

  “Knowing how to fly and stunting are two different things. Out of the three of us, Gil’s the only one with enough skill to sell to the movies.”

  “I’ve learned everything else. If I decide to stunt, I’ll stunt.”

  Henry laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “So? Are you coming?”

  “You know I told Reece I’d stay on his farm and work on the planes.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t take a couple of weeks off. It’ll give Reece time to be with his family without extra people around.”

  Henry hadn’t thought about it that way, as if he was an intruder in the few weeks Reece had with his family. “What about Gil?”

  “I’m not going to ask him. You can if you want.”

  Henry’d have to think long and hard before he did that—for Gil’s sake. On the other hand, maybe being alone with Cora for two weeks would be Henry’s own undoing. “What’s going on with you two?” There it was, out there. Finally.

  She turned her head to look square at him. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Henry’s frustration outweighed his reluctance to face the truth. “So you two just kiss and run.”

  “Never again.”

  “How can you say that? It hasn’t looked like there’s been planning in the previous instances. Unless there’s more—”

  “No! Oh, God, no!”

  He was a little taken aback by her vehemence.

  “Gil is not . . . available.”

  He wished she’d stop talking in disjointed statements. “I did warn you, he’s a dried-out corn husk, emotionally. He’s been through things he can’t—”

  “That’s not what I meant by unavailable. He’s married.” She shoved Mercury back into Henry’s hands, got up, and walked off, leaving him to sit there with his head spinning.

  Jake took off for Reece’s farm. Henry watched him gain altitude as Henry propped his own plane. He hoped the hours alone in the air would help clear his head . . . and his heart. This life was suddenly feeling as if it were being held together by as many wires as a Jenny, and one by one they were snapping free.

  He hoped the wings wouldn’t fall off completely.

  He aimed the plane into the wind at the end of the field. Just as he was throttling up, movement off to his right caught his eye.

  A car was fast approaching, going much too fast for the rough field. The driver stuck his arm and head out of the window. His bowler blew off. He waved frantically for Henry to stop.

  The prohibition agent came to mind. A lawman.

  Henry throttled up and took off down the field.

  He didn’t look back.

  The entire way to Mississippi, he assured himself that no one knew where the circus kept its equipment over the winter. His alarm was probably foolish. That man could just have been someone wanting a ride. Or a reporter wanting an interview. Or a dozen other things. Why had Henry assumed he was a lawman?

  Because he looked like one. From up north.

  17

  Gil was true to his word. When they gathered around the table for Thanksgiving dinner, he was sitting right next to Reece’s pa—and directly across the nice juicy turkey from Cora. Considering the circumstances, they were both behaving pretty well. Anyone who didn’t know them the way Henry did probably wouldn’t even get a whiff that anything was amiss.

  The Althoffs’ house had most likely been grand at one time. It had big rooms with fireplaces, a fancy stairway in an entry hall, and a large porch across the entire front, but much of the white paint had baked to a ghost of itself in the Southern sun, and the old wood floors had lost their finish on the regular paths traced by those who lived there. Two of the most magnificently twisted trees stood in the front yard—live oaks, Reece had called them—a hundred years old. Surrounding the lawn on three sides and across the road as far as Henry could see were broad, flat, harvested cotton fields. He’d never seen cotton growing. Reece had shown Henry pictures and had given him a cotton boll, which looked and felt nothing like he’d expected.

  When Reece’s pa offered the blessing, Henry said his own silent prayer of thanks for this new life. He prayed for the strength and guidance to help Gil find his way back, and for a boost in his own immunity against his attraction to Cora. If they were going to survive in the circus, they had to keep things friendly. Just friendly.

  Then he asked for the strength to do what was right, to atone for his weakness. It was a lot to ask of even the most generous God.

  After Mr. Althoff had said his amen, Henry looked around the table and offered one more prayer of thanks for these people. Peter had said Ma believed prayers should always end with thankfulness, not requests.

  The dining room table had fancy, spindly legs that looked too frail to hold the bounty that was spread upon it. With just the six of them around it, they had to extend their reach to pass the serving dishes. This wasn’t exactly the family meal Henry had spent hours imagining, but he realized he’d probably set his expectations unnaturally high. He’d pictured a crowded table with bumping elbows, happy chatter, and boisterous laughs. This was a bit more serious, with fancy china and monogrammed silverware. Even so, sitting with these people felt like a salve to a burn. All families had rough waters at times. And he committed himself to helping Cora and Gil get through theirs. For years, he’d longed for people to call his own; he wasn’t going to give them up without a fight.

  Gil worked to be a good guest, talking even when not asked a direct question.

  “Wonderful meal, Mrs. Althoff. Best cooking I’ve ever had,” he said as he buttered a biscuit.

/>   “Please, call me Nell. And it’s probably just because you’re a hungry bachelor. Just wait until you get a wife. Food cooked with love always tastes better.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw Cora sit up straighter. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth.

  Henry watched Gil, waiting for his response.

  He kept his eyes on his food and mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Although Henry had lived alongside Gil day in and day out for months, he didn’t know him at all. Married. The man was married. And still sitting there pretending he wasn’t—even though Cora already knew.

  That must be what he was going to go do in the off-season, see a wife. The money he’d mailed had likely gone to her. But why keep it such a secret?

  Gil was quiet, sure. And initially Henry had had to dig to get anything out of him about his past. But these months with the circus had opened him up some. He still didn’t discuss his years in the war, but he did talk about growing up poor in southeastern Ohio, where coal mines and potteries were to him what farming had been to Henry—the only possibility the future held. He talked about how he’d bought the Jenny from the army and his first days barnstorming. In addition to this glaring opportunity to fess up, there had been plenty of campfire talk about homes and wives and children. Gil had been involved in most of them. But never a breath about a wife.

  After dinner, Henry followed Gil out onto the front porch. It was chilly, but after all of that food and deception, the air felt good.

  “So,” Henry said, “your train leaves tomorrow morning?”

  Gil nodded as he lit a cigarette.

  “Home to Ohio? Or are you going to look for a plane?” The double question camouflaged Henry’s intent. Jennies weren’t as cheap as they used to be; lots of them had been rebuilt by Wright Aeronautical with new Hisso engines. But Gil might have a lead on one he could afford—if he hadn’t secretly been sending most of his money to a wife. Of course, as far as Gil was concerned, Henry didn’t know about that.

  Gil’s sharp gaze cut from the fields to Henry. “I’m not looking at a plane.”

  “Ah. I’m sure your family will be glad to see you. It has to have been a long time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you going to be gone the entire break? Or are you coming back here to help me overhaul the engines?”

  “Not sure.” Then Gil looked at Henry in the dusky light. “Will you need me?”

  “I’ll have plenty of time to handle it. Even with the trip to California with Cora.” Henry kept his eyes fixed on Gil, watching for the slightest reaction.

  But Gil’s reaction wasn’t slight at all. He stopped leaning on the porch post and jerked to his full height. “California?”

  “She wants to look into moving-picture stunting. Something to do in the off-season.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Henry pressed his lips together and shook his head. “You know how she is when she gets something in her head.”

  “She doesn’t have the skill to be a stunt pilot. She’s never done the simplest of maneuvers. She doesn’t even like piloting.”

  Henry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his own post. “Apparently all irrelevant.” Then he asked, “You knew Jake taught her to fly?”

  “Yes.”

  Well then, Henry had missed more than one thing that had been right under his nose. It irritated him enough to motivate him to say, “After that little scene on the field the other day, I’d have thought you two would be going to California together. And yet, you’re going off somewhere else and I’m headed West.”

  “That ‘little scene’—” Gil sighed. “It’s not like that.”

  “It looked exactly like that. What’s going on? You’re likely to ruin everything.”

  “Jake gave me the ‘romantic hoo-ha’ lecture the other day, so save your breath.”

  “You told me you didn’t love her.”

  “That doesn’t matter one way or the other—”

  “Oh, I think it might. Because even if you say there’s nothing going on, even if you only break down and kiss her twice a season, the undercurrent you two are putting out there is exactly what Jake doesn’t want.”

  Gil took several puffs from his cigarette; he kept his eyes on the oak trees when he said, “If I have to leave the circus before I can buy my own plane, I will. But I’d rather stay.”

  Henry looked directly into Gil’s eyes. “Why would you make that choice? I mean, if you love each other, do something about it. Keep the drama out of it. Marry her, for God’s sake. Jake didn’t forbid nice, quiet married people.” Tell me. You’re not wiggling off this hook again.

  Gil rubbed his forehead as if he was getting a headache. “That’s not . . . it’s just . . .”

  I trusted you. Suddenly Henry went cold. What in the hell was he doing? Trust went both ways. And he wasn’t about to stand here and tell Gil that he was wanted for murder back in Indiana. “Forget it. I was way out of line.” Henry started back inside the house. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I’m already married.” Gil sounded resigned, worn, and sad.

  Henry stopped and closed his eyes.

  He turned back around. “I see.”

  “Hardly. It’s complicated.”

  “Men tempted to stray always say that. But usually to get the sympathy of a half-willing woman.”

  “Can you see if Reece has anything to drink around here? . . . I don’t mean after-dinner coffee.”

  Henry went inside and came back out a few minutes later with a dubious-looking mason jar of moonshine and two very fine cut-glass tumblers. Gil was sitting in a frayed wicker chair. He’d pulled another one close and indicated Henry should sit.

  After Henry poured them both a drink, Gil took a sip and stared into the now pitch-darkness that surrounded the house. Henry held his drink in his hand, unsure if he was going to risk drinking it.

  When Gil finally started to talk, it wasn’t about young love or a wife. “My whole childhood it was just me and my mother. She worked in a pottery.” He shook his head, and when he spoke again, he sounded distant, lost in the past. “The dust of that place clung to her no matter how much she washed her dried-out skin. When she hugged me, it came off her clothes. I remember that fine grit in my teeth.” His voice grew more focused. “I don’t know who my father was. Mother did the best she could after her father turned her out—I only knew him by sight, after some kid at school told me he was my grandpa. The whole town knew more about me than I knew about me.” Gil paused and seemed to grow more distant again. “She was so thin. What I remember most about her was that she always seemed . . . faded. Translucent. More gone than attached to this world.”

  Henry thought of his pa, more gone than here; life seemed to do that to a lot of people.

  Gil ran his fingers across the cut glass, as if memorizing the pattern with his fingertips. “She left me with a neighbor lady when she worked. But that lady had eight kids of her own. I don’t think she noticed if I was there or not. I just remember it being chaotic. I didn’t like all of that motion, all of that noise. So I generally just stayed away.”

  He paused and took a long sip from his glass.

  “When I started school, I met John Andrews and Mary Keating.” Gil’s voice was still a little hoarse from the burning alcohol. “Being poor didn’t make you stand out in our town, but being a bastard and being Irish Catholic did. The three of us were bound by our exclusion.”

  When he stopped for a moment, Henry said, “Bound by exclusion. Maybe people like us are always drawn together like that.”

  Gil looked over at Henry and smiled thinly. “Of that I have no doubt.” Gil raised his glass. “To misfits one and all.” He drank. “I’m not sure why I told you all of that . . . unless it’s to make you understand why I did what I did.

  “Wh
en we got to high school, John and I pledged neither of us would ruin it by changing things with Mary. She was like our sister. There was a time when I nearly broke that promise. No one knew me like she did. But it meant more to me to keep us all together.

  “I quit school at sixteen. By then, Mother’s health had gone from bad to worse. She was confined to bed. I earned enough at the mine to feed us and keep a couple of rented rooms. Working long hours on a night shift kept me away from John and Mary most of the time. That’s when things changed between them. They hid it from me for months. And then I found them together. John and I fought—I beat the bloody hell out of him, all the while Mary screaming for me to stop. That night he drank too much and fell off the railroad trestle where he and I used to sit at night, smoking and drinking and planning how we were going to get the hell out of that town. I found his body after Mary came to tell me John’s mother said he hadn’t come home the night before. It was the first place I looked. Mother died the next week. I decided to go to France, determined to make it through flight training. I figured if a German got me, at least I’d be out in the daylight, not buried in a collapsed mine tunnel.

  “The week before I left, Mary told me she was pregnant. I was the reason John was gone. All because I was too selfish and too jealous to grow up and act like a man. So I married her; at least I could keep John’s child from being branded a bastard. She cried through the whole ceremony. And then I left to make her a war widow. But that just refused to happen. It only took one day after I got back to see that she could not look at me without wanting John—without blaming me. One look at that baby and it was obvious John was the father, cowlicked red hair and all. People had been willing to ignore that fact while I was gone, but my presence started tongues to wagging. She and the baby had a life, a decent life that didn’t include me. Divorce was out of the question. It wasn’t fair to her for me to stay; I didn’t want to, not and face that every day. I haven’t seen her since.”