The Flying Circus

by Susan Crandall

  “What? By who? You don’t race.” No one in his right mind would offer a plane to someone as unseasoned as her.

  “A man I met at Clover Field. He wants to gain some attention for his new aircraft design. He thinks having a woman pilot in a race against men will be a huge selling point—even if the plane doesn’t win.”

  “ ‘Such a great plane, even a woman can fly it’?” Henry hoped his sarcasm knocked some sense into her.

  “Henry!”

  “Just back up.” He rubbed his forehead. “Do you know anything about this man’s design skills, or his plane? I mean, I have a hard time believing that an unknown woman pilot was his first thought when he decided to promote his plane. There are a few women pilots out there who have already made a name for themselves—why not ask one of them?”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence. I happen to be very good at marketing my skills.”

  “Can’t argue that. So who is he?” It was going to take some finesse to wipe that blinding stardust out of her eyes. “Anyone we’ve heard of?”

  “Frank Evans. Lives in Texas. This is his first plane, he calls it the EV-1; one of a kind. So far. It’s been flying for a few months. He can’t fly it himself because he’s in a wheelchair—he was a flight instructor for the army. Student crashed with him in the plane.”

  “Maybe Gil knows him.” Henry had never heard of Evans. “The plane’s been tested?”

  “I just said it’s been flying for a few months. It just hasn’t been raced yet.”

  “Flying it and testing it are two different things. What kind of flying has it done? What stresses has it undergone? How many hours are on it? How is Evans assessing its handling if he can’t fly it himself? And you can’t just hop in an unfamiliar plane and race it. You need to get to know it. Hours of flight time.”

  “Well, he’s having it flown here this week. You and Reece can check it out all you want and help me get to know it. Then I’m to fly it to Florida for the race—more hours of flight time. His pilot will pick it up here afterward.”

  “Cora, you can’t navigate. How in the hell are you going to fly it to Florida? And why doesn’t he just have his pilot race it, at least for this first run?”

  “You’re my mechanic, so you’ll be with me. Besides, Miami’s right on the coast. All I have to do is fly east, then follow the shoreline south. And I already told you, he wants a woman pilot.”

  “His idea, or yours?” Henry frowned. “Let me see that telegram.”

  “I’ve already agreed.” She handed it over. “That’s where I was this afternoon, sending an acceptance telegram.”

  “Four or five weeks isn’t enough time for you to prepare. You do remember what happened in Santa Monica.”

  “I won’t know until I try. Henry, you know I’m careful, that’s why I’m still alive.”

  “You’re still alive because you’ve been lucky.” His tone was harsh. “Plenty of careful, talented people end up in pieces on the ground. Plenty. If you want to race, you have to do it right. A rushed effort is going to get you, and maybe someone else, killed.”

  “I won’t fly it if I’m not ready.”

  “By whose assessment?”

  She huffed. “Yours. As long as you’re reasonable and not overprotective.”

  “You need to tell Frank Evans that’s the condition for you to fly. He needs to know beforehand, so he has a backup plan.” Or nixes the idea of you flying in this race altogether.

  “It’s not going to be a problem because I’m going to be ready. Did I mention he’s paying me, win or lose?”

  “Money to buy your own coffin?”

  “Come on, Henry! I’m not as stupid as you seem to think. And I’m not interested in hurrying into an early grave. I know my capabilities.”

  “But do you know your limits?”

  She stared at him for a moment. “There are no guarantees in this business, you know that. It’s all about calculated risk.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “What more do you want? I hardly think Evans wants to have his plane crash in front of his financial backer—especially when he’s wanting to recruit more so they can start production. Which is why he’s paying me either way, so I don’t take unnecessary risks to win.”

  If the man had gotten someone to finance his design, it must have some merit. “I want to talk to the pilot when he gets here. Learn more about the plane. And if I check out this ship and find it to be lacking, you have to promise me you’ll pull out. Otherwise, no deal. I won’t be your mechanic and you can fly all over the South trying to find your way to Miami on your own.”

  “Fine. But I’m sure it’ll pass muster. It flew from Texas to Clover Field and back. We just didn’t get to stay long enough to see it fly.”

  At that moment reality kicked back in. He’d been caught up in a pointless argument. He could stick around long enough to check out the plane. But beyond that . . . “I wish you’d talked to me before you sent that telegram. I can’t go to Miami. I have to go back to Indiana.”

  “What are you talking about? Why?”

  “You’d better sit down. It’s . . . a long story. I should have told you and Gil months ago, but one thing led to another and . . . now here we are.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t like the way you sound right now. What’s going on?”

  He supposed it was a coward’s way, telling the least offensive truth first. He justified it by convincing himself he had to start at the beginning in order to paint a clear picture of why the later events unfolded as they had.

  “My name isn’t Henry Jefferson. It’s Henry Schuler.”

  “I assume you have a reason for changing it?” She appeared curious, not yet repulsed. He looked into her face, memorizing it before the way she looked at him shifted forever.

  He told her of his childhood, his German parents and how the war had changed everything. He told her about Peter. She took his hand in hers as they shared slow, silent tears over brothers lost. The condemnation of his heritage did not come. He knew drawing this out was only a tactic to delay the end of this life, the one that had treated him the most kindly, where he’d found a place, and the start of yet another.

  He told her about Anders Dahlgren, his promises and the quick undoing of them. About Mrs. Dahlgren and the seven daughters. About his life in the barn. About the poisonous relationship he had with Emmaline and how he should have done things differently.

  Then he stopped. He didn’t have to tell her more. Let her think the reason he’d changed his name was to avoid dealing with prejudice against Germans—that when he’d realized Gil was probably a veteran that had sealed the deal. He could go back to Indiana on some pretense and just never come back—or simply complete his cowardly cycle and sneak away in the night. He would never have to face the change in the way she looked at him.

  Then she touched his cheek and looked into his eyes. “There’s more.”

  He recalled all of the times when he’d looked into her eyes and had the urge to confess. Now he turned from her questioning gaze.

  “Henry.” Her hand turned his face toward her again. “Tell me.”

  Being a coward had made him a liar, the thing he detested most in all human nature. He could not lie to her anymore. She deserved the truth. And he was tired. So tired.

  “Henry?”

  His eyes stung with the effort to hold back tears as he absorbed the last of her compassion. Then he forced the first words from his lips.

  He started with the day before he’d fled Indiana.

  The May Day picnic was at the Chautauqua grounds. Normally Henry wouldn’t have gone, but Johanna Dahlgren had asked him specially. She was going to perform the maypole dance. She’d never been picked before. “I-I-I know y-yy-you can’t g-go with us. Mmmama said. B-b-but will you come? She c-c-can’t keep you from a puh-p
uh-blic picnic.”

  He would have walked through fire if Johanna had asked. This was such a simple thing. He’d gotten Mr. Dahlgren’s permission, since it was a regular workday for Henry. Mr. Dahlgren had seemed quite happy that Henry was coming. Johanna might be Mrs. Dahlgren’s embarrassment, but she was Mr. Dahlgren’s obvious favorite.

  The maypole was to be performed at two o’clock, so Henry timed his arrival for about thirty minutes before. He didn’t want Johanna to think he wasn’t coming; he also didn’t want to hang around feeling out of place any longer than necessary. He’d put on his best shirt, cleaned his nails, and brushed his shoes. They were plenty dusty by the time he reached the grounds. He was still glad he’d bothered.

  The Chautauqua grounds were just outside town. The road was deserted. Everyone would have arrived early for the daylong event. It always drew a big crowd—only the sick, hermits, and outcasts like Henry missed it—coming as it did after the sunrise-to-sunset work of the long planting season. He was still about a quarter of a mile away when he heard something crashing through the woods on the right side of the road.

  He stopped, expecting to surprise a deer. Instead, he got the surprise. Emmaline burst from the brambles, her eyes red and swollen, tears on her face. Her lips were bruised and the front of her blouse was unbuttoned. She didn’t look scared. She looked furious—a look Henry was plenty familiar with.

  She skidded to a stop and seemed to just now notice she was out in the open.

  Her cold eyes narrowed. “If you say a word about seeing me, I’ll tell Papa that you attacked me.” She started to button her blouse. A faint bite mark was on her breast.

  Henry almost asked if she was all right. But she obviously wasn’t.

  “I mean it. Get away from me or I’ll start screaming rape right now!”

  He hesitated. If something had happened to her, he owed it to Mr. Dahlgren to help her.

  She grabbed the front of her blouse as if she were going to rip it back open. “No! No, Henry!” Then loud enough someone might actually hear: “No! Stop! Henryyyy, no!”

  He took off running. Back toward the farm.

  Halfway back to the Dahlgrens’, he almost turned around and went back to find Mr. Dahlgren and tell him that he’d seen Emmaline and something was wrong. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that she’d been up to something she shouldn’t. She didn’t seem traumatized. The threat was only to ensure Henry’s silence. But with the way she’d been acting lately, the things she’d been telling Mr. Dahlgren Henry had done, it wasn’t going to take much for her to truly convince everyone he’d attacked her. And that was the most troublesome of all. All she had to do was scream once and he’d be finished.

  He sat on his bed the rest of the afternoon, anticipating the arrival of the sheriff. Waiting for Mr. Dahlgren to burst into his room with a shotgun.

  But neither happened. The family came home at dusk and went into the house, chattering and happy. Henry watched them from the barn door. No one even looked his way, except Johanna. She stood there for a long while, looking brokenhearted. Henry felt horrible for disappointing her, but now wasn’t the time to show his face. Not until he got a better gauge on what Emmaline was up to, and how careful he needed to be.

  “That’s when I realized how far Emmaline was willing to go to ruin me,” Henry said, looking into Cora’s eyes. “She might not have gone through with it that day. But, I knew, one day soon, she would.”

  Cora said, “Why do you figure she didn’t go through with it right then?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Maybe she worried that she’d be asked questions she didn’t want to answer about why she was out there in the first place. But the way she looked at me”—Henry’s blood ran cold with the recollection—“with more hate than I thought any single person could hold. I mean, I admit, I hated her like I’d never hated anyone. But there was something, I don’t know . . . evil in her eyes. She’d been filling her papa’s head with ideas about me having wicked intentions toward her. It’s like she was setting me up. Just waiting for the right opportunity.”

  “From what you’ve said, I’m sure telling her father any of this would have backfired on you.”

  He shook his head, the sickness in his stomach like a raging fire. “It couldn’t have turned out any worse than it did. She was killed the next day.” He was shaking. He closed his eyes, trying to get the gruesome image out of his mind. “I’m wanted for her murder. That’s why I changed my name. That’s why I ran.” There. It was out. No taking it back.

  Her hand fell from his face. She sat there staring at him with her lips parted and her eyes wide.

  He stopped breathing. But his heart kept beating. Each thub-dub absurdly loud in his ears. If only it would stop. Before she denounced him.

  Finally she stood, an abrupt, jerky movement. Henry felt as if their lives had been momentarily frozen and they were now back in sickening motion.

  “That’s ridiculous!” She held her forehead. “You couldn’t have done it!”

  “How can you know that?” His own doubt had grown as he’d told the story. He wanted Cora to see it all now; he didn’t want it creeping up on her later when she had time to think, to remember and analyze. Get this over once and for all. “After everything I just told you about her and how much I hated her? After I lied to you from the very first day? After I ran? I was there. I had her blood on my hands.”

  Suddenly his heart slowed. The shaking stopped. A peculiar calm washed over him. If she hated him, if she condemned him, it was better than being suffocated by the knowledge that he was betraying her trust every single day. He felt a small loosening of the tangles in the tight ball of tension that had gotten worse with each deceitful day. “I’m not the person you think I am.” And that was the most horrible truth. She had not seen the monster in the cellar.

  “I do know you!”

  “Everyone in Delaware County thinks they know me, too. And they’re certain that I did do it.”

  She looked at him steadily when she asked, “All right, if you insist, I’ll ask the question directly. Did you?”

  “I can’t say for certain.”

  Her face clouded. “That makes no sense.”

  “It’s the truth. I don’t think I did. It doesn’t feel like I did.”

  “Stop talking in riddles and tell me exactly what happened.” She sat back down, but not on the bed next to him, on the straight-backed chair. Her eyes were intent on his. Was she looking for a sign, truth or lie? “Leave nothing out.”

  Henry asked for a glass of water and organized his thoughts while she went to get it. After he drained the glass, he did what he’d done a million times in his head over the past months. He relived that day.

  That morning had begun with a screaming argument between Emmaline and one of her sisters, Henry couldn’t tell which one, streaming out of the upstairs windows. Emmaline had been meaner than usual since her sister Violet’s wedding. But that was to be expected; jealousy ran thick in Emmaline’s blood. Any attention directed toward others was an insult to her. Henry had been extra careful to steer clear of her, which she seemed to take exception to, twisting the truth when she complained to her father, “Henry’s been following me.” He supposed she could hardly have complained that he’d been avoiding her. Emmaline’s dearest pleasure was enforcing her will upon him. The incident near the Chautauqua grounds the previous day had been the most damning evidence of that.

  Several days before, Mr. Dahlgren had confronted Henry about his bothering Emmaline, watching her, following her. Henry felt he’d been convincing in his denial. Of course he hadn’t said he’d been avoiding her the way he would a brown recluse spider. Pa had always counseled it was better to hold one’s tongue than to turn slights and slanders back on their issuers; it made a man sound weak and petty. Henry should have told Mr. Dahlgren right then about how Emmaline had been disappearing
into the woods more and more often, sometimes for hours—a sign of something for certain as Emmaline hated being outdoors. But he hadn’t. Mostly because it could lend credence to Emmaline’s claim; how would he have noticed her comings and goings if he hadn’t been watching her?—which he had, but for quite the opposite reason.

  Henry was hilling the rows in the potato patch down in the bottoms when he heard Emmaline yelling, “Stop following me, J-J-J-Johanna! I’ll have you sent off to the f-f-f-freak show where you belong!”

  “I’m j-j-just looking for my k-k-kitten.”

  “I killed it. Now go back to the house.”

  Henry’s knuckles went white on the hoe handle. Why did she have to be so cruel to poor Johanna? He took five or six wild swings with his hoe, driving it deep into the ground, hard enough to hurt his shoulder and leave his breath heaving. Once he was back under control, it took several minutes before he could go back to work. Even then, his insides still quivered with anger.

  Sometime later he heard a quick, sharp shout. Emmaline. Farther away.

  He stopped to listen for Johanna, but didn’t hear anything more. She didn’t usually challenge her sister. Most likely she’d gone back to the house. He’d help her look for her kitten when he got back to the barn.

  Then moments later, a shrill scream was cut off abruptly.

  Henry broke into a run, his body flashing hot, fury pumping his legs.

  There was no path. Branches gouged his face, brambles tore at his hands.

  He reached the river, looked frantically around. No one. “Johanna!”

  Then he caught sight of a blue hair ribbon snagged on a branch, fluttering in the breeze a few yards upstream.

  Fear and anger were lightning in his blood. He hurried toward the ribbon, nearer the water. He reached out—

  The next thing he knew, he was lying facedown in the mud, pushing himself up on trembling arms, his head throbbing, his vision blurry.

  Then he saw her. Head and shoulders in the river. Emmaline’s blond hair stained red, floating around her head like sunburst petals on the water.