One Shining Moment

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You were married?”

  “No, thank God, it didn’t get that far.” Pain touched his fine eyes, and he tried a smile that failed. “I loved her more than I loved life, Lylah.”

  When he said no more, Lylah whispered, “What happened, Jesse?”

  “She—found somebody else.” It was a brief, clipped statement, but it told Lylah more about Jesse than if he’d spoken volumes. The pain in his face was the result of a misery that had cut him so deeply he couldn’t even bear to speak of it. Lylah knew that women felt like that, but for the first time she understood that a man could suffer in the same way.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse,” she said quietly.

  “Ancient history. Shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Yes, you should.” Lylah put her hand out and he took it. “We’re friends aren’t we?”

  Jesse held her hand, and somehow the warmth in her eyes drove away the shadows of old grief. “Can’t think when I’ve ever had a better one,” he said simply. And then he asked, “Don’t you think friends should express their feelings in a physical manner at times like this?”

  Lylah’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’ve never had a man try to get a kiss with such a line. You’re something, Jesse Hart—and yes, I do think a physical demonstration of our friendship is in order.” She came into his arms and lifted her face. His lips were firm but gentle, and when she drew back, her eyes were glistening with tears. “You’re quite a fellow, Jesse Hart!”

  “You make a great cup of hot chocolate, Bonnie.”

  The snow had fallen so fast that by the time dinner was over, Jesse had proclaimed that it was too late for the visitors to go home. “We’ve got beds, cots, and can make Baptist pallets,” he’d said firmly.

  After a flurry of arranging, it had been settled. Now all were asleep except Bonnie and Jerry. They were sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, and Jerry tasted the steaming chocolate carefully, then nodded critically. “Yep, you can’t get good stuff like this at Mom’s Cafe.”

  Bonnie had pulled her legs up under her. She had listened to Jerry’s stories of his time in the air circus for two hours, and now she said, “Tell me another story about the circus.”

  Jerry was amused at the girl. “It’s late for little girls to be up.”

  “I’m not a little girl!” Bonnie said indignantly. “I’ll be eighteen next month.”

  “But what big eyes you have, Grandma!” Jerry laughed at the indignation that came at once. “Don’t try to grow up so fast,” he advised. “Enjoy your childhood.”

  “I am not a child!” Bonnie’s dark eyes flashed, and she suddenly unlimbered her leg and kicked out. When he grunted, she smiled and said smugly, “You can’t strike me. I’m just a child.”

  “Why, you little brat!” Jerry rubbed his leg, but then laughed at her. “I give up! You’re not a child. You are, in fact, a very charming young lady.”

  “Good! Now tell me about the circus. Did you ever jump out of a plane in a parachute?”

  “Yes, a few times. But it was mostly a young woman who did that stunt.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Cara Gilmore.”

  Something about the tone of Jerry’s voice caught Bonnie’s attention. She turned to face him, a curious light in her dark blue eyes. She studied the long form of the young man, then asked, “Did you know her very well?”

  Jerry stirred restlessly. “Getting colder,” he observed, then when he met her curious gaze, nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I knew her pretty well.”

  “Tell me about her. Was she pretty?”

  “She was good-looking,” Jerry responded shortly. “She’s getting to be famous. Saw a story in a magazine about a longdistance flight she did last month.” Jerry got up and went to stare out of the window. “Snow in California!” he exclaimed in disgust. “Trust me to hit the beach in the middle of a blizzard! Do you and Jesse go fishing much?”

  But Bonnie demanded, “Were you in love with her?”

  “Great Scott!” Jerry exclaimed, whirling around to stare at the girl. “Don’t you do anything but ask questions?”

  “I’ll bet you were,” Bonnie persisted. “You get all nervous when you talk about her. Did you break up?”

  Jerry glared at Bonnie almost angrily. “You’re not grown up at all! You’re a nagging pest!”

  Bonnie saw that she’d gone too far. Quickly she came off the sofa and stood facing him. “I’m sorry, Jerry,” she whispered contritely. “Jesse scolds me all the time for being so nosy. He says my spiritual gift is meddling.”

  The sight of the young woman’s woeful face drove the anger out of Jerry. He had not been able to think about Cara rationally since their last meeting. He had not seen her recently, but he knew in his heart that all she had to do was give him one look, and he’d go to her at once.

  But then he saw that Bonnie’s lower lip was trembling, and his irritation fled. “I was in love with her,” he said slowly. “But it’s all over. She’s famous, and I’m only a humble airmail pilot.”

  “I . . . didn’t mean to pry,” Bonnie said, and Jerry was shocked to see tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s not that bad!” Jerry exclaimed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here, let me take care of this—” He dabbed at the tears, then awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. “I’m just an old bear,” he said gently. “Look, sit down and I’ll have one more cup of this great chocolate—and I’ll tell you about how I did my first outside loop, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Jerry sat down and told the story, but he was watching the face of the young woman. Never saw a girl so sensitive—crying like that over nothing!

  Then the clock struck one time, and Jerry exclaimed, “One o’clock! I can’t believe it!”

  Bonnie rose and took his cup. “Thanks for telling me about the air circus.”

  “Good night, Bonnie. See you in the morning. Maybe we can have a snowball fight with Adam.”

  “That would be fun. I put an extra blanket out for you. Good night.” She turned to leave, but a thought came to her. She hesitated, then turned to say, “Your work is very dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  She whirled, embarrassed by her remark, afraid that he’d be offended. When she was in bed with Lylah, Bonnie lay awake a long time thinking of the stories Jerry had told her. But just as she drifted off, she thought of his expression when he spoke of Cara Gilmore.

  He’s still in love with her, she thought. I could see it in his face—I wonder if she’s older than Jerry? And then she thought illogically, I’m almost eighteen—and he’s twenty-three. That’s not much difference.

  INTO THE DARKNESS

  For several days after Jerry flew back to Chicago Lylah spent most of her time with Adam. More often than not when she took him to various places, Jesse and Bonnie accompanied them. Jesse had acquired a Ford—the survivor of a collision. After he put it back together, it ran, after a fashion. The weather changed abruptly, the snow melted, and the four of them explored the countryside of southern California.

  One of Adam’s favorite places was the beach. He loved to dig in the sand, and he made the sand fly with the toy shovel Jesse bought for him. One Thursday afternoon, Lylah and Jesse were sitting on a blanket watching him burrow like a mole. They were back from the edge of the surf and could hear the boy’s excited treble voice as he explained to Bonnie what he was doing.

  “Wish everyone was as easy to please as Adam,” Jesse said lazily. He had been up all night working on a story, and his eyes were half-lidded. He wore a pair of faded khaki pants and a blue sweater over a white shirt. Somehow no matter how old his clothes are, Lylah thought, he makes them look good. Some men can put on a brand-new suit, and it looks like it came from a secondhand sale.

  “I guess most kids are easily pleased,” she said.

  “Nope. Most of ’em are unhappy. The ‘Gol
den Years of Youth’ are a fable.” Jesse picked up a shell, examined it carefully, then said idly, “Look at this, Lylah—how intricate it is!”

  Lylah obediently looked at the shell, but her mind was elsewhere. “I guess you’re right—about some kids. I was mostly miserable growing up.” Picking up a handful of sand, she let it filter through her fingers, then shook her head. “To tell the truth, things haven’t been so great since I grew up.”

  Dropping the shell, Jesse twisted around to face her. “You’re still worried about what to do, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m spoiled, I suppose. About twenty million women would like to be in the movies. And all I’ve done is mope and feel sorry for myself.”

  “Have you talked to anyone about your idea?”

  “No, not yet. What would I say? Everyone in charge of making movies is a man who looks on movie stars—especially women—as bodies without a brain. If I went to a producer and told him I wanted to make a movie, he’d pat me on the head and say, ‘Run along now, dear, and let the men who know how make the movies.’”

  Jesse nodded. “That’s pretty well true in most businesses, I guess. Women have made some gains—who would have believed twenty years ago that women would be able to vote today? It’ll be different someday.”

  “When? Jesse, I’m worried about now—that’s all the time I have! And it’s moving past me.” She gave him a look filled with doubt and then said, “I don’t even know what kind of movie I’d like to make. But so many bad films are rolling out of the studios, I’d like to do something good.”

  The two of them sat on the sand watching Adam and Bonnie dig in the sand. Overhead the gulls were uttering their harsh cries, circling in eccentric patterns, their cold eyes glittering. The waves rolled in, completing their journey of thousands of miles, their roar making a final crescendo of broken white water on the beach. Overhead the sky arched like a blue dome, dotted by rounded humps of thick clouds that bowled along over the horizon.

  Jesse listened as Lylah spoke of her dream, and he traced the unhappiness in her voice. She was approaching a fork in the road and was uncertain which direction to take. Now as she sat hugging her knees he saw that there was a tension in her that had not been there when they first met. Her deep-set violet eyes, usually brilliant and clear, looked tired and filled with doubt. She’s running out of time—so she thinks. That’s the worst time to make decisions.

  “Lylah,” he said slowly, “I’ve been pretty critical of the whole movie industry. I’m a book man, and I wouldn’t give one page of Dickens for all the movies ever made. But when I met you, well, I began to think about films. What is bad about them—what is good—”

  Lylah listened carefully as Jesse spoke. She knew he was a fine writer, for she’d read his pieces. She knew also that he was fiercely independent and highly creative. None of the things he’d written had been the usual sort of writing—and publishers were beginning to come to him, asking for more. Now as he spoke of how silly some of the movies were, how far from human experience, she said, “Why, that’s what I’ve always thought of the movies, Jesse!”

  “You’re a smart woman, Lylah. The question is—how does anyone make the things better? We’ve got Keystone Cops chasing people, Harold Lloyd hanging from buildings, Chaplin’s Little Tramp, and Theda Bara, the female vamp. But not much in the way of good solid drama.”

  Lylah was intrigued at Jesse’s knowledge of her profession. “I don’t know if the public would go to see a fine movie, Jesse,” she said at last. “I’ve seen bad plays become huge successes, while good ones played to empty theaters.”

  “I guess America has plenty of bad taste,” Jesse admitted, “but I’ve got the idea that if you took a contemporary subject—something everyone’s interested in—and did something different with the camera, they’d come to see it.”

  Instantly Lylah looked at Jesse. “I have the feeling you’ve got something along that line in your head. Let’s have it.”

  “Well, I feel foolish, getting involved in a form I know so little about—but I’ve been tinkering around with an idea for a movie. I’ve got a little of it on paper, but I don’t know enough about how to put things on the screen to really write it.”

  “Well, I do,” Lylah nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “All right, here it is. What’s everybody interested in? Criminals, Chicago criminals. The public can’t get enough of them! Every day they read stories in the newspapers about the Torrios and the Capones. Everybody knows they’re evil men, but people are fascinated with them.” He shook his head ruefully. “I think evil has a fascination of its own that virtue doesn’t have.”

  “Shakespeare is like that. The really great villains in his plays are the meatiest roles—Richard III, Lady Macbeth.”

  “Exactly! And the hero of this movie I’ve dreamed up will have a dark side like those great characters. He will be a young man who rises to power in the criminal world until he becomes a famous man with power so great that his word is like a king’s! Somebody like Al Capone or Johnny Torrio—” He spoke rapidly, using his hands to shape out his ideas.

  When he finally stopped, Lylah asked, “What about different kinds of camera work?”

  “Most movies are filmed from one level and from one distance. It’s like the camera is nailed to the spot, and the viewer gets one point of view. But that’s not the way life is, Lylah. We get all sorts of views. Why not take the camera off the tripod and put it on the floor, pointed up. Say you want to stress how strong and powerful a man is. From that low point of view, he’d look like a giant! And why does a close-up always have to be of face? In your last film, in the scene where you learn you’re going to die, the camera was glued to your face. That’s all right, but it’s done every time!”

  “What else could you do?”

  “Why, show your hands!” Jesse said at once. He picked up one of her hands and held it up. “Your hands clenching as you learn that the end has come! Or have a symbol, a leaf falling from a tree—anything to break the same old pattern!” He suddenly blinked and uttered an embarrassed laugh. “Well, here’s the great expert. Never been on a movie set, and here I am telling the people who do know how they should do it!”

  Lylah’s face had become intent as Jesse had outlined his idea. Now she exclaimed, “It’s wonderful, Jesse! Nothing like it has ever been done! How soon can you have the screenplay ready?”

  “What?—”

  “As soon as you have it, I’ll take it to Carl Thomas. He’s a small-time producer, but he’s not lackluster like most of them. What we have to do—”

  “Wait a minute!” Jesse protested. “I just told you, Lylah, I don’t know how to write a screenplay. It’s not at all like writing an article or a novel.”

  Lylah took his hand in hers. “We’ll do it together, Jesse,” she said simply. Her smile was warm, and excitement brightened her eyes. “You and I—we’ll do this thing together!”

  Jesse thought for a brief moment of the one time in his life he’d put his trust in a woman. The bitterness and pain of that experience still rankled inside, and for one instant he drew back. Then he took a deep breath and squeezed her hand.

  “Yes—together we can do it, Lylah!”

  The mechanic admired the pilot’s clothes. “You look good, Jerry . . . wisht I could wear duds like that!”

  Jerry still wore the same outfit he’d worn while working the air show: twill trousers tight at the calf, flaring at the knee; highly polished boots of cordovan leather; a crimson silk scarf around his neck; and goggles raised on his leather helmet.

  But Jerry felt the bite of the wintry breath and shook his head. “Got to bundle up, Mack.” He walked back to his locker and began gearing up. He had already put on the heaviest winter underwear he could buy and had bought a leather face mask. He donned two heavy wool sweaters, a pair of coveralls, and a heavy fleece-lined jacket. When he finally pulled on his parachute, he felt like a ball, and he knew that he’d have to squeeze himself into the co
ckpit.

  When he got back to where Mack was waiting, the mechanic handed him a pistol in a black leather holster. Taking the gun he grimaced. “Who am I supposed to shoot?”

  “Dunno, but it’s gov’ment regulations.”

  Jerry grunted. Then the mail truck came. Two men climbed out and began loading the mail into the Pitcairn, placing it in the compartment just in front of the cockpit. As they loaded it, Jerry studied the craft, passing his hand over the fuselage. He caressed it as he might the shoulder of a beautiful woman, noting the way the rudder fin curved up from the fuselage. He studied the name on the rudder—Pitcairn Mailwing.

  Walking around the plane, he came to the engine, a Wright J-5 Whirlwind, the finest and most powerful he’d ever flown behind. It swung a new type of propeller made of metal, not the old wooden variety. It was painted black to protect the pilot’s eyes against the glare that came like a sword through the sunshine.

  He studied the gentle symmetrical twist of the blade, glanced at the words on the side, U.S. AIRMAIL, then climbed into the cockpit, his parachute banging awkwardly at the back of his legs. He reached forward and touched the controls. Gently he moved the rudder pedals back and forth, looking over his shoulder to watch the rudder swing from side to side. Grasping the control stick, he moved it forward, then backward, watching the elevator flippers rise and fall. He was listening and touching the machine reverently, gently, knowing that it held his life.

  He studied the instruments before him carefully. A compass, a turn-and-bank instrument, which he didn’t trust, an airspeed gauge, an altimeter, a tachometer, and oil pressure and fuel gauges. They were more precious to him than any books ever written, for they guided him through the blackness of space, the wild storms that tossed the plane like a ship caught in a hurricane. When his senses failed, he had to trust in these bits of metal and glass.

  “Sign here.” Jerry signed the slip, handed it back, then looked down at the mechanic who had come to stand in front of the propeller.