Airfield

by Jeanette Ingold

  Quickly I drag three of the sacks of seed into the janitor's closet, hoping that together they come in somewhere near my own 113 pounds. There're enough bags left for loading that I hope Grif won't notice three missing.

  Then I go outside to wait. As I watch the plane taxi in—another Tri-Motor, a blunt-lined ship of corrugated metal well nicknamed the Tin Goose—I have only one question. Can I get away with this?

  The plane's three propellers have barely stopped when the activity that I'm counting on begins: Kenzie hurries up in his service truck; Grif wheels over a freight cart; the plane's door opens; and the copilot escorts off the few passengers, who want to stretch their legs. They seem to gulp fresh air.

  Last out is the pilot. I see my chance when he and Grif take their clipboards of papers into the shade on the plane's far side.

  Now! I think. Go!

  My heart's pounding a mile a minute, even though I can still give an excuse if I have to: Just looking, I might say. I came to straighten up.

  But there's nobody inside the plane, and I don't have to explain myself.

  I take in the single leather seats lined up along the windows, their aluminum frames anchored to a steeply inclined linoleum floor. Seven seats on each side, fourteen altogether, the lines stretch forward toward the cockpit. Open shelves above hold a few small items, and at several places, window shades are pulled down against the afternoon sun.

  Immediately to my left there's a bulkhead with a door that I open. It leads into a lavatory, clean but smelling like someone was sick in there not too long ago. The odor is enough to bring on doubts, but before I can reconsider, I hear the bumps and thumps of cargo being loaded in a wing bin and voices approaching the passenger door. Quickly I slip into the lavatory, pull the door shut, and crouch low so I won't be seen through the small porthole windows on either side.

  My plan is to wait until we're in the air before I move into the passenger cabin. Then I'm going to try to slip into one of the rear seats. I doubt the other passengers will notice.

  Or maybe I'm hoping, more than planning...

  One part of me cannot believe I am doing this, stowing away, taking off without any idea how I'm going to return. It's the part that says I better back out now while I can.

  And the other part cuts a deal. Maybe I'll get off if I can without anybody noticing. But if I don't get the chance ... Then I'm on my way!

  A man's voice calling, "Let's board," decides it.

  For the next several minutes everything comes to me as sound. I listen to the muffled noise of people settling into their seats, and I hear clangs and knocks coming from outside the plane's thin, hot metal skin. I identify a dragging noise as Kenzie taking down the fuel hose.

  There are more voices—pilot and copilot?—someone asking, "Finished your flight checks?" and then, unmistakably, the clunk of the door being shut.

  "Welcome to you new folks," I hear a man say, the copilot, I suppose. "Everyone ready to go? Seat belts fastened? I'm afraid strong winds are going to give us more turbulence."

  To my right an engine turns over and settles into a plane-vibrating roar. Another off to my left rumbles on. Then the one on the nose. The plane begins to roll forward, and suddenly I'm really scared at what I'm doing. I want to yell that the plane has to be stopped, but I can't seem to get any words out.

  I feel us going faster and faster, bumping over rough ground, and I reach around for something to grab on to. And then—just when I'm expecting ... what? How will it feel to go up?—the plane stops.

  For a moment I'm sure it's because I've been discovered and someone's going to jerk open the door, yank me up, and shout, Stowaway!

  But instead the motors thunder a hundred times louder, revving up as if they're being tested, and then we're rolling again.

  Cautiously I stand to look out. The airfield seems to be rushing past, its uneven surface a blur. Faster and faster we go, the speed pushing me backward, and I reach for something to brace myself against. Faster ... until we're almost skimming the ground, hitting the ridges of the uneven earth ... faster...

  A bad jolt throws me off balance, and though I grab at the sink and door handle to catch myself, I'm thrown to the floor. Then, as I huddle half wedged between the toilet and the wall, I feel the plane angle up. The bumping stops. I realize ... we're in the air!

  An instant later the floor tilts sideways under me, and I hear someone call above the plane's noise, "Look! You can see the reservoir."

  I pull myself to my feet but get only the barest glimpse out before a sudden drop throws me off balance again. The lavatory door cracks open—I must have unlatched it when I fell—and I hear someone groan, "Oooooh."

  I reach out to pull the door closed, but another dip in our flight makes it swing wider open. A smell I only half noticed before—oil and exhaust and maybe old body sweat—seems to hover and then settle in a cloud around my head.

  Now the plane hits that turbulence the copilot mentioned and commences really bouncing. Buffeted side to side, it bucks in sudden drops and rises.

  "Talk about air pockets," someone says.

  "Be glad we're not sitting in the rear," a man answers. "When it's rough here under the wings, the tail's worse."

  We drop again, and this time my stomach goes halfway to my throat.

  Someone calls, "Anybody got an airsick cup?"

  Oh no! Why did he have to make me think about that?

  The next several minutes—they seem like hours—are agony. The oil stink smothers me, the hot air is suffocating, my stomach is churning around and around....Please ... I can't let myself throw up. I can't. I can't....

  "Where's those airsick cups?" a voice shouts, and through the swinging lavatory door I see a man lurching toward me.

  The copilot puts me in a backseat. He orders, "You just stay here, Miss Donnough," in a voice so cold and hard I'm afraid to even raise the window shade.

  A few minutes later I feel the plane tilt to one side as we circle around, and I understand I am not going to El Paso or anywhere else special today. I'm only going back where I started from.

  Chapter 11

  THE TRI-MOTOR TOUCHES down just long enough to drop me off—and I get the distinct impression the captain would have dropped me from a window if he'd thought he could have gotten away with it. As it is, he doesn't cut the Tri-Motor's engines when he stops on the airport ramp, and they throw a fine spray of oil over me as I scramble out.

  I expect Grif to be furious, but when I see how drawn his face is I realize he is too worried for anger.

  "I'm really sorry, Grif. I was so disappointed about my ride with Dad, and—"

  "Not now," he interrupts. "I've got to do something with that seed you hid and then try to straighten out the rest of this mess."

  And Kenzie, in the hangar, is blunt. "Don't you know your stunt could cost Grif his job?" he says.

  "He didn't stow away. I did."

  "But he's responsible both for this place and for you."

  Moss, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but in here overhearing, ducks closer to what he's working on.

  "Beatty," Clo says when I go back to our tourist cabin, "how could you?"

  "I guess Grif called?"

  "Mrs. Granger came by just to tell me." Tears well in my aunt's eyes. "Don't you know the trouble you've made?"

  I try to tell her how I wish I could undo this whole afternoon, but she hurries through to the bedroom.

  "Clo," I say, following. "I'm really sorry."

  She goes around me and outside, no more ready than Grif to hear my apologies.

  I learn what happens by eavesdropping. Or maybe that's not the right word, because I don't have to sneak and hide to listen, just take in what's being said around me.

  I'm just grateful it doesn't include talk of involving Dad.

  And Grif doesn't lose his job—I think because Mrs. Granger gets Mr. Granger to put in a placating word with Grif's division manager. But he is placed on probation, and he tells Clo, "An
other slip and I'm out."

  There's an unspoken understanding that I won't go anywhere near the airport, and in the next days I don't much know what to do with myself instead.

  Clo and I pick out material and a pattern for lightweight dresses, but there's quiet between us as we lay out tissue, and pin and cut.

  The girls come for me a couple of times, but I can't seem to enjoy myself much with them.

  And when Moss appears at the door it's clear he's still bewildered by what I did—and maybe embarrassed for me, which is much worse.

  "Millie doing OK?" I ask.

  "Yeah."

  "And you're still helping Grif?"

  "Some, but Kenzie more. He got paid a tip the other day for a job we worked on together, and he gave me most of it. I sent half to Ma and bought me some food with the rest so I won't be so beholden to you all."

  "I'm proud of you, Moss," I tell him, no idea how to get into the web of things I want to ask about, tell about, explain.

  "Beatty," he says, his ears reddening the way they did when he brought me birthday flowers, "I miss seein' you at the airport."

  "Yes ... well ... I guess I won't be going back."

  I do wish I could undo things. I'd almost be willing to take a vow never to go up in a plane, if that would unwind the trouble I've caused.

  I realize how precarious I've made things when Clo's sewing machine gets lowered into its case to clear space for a rented typewriter. Her eyes steady on a propped-up lesson book, she taps, jjjj ffff jjjj ffff...bed red fed jut...

  She's thinking she might have to go back to work and might need to earn more than she did as a file clerk.

  Just watching her makes me angry, and, of course, I don't have anyone to be angry at except myself. Unless maybe it's Dad, who would have prevented me doing something so stupid if he'd just kept his promise.

  Along with the regret and guilt, though, what surprises me is the loss I feel, the tug that gnaws whenever I hear an airplane engine overhead.

  It's as though my days are marked off by the planes that fly regularly into Muddy Springs: the 6:00 A.M. milk run, then the morning passenger flight heading east, and the afternoon one westbound. I go to sleep listening to the night mail plane come in.

  With each engine sound I imagine what might be going on at the airport. I picture Grif working the desk, Moss washing the service truck, and Kenzie tinkering at his workbench. I hear the radio squeal and see the landing lights come on.

  It makes no sense to care so much for a place I hardly know, but every time I think of it, I feel hollow.

  I tell myself I should keep busy, move along the way I always have. Visit the malt shop. Grab a ride to the tank.

  Or call Aunt Fanny and ask if she'll let me share her boardinghouse room until her own house is ready. I could sleep on the floor.

  And I do actually get as far as the telephone in the tourist court office.

  "Operator," I say, stretching on tiptoe to talk into the mouthpiece, "I'd like to place a long-distance call to Dallas." I give her the number of the insurance office where Fanny's got a temporary job. "And please let me know the charges."

  It rings, and then Fanny herself answers, surprised to be hearing from me.

  "Beatty, is something wrong?"

  "I ... yes...," I begin. And then I can't go further. "No, Aunt Fanny. I just was going to write a thank-you note for my birthday watch and decided to call instead."

  "It's an expensive way to say thank you, Beatty. But you're welcome."

  I replace the receiver carefully and count out my pocket money while waiting for the operator to ring back with what I owe.

  Dad finds out what I did when he gets his June 30 paycheck and sees he's been docked the cost of the fuel it took to return me to Muddy Springs. The next day he deadheads down from New York—comes all this way as a nonrevenue passenger on another pilot's flight—just to talk to me face-to-face.

  "You were a fool, Beatty," he says, "taking a risk like you did, causing a plane to divert from its flight plan. Didn't you think how your actions might be dangerous to you and everyone on the plane?"

  Dad gets more upset as he talks, his face becoming ruddy and his eyes glistening with held-in anger. "Flying's not some sport that always turns out right.

  "And look what you did to Grif. He's got a hard-enough job being everything from radioman to dispatcher to ticket agent without you bringing his boss down on him."

  Grif raises and drops his hands as though to say maybe things aren't quite as bad as Dad's making them out.

  "Dad," I say, "Grif knows I'm sorry."

  "Get your things packed, Beatty. I'm going to call Fanny and Maud and see if they can't work something out between them."

  "You want me to leave Muddy Springs? Dad, I don't want to go."

  But he's already walking to the tourist court office.

  "Dad, wait ... Grif ... Clo?"

  I grope for ideas, only coming up with a single, sorry one I realize isn't likely to be accepted—but I offer it anyway.

  "Grif, Moss says he's not helping you so much now that Kenzie has him doing mechanic stuff. If I promise to do only what you tell me, will you let me take his place? I'll do any kind of work ... I'd like to make up for the trouble I've caused you."

  Poor Grif: I can hear how it pains him to answer, "Beatty, I'm sorry."

  I go to bed listening to the murmurs of Grif and Clo, murmurs still going on when I wake up in the middle of the night.

  Of course, I was asking way too much.

  Early the next morning, though, it's Grif who calls, "Some fried eggs, Beatty?"

  "Where's Clo?" I ask.

  "I let her sleep."

  I'm squeezing us orange juice when he says, "About your idea. You've got to understand how important this airline job is to your aunt and me. If anything else goes wrong, whether it's my fault or not..."

  "It's OK, Grif," I tell him. "I do understand."

  "So, if I let you help out—which I can't unless my division manager at the airline says so—then..."

  "But I thought..." Is he saying what I think he is? "Grif, you're considering it? You'd take that chance for me?"

  "No, Beatty," he answers, "probably not. But I would for Clo, and it's what she's asked."

  Later on I try to thank my aunt, but it's so hard I wind up offering a joke. "Clo, are you forgetting that the easy part of taking care of me is being able to send me on?"

  She says, "It's easy only as long as you want to go."

  ***

  Dad washes his hands of the whole decision.

  "I told you only fools take unneeded risks, and here you're taking one with Grif's job. But I guess you're your mother's daughter."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  Clo steps between me and him, the quick temper she never shows for herself now flaring up. "And Beatty's also your daughter, Collin. Though staying on to fix what she's responsible for—that's not a trait she gets from you."

  For a moment Dad stares stony faced at his sister, his anger apparent. Then his features suddenly relax. "I've got a flight to catch."

  Chapter 12

  THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, I ride to work with Grif. "Was it hard to get permission for me to do this?" I ask.

  "I didn't exactly get it," Grif answers. "My division manager just agreed not to notice, as long as nothing happens he can't ignore. He said he has seven kids himself and every one of them's needed something sometime."

  Oh.

  "So," I ask, "what do I do first?"

  "Golly, Beatty, I don't know. Usually Moss or I put up the flag and rake the walkway. Why don't you start with that?"

  And then I clean out the flower bed and scour the grounds for trash and wash the outsides of the terminal windows. Moss tries to help, but I don't let him. "Doesn't Kenzie have something you can do?" I ask.

  "Yes, but it ain't right, Beatty, you doin' this work."

  "Moss," I tease, "are you worried I'm taking your job?"

  "No."
Moss sounds troubled. "But you're not ... Your people ain't ... This ain't ladies' work."

  "You told me you never knew a girl to do shop work, either. Just what do the girls of your acquaintance do?"

  He sees I'm kidding him, but he's still flustered. "I don't know, Beatty. But they weren't never none of 'em like you."

  "And ain't none of the boys I ever knew like you, either."

  "You're making fun of me."

  "Yeah. Do you mind?"

  "No."

  "Now what?" I ask Grif.

  "I don't know ... Here..." He hands me a notebook full of company bulletins. "Some of those cover the duties of ground personnel," he says. "Why don't you read though them and figure out for yourself what you can help with?"

  I take the binder outside, where I find a nice shady patch of grass by the side of the terminal, get comfortable, and look to see what Grif's given me.

  The bulletins don't seem to be arranged in any order, but paging through them I begin to glimpse the huge number of things an airline has to be concerned about.

  I skim safety regulations regarding clearances of passenger flights, seeing things as shapeless as the weather defined in measured phrases: "visibility less than ... less than one thousand feet of ceiling..."

  Flipping to the beginning of the notebook, I find instructions for providing courteous, efficient service. The second part of that memo is missing, though, and in its place are directions for preparing load manifests. After that comes a bulletin amending the clearance regulations I read about earlier.

  Dang... I smush a tiny red bug moving up my leg. Well, at least I know my next project.

  And finding Grif, I say, "How about if I put this operations manual in order? It seems pretty disorganized."

  "Would you?" he asks, and the real appreciation in his voice makes me feel wonderful.