A Flying Affair

by Carla Stewart

  Her daddy had paid for the operations that followed and all the hospital bills—plus a tidy sum to keep Buck Lamberson quiet when he threatened to bring a complaint before the Saddlebred Commission. Her face flamed at the memory. Dobbs wasn’t the only one with scars.

  The following Monday, Mittie peeked around the corner of the door into the classroom at Bowman Field. Butterflies flapped in her stomach like it was the first day of school. “I’m early. Mind if I come on in?”

  Bobby waved her in. “Mittie, lovely to see you, and I’m glad you’re early. You can help me get these diagrams tacked up.”

  A US map was already tacked on one wall with red pins showing airfields across the country. A chalkboard covered the opposite wall with an oak table centered in the room. Bobby unrolled a chart and asked her to hold it while he put thumbtacks on the corners. It reminded Mittie of a gilded-framed print in her daddy’s study showing the anatomy of the horse, only this time it was a bi-wing shown in three perspectives: above, head-on, and a side view, each segment labeled. Two other charts were of an instrument panel and one with arrows in different directions that she couldn’t figure out.

  “Atmospheric layers and wind currents,” he explained when he saw her tilting her head and frowning.

  Just as they finished, three young men, hardly out of their teens, came in and Bobby asked them all to have a seat so they could get started.

  The one on Mittie’s left said, “I thought I signed up to get in a cockpit and fly, not sit in a stuffy room.”

  Bobby did a slow pivot and faced the class. “Right you are, chap. But you wouldn’t want a bloke off the street to start fiddling about in your mouth with a drill or a tooth extractor if he didn’t have some prior knowledge about dentistry. The same is true of airplanes. While some of you may have already had the chance to sit in a cockpit or take a flight or two, perhaps even man the controls, a true aviator is one who knows his subject from the inside out and what to do should an engine falter. Your name, chap?”

  “Delbert McCombs, sir.”

  Delbert’s ears were the color of spiced apples, and Mittie was certain hers were, too. Weaver and Ames had both let her take the controls when she knew nothing but to watch the altimeter and the compass.

  “Stay with me, mate, and you’ll be flying aces in no time. While a license is not required to take to the skies, it does qualify you for competitions and the growing number of jobs in aviation.”

  With that, he launched into the anatomy of the plane and what each part was made of and its purpose. Delbert sat tall in his seat and took notes. They all did. The classroom instruction would last eight hours per week for two weeks before they were allowed to begin the actual flight training in the cockpit. But Mittie’s heart was already in the clouds.

  When the session ended, the other students exited quickly, and Bobby asked if he could have a word.

  “Certainly, but I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting preferential treatment.”

  “You needn’t fret. I’m tough, but fair. And I do believe you show a tick more promise than the others, although it’s always hard to tell at first. May I buy you a cup of tea?”

  “I’d prefer coffee.”

  They sat in the canteen together, Bobby and his tea, Mittie with her coffee.

  He spoke first. “I owe you an apology and a word of thanks.”

  “For what? You’re the answer to my prayers.”

  “The apology is because I was hoping to call earlier and perhaps take you to dinner, but once things got rolling, there was a plane to purchase and applications to process.”

  “No apology needed. I’ve been rather busy myself with the horses.” She told him about the upcoming show and prattled on about nothing. Truthfully, she was a little jumpy. Not only was Bobby everything she’d imagined in the way of expertise, but he was cute to boot. She hoped to keep their friendship on a purely platonic level. And looking across the table at him, she realized it was going to be harder than she thought. Much harder.

  She took a sip of coffee, but it had grown cold. “You said earlier you wanted to thank me, but you didn’t say why.”

  “You and your grandmother—you for entrusting me to be your instructor and your grandmother for putting in a good word for me with Weaver. He was reticent at first, but when I mentioned her name as a reference, he warmed up right away.”

  “My grandmother does have a fine reputation. And as for me—I’m still pinching myself over my good fortune.”

  He drained his cup and held it suspended. “To many happy hours and blue skies.”

  Mittie recited what she learned to Gypsy the next morning on their ride across the hills. Sometimes the best friends were the ones who just listened and didn’t answer back or give advice. So Gypsy listened as Mittie told her about wingspans and struts, how to compensate for crosswinds, and how to utilize a tailwind to the best advantage.

  It became their routine—Mittie taking instruction from Bobby York, Gypsy being privy to it all. As the gray-green fog of morning thinned into a milky haze, Mittie’s recitations rode on the wind. “Remember this, Gypsy: a plane can rotate in three dimensions depending on the axis. Just wait until Ames comes back and I throw some pitch, yaw, and roll at him. You think he’ll be surprised?”

  Gypsy answered by twitching her right ear. Mittie laughed and leaned in, giving Gypsy permission to do her own version of forward thrust. As they topped the highest of the hills of MG Farms, the sun broke through the clouds, scattering golden glitter like fairy dust.

  Mittie pulled Gypsy into a halt and let the moment settle. A low rumble came from behind, a sound she first took for the gnawing hunger in her belly, but as the rumble became a roar and filled her ears, she knew different. Mittie shielded her eyes from the glare. The flash of red could only mean one thing—Ames was back in the Oriole. The plane swooped until it was only a few hundred feet above the ground, then passed and disappeared over the distant trees. Mittie waited, hoping he’d circle around or even touch down on the open meadow.

  When the air stilled and nothing appeared, she reined Gypsy hard to the right and let her gallop, both their hearts wide open.

  Mittie was tempted to hop in her roadster and drive straight to Bowman Field, but Toby wanted her to watch the horses for the upcoming show as he put them through their paces. They both performed at top level, and she was pleased when her daddy joined her and nodded his approval.

  “You had a phone call earlier—that bright young man from the wedding. Ames Dewberry, I believe.”

  Her heart leapt. “I think I just saw him fly over. Did he leave a number for me to call back?”

  “No, but I invited him to come for lunch. Told him we ate around one.”

  “Does he need a ride?”

  “No, he said he’d borrow a car from someone.”

  “What did Mother say?”

  “Nothing. She’s gone for the day—over at the church putting together boxes for the Mississippi flood victims.”

  “I’m glad it will just be the three of us. I’d like you to get to know Ames better.”

  “Me, too. I consider it my duty to keep abreast of the gentlemen my daughter is sweet on.” He regarded her with raised eyebrows.

  “Gentlemen? Is there someone I don’t know about?”

  “Well, there is young York as well.”

  “He’s my flight instructor, but I have a sneaking suspicion you knew more about Bobby than you let on when you invited him here.”

  “A bit.”

  “Did you know he was a pilot?”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t certain, but after I invited him, I remembered Robert Sr. mentioning that his son was interested in flying. I didn’t know he was an instructor.”

  “And Mother? Did you tell her?”

  “I thought it best to see if my memory was correct. What’s important is that you’re showing an interest in young men. You will keep an open mind, won’t you?”

  “That sounds like a trick question
, but thank you for inviting Ames. And for agreeing to my taking lessons from Bobby.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Ames wore linen trousers and a white open-necked shirt with a gold-and-black-patterned cravat at the neck. “Thank you, sir, for inviting me.”

  Her daddy clapped Ames on the shoulder like they were old friends and invited him to the gentleman’s parlor, nodding for Mittie to join them. “Mittie tells me you’ve been barnstorming in Kansas.”

  “Yes, sir. I tried to get Mittie to join us, but she’s quite dedicated to her work here.”

  “That she is. It’s our busy season with training and upcoming shows.”

  They chatted about it being the peak for flying as well, taking advantage of the long summer hours and giving folks good, clean entertainment.

  Mittie asked if anything new had been added to the show.

  “Every show is different. You get a bead on the crowd, what you think they’d like. In Kansas, Buster jumped from the back of a moving car onto the ladder I was telling you about. He’s quite an aerialist, and the crowd couldn’t get enough.”

  Mittie’s dad chuckled and offered Ames a sherry.

  “No, thanks. I like to keep a clear head.”

  “Smart boy.” Her daddy nodded when Ruby appeared in the doorway and announced lunch.

  After saying grace, Mittie’s dad said, “You mentioned you were in aeronautical design. Anything I might have heard of?”

  Ames swallowed his bite of meat loaf. “Depends on how well you know engines and carburetors.”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. I leave the maintenance on our vehicles to Moses or the mechanic in town. But I’m always interested in how young people today are contributing to the future.”

  “You can be sure aviation is going to play a big role.”

  “Ever since Mittie learned about Lindbergh visiting our fair city, I’ve heard nothing else.”

  “You exaggerate, Daddy.” She turned to Ames. “Daddy’s afraid that since I’m taking flying lessons, I’m going to fly off into the wild blue yonder.”

  Ames asked, “What flying lessons?”

  “Oh, I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Bobby York is a friend of the family and just here from England, but he’s hired on at Bowman Field to give lessons. Isn’t that grand?”

  Ames blinked. “Shucks. I was hoping to have the privilege of teaching you.”

  “I need all the help I can get.”

  Her dad smiled. “Fair warning, Ames. Her enthusiasm can be overwhelming, but there’s nothing I like more than seeing the excitement that lights up both of your eyes when you talk about aviation.”

  It was all new to Mittie, too, but gaining her daddy’s admiration was a bonus. She might have her mother’s impulsive nature, but the competitive spirit came from her daddy. Hard work. Honest sweat. Winning when it mattered.

  When her daddy suggested that Mittie show Ames the stables, Ames said, “I’ve fond memories of my grandparents’ farm. I’m game whenever you’re ready.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin. “And I must say, this was one of the finest meals I’ve had in a long while.”

  “I’ll let Ruby know. Please join us anytime.”

  The July heat bore down as Mittie led the way to the barns, the farm’s border collie trailing after them. Ames offered the back of his hand for a sniff, and when Skipper licked it, Ames crouched down and let the dog slurp his tongue on his face.

  “Good boy. What’s his name?”

  “Skipper. Official watchdog and general nuisance.”

  Ames rose and draped an arm across Mittie’s shoulders. “This is quite the place. I’ve flown over a few times trying to get a glimpse of you.”

  “Get out. You think you might catch me in my dressing gown?”

  “That would be a treat. Truth is, I’d look at you no matter what you’re wearing.”

  The heat rushing to Mittie’s face wasn’t from the sun. “Guess Daddy might have something to say about that. He’d prefer to keep me under his watchful eye until he’s pushing daisies.”

  “Your dad’s swell.”

  “He is. And I think he liked you, too.”

  She took him on the grand tour, chatting the whole time while Skipper kept to Ames’ heels, hoping for a pat on the head. She saved the best for last: Gypsy.

  Mittie handed Ames a handful of carrot nuggets. “This is Gypsy. She’ll be your best friend if you feed her.”

  “This is some magnificent horse. Is she yours?” He offered Gypsy a nugget and tangled his fingers in her dark mane.

  “She is. A gift when I turned nineteen. She was born right here at MG Farms.”

  “What a beauty—nothing like the nags I grew up with…the ones at Granny’s place.” His voice drifted off like he was trying to capture a memory.

  “Do you ever go back?”

  “We lost Granny and Papaw both in the flu epidemic.”

  “I’m sorry. For you and your family.”

  He shrugged. “Such is life.” His face brightened. “Now there are skies to conquer. You up for a ride this afternoon? Buster said he’d be willing to show you the ropes on wing walking since you were keen on it last time.”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. “Give me five minutes and I’ll grab my things.”

  Mittie flew with Ames to a field west of town where Buster, the stuntman who’d worn the tuxedo, gave her basic directions while they were on the ground. He showed her how to climb from the forward seat of the Oriole when the plane was aloft and how to use the wires for balance when walking toward a strut.

  “Balance and making no sudden moves will keep you from getting killed.”

  “Not getting killed would be nice.”

  He shrugged. “It happens. Keep your legs slightly bent in a crouch like you’re going to jump.” He demonstrated. “Stay loose and use the wires to steady you. Once you’re comfortable with that, we’ll have Ames take you out for a ground run.”

  Buster was graceful and limber, something Mittie was short on, but her legs were strong, and as a child, she’d been scolded for walking along the top rails of the fences. She’d never fallen, although she’d been yanked down by her daddy plenty of times. When she stepped out onto the wing, she faced forward as instructed and shuffled sideways to the strut nearest the cockpit. Easy. Buster met her there and showed her where to grasp the upper wing, using the strut as a leg up.

  “The better aerialists roll up using their arm muscles, but I usually just shimmy up by the strut.”

  Mittie practiced a few times and found the leg up and over, like mounting a horse, worked best for her. Once she was on top, though, there weren’t any struts to hang on to. She swallowed the hunk of fear in her throat, held her arms out, and looked down. She’d jumped off barn roofs that were farther off the ground, but the wide, smooth surface of the wing felt amazingly different. And she knew that when the Oriole was two hundred feet in the air, it would be even more thrilling.

  Buster, hanging on to the upper wings with his elbows, grinned. “Good work. Ready?”

  She clambered down and told Ames to start the engine. Ames told her he would signal when to climb onto the wing. Buster would watch from the ground and take notes.

  Mittie climbed into the training seat and gave Ames the thumbs-up that she was ready. He taxied across the field and lifted off. At the signal, Mittie unfastened her belt and pushed herself up from the seat and onto the wing. The wind slammed against her, stronger than she expected, but she leaned into it and took a deep breath, a prayer on her lips. When she had her bearings, she nodded at Ames. He nosed down gradually. She couldn’t risk looking at him for directions again, but when she felt they were at a safe altitude, she inched her way across the wing to the strut and did the ascent onto the upper wing. She crawled on all fours to the center of the wing and waited. Ames couldn’t see her now, so she had to make her own best judgment for when to stand.

  On the count of three, she stood up, legs quivering but a current sparking through her li
mbs. Like a tightrope walker, she used her arms for balance as she strolled from one wingtip to the other, then raised her hands in victory at the precise moment that Ames nosed the plane up. She lost her footing, and just as she’d always heard, her life flashed before her, and she envisioned her body being hurled into space where it would plummet to eternity.

  It wasn’t eternity that met her, but the painted canvas of the wing and a bracket that held one of the struts. She grabbed hold, and with no grace whatsoever, lowered herself from the upper wing and to safety.

  When they’d rolled to a stop, Buster hollered up at her, “Nice recovery.”

  Mittie hopped off the wing, trembling. She leaned over, hands on knees, to catch her breath, and when she came up, she tossed her head and shouted up at Ames, “I’m ready. Let’s give it another try.”

  They practiced until Mittie was sure she had grown feathers and wings and said she needed to get back and check on the horses. What she really wanted was a long soak in the tub, but Ames had another suggestion.

  “How about we celebrate Mittie’s maiden voyage as a wing walker with a night on the town—say, over at the Hen’s Nest?”

  Mittie said, “The dance club over on Bardstown?”

  “Unless you have another suggestion.”

  “None that I can think of. But I can’t go like this. I need to change into something more suitable.”

  “That’s the trouble with women. Always thinking they have to get dolled up.”

  She punched him on the arm. “And just who do you think we get dolled up for?”

  “When you go out on the barnstorming circuit, you’re going to have to mend your pampered ways, sweetheart.”

  “Pampered? Hardly.”

  He draped his arm over her shoulder. “You run on then, pretty yourself up, and we’ll meet you there.”