A Flying Affair

by Carla Stewart

  “Relax. Here, hold onto this.” She handed her a canvas canteen. “Squeeze this all you want.” Goggles adjusted. “Hey, you look pretty ducky.”

  Her mother’s expression hadn’t changed, but all the color was gone from her face. Mittie hopped in the cockpit before her mother had a chance to change her mind. She taxied, slowly at first, but when they hit the first bump, her mother let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Mittie eased up and rolled the plane to the far edge of the pasture. She couldn’t do this. Her mother was terrified and to take her up in the air might very well kill her. Mittie throttled down and pulled to a stop, hopped out, and leaned over her mother’s seat.

  Terror-filled eyes met hers. “What? What are you doing? Do you want people to think I’m a coward, that I’m the only person here who isn’t thrilled to bits over a silly airplane ride?” Her mother’s shoulders shook, her breaths short, eyes wide.

  “Mother, look at me.” She did. “Tell me—why are you so afraid?”

  A slow shake of her head, eyes downcast.

  “We’re not leaving this field until you tell me.” Mittie hated the motherly tone her voice carried.

  “Take me back, and I’ll tell you. Not here.”

  Mittie taxied back and helped her mother out, then told the onlookers her fuel was low and she wouldn’t be giving any more rides. Her mother flipped her hair and said to the crowd, “If that don’t beat all. My first chance to ride in an airplane and it’s out of gas.” She hooked her hand in the crook of Mittie’s daddy’s arm, and the two of them ambled off into the crowd.

  Mittie begged off from going out to eat with Ames and the rest of the gang that evening, saying she promised to spend time with her parents. In their hotel room, Mittie crossed her arms and looked at her mother. “You said you’d tell me.”

  Her mother stepped back and lowered herself onto the settee. She closed her eyes, her lips trembling. Her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze unfocused as she spoke. “I’m terrified of heights…Every time I think of you flying off in that airplane, that despicable face pops into my head.”

  “Whose face?”

  Sarah’s spine stiffened. “His. My murderous father. Our house, that cold gray mansion whose walls hold more secrets than the pyramids of Egypt, sat up on a ridge. Mama always cautioned us about not getting too close, said we’d fall to our death. What she didn’t know was that once when I mouthed off to Papa, he yanked me up and carried me outside.”

  Daddy dropped down beside Mittie’s mother and slipped an arm around her. “It’s all right, Sarah.”

  Her mother continued, her voice faraway. “I screamed that I was sorry, but he took me to the ridge and dangled me over the edge. ‘Do you know what happens to little girls who sass their papas?’ His voice—” She shuddered, her small frame looking like it might swallow her. “I still remember that voice. Syrupy, like he was asking if I’d like to go for a pony ride. ‘Open your eyes, darling, and look.’ I opened them, the earth at the bottom a million miles away.” Her breaths came in gasps. “I couldn’t look, but still he held me under my arms and swung me back and forth. Back and forth.” Tears streamed down her face, her shoulders now shaking as sobs escaped her throat.

  Mittie knelt before her and took her mother’s hands. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you? I’ve never told a living soul. I thought I could manage the fear if I faced it and went up in the plane…but it’s no use.”

  “I won’t ask you to.” She laid her head in her mother’s lap, her own eyes damp with tears. They sat there, the three of them, no words necessary, the only sound the ticking of her daddy’s pocket watch.

  Chapter 22

  Mittie’s mother, the one she’d always thought of as fearless, didn’t mention the incident again. Like the other wounds they carried, it was written on their hearts and sealed. The measure of peace Mittie gained from knowing it wasn’t something she’d done to conjure up her mother’s disdain for flying was overshadowed by a deep sorrow for the past her mother had endured—a past that had given her the strength of iron. Whether she was still opposed to Mittie’s flying or not, her mother had truly given up the fight over the inevitable. Mittie was born to fly.

  Her mother hugged her the day she left for Little Rock and the altitude challenge. It was enough. Ames and the Patriots had traveled north for another air show, so Mittie and Calista went alone. They talked about going down to Hot Springs to take in the waters but changed their minds and walked along the banks of the Arkansas River and ate supper at a sidewalk café.

  The challenge day dawned glorious. An announcer at the Little Rock airfield welcomed the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale–​certified observers whose verification was necessary for official records. Mittie’s international license had arrived by post just in time and would qualify her to be a record holder if she was fortunate enough to break the women’s altitude record set two weeks before. When Mittie’s name was announced, the crowd roared—not for her, she knew, but because they’d come in hopes of witnessing history.

  Not a breath of air stirred as Mittie strapped on her helmet, waved toward the bleachers, and waited for the okay from the official to crawl into the cockpit. Ames had coached her the evening before on the telephone, talked of decreased air density with the warmer temperatures, the high humidity Little Rock was known for, and going for the best rate of climb.

  Calista waved from her spot in front of the bleachers where she stood with one of the FAI-certified observers. Mittie did the final run-up, secured her goggles, and taxied. She prayed that Belle wouldn’t let her down. At three thousand feet, Mittie leveled the plane momentarily and decreased the air-to-fuel ratio, then nosed back up. Five thousand feet. Eight thousand. Ten—a record for her, but Bobby had assured her the plane could go at least twelve. She adjusted the fuel mixture again and pulled back on the stick. At eleven thousand feet, her eyes stung; no amount of blinking was enough to bring relief to the gritty surface beneath her eyelids. Her lungs craved air, but when she inhaled, it was as if they could only hold a thimbleful. Eleven six. Just four hundred more. Come on, Belle. You can do it.

  The engine sputtered. She checked the gauges. Nothing out of line. She gave one more pull, but eleven seven was the most she could do. She pursed her lips, her breaths short and shallow, her muscles twitching, and eased the stick forward for the descent.

  Her official recording was 11,724 feet—a new light-aircraft women’s record.

  An hour later, Calista flew 11,920 feet and won the competition. That evening, Mittie and Calista walked along the river again arm in arm. Warriors together.

  Ames called when they returned to Kentucky and congratulated Mittie and said he wished he’d been there to see it.

  “I wish you could have, too. So, are you back? Wanna come out for dinner?”

  “We’re still up north. Folks up here are going crazy over the shows. We’re going into Ohio this weekend. Could I interest you and Calista in a little circus fun?”

  “It’s very tempting, but I’m going with Mother and Daddy to the St. Louis horse show in July. There’s always plenty to do to get ready, and this year we’re taking Gypsy and horses for three of our owners.”

  “Sometimes I think I’m competing with a four-legged creature.”

  “You’re both pretty magnificent.” Her fingers worried the locket around her neck. “I just had a keen idea. Why don’t you go with us? You’ve not seen Gypsy in the ring, and she’s almost as graceful as Buster up on the wings.”

  “Now who’s tempting who? What are the dates?”

  She told him and added, “I’d love it if you could come.”

  Ames returned two days before Mittie was due to leave. Just barely. Trixie’s engine had a knock and needed to be replaced. “It’ll cost most of what I made in Ohio for the parts.”

  “Can it wait until we get back?”

  “No, the new one’s arriving tomorrow, and I’ll need Trixie after the hor
se show. Don’t worry—I’m still coming. I’ll just drive the roadster.”

  As promised, Ames arrived in St. Louis in time for an early dinner at the elegant Union Station Hotel the evening before the show.

  “Daddy’s gone to a saddlebred board meeting, so I told him we’d go to the arena and check on the horses. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll drive.”

  When they arrived at the arena, the stalls were bustling with activity—grooms scurrying with buckets of water and spreading sweet-smelling straw to bed the horses. Sweat shone on the grooms’ faces, shirts clinging to their backs in the humidity.

  While walking toward the MG Farms stalls, she said, “Gypsy’s in top form, and we’ve brought a pretty little sorrel stallion that shows great promise.” They found Toby brushing Gypsy, and Ames asked if he could give it a try. He handed his jacket to Mittie and rolled up his sleeves. He made long strokes along Gypsy’s sides, the muscles in his forearm strong and rippling.

  Mittie draped Ames’ jacket over her arm, and when she did, an envelope fluttered to the ground. She scooped it up and put it in her handbag for safekeeping, then offered a carrot nugget to Gypsy. After she made sure Toby and the grooms had all they needed, she and Ames strolled arm in arm toward the car. She asked how the engine replacement had gone, and he told her he’d found a couple of other things that needed work as well.

  “Trixie’s good as new. Think you’ll be ready to do some flying when we get back?” They’d come to the car and Ames leaned against it, a banana moon dangling from the sky above him.

  She nestled against his chest. “As a matter of fact, Bobby’s been scouting some competitions for Calista and me to enter. He’s had a few ideas that we’re going to talk about next week.”

  His muscles tensed. “I’m sure York has plenty of ideas. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  Mittie stepped back and wrinkled her nose. “Ames Dewberry, I do believe you’re jealous. And you needn’t be. Calista’s the one who’s sweet on him.”

  “Peach is sweet on every man that waltzes into the room.”

  “You know this from experience?”

  “She’s not my type. I prefer my dolls to have long legs and a dark mane that I can run my fingers through.” His fingers grazed her cheek, then raked through her hair, sending a tingle up her spine.

  “You’ve just described Gypsy.”

  His lips drew close. “Two beauties. But there’s only one I want to do this with.” His mouth found hers, the taste of him like summer wine. Her arms slipped around his waist, his body firm and warm and delicious.

  Ames planted kisses on her lips, her cheek, her neck. A group of rowdy grooms passed on the other side of the car, breaking the spell. Ames gave her a last kiss on the forehead and said they’d better get back.

  When they returned, Mittie told Ames she’d meet him for breakfast if he’d like. He agreed and walked with her to the elevator. While waiting, she remembered the envelope and pulled it from her handbag.

  “I nearly forgot. This fell from your jacket back at the arena.” She held it out. It was addressed to him in a feminine script. “Looks like a letter from a girlfriend.”

  “Now who’s jealous?” He reached to take the envelope, but she held on to it, teasing him and holding it up like she was trying to read through the paper. The return address was Red Gulch, Iowa. And the name Fern Danner.

  “Ah, your sister?” She handed it over to him. “How’s she doing?”

  “Fair to middlin’.”

  “That doesn’t sound particularly good.”

  “It’s Lela who’s ailing now. Scarlet fever.”

  “Oh no! That’s quite serious.”

  “She’s over the worst of it, but Fern hasn’t been able to work, and they’re behind on their rent. She wrote to tell me they got an eviction notice.”

  “How dreadful. Do you need to go up there and help them out?”

  “I don’t have the money. I just spent all my spare change on Trixie.”

  The elevator doors clanged open. They told the operator their floor, and when they reached Mittie’s room, she’d made a decision. “How much is the back rent? I could loan you the money. I can’t imagine having a sick child and losing your home.”

  Ames ran his fingers through his hair, his face lined with worry. “I can’t ask you to do that. I just feel so danged helpless.”

  “Let’s just call it my good deed for the summer. I’ll go to a bank here in the morning and get the money.”

  “You’d do that, doll?”

  “Of course, I would. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Ames pulled her into his arms for an encore kiss. She slipped the key into the lock, the taste of his lips lingering long after she’d closed the door and turned out the light.

  Mittie declined her mother’s invitation to go shopping with her and two of the owners’ wives so she could go to the bank. She gave Ames the money and told him she’d promised to get to the arena early. “Do you mind wiring the money and meeting me later?”

  “No. And I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

  “It’s your family. You don’t have to thank me.”

  Mittie found her dad in the convening area reserved for owners and trainers and their guests. She chitchatted with them until Ames arrived and her dad introduced him. “Ames is the aeronautical mastermind of a new engine.”

  “Only a small part of it, sir. Just a modification, really, a new twist on the carburetor to increase efficiency.”

  One of the men perked up. “I’ve quite an interest in aviation myself. I’ve had my own plane a couple of years. Humphreys, you ought to get one for yourself. One of those Tri-Motors would get you and the family to the association meetings and shows in style.”

  “I’m not the flier in the family. Mittie is.”

  One of the men asked what she flew.

  “A Curtiss Jenny. I’ve just returned from an altitude challenge in Little Rock, dipping my toes into competition.”

  “Can’t pick up the newspaper nowadays without reading about some daredevil trying a new stunt or setting a record.”

  Her daddy told them he’d been to watch her fly. “I think Mittie has a great future ahead of her.”

  The subject drifted to the upcoming presidential election and whether Hoover had the spine to shake things up and equalize salaries for the average person. They discussed the pros and cons, and then one of the owners said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Humphreys, a fella over in Oldham County’s trying to undercut your stable prices.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. I could do it for less, too, if I went with inferior feed and didn’t keep my barns weathertight. A well-looked-after animal will get more wins in the ring.”

  “Right you are. Just thought you ought to know their stable is recruiting. I had a phone call a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Anyone I might know? I like to keep abreast of the competition, you know.”

  “Lamberson Farms. Fella named Ogilvie called me. Their offer sounded quite attractive.”

  Mittie’s stomach did a twist. Buck Lamberson just wouldn’t quit. Her daddy hesitated, like he was chewing on a response, so Mittie said, “We do know both of them, and there’s no doubt they have some fine animals. And I think I can speak for Daddy when I say that I appreciate your telling us.”

  “Mittie’s right. We like to keep honest communication with our owners. I do hope you’ll wait until after tomorrow night’s championship before you consider their offer.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Come; let’s see if we can find our seats. You kids come along whenever you’d like.”

  Mittie nodded and turned to Ames. “Gypsy’s not until the third class, but I like to spend time with her before she shows and also see if Toby needs anything. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “You run along. I need to call Fern. She didn’t answer earlier, and I wanted to let her know I’d wired the money. Besides, I don’t
want my presence to be a distraction for you.”

  She gave him directions to their seats and went to the holding area, a little distracted herself by the news that Buck Lamberson was recruiting. April Showers and Gingersnap were both entered in events, and Mittie was curious to see how they’d fared since she’d seen them almost a year ago. She was relieved when she didn’t bump into either Mr. Lamberson or Ogilvie and found Toby calm and Gypsy with a gleam in her eye. When the call to mount was given, Mittie wished them well and hurried to the grandstand.

  Mittie slid into the seat next to her dad. “Has Ames made it yet?”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “He needed to make a phone call. I went to check on Gypsy. She’s ready.”

  “As am I.”

  Moments later, Mittie’s mother and the two owners’ wives hurried into the box.

  One of the ladies, a buxom woman wearing a hat large enough to be a small parachute, leaned over and whispered to Mittie, “Your mother knows the most marvelous shops. You should have come with us.”

  “Maybe next time. I’m glad it was enjoyable.” There really was no one better than her mother at being in charge of a shopping trip. Mittie stretched her neck, looking over the crowd for Ames.

  The woman asked if they’d missed anything.

  “No, we have a horse in the upcoming five-gait. The three-year-old class with your stallion is right after. They were moving to the holding area when I was back there a few minutes ago.”

  The organ music started and the horses were announced. Gypsy was third to enter and received a hearty round of applause. Mittie never tired of watching the horses being put through their paces and mentally calculating—trying to outguess—what the judges would say. They made up their minds quickly. Gypsy won the class. And Ames had missed it.

  When the stallion class entered, the woman in the hat giggled and grabbed her husband’s hand. “Isn’t this exciting, Henry?”

  And it was. Toby sat tall in the seat of the cutback saddle guiding the sorrel stallion. The horse was magnificent and strutted like a peacock in mating season. He easily won his class, and his owners left to celebrate in the Owner’s Club. Mittie’s dad, though, thought they should watch the next event to see what Gypsy might be up against if she qualified for the championship.