by Joyce Magnin
Zeb and Ruth discussed pies while Boris and Stu finished off cups of coffee.
"I'm not saying your pies won't be the hit they always are," Ruth said. "I'm only saying that variety might be nice."
I waited quietly until Zeb had his fill of pie talk. "Fine, fine. Extra pie never hurt anyone." Zeb looked at me. "Are you ready? Griselda and I are planning to take a walk up to Hector's Hill."
"It's a bit chilly," Ruth said.
"Oh, I'm sure Zeb will keep Griselda warm," Stu said. He winked at me.
Stu took Dot and Ruth home. Ruth loved to ride in his big, blue Caddy. Dot didn't much care as long as she arrived home safe and sound. Boris lived just a block away from the town hall so he walked the short distance.
"Good meeting, everyone," he said as he plunked his black hat on his head. "This is shaping up to be our best dance yet."
He said that every year.
Zeb and I held hands as we headed toward Hector's Hill. His was warm and rough and strong and made me feel instantly safe—even though in Bright's Pond there was not much anyone needed to be kept safe from—except maybe a stray skunk on the prowl or a family of possums making their way across the street from one forage place to another.
Hector's Hill was dark except for the stars—millions of them—overhead and the twinkling house lights below. The hill had always been a favorite place to take a date in Bright's Pond. It was quiet and serene—a good place to be alone but not so far from home.
The night made Cliff's plane look out of place. Perhaps it was the mood. Maybe it was the fact that it seemed an intrusion in a place that was natural and untouched except when the grass was mowed or the weeds that had a tendency to overgrow were yanked by the roots and burned. Yet, I couldn't help smiling and feeling quickened when I saw it.
"Isn't she pretty?" I asked.
Zeb and I had sat on Star Rock—a giant boulder so named because just about everyone in town had at one time or another sat there gazing up at the Milky Way. My father told Agnes and me that this had been the place where he first kissed our mother. Mama said she saw stars that night even with her eyes closed. I wanted Zeb to kiss me that way, but he didn't—not right off. He just continued to hold my hand in his, which by then was feeling clammy and wet, not so much strong and warm.
"Isn't who pretty?" he asked.
"Matilda. Cliff's airplane. She's pretty, don't you think?"
"Ah, gee Grizzy, do you always have to talk about him? That plane doesn't even belong there. It's just blocking the view and . . . and besides, I think you're just the prettiest thing up here."
That was when he kissed me. I wanted to see stars. I tried to see stars, but I didn't. I'm ashamed to admit this, but all I could think about at that moment was Cliff's airplane, and I'm pretty sure Zeb knew my mind was not exactly on him or the kiss.
"That was nice," he said. "I think. At least, it was for me."
"Oh, I'm sorry Zeb. I liked it well enough. Guess I'm a bit preoccupied."
"With what? Not Agnes, I'm sure. You don't have to go rushing home to her."
"No, not Agnes. Now come on, let's try it again, and this time I promise to keep my mind on you."
"Ah, nertz, Grizzy. You're thinking about that stupid plane. You're more interested in flying around with Cliff Cardwell than me."
"That's not true," I said, adjusting my rear end on the craggy rock. "I want to . . . fly with you. It's just that the plane is out there. I can see it. It must be very exciting to be up there." I looked into the sky. "It must be even more spectacular to be up there at night, among the stars, closer to them you know, Zeb, flying practically through them."
Zeb stood and wiped rock dust from his pants. "Come on, I'll take you home. Maybe someday you'll get all of this out of your system and stop having these . . . these flights of fancy."
We walked back to my house at a pretty good clip.
"Good night, Grizzy. I . . . I just want you to know that I wish Cliff Cardwell never landed in Bright's Pond."
I supposed he was waiting for me to say something similar or to agree with him. But I couldn't.
Zeb reached around me and turned the doorknob. He pushed it open. "I'd kiss you goodnight, but I reckon you're head is still dreaming about flying through the stars."
"I'm sorry, Zeb. I—"
"It's all right, Griselda. I guess I preferred it when you had your feet on the ground."
11
That was three days ago and in that time I will admit that my thoughts turned to Cliff Cardwell and his airplane more often than I would ever admit to Zeb or even Agnes. There was no getting around the truth—I wanted to fly. I heard he was still at the Kincaid's—something about needing something called a magneto for his airplane.
I probably should have gone straight to the library that Wednesday but I couldn't resist driving past Hector's Hill. The sun glinted off the plane's wings like rays of diamond light. More rain had been called for but so far I saw no signs of the weather changing that morning. It was butterscotch bright and cold. I saw Cliff walking around Matilda with a long silver wrench in his hand. I parked the truck.
"Cliff." I leaned out the passenger side window. "Cliff."
He waved with the wrench. "Griselda. Come on over."
"Are you getting ready to leave?" I asked once I got within normal conversation range.
"I'm afraid not. I still haven't gotten that part I need. I was just checking on things. Tightened a couple of belts, tune up kind of stuff. I'm worried about the spark plugs. They might need to be changed, but they can be hard to get—probably near to impossible way out here in the boondoggles."
I chuckled. "Boondoggles? We aren't that rural, Cliff. You want boondoggles you should check out the backwoods. Now there's some serious boonies."
"I didn't mean to be insulting. Some airplane parts can be hard to get no matter where you are, especially on an old plane like Matilda here."
"I've been meaning to ask you. Why did you name your airplane Matilda?"
He smiled and gave Matilda's wing an affectionate rub. "It was my sister's name."
"Oh, that's sweet," I said sensing a sad story. Cliff had a vibe that at times made me want to ask him who he was, really, and where he came from and why he started to fly.
"I was just heading over to the library when I saw you," I said.
"I'm glad you did," Cliff said. "Are you in a rush or can you stay a while? I wouldn't mind a little company while I tighten a few more nuts."
Truth is I enjoyed hanging around the plane. I wanted to learn all about it and the best way I could think of was to watch the pilot. "I can stay a little longer. The library doesn't see much activity this time of the day."
He shook one of the struts and then bent down on one knee. "I've been meaning to ask you about your sister, Alice, is it?"
"Agnes."
"I'm sorry. Nate was telling me about her."
"Yeah, I bet he was."
"Ah, nothing bad. He told me stories about her performing miracles and stuff. Any truth to it?"
"She wouldn't say that was truth. She'd just tell you that God is in the miracle business. She just did the asking and if amazing things happened in Bright's Pond it was God's choosing, not her praying."
"So all that stuff really happened then, the healings and such."
I felt my eyebrows rise. "Yes. Except she doesn't pray like she used to. Leastways people aren't lining up at the nursing home with their requests. She put the kibosh on that about a week after she checked herself into Greenbrier."
"But she does still pray." Cliff exchanged the long wrench for a smaller one from a candy apple red tool box.
A sinking feeling struck me. "Now don't go telling me that this is a ruse about the plane and you came here because you heard about Agnes and need some kind of miracle. Because if it is, you can just take your plane and—"
He laughed. "No, no nothing like that. If I got any need I can go to God myself. I mean it's good to have folks praying for you, e
ven nice to know someone is looking out for you in that way but no, I'm not here looking for a miracle. I don't need one."
"That's good to hear," I said. Cliff had at that moment become even more intriguing to me. "So in this case, God really is your copilot?"
"Copilot? No way. He's the pilot. I take orders from Him when I'm up there."
I figured Zeb might even be glad to hear what Cliff just said although like everything else in Bright's Pond it will take some time for folks to trust him. I watched Cliff move around the plane looking her over, making a few remarks to himself until he stopped and said, "I just have to ask, is Agnes really that . . . that, you know—"
"Fat?"
He looked at his boots. "I didn't want to say it quite like that."
"She is. But they got her on a diet over there and she's dropping pounds like crazy."
Cliff slapped the wrench in his palm. "Glad to hear it." He made an adjustment on a bolt and then looked away from me and asked, "Did Agnes pray for free or did she charge a fee?"
"Agnes never asked money from anyone. What a strange question."
"I'm sorry, Griselda. I was just thinking that an unscrupulous person would take advantage. You know, charge folks to see her and get prayed for. Seems the same as going to church and being asked to fork over money halfway through the service, you know what I mean?"
"That's different. Agnes has plenty of scruples." My annoyance level had just shot through the roof.
"I didn't mean to imply that she or you were unscrupulous. I just meant I could see how someone could come along and talk her into a few things."
I had to laugh. "Agnes? Agnes doesn't get talked into anything."
"That's good to hear." The awkwardness of his comment still hovered in the air.
"Well, I better get back to work," he said. "I don't want to keep you from yours either."
"Don't feel bad," I said. "I had similar thoughts in the past. Maybe not about someone looking for a way to make money off her but I used to imagine all manner of crowds lining up with all manner of problems."
"I can see that too." He opened the plane door, the passenger side. "If you're not in a hurry would you like to take a look inside?"
"Me? Really?"
"Sure, Griselda. Come on."
Cliff opened the door and I took a step up and sat in the pilot's seat. A wall of lights and dials and levers spread out in front of me. "Do you need all these buttons and levers to fly this thing?"
"Yep. All of them. They wouldn't be there if they weren't necessary." He reached in near me and brushed my shoulder with his arm. "This here is the altimeter." He tapped a small round dial with numbers situated like a clock that went from zero through nine. "Tells me how high I'm flying and this over here is the attitude indicator, helps me keep Matilda level." The instrument, split in half by a line, was dark on the bottom and light blue on the top with a series of lines in between.
"Attitude indicator? Wouldn't it be nice if people had one of them on their foreheads? Then we'd know what we were getting into."
I couldn't help noticing his aftershave or cologne as he leaned close to me and chuckled at my feeble attempt at a joke. "I guess it works a little bit like a carpenter's level."
"Not really, but that's the general gist of the thing. The idea is to keep the middle line straight and true."
"That looks like the odometer on a car." I pointed to a round dial with numbers that went from zero to two hundred.
"That's pretty much it," Cliff said. "We call it the airspeed indicator."
I leaned back in the crinkly, vinyl seat and took a deep breath. "So many dials and things to remember. I don't know how you do it."
"Oh, it's like anything else, I suppose. How about if I take you up?"
"Now?"
"Well, no. After I get her fixed."
I felt embarrassed. "Oh that's right, for a second I forgot Matilda was broken."
"I should have her ready to fly in a day or two. Then what do you say? Want to go flying?"
My heart raced. "I have never been in an airplane. Not even a big, jumbo jet."
"Well, this is different, but I got to tell you, there is nothing like it. It's freedom up there in the clouds. Peaceful and quiet except for the engine noises. Looking out over the blue sky and seeing the patchwork quilt of a world below—" He shook his head. "It's like nothing you'll ever know."
"Let's do it." I said it fast like if I didn't I might not. "As soon as Matilda is ready to fly."
"It's a date."
When we made eye contact it nearly took my breath away.
Cliff helped me out of the seat and back onto ground. My legs wobbled and I wasn't even flying. "I'll let you know as soon as she's ready."
"Sounds good." I paused and touched the propeller. "It's amazing in a way. Kind of a miracle in its own right."
"Wait until you get up there."
"I'll look forward to it. But right now I've got to keep my feet on the ground and get over to the library before Boris notices and docks my pay."
Cliff scratched his right cheek. "Library, huh. I must say I have a lot of respect for libraries. I wouldn't necessarily let this get out among my pilot friends but I enjoy reading, mostly books about pilots—you know, Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh, but a good romantic adventure is a welcome diversion sometimes."
I smiled. Cliff had a kind of innocent, little-boy quality that I appreciated. He had a sense of wonder that most adults have lost.
"Well, if you're going to be here much longer and you need something to read, come on by. I'll get you a library card. I can do that. I'm the librarian."
Cliff smiled. "And the prettiest librarian in Bright's Pond."
That was when I should have told him about Zeb. But I didn't.
I can't say if it was guilt or desire but I decided to swing by the café and see if I could speak with Zeb. I just needed to touch base or maybe touch him. Mildred's cruiser was parked out front and that was fortuitous. I needed to speak with her about the dance tickets.
She was sitting at the counter working on a baloney sandwich and reading through a small, red notebook.
"Hey, Mildred," I said. "I'm glad I ran into you. Whatcha working on there—a case?"
"I sure am. I'm calling it The Case of the Pumpkin Queen."
I took the stool next to her. "I keep telling you that Stella is not up to anything."
"Maybe. But I'm keeping my eyes peeled just the same. And my nose sharp. I'll sniff out the truth."
Dot Handy swung past me carrying a tray of breakfast plates. "Excuse me, Griselda."
"Where's Zeb?"
"Hold your horses a second, let me get these breakfasts delivered."
"I better get going, Griselda," Mildred said. She left money and change on the counter. "See that Dot gets that for me, OK, Griselda? I need to get out on patrol."
"Sure." That was when I saw Zeb's paper-hatted head in the kitchen. It looked like he was doing everything he could to avoid me. I waved twice and each time it went unanswered.
Dot plunked the now empty tray behind the counter and grabbed a yellow washcloth. She wiped the space in front of me. "He's been awfully surly lately. Won't tell me what's bothering him."
"He's mad at me," I said. "Even though I didn't do anything that he should be upset about."
Dot glanced over her shoulder just as Zeb practically threw a plate of eggs and scrapple on the pickup counter. "Order up!" he called. "Get a move on, Dot. No time to be chitchatting with the regulars."
"Blow it out your socks, Zeb," Dot said. "I got it." Then she turned her attention back to me. "See what I mean."
"Zeb," I called, "you come out of that kitchen this minute. I want to talk to you."
He looked at me through the pick-up window. "I'm busy."
I leaned over the counter and tried to keep my voice quiet. "Look, you have nothing to be jealous about. Now stop this. My wanting to fly in an airplane is nothing to get upset about."
Finally th
e big lug was face-to-face with me. "Let's go outside," I said.
"I have scrapple frying."
"No problem," Dot called. "I'll handle the grill, you two go talk this out—please. I can't take it anymore."
Zeb wiped his paper hat off his head, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the trash.
We walked a couple yards away from the diner toward the town hall. "All I've done is sit in the plane and look at Cliff's . . . I mean the plane's dials and stuff. He said he'd take me for a ride when Matilda was ready. That's all."
"Dials and stuff, what stuff? I don't like it. You shouldn't be alone with him."
"Zeb Sewickey, you are acting like a jealous numbskull and you can't keep me from sitting in his plane or going for a ride with him."
"I still wish you wouldn't do it."
"Zeb. You can't tell me what to do."
He took a step back. "I can worry about you can't I? I am just looking out for you. And besides—" He kicked a stone. "People will start talking and rumors will start flying. I just don't want to see you put through that."
I looked off toward the mountains. They looked purple and brown and green and so far away yet so close. "You know what, Zeb? For the first time in my life I don't care. I don't care what people think of me. I might just like flying. You just have to trust me. I am not interested in Cliff in any kind of romantic way. And I don't really think people are going to talk or start rumors just because I went for an airplane ride."
"Geez, Grizzy, ever since Agnes moved into the nursing home you've been . . . been different."
"No I haven't. I'm still the same me. I think I just have more time now, you know, to do things I want to do. Don't have to rush home and take care of Agnes all the time. I'm more of my own person, taking care of me, and wouldn't you rather have a girlfriend who is happy than one who's not?"
"Is that what you are?"
"What?"
"My girlfriend?" His voice turned small and shy.
"I thought I was."
Dot appeared at the café door. "You better get back to the griddle, Zeb. I just burned the baloney. I can't do tables and cook all at the same time forever, not on what you pay me."
