by K. A. Tucker
The noise cuts considerably the moment I push past the door and into the back office. “. . . move this delivery to the afternoon and send Jean up there to get her,” my dad is saying, hovering over a giant paper map that’s stretched out across a desk with Agnes, both with reading glasses perched on their noses. An older man with a handlebar mustache and a small potbelly stands with them. I recognize him as the one standing next to Betty in the hangar the other day.
Dad looks up and his frown of concentration fades instantly. “Morning, Calla.”
Agnes flashes her typical wide smile. “George, this is Wren’s daughter.”
“Hey there.” The man seizes my hand. His is large and sweaty. “It’s good to finally meet you. My wife said you came through the other day, with Jonah. At first she thought he’d gone and gotten himself a beautiful girlfriend.”
The pieces click. “Your wife works at Meyer’s.”
“Yeah. That’s Bobbie.” He chuckles. She was ready to throw a party!” He has a heavy Midwestern American accent. “So, how are you likin’ Alaska so far?”
“It’s great. Different, but great,” I admit.
He belts out a laugh. “Sure is. There ain’t nothin’ like it out there.”
“So? What have you got planned for today?” My dad eyes the laptop poking out of my purse.
“Not much, really. Jonah said he doesn’t have room in the plane to take me out this morning, but he can take me out this afternoon.”
“Why don’t you go out with your old man! Hey? You can take a quick break, can’t you?” George slaps my dad on the shoulder with another barking laugh. “Maybe convince her to take up the family tradition.”
My dad chuckles, but even I can hear the strain in the sound. Agnes said he’s only doing solo flights to ease the guilt that he shouldn’t be flying at all. “Yeah, I’d like that, but I’ve gotta focus on this schedule right now and work in this surprise trip. And figure out what we’re gonna do with all the weekend flights ahead of the storm, and . . .” The excuses tumble out of him like poorly cast die, the truth gripped tightly within his palm.
“And I want to get this website up and running for you guys, stat,” I add.
“You’re more than welcome to park yourself over there.” Agnes points to the desk that James the bookkeeper was at the other day.
“Great. Thanks.” I wander over to set myself up as they refocus their attention on the map.
A thought strikes me. “Hey, Dad . . .”
He falters. “Yeah, kiddo?”
And my breath catches, as it dawns on me that it’s the first time I’ve called out to him like that in years. He must have realized it, too. “Um . . .” It takes me a moment to regain my thought. “I was thinking, if there’s room, you should come with me and Jonah later.” That would solve any worries he has about piloting and I’d get to fly with him.
“Why’d I hear my name?” Jonah plows through the door then, interrupting an answer. “What’s she saying about me now?”
“She was just marveling at how you’re such a strapping young lad.” George grins and then winks at me. It seems like Bobbie isn’t the only one on a hunt for a girlfriend for Jonah.
“Funny, she told me I looked like a yeti earlier,” he mutters, lifting a binder off the table, his penetrating gaze scanning it.
Agnes, mid-sip on coffee, snorts and breaks off in a coughing fit. My dad delivers a few whacks against her back to help it clear, himself chuckling.
“Jim’s flying Betty to bring that girl and her baby home?” Jonah frowns. “I don’t know, Wren.”
Dad shrugs. “What do you want me to do? I’ve got a good mechanic with thirty-five years’ experience saying she’s good to go. We’ve gotta trust him, Jonah. Every other plane is in the air today and the poor girl just wants to get home to her husband and family. She’s been stuck in Bangor for over a month.”
Jonah turns to George, whose expression has gone sheepish.
“I forgot Jillian that day. I guess it threw me off.”
“Who’s Jillian?” I whisper to Agnes.
“This is Jillian.” George pulls out a little hula-girl figurine from his pocket, the kind you affix to your car’s dash that sways back and forth with the movement. “My first Wild passenger gave her to me and I’ve had her with me on every flight ever since. Except that one. It was the first time. Like I said, it threw me off.”
“Yeah . . . maybe.” But Jonah doesn’t sound convinced. His frown is severe as he studies for another minute what I assume is the day’s schedule, before tossing the binder back onto the desk. It lands haphazardly on the map. “I’m just gonna take her for a quick spin first. Give it my own gut check.”
“You’ve got people out there, ready and waiting for you,” my dad reminds him with a warning tone. “And a jam-packed schedule ahead of this storm.”
“And I just got a call for an emergency pickup,” Agnes adds. “A villager needs to get to the hospital today. We were just trying to figure that out . . .”
Jonah is already out the door.
“No point arguing with that one,” George mutters.
My dad sighs heavily. “Stubborn ass.”
“She checks out. I ran every test I could think of on her, and she checks out!” Bart the mechanic scratches his chin as he stands with my father and me, watching the bright yellow four-seater plane at the end of the runway. “That son of a gun never believes me.”
The wind whips my long hair across my face, forcing me to scoop it back with a hand. I’m wishing I hadn’t given Jonah his black hoodie back. It’s more practical than the pink cashmere wrap I’m trying to hold in place.
“You know Jonah. Doesn’t take anyone’s word for it, even if he knows how ridiculous this whole thing is,” my dad mutters. “He better hurry up, though. We’re still a day out and we’re already at”—he peers at the orange flag-like cone that flutters ahead—“thirty knots.”
“That’s what those are for? Measuring wind?” I’ve seen them lining runways at airports before. I always assumed they were just markers.
“They’re called windsocks. They determine the wind speed and direction and let us know how risky taking off and landing is going to be. If it reaches forty-five, we won’t be able to fly with any passengers.”
“Huh . . . The more you know.”
“What about you?” Bart leans forward to peer at me through squinty green eyes. He’s a foot shorter than me, making him almost at eye level with my chest, and I’ve caught him taking advantage of that line of sight once or twice. “You gonna learn how to fly one of these while you’re here? Maybe take over the family business one day, when your dad finally kicks the bucket?”
It’s an innocent question, made in jest—Bart has no clue—and yet my stomach spasms all the same. My gaze can’t help but flicker to my dad, whose eyes are locked on Betty. I can’t read anything in that expression, but I don’t miss the way his chest rises with a deep inhale.
“I think I’ll settle for just riding passenger without wanting to puke, thanks.”
“You sure? ’Cause you’ve got the best teacher standing right here,” Bart pushes, oblivious to any tension.
“Actually, the best teacher is out there.” My dad points to Betty as the engine roars with acceleration.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
His gray eyes flutter to me, suddenly serious. “No. I’m not.”
“I’ve met two-year-olds with more patience than him,” I say doubtfully.
The air fills with the distinct hum of a small plane as it begins gaining speed. A few short seconds later, it’s lifting off the ground. Betty’s wings tip this way and that, battling with the breeze, as Jonah climbs.
“He puts on a good show, I’ll give him that,” my dad murmurs, winking at me. Something tells me he’s not talking about Jonah’s flying abilitie
s.
“See? I told you! She’s good as good,” Bart proclaims, turning toward the hangar, wrench in hand. “I gotta get back to fixing things that have real problems, not pretend ones.”
My dad sighs. “Well, that’s good. Now we just have to figure out . . .” His words drift, his hard gaze on the sky. “Hey, Bart?”
“Yeah, boss?” Bart calls out, slowing in his retreat.
“Do you hear that?” There’s an edge to his voice.
I frown, my own ears perking, searching for whatever’s gotten my dad’s hackles up.
It takes me moment to realize that the constant buzz, that telltale sound of a bush plane in flight, has cut off.
“What’s going on?” I ask warily.
“I don’t know. The engine’s off, though. He might be trying to restart it.” They both pause to listen.
Meanwhile all I can seem to hear is my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears.
The plane begins to descend.
A phone rings and my dad reaches into his pocket to retrieve it. I didn’t even know he had a phone. “Yup? . . . Okay.” He ends the call. “That was Agnes. Jonah just radioed in to say he’s got an engine fire. He shut it off on purpose. He’s gotta bring her down on the other side of Whittamores’. Come on.”
My stomach is tight as I rush to keep up with my dad, who has taken up a pace much faster than I’ve seen from him thus far. “Is he going to be okay?” I note the edge of panic in my voice.
“Yeah, don’t worry. He’ll just glide in. He knows how to land in an emergency,” he assures me, pulling his keys from his pocket and hopping into the driver’s seat of his truck.
I don’t think twice, climbing in to take the middle seat, between him and Bart.
Whatever few seconds of calm my dad’s words gave me quickly evaporate as he guns the truck’s engine and peels down the road.
I feel like a storm chaser, our truck speeding down the dirt road, the yellow plane gliding toward the ground alongside us.
“It’s really flat around here. That’s good, right?”
“Yup. That’s good,” my dad promises, reaching over to pat my knee. “Jonah’s landed on everything from glaciers to a mountain ridge even I wouldn’t land on. Don’t worry.”
“Of course there’s the wind and the bushes and the power lines, and that lake, and a few houses that he’s got to watch out for. And if that fire didn’t die out—”
“Bart!” my dad barks, making me jump.
I’ve never heard my dad raise his voice before.
“What is it? . . . It’s . . . nine in ten emergency landings that end without a scratch. Yeah, he knows what he’s doing,” Bart mutters, drumming his fingers impatiently on his door.
I want to believe him, but the way he said that makes me think he was just pulling those numbers out of his ass.
For as flat as the land around here is and as far as I can see on my morning runs, there’s a ridge and bush line up ahead that masks Betty’s descent as Jonah brings her to the ground.
A few seconds later, there’s a loud bang.
“Is that normal?” I ask with panic in my voice.
My dad doesn’t answer, veering onto a muddy path. A private road for tractors or other vehicles, I’m guessing. It’s narrow, and full of deep divots that he doesn’t bother navigating around, instead racing right through, sending us bumping around in our seats. Finally he brings the truck to a jarring stop. “This is as far as we can drive.”
We pile out. I don’t wait for them, charging forward, around the crop of bushes, my running shoes sinking into the wet ground.
If Bart’s numbers are accurate, then Jonah is the one out of ten.
I don’t know when exactly I start to run, but I’m moving fast now, my blood rushing in my ears as I race toward the wreckage, stumbling over the uneven ground and around the bits of yellow metal debris, doing my best not to focus on how one of Betty’s wings is jutting into the air at an odd angle, and how the rest of her is riddled with dents and scratches. A stretch of torn land, grass, and muddy streaks lead me in.
Sitting on the ground some distance away, with his back pressed against a crop of rocks, is Jonah, rivulets of blood snaking down over the bridge of his nose, his left eye, and his beard, like some victim in a horror film.
“Oh my God.” I dive down to kneel next to him, shifting strands of his long, straggly hair back to reveal the source of the blood, a gash across his forehead.
“Am I still pretty?” he murmurs dryly.
I let out a shaky laugh. Amid my struggle to catch my breath, I’m hit with an overwhelming wave of relief that not only is Jonah alive, but his sarcastic tongue seems to be flapping just fine.
“We need to get something on that.” I look around, only to remember that we’re in a field. “Here. Use this.” I strip off my sweater and hold it against the wound.
“Thanks.” He sighs, reaching up to press his bloodied hand over mine to clamp my sweater in place.
Bart is the first to reach us.
“Nothing wrong with her, hey, Bart?” Jonah mutters.
“But . . . I . . .” Bart sputters.
A bout of coughing announces my dad’s approach. “Jesus Christ.” He presses his hand against his mouth, trying to stifle it. “What happened?”
“There was a strange sound and then the engine warning light came on. And then I smelled oil burning, so I shut ’er down,” Jonah explains. “Everything was fine coming in until I hit that patch of rock. I couldn’t see it until the last minute. Tried to avoid it, but I couldn’t. Fuck, I’m sorry—”
“Are you okay?” my dad interrupts abruptly, as if he doesn’t want to hear Jonah’s apologies.
Jonah shifts his body and winces. “Pretty sure my shoulder popped out for a second while I was trying to shimmy my way out, but yeah, I think I’m good.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Let me see.”
I pull my hand away and stand to get out of the way. My dad crouches next to Jonah. He peels away my bloodstained sweater and I cringe at the sight.
“It’s shallow and pretty clean. Probably got grazed by a piece of metal. I’d say you’re in for at least ten stitches.”
One eye—the one not covered in blood—looks up to regard me. “Was that exciting or what, Barbie?”
I shake my head in exasperation at him.
“That girl ran like I’ve never seen anyone run before,” my dad murmurs.
“She wanted to make sure the ground finished me off.”
I wanted to make sure you’re okay. Because I was worried. Because I care.
“No. I figured you’d jump at the chance to ruin my favorite sweater,” I say instead.
“Hmmm.” Jonah’s lips part in a bloody smile as he presses the soft, pink cloth against his forehead again. “At least one good thing came out of this, then.”
Sirens sound in the far distance.
Jonah groans. “Who called them? The hell if I’m being carried out of here.” He uses my dad as leverage to get to his feet, wincing in pain, his movements slow and graceless. Even injured, though, he’s a looming presence. He stops to take in Betty’s mangled frame. “Damn. So what is she? Number nine?”
“She would be number ten. But, hey, ten planes in fifty-four years ain’t too shabby.” My dad shakes his head and sighs. “Never gonna doubt George and his funny feelings ever again.”
Bart snorts his agreement, a dumbstruck look on his face as he shifts a piece of metal with his boot.
Chapter 16
“Hey.” My dad’s arm dangles out the open window of his truck. “You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine. I’m just gonna grab some lunch and then chill for a bit on the porch.” I went back to Wild with my dad after the accident only to find myself unable to s
it still in that office, partly because of the adrenaline still pumping through my veins, but also because my shirt has Jonah’s blood smeared all over it.
Wild’s planes are grounded until the FAA says otherwise. Dad said he was heading back to the crash site to meet with one of their investigators, so he offered to drop me off at home.
My gaze wanders over to the quiet little house next door. “When do you think Jonah will be home?”
“A bit, still. They’re gonna want to check him over well before they let him go, in case he has a head injury.”
I nod solemnly. That feeling in my gut—that dread that seized my insides when I saw the wreckage—still lingers, hours later.
“He’s gonna be fine, Calla.”
“Yeah, I know.” I shrug it off.
“Okay. Well, call me if you feel like coming back later.” My dad coughs a few times and then clears his throat. “You still got my number?”
I hold up the slip of paper he gave me before we left, five minutes ago, as proof.
The truck begins to roll forward but stops abruptly. His lips twist in thought. “You know, I think your mom’s old chair may still be in the garage. The one she used to use on the porch. Anyway, there’s a bunch of stuff tucked in the back that she wrapped up and put away for the winter.”
“You mean, the winter twenty-four years ago?”
“Yeah . . .” He scratches his chin, a sheepish smile on his lips. “Anyway, you might find something useful in there.” With that, he sets off, the truck bumping and jostling down the driveway. I watch him quietly, wondering if he’s really so calm about today’s crash or if he just hides it well.
I notice him slow on the main road to talk to a passing girl on a bike. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Mabel.
She sails down my dad’s driveway, her long hair fluttering wildly with the wind. By the time she reaches me, she’s panting, and I know she’s heard about Jonah. Her eyes widen at the sight of my shirt.
“It was just a cut. Ten stitches, probably,” I assure her, quoting my dad.
She shrugs her backpack off. It falls to the ground with a thud. “I was in town, getting groceries, when I heard someone say that Jonah crashed his plane and had to go to the hospital. So I went there, but they wouldn’t let me in to see him, and I couldn’t get hold of my mom at first, but then I did and she told me he was fine and to just go home, but I was so worried,” she rambles, her words quick and panicky, her breath ragged, as if she had pedaled as hard as she could all the way here.
