A Flying Affair (10 page)

People arrived early for the barnstorming, streaming in from all directions like ants gathering for a picnic. Mittie wore jodhpurs and a lightweight flight jacket as she circulated, answered questions, and helped gather money for the airplane rides the Patriots were giving. The activity kept her from thinking about the tangle of nerves in her stomach.

When Ames signaled her that it was time, Mittie dashed to her car and changed into a pair of white trousers and a body-hugging red blouse dotted with rhinestones. She strapped on a pair of low-heeled shoes that would give her traction on the wing and help her stay balanced.

She waited out of sight until Ames picked up a megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, not only will you see some heart-stopping stunts with the planes, but we've a special treat for you today. Please welcome our wing-walking wonders.”

Buster ran up from one edge of the crowd as Mittie approached from the other. The throng whooped and hollered, wolf whistles shrill above the sound of the cheers. Five minutes later, they were high above the rolling bluegrass where rivers meandered and converged and splintered off again. Ames started with a few easy rolls to get the crowd warmed up, then made a wide circle out of view as Lester and Shorty did their first stunts. Stalls and spirals followed, and like kittens at play, the planes raced and frolicked, slowed and then sprinted again.

Ames nosed up toward silver-bellied clouds that shifted lazily, breathing it seemed and bloating a bit more with each inhalation. The roar of the engine filled her ears, the thrill of the skies too much for her heart to hold.

Ames tapped Mittie on the shoulder to signal that it was time for her to get ready. She checked their altitude, then released the strap across her shoulders and took a deep breath. A cloud shadow passed them, creating a small updraft that rocked the plane. When Ames smoothed it out, Mittie crawled from the cockpit and onto the underwing. At the right altitude, she shuffled toward the strut, the simple maneuver that had her heart in her throat two weeks ago now familiar as she moved effortlessly toward it and made a bow. The wind tousled her hair, but she leaned into it and counted to twenty under her breath. Now for the top wing. She pulled up and over to the count of three and waved to the crowd. Her steps were light as she strolled from one wing tip to the other, then back to the center where she raised her hands in a victory gesture. Still facing forward, she made a last-minute decision to add a few dance steps. She kicked her heels back and waved her hands in synchronized rhythm as Ames descended further. She inhaled and moved to midwing, swinging her hips, arms outstretched for balance until she was over the mark where she would lower herself and take a final bow.

A shadow appeared in her side vision, startling her. She whipped her head in that direction, a squawk splitting the air, as flapping black wings aimed straight for her face. She screamed as her feet rushed from under her, and there was nothing but air between her and the bluegrass below.

When she opened her eyes, she expected to see Saint Peter, but it was her daddy's face that leaned in close to hers. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to focus, but it took too much effort. The next time she opened them, a stranger had one hand on her wrist and a stern expression on his face.

“Looks like she's out of the woods. Lucky for her she's alive at all.”

She shut her eyes again. She was alive, but a pounding pressure inside her head and an ache in her left shoulder told her something wasn't right. Sleep overtook the pain.

Doors opened and creaked closed. Shoes shuffled across the floor of her mind. Whispers. A sea of black again claimed her.

Fingers pried her eyelids apart, and an intense light filled her head. “Good pupil response.” She didn't know whether that was good or bad.

A butterfly brushed her forehead, soft as a feather. She opened her eyes to see it and peered into bottomless dark eyes. She smiled and whispered, “Ames.”

“Yes, doll, it's me. And right over here's your mom and dad.”

She blinked and found her mother's face. “Mother. You okay?”

“Of course not. How could I ever be okay when my daughter has tumbled from the sky like a sack of potatoes?”

“Sarah.” Her daddy's voice was gentle but firm. He leaned over and smiled. “We're just thankful it wasn't more serious.”

It was serious enough. Mittie drifted back off. When she awoke again, her daddy called for the doctor, who told her she'd broken her left collarbone and had a mild concussion.

“You'll have to remain in the hospital under observation tonight, and we've strapped your arm to your chest to keep the broken edges of your clavicle from grating against one another.”

She moved in the bed and winced, determined not to let the pain show on her face. “I can go home tomorrow, then?”

“Only if there are no complications.” The doctor's gray pockmarked face offered dismal expectation.

“I'll be fine.” The stormy look from her mother kept her from saying she'd be home in time to see Lindbergh.

That evening Bobby popped in and brought her a box of pecan clusters.

“How did you know they were my favorite?”

“I didn't. The lady at the counter picked them out.” He had a sheepish look. “Actually, I bought one for you and your mother and was going to bring them to dinner tomorrow night.”

“I guess I upset that royally.”

“There will be other dinners. I'm just glad you're going to be okay.”

The door creaked open, and Ames entered. “Sorry—hope I'm not interrupting.”

When Mittie turned, a pain shot through her shoulder. “Ouch.” She blew out a breath through pursed lips, then smiled. “No, you're not interrupting.” She looked from Bobby to Ames. “Have you two met?”

Bobby extended his hand. “Bobby York.”

Ames shook his hand and introduced himself. Mittie closed her eyes to will away a sharp spasm that had come with the pain. Bobby asked if she needed anything.

“I'll be okay in a bit. The nurse gave me an injection right before you came in.”

Bobby said he needed to be going and told Ames it was a pleasure to meet him. Ames nodded and waited until Bobby left before leaning over and kissing Mittie on the cheek.

“I'd have been back sooner, but I had to make a couple of phone calls. I hate to leave you, doll, but the Patriots and I are pulling out tomorrow. The folks in Nebraska asked if we could come early.”

“I guess you'll be looking for a new stunt girl while you're gone.”

“Nah, I like the one I have, but it looks like the next show will be short one wing walker.”

“As long as you keep my spot open.”

“Mittie Humphreys, you may be a grown woman, but you're still my daughter, and I forbid you to even think of such a thing.”

“Hello, Mother. I didn't hear you come in.”

“I've never left my station outside the door.”

“What? Are you afraid I'll sneak out and do something foolish?”

“You've already done that.” She looked at Ames and lifted her chin. “I appreciate your concern for Mittie, and you seem like a nice young man, but I hope this has been a reminder for both of you about the danger of airplanes.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm sure Mittie will have plenty of time to think about that. She's lucky to have a mother who's concerned for her welfare.”

“Not just her welfare. Her life.”

“Yes, ma'am. And no one wants to keep her alive more than I do.” He leaned over and gave Mittie another kiss. “I'll give you a call when I'm back in town.”

“I miss you already.”

“Don't take any wooden nickels.” He offered his hand to her mother, and it was clear that it took all the propriety she could gather to shake his hand. “Take care of her, Mrs. Humphreys.”

“I will do precisely that.”

Mittie let the morphine take her into dreams where winged creatures flew at her and carnival barkers waved bystanders into a tent to see the woman who could fly.

Mittie awoke with beads of sweat dampening her skin and a gnawing in her stomach. She learned if she kept her eyes closed, she didn't have to face the anxious eyes of her parents, the ones who'd given her life and indulged her every whim. She'd repaid them time and again with impulsive actions that had brought nothing but grief.

Her daddy caressed her arm, and when she looked at him, the deep tanned lines of his face broke into a half smile.

“I'm sorry, Daddy, to cause you so much trouble.”

“There's no need to apologize, sugar.”

“But there is. My whole life I've done nothing but disappoint you with my foolishness when all I truly wanted to do was make you proud of me, of who I am.”

“Is a fish sorry for having scales and not fur? You have to be true to the way God made you, and when I see your eyes light up when you talk about flying, I am proud.”

“But Mother…”

He winked. “She'll come around.”

On Sunday morning, a nurse handed her a glass medicine cup and a tumbler of water. “The doctor says if this takes care of your pain, we can send you home this afternoon.”

A shiver cascaded down her arms as she put the medicine cup to her lips and let the bitter liquid slide down her throat.
Laudanum
. The elixir her daddy had taken for his back. It burned a bitter path to her stomach.

Home had never looked so good as it did when her daddy drove the Bentley through the stone pillars of Morning Glory Farms on Sunday afternoon. Her mother guided her up the stairs to her room where the table by the velvet wingback held an assortment of amusements in easy reach—fashion magazines; writing paper, ink, and a fountain pen; an embroidery hoop with a stamped linen tea towel and skeins of thread.

She turned to her mother. “Bertha thought of everything, didn't she?”

“I gave her a few suggestions, but I know how restless you can get, so I wanted you to have alternatives when you got bored.”

“It's sweet, although embroidering with one hand might be a little tricky with my arm strapped to my chest like this.” Even dressing had proved a challenge since her blouse wouldn't button over her immobilized arm. “How long did the doctor say I had to wear this mummy contraption?”

“Four weeks. And your left hand is free, so I don't see why you couldn't hold the hoop with it and work the thread with your right hand.”

Mittie nodded. Since she'd never taken to embroidery when she had two good arms, she doubted she would attempt now. Her mother was trying to be helpful, but it was an odd dance between them. A mother in control, desperate to be needed. Mittie, the daughter who wanted to do everything herself. Four weeks? She wasn't sure she could survive a single day.

Her mother folded back the summer coverlet and sheets. “Ready to get in bed?”

“Not yet.”

The dance continued.

“Ring for Bertha when you are, then.”

Mittie sat in the chair and peered at the sky—the one that would deliver Charles Lindbergh in less than twenty-four hours. An ache coiled in her chest, different from the grating bones of her clavicle. Deeper. An ache that laudanum couldn't fix.

Tears welled up in her eyes, her throat constricted with sobs she refused to relinquish. She only had herself to thank for missing Lucky Lindy.

The door of her room squeaked. She turned to see who'd come but saw instead the hem of her mother's dress retreating before the door clicked shut.

Apricot rays filtered through the lace curtains of her bedroom window. Mittie shifted positions and nearly screamed when a fiery pain pierced her clavicle. She counted slowly to ten. Then with a gulp of air, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Another count of ten to recover, then she rose and padded barefoot to the window.

Figures bustled this way and that, some taking horses to the paddock, others carrying buckets of rations and water. And in the arena, Toby, his face the same dark as Gypsy's mane, sat erect in the cut-back saddle, reins held with just the right amount of tension. Gypsy lifted her forefeet high with grace and precision. Mittie rested her chin on the rail of the lower window sash and looked heavenward. Not a cloud in the sky.

“Mittie.” Her daddy's voice behind her. “Just coming to check on you, sugar.”

Mittie turned to face him, her face wet with tears. “Morning, Daddy.”

“I didn't expect to see you up.”

“I'm usually in the barns by now. Old habit of mine.”

“Can I send you up a cup of coffee? Have Ruby fix you a tray?”

“Nope. I'm coming down. You think Mother will mind if I'm not dressed?”

“It will be a relief to her just to see you up and about.”

“I don't see any reason to lie about all day. Or busy myself with needlework.” She pointed to the untouched things beside the chair. “I'll read horse journals or go over the books with you. A girl has to earn her keep, you know.”

“Oh, Mittie.” He shook his head and left.

Ten minutes later, she'd brushed her teeth, pinched her cheeks to put some color in them, painted on Clara Bow cupid lips, and made it to the breakfast room.

Her mother's eyes grew round. “If you don't look wide awake and smart today. How did you sleep?”

“Like a lamb. I'm starving.”

Her mother pushed her chair back and went to the sideboard. “Here, let me fix your plate.”

Mittie finished off bacon, eggs, grits, and toast and said she'd like some oatmeal.

“You're going to have to watch your figure, since you're not going to be as active for the next few weeks.”

“I don't know about that. I think Ogilvie will take great delight in finding chores for me.”

Her daddy cleared his throat. “I'm sure he would if he were still employed here.”