A Flying Affair (13 page)

After the introductions, Calista gave him a coy look and said it was a joy to meet him. “And please, my friends call me Peach.”

“Peach it is. May I escort you lovely ladies into the dining room?”

He held out the chair for Calista and the one next to it for Mittie, then sat on Mittie's right. The atmosphere was lively with much talk about the day's race as plates of roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans were set in front of them.

And it seemed that Calista—Mittie refused to think of her as Peach—knew everyone. “See that fella over there?” She pointed to one of the men in the race. “He's got a rose tattoo on his bicep for the gal he met in England during the war. And Barb—she's the one that finished first today and is sitting with her daddy—she works as a fashion model in Dallas. I call her Venus—you know, the Roman goddess of beauty. Fits her, don't you think?”

“I suppose. She is cute as can be, but how do you know all this about people?” A fleeting thought about what Calista might say about her zipped through her head.

Calista's pale eyes grew round, innocent. “Just curious, I guess.” She leaned in and looked at Bobby. “Like I'm curious about that sweet little roadster I saw you driving. Any chance you'd give me a ride sometime?”

Bobby swallowed what he was chewing and said, “I suppose, but time is rather short with needing to be at the airfield in the morning.”

“The night is young.”

“Did you have a particular destination in mind? Someplace you needed to go?”

“Not right offhand. Of course, I don't want to infringe on Kentucky here's territory if you've already made plans.”

A flicker of irritation nipped at Mittie. “Kentucky? Do you give everyone pet names?”

“Sorry. It's a terrible habit I've picked up trying to remember all the people I've met on the barnstorming circuit. Mama says I should mind my manners in a way that's befitting the Georgia raisin' she bestowed upon me. What would you like me to call you?”

Mittie smiled. “How about Mittie? So you're from Georgia?”

“Yes,
Mittie
, I'm from Atlanta. Born and bred. My granddaddy rebuilt half of the city after those damn Yankees burned it to the ground.” She clapped her fingers to her lips. “I have to be careful when I'm in a big crowd like this that I don't step on some damn Yankee's toes.”

“It's all right. Bobby calls everyone in the States Yankees.”

Calista pointed her fork at him. “I'll be happy to set you straight on the difference between the North and the South when we go for that spin. How about when we finish eating?”

Bobby cocked his head at Mittie with a questioning look.

“Oh, don't mind me. I want to call Mother and Daddy and take a steaming hot bath.” The sudden chill she'd developed wasn't from the weather.

“If you're sure you don't mind.”

They decided on the time to meet the following morning.

As she lay staring at the ceiling two hours later, Mittie's thoughts swirled. She was in third place after the first day, but a remnant of disappointment ate at the fringes of her heart. Calista was in second place and had monopolized the conversation with Bobby—time that Mittie had hoped to spend telling him about her flight and discussing strategy for the return trip to St. Louis. As she drifted off, it came to her that perhaps Calista wasn't the innocent she pretended to be. Perhaps the chatty blond banter and making eyes at Bobby was to distract Mittie and put her on edge. And as the evening's events replayed in her head, Mittie pressed her palms against the sheets to keep her hands from curling into knots. Seeing Calista prance off with Bobby bothered her more than she was willing to admit.

Mittie and Bobby arrived at Sweeney Field early the next morning, having had a quiet, uninterrupted breakfast where they did get to talk about the previous day's flight. They looked over the maps, and she asked if he was driving to St. Louis for the end of the race or if he was still touring the country.

“I'll be in St. Louis—maybe not by the time you land, but soon thereabout.”

“Thanks. Did you and Calista have a nice drive?”

Bobby swallowed his coffee, his eyes clouding just a bit. “Calista? Oh, you mean Peach. Yes, we did. The river's got quite a nice view at night.”

“Did she set you straight on the differences between the North and the South?”

He rubbed the side of his neck and chuckled. “Guess the subject never came up. She was curious about Brooklands, where I trained, and what I'm doing in the States. Have you talked to Ames?”

“I left a message for him with the desk clerk at his hotel. And for Victor as well. I do appreciate your coming. It was nice to see a friendly face when I stepped out of the cockpit yesterday. How can I ever thank you?”

“Just finishing the race today is all the thanks I need.”

Although the skies were a brilliant blue on takeoff, a thin black line of clouds threatened on the northern horizon. Sudden updrafts and air instability kept Mittie's feet riveted to the rudder for control the entire way to Columbia. She lowered her altitude, looking for a pocket of smoother air, but she knew she was sacrificing speed. And this time, when she stopped for fuel, she didn't ask how the others were doing.

The flight from Columbia to St. Louis was equidistant to the first half of the trip, which she'd done in two hours and forty minutes if her calculations were correct, but it was also more difficult to fly because it was more wooded and what few leaves were left on the tree branches played with the light in a dizzying effect. Her neck ached from stretching to keep on course, and her mouth felt as if it were full of sand. She fished in her pocket for a piece of Beech-Nut gum just as an updraft rocked the plane.
Steady. Feet on the rudder.
She didn't need an adverse yaw when she was this close. Another wind pocket bounced her again. She gripped the stick, her muscles taut.

Stay calm. Check the compass.
She nosed down to get a better look at the countryside and discovered she was directly over Lambert Field and going too fast to land. She would have to circle back, losing precious time, but relief swelled within her. She'd made it.

After the postflight check, Mittie jumped from the wing as photographers and male reporters with pencils poised scurried onto the field toward her. Mittie braced herself to give a word about the flight, but the press reps streamed past her straight for Calista, who stood by her little plane. A short, filmy skirt whipped around her legs, her smile that of a film starlet.

Mittie popped the piece of Beech-Nut in her mouth. She'd come to check out the competition, and it couldn't have been more clear had it been written across the sky. She pulled off her leather helmet, tossed her head to let her hair fly free, and headed to the hangar to find Ames.

The temperature had dropped considerably since the day before, but there was still a nice crowd of onlookers. They gave Mittie a hearty round of applause as she stepped into their midst. A small boy with two front teeth missing tugged on her arm and asked for an autograph.

She patted his cheek as she'd seen Ames do at barnstormings. “My pleasure, young man.” She scribbled her name on the scrap of paper he thrust at her, and when she handed it back, she gave him a stick of Beech-Nut and winked. “It's a secret weapon for aviators.”

“Thanks, lady; I'll remember that.”

“There you are.” Victor approached from her left before she made it to the hangar's open doors. He waved Weaver over. “So glad to see the Swallow dip out of the sky with you in it. I worried a few years off my life when the wind shifted with that cold front.”

“I think I hit it about ten miles out.”

“Did you have any trouble?”

“Not really. I hit a few air bumps, but the Swallow got me here.”

Weaver gave her a fatherly hug. “I couldn't be more proud than if you were my own daughter.”

“I'm just thankful for both of you. Have all the women made it?”

Victor said, “Last report was all but one. We've stayed close to the officials' table just inside the door to keep abreast of any news.”

A wave of apprehension sloshed in Mittie's belly as Weaver said, “Hope she didn't have trouble. I don't like the looks of those dark clouds.”

The air buzzed with worry as people watched the sky. Mittie looked around for Ames and caught snatches of conversation.

I'd rather get caught up in a tornado than a blue norther.

Heard it dropped thirty degrees in an hour over in Columbia.

Sure hope the hail don't hit before we get out of here.

She turned to Weaver and Victor. “Have you seen Ames?”

 Victor said he was inside earlier but thought he'd seen him going out to the plane.

“I must've missed him, then. Any idea how we all placed in the finish?”

Weaver shrugged. “Don't expect they'll announce it until everyone's accounted for.” His eyes stayed riveted on the sky.

The wind, brisk when Mittie landed, now gusted, sending hats sailing and kicking up dust on the runway, pelting them with grit.

Victor held his hand on his hat and jerked his head toward the hangar. “Let's get back inside.”

Mittie followed, her head turned, still hoping to catch sight of Ames. She tugged on Victor's sleeve. “I think I'll go over and see if Ames is with the Swallow. I bet he's tinkering with something, maybe putting the cockpit cover on in case it starts raining.”

She didn't wait for any objections and turned, bracing herself against the wind. Calista and the entourage of reporters had disappeared, leaving only the flagman and a few men in coveralls on the field. She sprinted to the Swallow, but no Ames. And since she was there, she felt she owed it to Victor to protect the jewel he was so proud of. She grabbed the canvas from the baggage compartment, hefted it up on the wing, and jumped on after it. Bending her knees to get leverage, she threw it up into the cockpit. A gust of wind nearly threw her overboard, but determined, she climbed into the rear passenger seat, dragging the cover with her. It landed splayed open, saving her from wrestling with that at least. She took the bottom rope, threaded it through the slot on the rear right of the open seat, and knotted it. The same for the rear left. Working the fanfold, she threw her leg over into the next seat, pulling the canvas with her. She stopped to take a breath, the effort bringing tears to her eyes. Leg up and over into the cockpit. The canvas felt like it weighed five hundred pounds. As she fished for the right front rope, the air gusted. She struggled to hold the tarp down, but the force of the gale was stronger. The canvas flew up, snapping like sheets on a clothesline as it whipped around beneath the upper wing. She hopped back toward the rear where she started, her arms and legs quivering. Her fingers clutched an edge; then from behind, strong arms reached over her, two beefy hands pulling the canvas into submission.

Ames.

He pointed for her to move to the cockpit, and together, they hauled the unruly cover into place. As Ames knotted the last rope, the first icy rain fell from the sky.

“Let's go!” he yelled above the roar of the wind. He grabbed her hand, and they raced toward the hangar and slipped inside, just missing the downpour of hail that hammered the roof of the metal hangar.

They leaned over, heaving to catch their breath as people gave them room. Mittie glanced sideways at Ames and said, “Thanks.” It was all she could manage with the strength she had left.

When she straightened, soaked to the bone and wrung out, the first person she saw was Peach, delicate hands on either side of her face, her water-pale eyes as big as twin moons. Next to her stood Bobby York.

By evening, a pilot named Marie still hadn't returned. Sandwiches from the Lambert Field canteen were passed around with paper cups of bitter coffee that at least chased the chill of the storm away. Bobby congratulated Mittie, who smelled of damp wool and had only run her fingers through the tangles of her hair. She wished she'd grabbed her duffel from the baggage compartment when getting the tarp. It didn't really matter—she'd been wet before, and it was trivial in comparison to what Marie might be going through.

When seven o'clock arrived, the man with the infernal cigar called for attention.

“In light of the circumstances and knowing some of you may have places you need to be, we're going ahead with announcing the winners of the women's race division. Unfortunately, the men's speed race has been halted in Columbia and won't resume due to the inclement weather. From a field of six women in the two-day race, five finished. Let's give these ladies a round of applause.”

It was half-hearted, knowing a sixth woman was still unaccounted for. After an awkward few seconds, the official opened an envelope.

“In spite of it being a rough day in the sky today, two of the women broke previous records for flights of five hundred miles, and the remaining three were close behind. First place, with a prize of four hundred dollars, goes to Calista Gilson of Atlanta, Georgia.”

This time, the applause was hearty, Mittie included. Someone wolf whistled from the back of the hangar and yelled, “Way to go, Peach!”

Peach stepped forward. “It's been a pure delight to be here and meet all y'all. Thank you for giving women a chance to prove that, while we may not be faster or fly higher than our male counterparts, we can fly. And look pretty at the same time.” More applause. More whistles.

She sashayed back to her spot among a group of her admirers.

Mittie's heart raced as Ames took her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. Bobby stood close by with Victor and Weaver. She
had
finished. That was what counted. But still, she prayed.

“In second place at fourteen minutes behind—” The single entry door to the hangar creaked, and two figures entered. The air stilled, and then a shout went up.

Marie! She made it, and she was alive. The applause was joyous as a muddy, bedraggled Marie stepped forward while a bushy-bearded man wearing a heavy barn coat trailed behind. Everyone wanted to know what happened, and gradually, between Marie and the farmer who'd rescued her, they heard her story.

She'd hit the line of bad weather and lost control of the rudder. She was able to make a partial recovery, but the engine stalled, and she crash-landed in an open field. Stunned but not injured as near as she could tell, Marie crawled out of the plane that had landed on its side, snapping one of the wings. She walked along a dirt road that led eventually to a farmhouse, where she found a man tending his livestock. She helped him get the animals secure in light of the impending storm.

Her face beamed as she said, “And here we are. I knew everyone would be worried, so this gentleman was kind enough to drive me over.”

Mittie's eyes stung, her throat scratchy with emotion. She was immeasurably thankful that Marie had survived, but she also knew it could have been her, that the Swallow had lurched in the same wind that sent Marie plummeting to earth. And Mittie's mother would hear of the story and no doubt deliver one of her lectures about the dangers of flying and how being a teacher or a legal secretary or even the wife of a shady senator was infinitely more suitable. Lost in thought, she didn't even hear the official announce that she had come in second place—fourteen minutes behind Calista and only five minutes in front of Barb, the one Peach called Venus. Barb was a beauty, but more than that, she was a competitor. Warmth flooded Mittie's chest as she looked at each woman who'd flown. United they stood in their quest to conquer the skies. A band of sisters.

Mittie stepped forward to receive her envelope. She hadn't even heard what her prize amount was and had certainly not prepared a statement.

“Thank you all. I'm obviously not one of the ones who can fly and look pretty at the same time like my friend here, yet I'm thrilled to be a part of this group. Someday, dear sisters, we will make aviation history.”

Tears clogged her throat as she placed her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss across the hangar where dust particles hung in the air like glitter.