A Flying Affair (25 page)

Two stops were scheduled before the next overnight, and as Mittie flew over the sagebrush and rocky prairies of southern New Mexico, she opened the envelope in her mind that contained the puzzle pieces of Ames. If she were cold and calculating, it would be easy. He'd taken her daddy's money and used it foolishly. He'd broken the trust between them and lied. He wasn't trustworthy. But neither was Mittie's heart. More of Ames bubbled beneath the surface of that rakishly handsome smile. The tenderness when he visited with children at barnstorming. The excitement he couldn't contain when they met after a long absence. The way he picked her up and swung her around in his strong arms. The delicately woven bracelet made from Gypsy's mane and tail. The grandfather who drank and provided no moral compass. His niece, Lela, who brought a softness to his eyes when he spoke of her.

He lied. He took Daddy's money. He skipped out on responsibility.

Like the tangled underbrush of the belly of New Mexico, her thoughts wove in and out. She screamed to the sky to give her an answer. She prayed to God Almighty to touch Ames, to make him remorseful. He was that, of course, but following through and making amends eluded him.

The wheels beneath her bounced when Mittie touched down at the border town of Columbus, New Mexico, no closer to knowing her heart than she had four days ago.

It was a quick stop and she was back in the air, back to the ponderings that left her arms numb and precipitated an ache behind the eyes. Below her white sands shifted like the sea, waves of steel blue and stark white, a dark ridge that gave way to dunes of soft gray. Shifting like the many faces of Ames. Ames the drifter. Ames the dreamer. Ames the one who made her heart dance and her knees turn to jelly. She had no future with him—of that she was sure. At least the moral compass that her parents had given her was enough to point to true north. To right and wrong. To doing the right thing when it mattered. And when it didn't. The landscape darkened with a cloud that hovered over the sand and in her heart. She consulted her map, checked the gauges, and looked for the airfield of El Paso below. To her left, the sky lit up with a jagged streak of lightning.

Giant raindrops pelted the earth like arrows as she taxied and pulled into the slot the flagman indicated. She stuffed her maps under her flight jacket and dashed for the terminal. She was next-to-the-last person to make it in, but the thunderstorm had grounded them all. They wouldn't finish the day's itinerary.

Taking advantage of the unexpected night off from the “rubber chicken” circuit, some of the women organized a trip to Juárez for a night of fun. Mittie pulled Bobby aside to tell him of the plans. “You should be a lot more worried about what happens across the border than me flying in the sky.”

He laughed and told her to have a good time, that he and Victor were going to find the biggest steak in El Paso.

Calista danced on top of a table in the second cantina they visited, shaking the maracas one of the locals provided and eating up the attention. Mittie settled for feasting on rich tamales swimming in borracho beans, accompanied by ginger water laced with tequila. It was just the frivolity they needed, and as they trooped down the street, arm in arm with the heat of the desert drying their bones, the bonds that had held them together for five days strengthened. They would need it, for trouble was brewing in Texas.

At breakfast, the news was delivered that a Texas oil tycoon had demanded the air race be halted because women weren't capable of flying, and that without men for guidance, they were handicapped.

Outrage at the statement united the women even more, and a prompt rebuttal was issued by the race officials. They were off to Pecos with clear skies above them and more determination than ever. In Pecos, Blanche reported she'd had a fire in her baggage compartment and had to make an emergency landing to put it out. Since she was miles from anywhere, she had to prop her own plane to finish the trip. That day also, Pancho, who'd been their leader and biggest supporter, crashed on landing into a car that had infringed on the runway. Pancho was uninjured, but her plane was demolished, putting her out of the race.

When Mittie landed in Fort Worth, she expected Calista to greet her since she'd been ahead of her on their two touchdowns in West Texas, but the little orange plane wasn't there.

 A knot twisted in Mittie's stomach that grew tighter as the day waned on. When Bobby suggested she might be lost, Mittie snapped at him. “Calista has better sense of direction than a homing pigeon. Something's happened—I just know it.”

 Mittie refused to leave the field and get ready for the evening banquet. Bobby sent Victor on and stayed with her, offering only the comfort of his presence. Mittie paced around the hangars outside, her eyes peeled to the west where ribbons of clouds turned fiery red and then purple, softening with the dusk into deep violet and burnt umber.

Someone shouted behind her. “Hey, Kentucky!”

Mittie turned and ran to her dusty, ragged friend, their arms entwined while Calista told her and Bobby what had happened.

“One minute everything was fine, then the engine started sputtering and the fuel gauge went to empty. I sort of panicked and started looking for a place to land, but I was over some rocky hills and there were oil derricks in every direction. I waited too long and nosed down too fast.
Peaches
landed headfirst in a yucca thicket.”

“And you? Were you hurt?”

“Rattled is all.”

Her flight pants were shredded, her hands scratched, but she was safe.

“Some guys from an oil rig found me walking around in a daze and gave me a lift.”

“You're here—that's all that matters.”

“But I'm out of the race. The plane's a total wreck.”

“That stinks.”

“It's up to you now, Kentucky.”

Calista wore one of Mittie's dresses to the banquet that night where the other women gathered around with hugs and tears in their eyes. Back in their room, Mittie begged Calista to ride the rest of the route with her, but she refused. “This is your show now. You won't let me down, will you?”

“I'll do my best not to.”

“Good, because I'll be in Cleveland, the first to welcome you.”

Calista left the next morning with her team to go back to Atlanta. Their parting wrenched Mittie's heart. She would make it to Cleveland. For both of them.

Being in Fort Worth had also stirred up memories of Ames and his connections there. A desperation to sort out her conflicting feelings clawed at her bones. The skies hadn't given her the answers, and as near as she could tell, God was also silent on the issue. They touched down in Tulsa to pay homage to Wiley Post and Will Rogers, then zipped off toward Wichita, where a huge reception for their hometown girl, Louise Thaden, awaited.

Mittie slept terribly that night and awoke feeling sluggish, but while she was packing her gear, the locket on the gold chain fell from the blouse she was folding. A shiver went through her. This was the niggling thought she'd been unable to bring to focus.

Why would Ames give her a family heirloom with the picture of a grandfather he couldn't wait to get away from? Speaking to Ames about it—even if she could—would only bring another set of excuses and lies. But there was one person who might shed some light—Ames' sister in Iowa. Now if she could only remember the name of the town where Fern and Lela lived.

All during breakfast she tried to come up with the address she'd seen on the envelope that had fallen from Ames' pocket.
Red something. Red Fork? No. Red Bend? No.

Bobby asked if she was okay.

Red Valley? No. Red Gulch? Yes. That was it.

“Just tired. I need to make a phone call before we leave. How about I meet you in half an hour?” She finished her coffee and went to the pay telephone where she'd called her parents the night before. Hoping that she remembered correctly, she asked the operator for the number of Fern Danner in Red Gulch, Iowa, and deposited the required coins.

A woman answered on the first ring.

“Mrs. Danner?”

“Yes.”

“You don't know me, but I'm acquainted with your brother, Ames.”

A long pause. “Ames?”

“Yes. I have something that belongs to him and would like to return it…your grandmother's locket with a photo of your grandfather.”

Fern snorted. “What's it look like?”

“It's heart-shaped, a little larger than a quarter, and on a gold chain.”

“My grandmother had no such locket. Sounds like the one Ames was bragging about winning in a poker game. Lela had a fit over it.”

A poker game.
Mittie wanted to spit but instead asked, “Lela? Your little girl?”

“Who did you say this was?”

“A friend of Ames. He told me about you being sick a while back and Lela getting scarlet fever. Is she still doing all right?” She should just hang up. She found out all she needed to know. Ames had even lied about the locket, given it to her as a treasure. Some treasure.

“Is this some kind of prank?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I don't know who you are or what kind of scheme you're trying to pull, but I don't have a child and never have.”

Mittie's stomach cramped, her breath gone. No child. No Lela. Ames didn't have a niece with brown eyes and a smile that would light up the world. “I'm so sorry…Ames told me…” Her face flamed as if she'd been slapped.

“There's a Lela all right, but she's not my kid. She's Ames' girlfriend. They're getting hitched as soon as he gets home from California.”

“Oh.” No other words would come. Mittie dropped the receiver on the hook and leaned her forehead against the wall, her heart pounding. She swallowed to keep the breakfast in her stomach that threatened to come up.

“Ma'am, are you all right?”

Mittie turned to face a hotel porter. She ran clammy palms down her pant legs and forced a smile. “Yes, thank you. I'm fine. Just fine.”

It all made sense now. The long absences, saying he was going to talk to investors. Not showing up for Christmas, saying his sister was ill. And the lies he must have told Lela, stringing her along.
His girlfriend? His future wife?

Bobby asked again if she was all right when they got to the airfield. She shrugged and looked away, afraid that if her eyes met his, she would burst into tears. Ames wasn't worth crying over. After a brief touchdown in Kansas City, she flew along the Missouri River toward St. Louis. She clutched the gold locket with the photo of some poor stranger's grandfather in her hand. She kissed it and Ames good-bye, then hurled it out of the plane. She pictured the chain twisting and turning as the locket plummeted into the river to be washed into the Mississippi and out into the Gulf—out to sea where it could no longer entangle her or anyone ever again.

She shouted hallelujahs all the way to St. Louis. And if fortune was with her, Bobby would be waiting when she taxied into the terminal. It was premature to talk about whether she loved him, but with Ames behind her, she was ready to explore the possibility.

Bobby was there, and at the dinner that night, he said, “You have a glow I haven't seen in a long time. I trust your flight was good today.”

“One of the best days ever. I could almost taste heaven.”

“It must be something in the Missouri atmosphere. I remember you saying something similar when you flew in your first air race here.”

“I do remember that. It seems a long time ago, doesn't it?” Warmth flooded her senses. Her first competition. The first time she'd met Calista and they'd huddled together, waiting while one of their own was lost. And then found. The beginning of the sisterhood of women pilots. And Bobby—he'd been there then as now, waiting patiently in the background.

The next two stops went by in a blur, and when she taxied into Columbus, Ohio, for their last overnight stop, Mittie could hardly contain the joy that filled her. Only one more day and the race would be over. History in the making.

Mittie craned her neck and scanned the welcoming spectators, trying to find Bobby. She didn't see him, but she took the time to slip out of her flight suit and smooth the wrinkles from the skirt of the frothy green dress she wore under it. She quickly donned the matching cloche, slipped on the Clara Bow shoes from her knapsack, and rose from the cockpit. Waving to the crowd with one hand, holding her dress with the other, she swung down and leapt to the ground. Her right foot landed wrong and twisted, a white-hot pain exploding in her ankle and shooting up her calf. She crumpled and fell on all fours.

A gasp went up, people swarming around her.
What happened? Can you move? Someone call for a doctor.

Mittie winced. “I'll be fine. Just help me stand up.” She took the first strong hand offered and pulled herself from the dust on one leg. She tentatively put her right foot on the ground, but it was no good, the pain excruciating. Bobby appeared at her side and between his support and that of a stranger, she hobbled to the safety of the terminal where someone put a bag of ice on the already-swollen ankle.

Victor and Bobby drove her to the nearest hospital for an exam. The X-ray was clear, nothing broken, but the doctor recommended staying off of it for two weeks and keeping it wrapped.

“Two weeks? I can't. I'm in the women's air race that ends tomorrow. I have to finish.”

The doctor scowled. “I wouldn't advise it. A sprain like this can be quite debilitating.”

“Is there anything you can do? A splint or plaster?”

“Plaster's not a good idea with the swelling. All I can suggest is warm Epsom salt soaks this evening and a cotton elastic bandage. See how you feel tomorrow.”

Bobby and Victor thought it too dangerous, but they stopped at a druggist and got the items the doctor suggested. And a set of crutches.