A Flying Affair (26 page)

That evening, while the other girls celebrated at the banquet, Mittie sat with her foot soaking in the bathtub. And prayed the throbbing pain away.

Bobby knocked and asked if he could come in.

“Just a minute. I have to get decent.” She hobbled around and threw on some clothes before letting him in.

He held out a stack of handwritten notes. “From the other girls. They want to know how you are.”

“Much better. It's still swollen and it hurts to put weight on it, but I should be fine in the morning.”

“I doubt it will be fine, although I admire your determination.” He handed her a cotton bag. “I talked the waiters out of a bag of ice. It might help if you alternated an ice application with the hot soaks.” Wrinkles of concern fanned from the corners of his eyes.

“I'm willing to try anything. I'd stand on my head if I thought it would keep me in the race.”

“We can always petition to have someone fly with you.”

“That would be cheating.”

“But it's not worth risking your life for.”

“The joy of finishing the race will be worth the risk.”

“Somehow I knew that would be your stance.”

“If it's any consolation, I've done a lot of thinking…about Ames…and us. I'll tell you all about it after I cross the finish line.”

His lips brushed hers. “Till then. But remember—you don't have to complete the race to have my heart.”

“No, I have to finish so I'll have a heart to give in return.”

She sat on the bed and read each note, each word of encouragement, tears flowing as the face of each woman who'd flown above her, behind her, before her marched across her mind. Happy tears smudged the pages she held to her chest.

When portable steps were rolled to the little canary plane the next morning, a cheer went up from her fellow contestants. Mittie waved and said she'd see them all in Cleveland. With the aid of the crutches, she made it up the steps and rolled ungracefully into the cockpit. Helmet on. Goggles in place. Feet on the rudder. Her right foot throbbed beneath the tight elastic bandage as she did the run-up and checked all the gauges, waiting for the signal to take off.

The little canary hummed and bounced down the runway, each bump like a lightning bolt through her ankle. Mittie gritted her teeth, speeding onward. She nosed up until the air currents claimed her. One hundred and forty-eight miles. It was mere inches compared to the twenty-eight hundred she'd flown the last nine days.

The wind bit her cheeks and whispered its secrets to her. The ground below cradled and guided her. The sweat from her pores bathed her in sweet nectar. She was astride her beloved Gypsy, soaring, banking, headed for a distant shore. Joy wrapped its fingers around her heart and brought her safely across the finish line.

Thousands cheered—not because she was victorious in being the fastest, but because she'd been a part of something much larger than herself.

Bobby's and Victor's strong arms lifted her from the seat. She balanced on one leg and waved to the crowd, blowing kisses and blubbering like a baby. Bobby and Victor helped her down the steps and into the open arms of her daddy. Beside him stood her mother, dressed finer than the queen of England, her delicate fingers clutching a hanky and blotting the corner of one eye.

“Mother, Daddy. You're here.”

Her mother sniffed back tears. “Why wouldn't we be? You're a celebrity.” A photographer clicked a picture of their embrace as a reporter stepped forward, pencil poised above a notebook.

“What was it like to fly with only one usable foot on the rudder?”

Mittie looked him in the eye. “There were always two feet on the rudder, but only one was mine. The other was the spirit of my sisters in this race, the women who would fly to the moon and back to help one another. And I believe that someone much greater than all of us had a part.”

“Were you ever tempted to give up?”

“It never entered my mind.”

From the throng that stormed the field, Calista cut through their midst like an apparition. “I knew you'd do it, Kentucky. The drama at the end was a nice twist.”

Mittie laughed. “Someone had to fill your shoes.”

Bobby appeared with a wheelchair. “Your chariot, madame.”

Mittie pivoted and sank onto the wooden seat, her throat thick. “You always know exactly what I need. Thank you.”

Her mother raised expectant eyebrows.

Mittie shrugged and said, “Let's go and congratulate the winners.”

Louise Thaden won the derby in her heavyweight Travel Air, a deserving and gracious woman whom they all had come to love. A girl named Phoebe won with her lightweight plane, the division where Mittie placed fourth. At the gala party that night, Calista whispered, “Next year, I'm gunning for you.” She nailed her with a slanty-eyed look and ran off to dance with a fella who said he was a Hollywood talent agent.

Her daddy turned to Mittie's mother. “Let's show these kids how to cut a rug.”

Bobby draped his arm across the back of her chair. “Guess I won't get a dance tonight.”

“I'm afraid not.” She leaned in close and turned her face toward his. “Will you settle for this?” She kissed him warmly on the lips as the soloist for the band sang of nothing but blue skies from now on.

The dancing bears at the Kentucky State Fair had been replaced with an organ grinder and his pet monkey who collected tips and shiny objects from the audience, but the jugglers in clown suits, canning demonstrations, carnival rides, and sweet smell of cotton candy were still the same. The livestock barns were still a chorus of bleating and lowing and cackling, the smell that of fresh straw, lye soap, and the sharp ammonia of urine. And as always, Mittie gravitated toward the horse stalls behind the arena, where grooms ferried buckets of water, trainers led their prized horses to and from the exercise ring, and owners gathered to check out the competition.

Mittie found Toby fussing over Gypsy. She laced her fingers in Gypsy's mane and worked out a knot, her heart swollen with joy, knowing what Gypsy had overcome just to be in the ring once again. She gave her a quick pat on the rump and told Toby she'd be back later. She then hurried toward the hangar with the newest addition to the fair—the aviation exhibit. For two days, a hearty crowd had gathered to get a close-up look at the custom-built canary yellow mono-wing that had been part of history in the making. Bobby had flown the plane back from Cleveland and polished it up for the display. He and Victor, along with the Aero Club members, answered questions about the women's air race and the new advances in aviation. But today, the hangar was closed until noon in preparation for Mittie's first public appearance.

She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, more nervous than she'd been at the starting line in Santa Monica, California, only a few weeks before. As she drew near, she saw hordes of fairgoers milling about, waiting for the doors to open. Her heart raced at the thought of so many there to see her. Flying solo across mountains and rivers, in sandstorms and rainstorms, in staggering heat, and through unbearable sorrow seemed easier in comparison. She skirted the crowd and slipped in the side door of the hangar, where Victor greeted her.

“Ah, you're here. York's been looking for you.”

“I hope I'm not late. Where is Bobby, anyway?”

He pointed to one of the demonstration booths that was set up like the classroom where Mittie had first learned of vertical and horizontal axes and aileron flaps and magneto checks. Bobby's back was turned as he tacked up a corner of a map that had come loose. She tiptoed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if this is where I sign up for flying lessons.”

He turned and pulled her close. “No, this is the kissing booth. Two kisses for a sixpence.” He gave her two quick pecks on the lips.

“May I put those on my tab?”

“That's a free sample. And the price goes down after dark.”

“Lovely. I can hardly wait.” She took a deep breath. “All right. Tell me what I'm supposed to do. I'm a bundle of nerves. Have you seen all those people out there? Am I supposed to talk or just sign autographs?”

“You're going to be fine. Come—I'll show you where we're set up.”

“Does my hair look all right? What about my dress?” She twirled around. “Are there any straw bits on it?”

He ignored her and led her to a table beside the plane she'd called home for nine days. Boxes of publicity photos the fair organizers had printed of her in her flight jacket and helmet lined the table. “You'll sit on this stool and greet people, sign the photos, and thank them for coming.”

“So simple a trained monkey could do it, right?”

“All you have to do is smile and look lovely. Which you do, by the way. And no, there's no straw on your dress.”

The doors were pulled open and the crowd was directed to form a line behind the ropes. Mittie sat poised on the stool and signed the photographs Bobby handed out as people approached. Mittie made eye contact with each person and asked for his or her name. Then she wrote a personal note, scrawled her name, and said, “Thanks for coming. So happy to meet you.” After an hour, her fingers cramped and her back ached, and the line looked even longer than it had at the start.

Bobby handed her a bottle of ginger water. “Would you like to take a break?”

“Not just yet.” She looked up at a gentleman in a natty suit and fedora, something about him oddly familiar.

Before she could ask for the name, the man said, “Hello, Mittie. Dobbs Lamberson.”

Mittie's hand flew to her mouth, the room moving in and out of focus. She gulped in a breath. “Dobbs—why, Dobbs Lamberson. How are you?” A sweat bead bubbled above her upper lip.

“I'm swell. Never better.” He turned to a stunning girl beside him with short ginger hair wearing a violet and cream sleeveless dress. “This is Martha, my fiancée. We've been following all the stories in the paper about you. We're plumb proud at what you've done.”

Martha leaned in and extended her hand. “Dobbs has told me all about you, how you taught him to drive a pony cart when you were kids.” She smiled sweetly. Innocently.

Mittie's head flashed a warning. Had he told her that she was the one who crippled him? Ruined his life? She held the fountain pen, poised to autograph the photo. “Did he?” was all she could squeak out.

Dobbs leaned in. “When we heard you were coming, I told Martha we had to come and see you.”

“I'm honored. I truly am, and I think of you often.”

Behind him, someone shouted, “We don't have all day. Let's get the line moving.”

Bobby gave her a cautionary look and a surreptitious motion with his thumb to hurry them along. Mittie ignored him.

“Dobbs, I'm so sorry for the accident…for your injury. I wanted to call you—”

“We were silly, stupid kids. It wasn't your fault. It was never your fault.”

“But the operations…”
The limp.

“A rousing success.” He thrust the photograph at her.

 She scrawled her signature and watched as they walked away, arm in arm. She had more of a limp from a sprained ankle than he did.

Gypsy pranced her way to victory in her five-gait class the next morning, and after shaking hands with the judges, Mittie stayed to watch the next class. April Showers, whom the announcer said was from a stable in Jefferson County, looked magnificent and won handily, putting both her and Gypsy in the finals for the Five-Gait World's Championship. At dinner that night, Mittie asked her dad about the change in April Showers' stable.

“Jake Ford called and asked if we'd take his horses back, but I didn't want to stir up a hornet's nest. I gave him a couple of recommendations, and he picked the one I would have. Gingersnap, I'm afraid, is just not a show pony, but April Showers…she'll be a tough one to beat in the championship.”

Puzzle pieces clicked together. Show ponies, their owners, the performances, and fans who filled arenas. A celebration of form, of style, of running the race. Winners came and went. But love of the sport and all that went with it made a lovely completed picture.

“What about Buck Lamberson? Any idea what happened to him?”

“The last I heard he had the stable for sale and was moving to Montana.”

“I saw Dobbs yesterday. He looks good and is engaged to a beautiful girl. All these years I've pictured him as a grotesque cripple.”

“I've not seen him, but I believe he's studying to be a doctor. Your uncle Granville might know.”

Mittie sighed. She wouldn't ask; it was enough to know Dobbs was all right, that he'd risen above the bitterness and greed of his parents. Her heart ached a little that Ames hadn't.

The arena was packed for the saddlebred Five-Gait World's Championship, and once again, her family gathered in support of MG Farms, her daddy, and tonight, Gypsy in her final performance. Her last chance at the cup before she became a broodmare and would hopefully, with her pedigree, birth future champions. It was a joint decision between Mittie and her parents, and they'd consulted her grandmother and Rex as well. As a five-year-old, it was time for Gypsy to leave her youth behind and embrace the future.

Bobby held her hand gently in his, the talk between them easy. Mittie, too, was ready to embrace her future, the one with Bobby York beside her. Each day, her love for him had deepened. When she'd finally thought about Calista's declaration that she should open her eyes, Mittie's soul had been flooded with memories of Bobby. His tenderness and quiet but reassuring manner. Always faithful and steady. She'd been blinded by her affections for Ames and not seen it, but when the veil was drawn aside, she knew Bobby was the rudder who'd been there all along. She squeezed the hand he'd placed in hers and gazed into eyes the color of the sky.

The organ music began and with it the announcement of the horses and their solo lap around the rail. April Showers. The sorrel stallion from MG Farms. A few newcomers. And Gypsy.

Gypsy was resplendent, her muscles like sculpted clay, her hooves lifting high. And as the crowd clapped and cheered, Gypsy put on the show of her life. Walk. Park trot. Canter. Rack. Slow gait. There wasn't a step she didn't make to perfection. When the judges examined the horses for conformation, Mittie tried to guess what they were thinking and the marks they were giving.

Her daddy leaned over, elbows on knees, his face unreadable. The other faithful and steady force in her life. And beside him, her mother. Perfectly coifed. Her proper black gloves. Matching handbag and shoes. The one who had swallowed her fear and finally given Mittie wings.

Mittie's grip on Bobby's hand grew tighter as the judges asked for another demonstration of the rack and slow gait. Her lungs burned from the breath she held while the judges made the eliminations. Then only Gypsy, the sorrel, and April Showers remained.

The organ played a
bum-bum-bum-bum-pa
,
bum-bum-bum-bum-pa
until at last, the head judge stepped forward. “This year's Five-Gait World's Championship goes to Gypsy of Morning Glory Farms.”

Tears sprang to Mittie's eyes, her heart in her throat. Bobby put his arm around her shoulders, kissed her cheek, and handed her his monogrammed silk handkerchief.

She rose and went with her parents to accept the silver bowl. Unspeakable joy radiated through her as she waved to the crowd, but Bobby's face was the only one she saw. Her spirit soared.