Dogfight (13 page)

“We don't have time to do your cast, Hettie,” she said. “If you hadn't disappeared all afternoon … But I have to get ready myself.”

Hettie tried hard to look disappointed.

Downstairs, Hettie could hear the band warming up, random cymbal rattles, occasional toodling notes, and in between, the clatter of dishes. She couldn't help but feel excited before her parents' parties. And Amelia Earhart would be arriving soon. Amelia Earhart, the woman who would fly her twin-engine Lockheed, called the “Flying Laboratory,” not just across the ocean but around the world. After a false start in Oakland, not a month before—the plane did a ground loop, turned uncontrollably before it was ever airborne—she told reporters, “If we don't burn up, I'd like to try again.” Hettie had saved the newspaper clipping.

She wondered if her father was excited, too, if he was plotting a secret rendezvous, right under her mother's nose. Hettie went to the window to watch for cars. Night had settled in, by then, and candles, sheathed in white glass, lined the walkway. It wasn't long before the guests began to arrive, smiling faces streaming up the front stairs and into the house, and the band started up. The sound from below, music mixed in with all the voices, caused a tightness in Hettie's chest, like she was sitting on the lid of a boiling pot. Finally, Hettie saw George Putnam's ragtop Cord roadster easing off the road a bit away from the house, saw him in the light of the headlights—tiny round glasses glinting, dark overcoat—walk around the front of the car and open Amelia's door. Hettie ran to her door and stood behind it, waiting for her mother to call her downstairs. She imagined her father at his own door just down the hall, trembling with anticipation. How romantic, Hettie thought.

“Hettie, come down now. Miss Amelia's here to see you.” Her mother's voice, at last, from the bottom of the stairs.

Hettie found her mother and Amelia Earhart standing in the
foyer, laughing. Amelia was beautiful in a black mink coat and the softest-looking midnight blue dress with a low-slung collar. She was wearing a strand of pearls, looped three times around her neck. The room was a dazzle of light. They turned to her and Amelia said, “Hettie, come here. Show me your cast.”

Hettie trotted over and gave her a hug. Amelia crouched beside her and held the cast gingerly, as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.

“I jumped from the second-story window,” Hettie said.

Amelia pressed her lips together in appraisal. Hettie's mother said, “An escape attempt, Millie.”

“No,” Hettie said, quickly. “That's not it.”

Her mother laughed. “Then what was it, dear?”

“I just wanted to,” Hettie said. She searched Amelia's face for a better explanation. Her hair was short and full of curls, brown with streaks of blonde that Hettie thought looked like moonlight.

“And so you did it, didn't you,” Amelia said. “It's a badge of honor, then.”

Hettie had known that she would understand. Her mother laughed again and said, “Please, Millie.” Then to Hettie, “Darling, will you take Miss Amelia's coat to the guest room.”

She slipped out of her coat, draped it over Hettie's arms, and thanked her. Hettie said, “I know my father is looking forward to seeing you.”

Amelia Earhart looked at her curiously, head cocked, a slight smile on her lips.

“I'm looking forward to seeing him, too, dear.”

Hettie carried the mink down the hall. The bed was already piled high with furs, but the mink was the most beautiful coat she had ever seen. She held it at arm's length and shook it out, the way she had seen her mother do at Saks. Something heavy shifted in the pocket. She slipped her arms into the cool, silk-lined sleeves, closed her eyes, wrapped the coat around her. She let it envelop her, pushed her fingers through the fur, pressed her face into the collar, smelled the
perfume and cigarettes there. She couldn't believe how soft it was. It tickled, made her cheeks tingle. She imagined Amelia Earhart wearing this coat in her father's arms, her father rubbing his smooth cheeks on her shoulder. The music from the other room didn't quite reach her, dissolved in conversation on the way and arrived in scattered notes.

Hettie let her hands drift down her sides, into the pockets, and her eyes snapped open. Her right hand closed over something metallic. She thought, even before she brought it out, that it was a pistol. She lifted it gingerly, held it with both hands in front of her face and blinked at it. Along the barrel she read,
O. F. Mossberg & Sons/New Haven, Conn. U.S.A.
She had never seen a pistol before, not counting Civil War relics at the museum. She closed one eye and squinted down the squared barrel. She could see four tubes, like smaller barrels, inside, but she couldn't tell if there were any bullets. Hettie palmed the gun, tested its weight. She wondered why Amelia would be carrying a pistol. Was she in danger? Was she afraid that someone was trying to sabotage her flight around the world? Hettie's heart jumped. She could hear blood hissing behind her ears. Hettie thought suddenly that Amelia Earhart was going to kill her mother. She was going to take this gun, this hard gun in Hettie's palm, and creep up behind her mother and pull the trigger and run off with her father to Mexico. She could hear the pop and see the muzzle flash, like in the movies, could imagine her mother's body crumpling heavily to the floor, could almost smell the acrid gunpowder smoke lingering in the air. Hettie's mouth was desert dry. She thought of warning her mother, she had to do
something
. Her father wouldn't agree to a murder plan. He wouldn't let it happen, would he? The idea terrified her, but she didn't want to stand in the way of his happiness, didn't want to be the one to keep them apart.

Right then, there was a knock at the door, and she heard a squeaky “Hettie? Are you there?” Her mother, already nearing drunk. The door swung open and her mother appeared, leaning on the knob. Without thinking, Hettie darted under her arm and raced through
the house, dodging guests, slipping through greedy hands, hearing voices say, Easy there, little girl. Slow down now. You'll break your other arm if you're not careful. The makeshift ballroom was brilliant with noise. Hettie didn't stop. She tore through the double doors and out onto the beach, where torches on metal stands flickered in the breeze. She would take the gun away from the house, until she'd had time to figure out what to do. She kicked out of her shoes and kept running, her feet throwing clumps of sand behind her. She ran until she was far enough down the beach that the light from the house was a distant glimmer and only then, doubled-over, panting in the sand, her broken arm throbbing vaguely, did she remember that she was still wearing Amelia Earhart's mink coat.

The dark ocean was beside her, waves breaking as straight and white as lines of chalk on a blackboard. A chill wind snapped American flags up and down the beach. Hettie was alone, but she knew that someone would be along shortly to look for her. Not in a million years would her mother leave her alone on the beach at night with a gun and a stolen mink. Maybe her father would come looking with Amelia Earhart—she would, after all, be wondering about her things—and they would find her and tell her everything. They would sit with her in the sand and tell her not to worry, everything was going to be all right. They wouldn't leave her when they made their break. The plane had room enough for three.

In the distance, away from her parents' house, she could see a bonfire dancing, shadow figures moving in its light. She walked in that direction, wrapped the coat close about her against the cold. She stopped well short of the fire. Three boys, college-aged, were gathered around it—one sitting, two standing—passing a bottle between them. They didn't see her standing there, just kept moving and talking in the orange glow. She couldn't make out what they were saying so she tried to read their lips, but the light was strange and blurry and she couldn't see them well enough to understand. Hettie felt she was witnessing something secret. She crept forward until she could hear them, their voices intent and serious. She didn't make a sound.

“So you're saying to me, let Mussolini
have
Ethiopia,” one of the standing boys said, the skinny one. “Just let him roll an army into someone else's country and have it. We can't
do
that.” His voice was high-pitched and whiny.

“Why not?” This from the seated boy. He took a sip from the bottle, tossed a little sand into the fire, dimming it briefly. The light played eerily on his face. Hettie couldn't take her eyes off of them.

“Whaddaya
mean
why not?” Hettie thought he sounded like he was holding his nose. She had to stop herself from laughing at him. “Are you some kinda pacifist? We can't just let him have it. Didn'ya read Salassie's speech in the paper?”

“Salassie's a spade. It's a spade country. I say he's welcome to it.”

The boy standing closest to Hettie, the one who hadn't spoken, suddenly snapped his head in her direction and said, “Jesus Christ, you scared me half to death, standing there like a ghost. What're you doing? Come over where I can see you.”

Hettie said she was sorry and stepped into the light. She was glad to be noticed, grateful to be invited into their circle. She hoped the coat made her look older.

“Who is it, Breece?” The sitting boy again.

“It's a little girl in a mink coat.” He smiled warmly at her.

Breece, he'd said. Breece Marchand. Hettie didn't move any closer.

“I'm not little,” she said. “I've got a gun.”

“Hey, Richie,” the whiny one said, laughing. “The little girl's gotta gun.”

“I heard her, moron,” Richie said. “She stood right there, where all of us can hear her, and said, ‘I'm not little, I've got a gun.' Why do you have to go around repeating things all the time?”

“Be quiet, you guys,” Breece said. “You're scaring her.”

Hettie drew the pistol from her pocket and held it, trembling, in front of her. This was the boy that had attacked Baker's sister. Hettie didn't know what he had done exactly, but she knew it was something awful, something that couldn't be talked about. She was terrified.
What if he attacked her? Right here on the beach. The others, too. She couldn't stop them, one ten-year-old girl, unless she shot them.

“Jesus, put that thing down,” Breece said. “You'll hurt yourself.”

He took a step in her direction and she took a step back. She waved the gun at the other two, then brought it back to Breece. She could shoot him, pull the trigger right now, and he would be dead. A breakneck feeling washed over her, the feeling she'd had on the win-dowsill right before she jumped.

“I know who you are, Breece Marchand,” Hettie said. “I know what you did.”

“She's
on
to you, pal.” The whiny one laughed a little and shook his head. “What the hell's she talking about?”

Richie didn't move or say anything, just watched. Breece showed Hettie his palms and took another step. He didn't look like someone to be afraid of, didn't even look the way she remembered. He looked nice, actually, handsome, short hair, a blue oxford shirt untucked over khaki pants, barefoot. He had tiny, delicate-looking feet for a man. He saw her looking at them and dug his toes into the sand.

“I think she's talking about Delia Fitzgerald,” he said.

“That?
Christ.”

“I know what you did,” Hettie said.

“Look, little girl, I don't know what you've heard, but you shouldn't be afraid of me. I didn't do anything.” He spoke softly, sounding weary, a little embarrassed. “She made it up, the whole thing. I don't know why.”

Hettie didn't know what to think. What was it that he was supposed to have done? She kept the gun pointed at him, but she knew she couldn't shoot. The wind whipped up, twisting sparks above the fire. Hettie shivered. Faintly, from way off down the beach, she heard her name. Her father was calling her. She looked at Breece Marchand and their eyes met. He was looking at her strangely, imploringly, as if he didn't want her to go.

Hettie turned, feeling the warmth of the fire leave her face, and ran until she reached her father. He caught her by the shoulders, held her
at arm's length and shook her. He said, “Hettie, what on earth is wrong with you? Running off with Amelia's coat. Your mother's worried sick.” She dropped the gun and let herself go limp in his hands. He picked it up, still supporting her with one hand, and blew sand from the barrel. “Where did you get this? This is Amelia's gun, isn't it?” he said. “Stupid, crazy woman. Bringing a gun into my house.”

Hettie held her father tight around the waist. His chest was warm against her cheek, except for one pinpoint of cold where his tuxedo stud touched her face.

“Don't be angry at her,” she said. “Don't let her leave me when you fly off together.”

“What do you mean—fly off together?” He picked her up and looked at her face. She was crying, shaking with sobs and the cold.

“I saw you kissing. Don't leave me when you go.”

Her father pulled her against him. “Oh, Hettie,” he said, his voice gentle, soothing, almost amused. “Hettie.” He carried her all the way back to the house.

Two days later, Amelia Earhart left Rye, New York, and she didn't return all summer. She was preparing for her flight around the world. In June, Hettie listened to takeoff reports on the radio. She spread a map on the desk in her room and traced the route in pencil. Miami to San Juan to Caprito to Paramaribo to Natal. From there, across the Atlantic, her third trip, to St. Louis. There was a St. Louis in Africa. Hettie thought that was wonderful. With the trail drawn before her, etched like smoke on the sky, it looked like such a long way to go. Calcutta to Akyab, Bangkok to Singapore. When the plane vanished, disappeared into thin air, between Lea, New Zealand, and Howe Island, Hettie, crying, said to her mother, “You did this,” though she couldn't understand how. “You made this happen so they couldn't be together,” though she felt, with surprising certainty, that it could not possibly be true.