Francesca of Lost Nation (18 page)

By the time we returned to shore, I was practically asleep sitting up. Matt scooped me into his arms again, and with Francesca’s comforting hand soothing my fevered forehead, I began to doze.

It was the applause that stirred me. I cracked my eyes open a quarter inch and saw all these strange people gathered at the shoreline. They were looking at me and clapping. I felt a buzz in my head.

That’s when I saw the Scarecrow. He was dressed in the same grayish, raggedy cast-offs he had worn at Home Farm.

I screamed and tried to struggle out of Matt’s arms.

Babe saw the Scarecrow too. Growling to beat the band, she wiggled out of Francesca’s grasp and took after the skinny male figure in the distance.

“Oh, shit,” Matthew whispered under his breath. He carefully set me down, then jogged after Babe as best he could.

“What's going on?” asked Maude frantically.

That’s when I could have sworn I saw Sheriff Dan. What the blazes was happening? Tired and confused, I could only shake my head and iron my forehead with my hands.

After what seemed like an eon, the gravity of the situation sank in. “We have to find Babe,” I sobbed, Then, I grabbed Francesca with all my might. “We have to find her!”

In the Clouds

W

hen I came to, I was lying on my roll-away. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.

“Aahh, that’s better,” Francesca said, touching my forehead softly. “You simply wore yourself out catching that fish. And then Babe took off, and you had a fit. That’s right, isn’t it?” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “There isn’t something else going on that I should know about, is there?” My grandmother was looking at me with her particular probing expression.

“Babe,” I exclaimed as my dog jumped onto my bed. She was thumping her tail as she rested her head across my lap.

“Where did you find her?”

“She found us.”

“You mean all by herself?”

“I do.”

I reached out to hug my clever and intelligent dog and was immediately ambushed by aching muscles. “Whoa.”

“You’ll be sore a few days,” Francesca sat next to me and lightly massaged my arms. She stroked my hair and whispered in my ear how much she loved me and how proud she was of my fishing. Was she still looking at me to see if I was hiding anything from her?

You bet she was.

“Sarah, did you see anything unusual today?”

“I thought Sheriff Dan was at the fairgrounds. I thought I saw him when Babe ran.” It was almost true.

“Sheriff Dan in
Clinton?” Francesca cocked her head. “I wouldn’t think so, child. Why would he be here?”

“I don’t know … but I know I saw him.” 

Just then, I heard the unmistakable roar of the Doozy in front of our unit. Within seconds, there was a crisp knock on the bedroom door, which quickly popped open, revealing the rest of my family.

“Ah, there’s our girl,” Uncle Harry smiled.

“And there’s that damned dog,” Matthew grunted. Chasing after Babe had sent Matt to the doctor’s office. He would now be forced to use his cane for a few more days, as the jogging had been too much for his still-healing leg.

“If you keep it elevated and apply some ice, it won’t be so bad,” Francesca offered.

Apparently, everyone else had kept busy while I slept. While Matt visited the local doc, my uncle and aunt continued searching for the dog. After nearly an hour, when they were on the verge of giving up, Babe had apparently strolled onto the motor court grounds.

“Well, now that everyone is accounted for and still in one piece, shall we go to the airfield?” Uncle Harry asked. “Ian invited us all especially.”

“Yes, let’s,” Maude said with real enthusiasm. “Alright, Sarah, get your things on and join us double time.”

They left the bedroom door slightly ajar — just enough for a professional spy like me to make out a conversation.

Francesca took Matt to the side. “Would your brother Dan be in town for any reason?” she whispered.

“Why would he?” Matt whispered back.

“It’s impolite to answer a question with a question.”

Francesca and Matt both turned and looked in my direction. I
darted to the birthday boxes and whipped out my new Capri pants.  

“Next stop, the airfield.” Now that he, too, had conquered the skies, Harry was looking forward to the air show more than ever. The actual races weren’t scheduled until the following day. In the meantime, pilots were flying in from all over to register for the event. Ian thought we’d enjoy meeting the sky jockeys and seeing the unusual assortment of aircraft up close … like a backstage pass at a Broadway musical, only heaps better.

Since Matt knew everyone and everyone knew him, he introduced us around. He explained that this was the first major air show since the end of the war, which was why it had gathered many of the greatest pilots still living. “I hear that the collection of flyboys at this fair will be over twice the expected number.”
 

We were plain struck dumb in the presence of all those wild
hawks, their life stories lurking behind their eyes, their souls so obviously cut from a different bolt of cloth than the rest of us poor mortals.

Some had fought against Rickthoven’s Flying Circus in the
First World War, others against the Luftwaffe and the Imperial Japanese Air force in the Second. More than a few had since sunk to the lowly rank of crop duster — and loved every minute of it. There were barnstormers, like Matt, more than a few now-civilian instructors and even a few who’d flown in the moving pictures. It was a small, tight club consisting mostly of men, although there were two women in the group.

The pilots all seemed to have their own language, using an aero-jargon shorthand that couldn’t be deciphered by outsiders. A couple of the boys asked Matt’s advice about one thing and another: fuel mix, drag, flap tension. He was in hog heaven. The rest of us gawked like star-struck fools. Except Francesca. She was quiet and somewhat shy with the larger-than-life men and women clothed in the shining armor of survival and past bravery. But she didn’t look at them as celebrities. She saw them as young people, some young enough to be her grandchildren.

Terrible things happen in war, and many of these fliers had seen the worst of it. Their courage helped make our world safer, but at what cost? Up close, you could tell that some had been scraped emotionally bare by their experiences. While they might boast about hundreds of rubber band-stopped landings on aircraft carriers or flights through firestorms of shrapnel, how had those events reconstructed their souls? Some bore visible physical scars, but I began to realize that the worst wounds were most likely internal.

Their common pain and glory combined to form a shared and cherished gossamer bond. A deep-rooted understanding was evident, and their humble sense of duty and love for their country was manifest. Even a small girl like me was stirred by their presence.

Francesca felt it, too. She stood among them, graceful and quiet, and listened. Her sense of connection to all things and faith in her place in the world opened their society to her.

In their turn, the pilots were drawn to my grandmother and treated her like a peer. As if reuniting with an old acquaintance, each stranger discovered her steady presence, her honest interest. She shook a hand or nodded with heightened awareness to a tone or a nuance of phrase.

When Matt mentioned her upcoming car race, the other-worldly crowd drew closer. One of the female pilots whispered something in Francesca’s ear and threw a thumbs-up in Matt’s direction. Francesca smiled and shook her head. When a flask magically appeared, Francesca drank deeply from it without being asked.

I saw my grandmother perform various amazing feats of living magic throughout her lifetime. But I never saw her more incandescent, yet more substantial, than on that afternoon. She had tapped into a well-spring of grace that no movie star ever boasted, that monarchs achieve only in fairy tales.

Everyone wanted to take Francesca for a spin in the wild blue. Matt looked around at the good-natured sparring, gave a little huff, grabbed Francesca by the hand and went to Ian’s
Lady Victoria
. 

“What in Heaven’s name are we doing?” she asked with a delighted grin.

Matt told Francesca to hop in.

“But what about your leg?”

“You can coddle me back to health later, Nurse,” Matt answered.  

“Look at those two acting like school children. Harry, do something!” Maude gasped as we stood in the distance watching Matt whisk Francesca into the air.

I couldn’t believe they just left me like that. I swallowed hard.

“Now look what they’ve done,” Maude said, mashing my hair to my forehead. She had picked up on my disappointment. “Don’t fret, Sarah. They’ve probably had too much … apple juice.”

“I wouldn’t mind some of that … juice myself,” Harry said with real warmth and a touch of envy.

As Matt and Francesca zoomed overhead, he waggled
Victoria
’s wings in salute. 

Within moments, the other pilots ran to their planes. They took off one by one and settled into formations of four and five, trailing after Matt and Francesca. It was lovely, seeing them all bank and spiral like that.

It didn’t take long for this activity to energize the interest of other fair-goers. A crowd swarmed out of the barns and the outdoor arenas onto the airfield. Hundreds of people came out from under shade trees, and some even stopped their cars along the highway to gaze at the spectacle.

Seeing an audience, Matt felt the need to put on a show. He brought the plane low to the ground — so low, the wheels practically touched.
The Lady Victoria
floated gently up, then down, up again and down again. Suddenly, Matt waved his hands around his ears. They were close enough to us now to see he wasn't handling the controls. Leaning across Matt, it was Francesca that landed the plane. Not well and not gently. But she landed straight, and Matt brought the craft to a halt without any difficulty.

“What a dame!” screamed someone from the crowd.

I started clapping and jumping up and down. Maude and Harry both looked like they had been struck by lightning. That’s when Maude fell back weakly against her husband. “Give her some air,” Harry said, waving off no one in particular.

Matt handed Francesca down from the cockpit as the other planes began landing. When the crowd burst into spontaneous applause, she took a bow. “Hope no one saw my vomit act,” I heard Francesca whisper to Matt.

“Happens to the best of us,” he whispered back. “You held your cookies longer than most. Consider it your baptism.”

Francesca and the other pilots walked back to a different type of commotion.

“Aunt Maude fainted,” I said, running into Francesca’s open arms. My grandmother glanced down at her sister with the merest wisp of a grin. “She’ll be fine. Look, she’s opened her eyes.” 

As we made our way to the Doozy, Francesca gave one last V-sign to the still-cheering crowd then wiped a remaining glob of spittle
from the corner of her mouth. Maude still looked pasty-faced and wobbled along on Harry’s arm. Matt was limping and leaning hard on Francesca’s shoulder.

“What a sorry bunch we are!” Francesca observed. Then, she shook her head and roared with laughter.

And There They Go!

R

ace day dawned gray and windswept. While Uncle Harry complained about his aching joints, Aunt Maude worried over her hairdo, which hung like a limp rag. Finally, she gave up and wrapped a salmon-colored scarf around her head. 

Matt spent the morning giving the Ghost a final tune-up while Francesca hovered over him, inspecting every inch of the car. Although the dirt track was damp by the time the pit crews began to assemble, it looked as if the weather would not sour enough to cancel the race.

I could tell Francesca was nervous, the way her breath came in little fits and starts. At times, she had to forcefully push the air out of her lungs. The infield was reserved for mechanics and family, so I was surprised to catch sight of a number of pilots milling around near the far turn. Ian, with his great height and booming voice, was unmistakable.

Uncle Harry hurried to Francesca’s pit area, waving the registration receipt in his right hand. “There are precisely twenty-one cars in the field. Take care not to get trapped too far back,” he advised.

While Matt and Francesca walked the track one last time, Babe and I trailed along, drinking in the exciting sights and sounds.
Conveniently, the wind was coming out of the west and blew their voices back to us. I saw Matt gesture to the registration form. “Know any of these drivers?” he asked.

“Actually, no. So many of them are complete strangers! I guess I’m a lot older than the last time I raced.”

“And a lot smarter,” Matt said. “Believe me, no one has a car that can touch the Ghost on the straightaway, and no one will handle the curves better than you.” He tapped her right shoulder three times before he continued, “Remember, the down-shift coming into this next turn is crucial.”

The track was an oval-shaped mile. The dirt appeared to be in good condition, hard-packed, well-raked and just slightly damp from the humidity. That would make for excellent visibility during the race.

“The course bed seems bumpy here,” Francesca mused, as she bent down and touched the offending area with her fingertips. “I'll try to remember not to pass in this area.”

She looked almost boyish and rather dashing in her driving get-up: jodhpurs, a leather jacket, a helmet, and that lovely white scarf that billowed out behind her as she strode beside Matt, matching him step for step.

I looked behind us and discovered several other drivers studying the course. “Don't talk too loud, Matt,” I warned. “We’re being followed.”

Matt glanced over his shoulder and said, “So we are ... so we are. Obviously, they know who their real opposition is.” He continued in lower tones. “Don't worry about cutting it close in the pack. Sarah and I can always rub out any scratches with a little elbow grease.”

“Don’t
you
worry,” Francesca said to us both, sticking her chin up and out, “I’m not afraid to mix it up.”

Matt clucked his tongue in a roguish manner and kissed Francesca on the forehead in exactly the same spot I had kissed her nearly every morning of my life. “You go out there and win that silver trophy,” he said. It made my toes tingle.

There were two scheduled feature races that day: a pro race, with real racing cars and experienced drivers later in the afternoon; and the one that was only open to non-professional residents of the state, which was the one my grandmother had won in the past. Every make of automobile imaginable was represented in the pit area, but nothing could compare to the sheer glory of the Gray Ghost.

There was a cheer from the crowd as the announcer’s voice crackled out over the public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to announce the twenty-seventh running of the Clinton County Fair 150. In a moment, our drivers will be starting their engines. For your safety, we ask that you remain behind the fences and barricades set up for your protection. The race will consist of one hundred and fifty one-mile laps. There will be one pace lap followed immediately by a
green flag, which will signal the official start of the race. There will be no passing during yellow caution flags. The drivers have been assigned positions by lot. Let’s wish these brave folks the best of luck with a big round of applause.”

The crowd roared its approval.

“Drivers, start your engines.”

There was a rumbling loud enough to make the ground tremble, as one by one, the racers revved their engines and rolled up to their assigned positions. At the wave of a
checkered flag by Honorary Chief Starter Brandon Cooney, Clinton Mayor Abel Walleran drove the pace car, a brand-new 1946 Dodge, onto the track,. I only knew it was Mayor Walleran because the banner draped across the hood said so.

“There they go!” shouted the announcer.

Francesca had lucked into a so-so placement, in the third row on the inside. You weren’t supposed to jockey for position during the pace lap, but everyone did ... including her. As I trotted along the infield fence, I wasn't surprised to see how many of the other drivers glanced in her direction. She was already testing them, seeing how close she could get without their flinching. Francesca knew one thing for certain … there was a lot more to winning this kind of a race than just having the fastest car.

Halfway around the oval, the pace car began picking up speed, and by the time it left the track, the field was up to three-quarter velocity. Francesca sat low in her seat, leaning slightly over the steering wheel. Her arms looked relaxed, but I knew her grip on the wheel was iron. It was hard work, wrestling with the big elegant machine. The deep-throated roar of the Doozy was an unmistakable underpinning of the shouting crowd, the noise of the other engines, the screams of delighted patrons riding the
Ferris wheel across the way, the buzz of airplanes overhead, and the bleating of animals.

Within a matter of ten or eleven laps, Francesca had passed several cars and was coasting for the moment in ninth place, looking for an opening. Suddenly, Car 14, a souped-up fire-engine-red hot-rod, was moving along in third position when its rear left tire exploded, causing hundreds of large and small bits of rubber to fly into the air. As it skidded out of control, it was hit hard by the black Ford directly behind it. Francesca, who was pinned on the inside at this point, couldn’t possibly get around them. She was going to crash.

Although it must have all happened in seconds, the incident seemed to unfold in slow motion. I remember Babe and I taking off toward the far turn. I remember hearing Ian yell something at Francesca as she flew past him. I remember the red hot-rod and the Ford in their sickening dance. I saw Francesca’s crash before I heard it. But wait! My amazing and resilient grandmother had somehow down-shifted, deliberately putting the Doozy into a fish-tail spin, a jaw-gawping maneuver that allowed her to slide by the wreckage with inches to spare. She brought the Ghost to an abrupt stop just shy of the center rail at the moment the yellow flag went up.

Even with his bum leg, Matt was in front of me as we scrambled over the infield rail and onto the track. Thank God, Francesca looked dazed but unhurt. When she noticed us bearing down on her, she set her chin and waved us off rather imperiously. And with a glance behind her and a roar of the Doozy's inner workings, she was back in the race. From that second onward, Francesca was formidable. Unstoppable. Magnificent. With her eyes narrowed in concentration, she brazened her way through one hole after another and breezed into the lead with thirty-one laps to spare.

Admittedly, I was miffed that my record catch was going to play twenty-ninth fiddle to Francesca’s triumph. But after all, a fight with the biggest pike ever caught in a small midwestern lake will never be in the same ballpark, newsprint-wise, as winning a crash-filled automobile race.

My farm-bred grandmother weirdly resembled the sophisticated French novelist and feminist George Sand, standing so straight and full of herself on the winner’s dais. She graciously acknowledged her fellow drivers and her pit crew and even blushed prettily when the Mayor bussed her on both cheeks. It was practically sickening.

At the much more fun unofficial winner’s ceremony, Ian and some of the other pilots serenaded her by popping bottles of New York champagne, spraying us all in the process. He put his ham hock arm around Francesca in a brotherly hug and said cozily, “That was putting it to them, my dear. Brilliantly done — piece of cake, as you Yanks say, ... well, except for that slight graze with the south wall.” He turned to Matt and continued with zest, “A woman like this is one in a million. She’s going to go boodles over the flying business; you wait and see.”

First, the universe stopped on a dime and then a look came over Ian’s face, as if he realized he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Francesca flashed a wondering look at Matt, who avoided her eyes. There was a horribly uncomfortable pause before Ian plowed onward. “Well, we’re up then, lads. Let’s get a move on.” He turned back to Matt and slapped his friend hard across the back. “It’ll be good to have you back in the sky.”