The Flying Circus (24 page)

When he looked at her, tears were running down her cheeks. He reached out and took her hand. “Hey. That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t want to pass through this world and not cause the slightest stir in the atmosphere. I don’t want to die an old woman who’s never taken a chance.” She swiped at her eyes with her free hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

She stood, but Henry didn’t let go of her hand. Instead he tugged her closer. She looked down at him, her green eyes shiny. “Sometimes we’re born where we belong and sometimes we have to search to find our place.” He took her other hand.

“Which are you, Henry?”

“Both. I was born right where I belonged. But the world took it away. Now I have to find my place.”

She surprised him by sitting down on his knee and wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning her head against his. “I think you’ve found your place.”

He didn’t dare think it. Not if he wanted it to last.

C
ora emerged from her tent the next morning with dark circles under her eyes. He wondered if she’d lain awake as long as he had after they’d said good night. She was dressed for the show: lace-up boots, jodhpurs, a white blouse with a long, red scarf tied around her hair.

“Go back to sleep,” Henry said. “You need to be better rested for the show.”

“Everybody else is running on this little sleep.”

“None of us has to be able to lift our body weight from underneath a speeding airplane. Go back to sleep. The show’s not until eleven.”

“I’m fine.” She moved to the coffeepot and poured a cup.

Reece called Henry over to Thomas’s plane.

“Really, Cora,” Henry said as he walked away, “get some rest. We can prep for the show.”

She waved him away.

Thomas’s plane had an oil leak that took until showtime to get fixed. The next time Henry saw Cora, she was climbing into Jake’s plane for her wing-walking stunts. She never flew with Henry or Gil. Henry didn’t know if it was just because she was used to flying with Jake, or if there was more to it than that. Henry knew he’d never be able to concentrate on his flying if she was hanging underneath the wing where he couldn’t even see her. As for Gil, maybe Reece was behind the decision; he knew better than to put Gil in a situation where he might feel responsible for one more person’s death.

She went through her routine with her usual flair and drama; hanging below the wingtip from the skid, standing on top of the upper wing, first on her feet and then her hands. Henry heard Marcus begin his ballyhoo about the danger of her next stunt—standing erect on the top wing while Jake did a full inside loop. Henry didn’t need ballyhoo to get his blood up. He kept his eyes on her with his heart tied in a knot. People assumed the centrifugal force kept her on the wing, the way water stays in a bucket if you windmill your arm fast enough. But there wasn’t enough speed to keep Cora’s feet planted—and nobody thought about how the bucket had sides to keep the water from breaking free and spinning off in the air. This stunt required a little trickery. Henry had rigged a thin but sturdy cable on each side of her. To the spectators it appeared she was just standing with her feet braced apart and her arms to her sides for balance. In reality she had a taut cable looped around each wrist, the pressure of her pulling countering the forces that would send her sailing. It was still dangerous as hell.

Henry didn’t blink the entire loop. He never did. It happened naturally the first time. Now it had become a superstition.
If I blink, she’ll fall.

When Jake took a low pass over the field, the crowd cheered as Cora stood on that top wing and waved. Henry’s heart unknotted—until the next time.

He got ready for her next stunt. It required the most strength of any in the show. Henry had argued to move it up in the program, do it early before she began to fatigue. But Cora knew what a crowd-pleaser it was and insisted it be the “big finish.” So far, it hadn’t been a problem.

Henry took a two-foot-high crate and a long, yellow silk sash and stood in the middle of the runway. No one was looking at him. Cora was 150 feet overhead, where the spectators could watch her climb down under the lower wing and hang upside down by her knees from the spreader bar between the wheels.

Taking his place on top of the crate, Henry held the silk scarf high over his head, stretched between his hands.

Jake circled around, losing altitude, until he was heading straight for Henry, Cora’s head twelve feet off the ground, her arms flung wide. She was grinning.

The plane roared over. Cora reached down and snatched the yellow sash from Henry’s hands. She held it in one hand and let its full length flutter out behind her.

As always, this stunt drew the loudest response. In reality, it was the least dangerous. It was the only one where the altitude alone wouldn’t kill her in a fall. And Henry had devised a “bootstrap” at the top of her knee boot that, while she was still at altitude, she secured to the bar just in case she passed out from being upside down for so long.

Jake returned to 150 feet, circling as she climbed back up onto the lower wing, where she would stand and wave at the spectators as he landed.

He was on his second pass and she was still struggling to get up. She never took this long.

Cold fingers closed around Henry’s windpipe. She wasn’t going to make it!

He ran toward Gil’s plane, which was idling, ready to take off as soon as Jake and Cora landed. Jumping onto the wing and into the front cockpit, Henry shouted, “Something’s wrong! Get up there!”

They throttled down the runway.

Henry kept his eyes on Cora. She made a couple of grabs at the spreader bar and missed. Within seconds, she stopped even trying to pull herself up.

At least both legs were still over the bar. He hoped she was just gathering her strength for another go at it.

Jake couldn’t know what was happening, only that Cora hadn’t climbed back up. He signaled he was increasing altitude, giving them more room to maneuver.

Henry took off his boots and socks. He’d have better grip with bare feet. Then he stood on his knees and faced Gil, shouting and gesturing in case he couldn’t hear. “Get under her.” He pointed to the upper wing. “I’ll pull her down.” He ended with his hands crossed over his chest.

Gil nodded. His face held complete calm and confidence. Henry was sure his showed nothing but terror.

Gil came up behind and just below Jake. Henry saw that Cora was now anchored only by that leather bootstrap. Her arms dangled freely; one leg had slipped off the bar. She looked unconscious.

The two planes could never stay steady long enough for him to unbuckle that strap. Not with all of her weight on it. He hoped his pocketknife was sharp enough to cut through it.

He opened it and put it between his teeth, then he stood on the back of the cockpit and inched his head up over the top wing. The wind sucked away his breath and tried to wrap the skin on his face around the back of his head as he hoisted himself up. He lay flat on his belly for a few seconds, trying to gauge how he was going to get out to the king posts three feet from the end of the wing. A wire stretched between the front and back posts; it would only hit him about midshin, but it was all he would have to stabilize himself.

Jake’s plane was just feet ahead. Its prop wash added to the buffeting and shoving against Henry. He readjusted his balance.

On the ribs. Keep weight on the ribs under the skin of the wing.

He crabbed along, rib to rib. How did Cora do this?

Jake’s tail inched past Henry’s vision. Still high and twenty feet to
the side. That twenty feet would make him cringe about the closeness had he been flying. Now it looked like an unbridgeable chasm.

Gil maneuvered forward and higher. Jake maintained speed and altitude. Once they were in place, Gil would have to match it.

Those seventeen feet from the cockpit to the king post were the longest of Henry’s life. When he reached it, he crouched, keeping one hand on it and the other to the side for balance as he slowly rose. His feet braced wide, one on either side of the wire between the front and back posts. He kept his eyes on the wheel of Jake’s craft. He couldn’t look at Cora.

He needed to get closer, three feet forward and five to the side.

Come on, Gil. Get me there.

He inched to his full height, slowly and crouched, his arms wide for balance, gauging as he rose how far he had to lean into the wind to keep from being blown off.

Now he looked at Cora. Her face was a deep purplish red. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth hung open. A tingling rush of panic came over him.

Take your time. She’s not going anywhere. Figure this out.

The yellow silk sash was inching out of her pocket, the wind quickly tugging it free.

Could he use it? Secure them together somehow?

Before he could even get close enough to reach it, it whipped free of her pocket and was gone.

He was so close to the end of the wing, if he cut the strap, she’d be in free fall. Once he grabbed her, his balance would follow her momentum over the tip of the wing.

Maybe he needed to inch back toward the center of the wing. If he could release her over the front cockpit . . .

He reached out and missed Cora’s purple-red hand by inches.

Henry tried for the spreader bar again. The wheel hit him in the head, knocking him off-balance. He grabbed down at the king post to steady himself. The knife fell from his mouth.

Christ!

Red and white stripes appeared on the other side of Jake’s plane. Thomas! Reece was perched on the top wing, about even with Henry.

Thank God.

Relief was brief.

Did Reece have a plan?

Thomas gestured to Jake, then pulled slightly ahead, their wings overlapped. Thomas slowed. Jake’s lower wing caught Reece in the chest. He disappeared up onto it. Moments later, he climbed down onto the spreader bar beside Cora.

How much weight could it hold?

Reece motioned for Henry to go back and stand in the cockpit.

He made the return trip much faster.

Dropping down and bracing his feet on either edge of the front cockpit, he leaned his hips against the top wing. Cora dangled in front of him. Gil maneuvered so Henry was directly beneath her, then rose higher, until her arms hung just in front of Henry.

He gestured for Gil to climb higher. He wanted to grab her around the chest, not the arms. That would only leave about six feet between Jake’s wheels and Gil’s upper wing. But that danger was less than Henry’s losing his grip when she fell.

Come on. Come on
.

There! He signaled for Gil to hold steady.

Reece locked eyes with Henry. “Ready?” The wind tore the word away; it was the lips Henry understood.

He braced and nodded.

Reece cut the strap.

Cora fell.

Henry’s arms hooked around her. He bent forward, landing her on her back on the upper wing.

Ten seconds later, he had her pulled into the cockpit with him, his heart hammering against her body.

He made sure her head was higher than her heart and patted her cheeks—purple as beets—and called her name over and over. Finally, her eyelids fluttered.

When they opened seconds later, her eyes were unfocused and bloodred. He crushed her close to his chest and held her there, waiting for his own blood to begin to flow at a normal rate.

He didn’t realize they were landing until he felt the wheels hit the ground.

The plane stopped. Gil cut the engine.

Cora smiled at Henry. “Thanks, Kid. That strap saved me.”

Jesus, she had to be made of steel. He laughed. It was either that or strangle her. “That and two other planes and four fliers.”

“I do love a spectacle.”

The crowd rushed them then. Someone was on the wing, pulling her out of his arms. As her weight was lifted from him, emptiness pooled in his chest.

“There’s a doctor here! Let him through!”

“Get her on the ground.”

Cora might survive against the odds, but Henry was pretty sure watching her was going to kill him.

When he looked around for Gil, the man was stalking away, his stride jerky and his fists balled at his sides.

B
y the next day, the only traces of the disaster were the live wires of Henry’s nerves and the bloodred of Cora’s eyes. The doctor said it could take weeks for them to clear. Henry hoped so; he wanted her reminded every time she saw herself in a mirror of how close she’d come to dying.

When she sat down to breakfast, she started right off. “Now that the ice is broken, I want to add an official plane-to-plane midair transfer to the show.”

Gil was quick with “You’ve crossed the line from daring to stupid. Count your lucky stars you’re able to see the sunrise today.” He tossed the coffee out of his cup and onto the grass, then walked away, leaving the reek of alcohol behind him.

Jake ignored him. “We proved we have steady enough planes and pilots to make it happen.”

Reece offered, “Kinda surprised myself yesterday. Prefer jumping out with a parachute though. Think I’ll leave the wing walking to Cora.”

Although Henry agreed with Gil, he knew there was no stopping her. He needed to think of safety mechanisms and how to train her adequately on the ground before she attempted it in the air.

A
s fall deepened, the circus migrated south with the other birds. The week before Thanksgiving saw the end of their season—without a plane-to-plane transfer.

But the conversation about it never stopped. Cora had devised a muscle-building exercise program to silence Gil’s continually bringing up the failed recovery on the spreader-bar stunt. “It took three planes and five pilots to get you from one plane to the other last time.”

Even Henry was getting tired of hearing it. Yesterday, he’d borrowed a couple of trucks and rigged an arm with a loop she had to catch while standing in the bed of the other truck. She’d mastered it so quickly that it seemed a waste of time on both their parts. Before they broke for the holidays it was time to put theory into practice. If it was successful, they’d integrate the stunt into next year’s posters and advertisements. They went over the plan one last time. Jake was to pilot the “launch” plane. Thomas had already left to join his much-neglected wife for the holiday break, and Gil was balking at flying the “target.”