The Man Who Ate the 747 (15 page)

Back on the ground, he had caught a brief glimpse of Willa. Along with the photo she took of the rescue, she shot him a wounding look. She drove off toward
The Express
before he had a chance to talk with her. He could hear her words from Jughead’s.

Don’t you dare go hurting this town.

Was it his fault? Maybe she was right, after all. Maybe he wasn’t the best thing to happen to Superior. Maybe Blake’s adventure was just a warning sign. He had saved the boy from the tower, but he had probably lost Willa….

He checked his watch. It was suppertime, but tonight there was no grinding sound from Wally’s farm. No forward motion on the world record attempt. The black box had indeed stopped the show. All was unhappily quiet.

Then an electronic
ping
broke the silence. He got out of the bath, dripping, and found his beeper in his trousers. He recognized the dreaded phone number and made the call.

Peasley’s voice was agitated, his words climbing over each other. “What’s the latest?” he asked.

“Wally’s machine hasn’t even made a dent in the black box,” J.J. said, “but he’s undaunted. Claims he’s got a secret plan—”

“Well, Smith, even if it doesn’t work out, it may be a blessing. You see, the directors are terrified about liability. If something happens to Walter Chubb, it could wipe out The Book. You Americans are so litigious. You’ll sue over anything.”

“But he’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

“I’m in your court on this one,” Peasley said. “Problem is, we’ve got copycats. A woman in Ghana is eating an office building. A family in Morocco is
eating a bridge. A man in Malaysia is eating an ocean liner. We don’t know where it will stop—”

“So what?” J.J. said. “The whole world is watching Wally. You can’t cut him off now.”

“Get a hold of yourself,” Peasley said. “I’ll talk to the directors again tomorrow. See what I can do.”

“Trust me. This record will be a rare and very beautiful thing.”

“Yes indeed,” Peasley said. “Just keep your eye on the 747, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

H
igh above Route 14, a tight formation of news choppers followed the convoy heading north. On the ground, three patrol cars with flashing lights blazed the way for a red pickup truck. Sixty vehicles of all sizes and descriptions trailed behind, honking horns. Kids in flatbeds whooped.

Inside the red Dodge, Wally was at the wheel. His friend Nate sipped on a 7-Eleven Big Gulp.

“Pass me that, will ya?” Wally said.

Nate gave him the cup. He took a swallow and grimaced.

“This Coke tastes funny. Mind if I add some of the auxiliary power unit?”

“Be my guest,” Nate said.

Wally reached under the seat and pulled out a jar filled with metal grit. He dumped some in the drink, swirled it around, and guzzled it.

“What’ll you do if this doesn’t work?” Nate said.

“Don’t you worry. Boeing says Big Lou’s the man. He’ll take care of the problem. Just you wait.”

Nate turned on the radio. The announcer’s breathy voice filled the cab.

“If you’re just tuning into KFAB, Wally Chubb’s pickup is on Highway 14 just north of Clay Center. We don’t know where he’s going, but Nebraska and the nation wait anxiously.”

Wally and Nate laughed.

The radio reporter continued: “For an eyewitness account of Wally’s progress, we go live now to our Guy in the Sky, Sammy Dash in the KFAB news chopper.”

Another voice cut in, this one all but overwhelmed by the racket of rotor blades and the crackle of static. “Thanks, Hank. I’m directly above the red truck right now. In the last half hour, this convoy has been gaining force. It started out as a half dozen vehicles. Now it’s six times that number. I can see the black box tied down in the flatbed—”

“For starters,” Nate said, “the black box isn’t even black. The guy must be color blind.” He switched off the knob with disgust.

“I guess ‘orange box’ doesn’t sound as good,” Wally said.

“Yeah. But can’t they see there are two boxes? The cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder?”

Wally signaled a right turn.

“What’re you doing?” Nate asked.

“Gotta pee.”

“On national television?”

“Guess you’re right. Better not. What if Willa’s watching?”

The red truck rolled along the country road. Wally loved these stretches and knew every inch and bump. Today, especially, he drank in each mile as farmers hailed him from combines and families waved from driveways.

When he reached Hastings, he began to feel a thrill himself. A glittering
WELCOME WALLY!
banner with silver letters spanned the main entrance into town. On the steps of the old post office, the high school band boomed “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and cheerleaders cartwheeled and wagged pom-poms in front of his truck.

With one meaty hand out the window, Wally flashed the victory sign at the crowds. For once in his life, he knew what it was like to quarterback the Huskers. Fans screaming your name. The biggest man in Nebraska. The most beloved.

A pimply teenage boy ran alongside the truck, then jumped on the running board.

“Hey, Wally,” he said. “I ate my roller skates! Take me with you.”

“Can’t, son. Maybe some other time.”

The boy wished him luck and hopped to the ground.

“Look at you,” Nate said, “a real hero.”

“If only Willa thought so,” Wally said. “If only …”

Luigi Cinquegrana—Big Lou—was normally the model of calm. Today he paced in small circles. Soon Wally would arrive accompanied by a small army of policemen—and Luigi did not like this intrusion. There were unanswered questions about where he got the metal he turned into scrap. Truth was that lots of times he didn’t know himself. Sometimes he just handed over the shop keys to nameless clients who flew in from the East Coast. They came after hours, ran the pulverizer all night, and he never asked questions. There was always talk the next day of foul odors emanating from the scrapper, the smell of rot. There were tax problems, too. But it was good money, easy money, paid in cash.

Now his worries warred with his pride in his great pulverizer. It was the best on the Great Plains. He could stick anything into that machine and it would spit out dust. And he also knew how to put on a show. When bigwigs at the Boeing factory in Wichita called around earlier in the week looking for help, Big Lou knew it meant great things for the scrapyard. So he bought his workers suits and ties, told them to get all cleaned up for the important day and to get to work on time.

The swelling sound of helicopters signaled Wally’s imminent arrival. Big Lou went out to the driveway and welcomed the men in the red truck. His workers
stood in a neat line behind him, their necks bursting from new collars.

“An honor to have you here,” Big Lou said, as Wally got out of the truck. “We’re going to make mincemeat out of the black box.”

“It’s orange,” Wally muttered, “and there are two of them.”

“Let me see the objects in question.” Big Lou signaled his son, Little Lou, who ran over to the truck and released the bindings on the two boxes. They were the size of toaster ovens, 17 pounds each. He slid them to the edge of the flatbed, lifted them up, and carried them to his father. As photographers snapped pictures, Big Lou cradled the boxes in his arms, like twin babies. Then, with Wally’s approval, he jammed them into the mouth of the pulverizer.

The machine coughed, shook violently, and spewed smoke. The hydraulic parts squeezed and pushed, and the clanking sounds made people cover their ears. Audio technicians pulled off their headsets. Big Lou cranked the groaning machine to its highest gear. The orange boxes vanished.

Big Lou slapped Wally on the shoulder and marched to the other end of the pulverizer. He carried a wicker basket in one hand. He opened the little door and looked inside. Reaching in with his hand, he felt around for a moment, then stood up and looked at the row of cameras. He smiled faintly and wiped his sweaty face.

“One more minute,” he said. “Just one more minute.”

Then he kneeled down next to the pulverizer and discreetly made the sign of the Cross. He waited for an answer from Above. And then suddenly, divinely, the machine spit out shreds of metal, curlicues of hardened-state stainless steel. They landed in the wicker basket.

The crowd cheered wildly. Andrea Bocelli blared from a loudspeaker.

Big Lou raised his eyes to the sky, then gave a signal to his team. They advanced on a great red curtain that closed off an area at the end of the yard. They yanked the veil aside. There, resplendent in shirtwaist and starched pinafore, was Mama Lou. She was surrounded by pots, pans, and huge steaming bowls of spaghetti, clams, and red sauce.

“A feast for Wally Chubb!” Mama Lou exclaimed.
“Mangia!”

The workers carried tables and chairs into the middle of the junkyard. Reporters, cameramen, technicians threw down their gear. Even the grim men from Boeing, lurking behind great piles of scrap metal, stepped out from the shadows.

Everyone sat down as Mama Lou spooned out mountains of noodles and poured rivers of Chianti. Big Lou heaped Parmesan on his pasta, while Wally sprinkled his spaghetti with fine shavings from the vanquished black boxes.

A
trattoria in Italy. Its name, Far-farello, in the port of Marina di Massa. Her table overflowed with antipasto, smoked tuna, and swordfish. There were bowls of
vongole
salad,
tagliarini
with little shrimp, and a sprinkle of
peperoncino.
For dessert, a plate of
ciambella.
Willa had found this spot on the Web. Now, with waves splashing in the harbor, she swirled Asti de Miranda in her glass. A man with soft blue eyes and a fine aquiline nose sat across from her. He leaned forward, put a hand in her hair, and pulled her toward him….

She awoke with a start.

Hard fluorescent light nailed the surroundings
into focus. The waiting room of Brodstone Memorial Hospital. Then the feeling of dread …

Willa remembered something had gone terribly wrong in the middle of the night. Wally had collapsed in his kitchen and barely managed to dial 911. He had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Rose thought it was a seizure.

Did he make it through the night? All these years, this hulking presence in town, friendly and reassuring. Always there. Always.

Why hadn’t she taken him more seriously? Why hadn’t she stopped him sooner? If anything happened to poor Wally, it would be her fault.

J.J. snoozed in the seat beside her. Nate stretched out on the speckled tile floor. Otto shambled in the hallway, trailing streams of blue smoke. Through the windows of the lobby gift shop, a purple bunny and an orange elephant stared at her. The clock on the wall said 5:55.

Out the main door, Willa could see the television trucks parked in the lot. Camera crews huddled in groups, drinking coffee, eating doughnuts. Chief Bushee stood at the front door. The vigil had gone on through the night.

There was a scuffle of footsteps coming down the hallway. Burl Grimes, funeral director and hospital board chief, walked sluggishly, shoulders stooped, expression glum, in intense conversation with a doctor.

Willa rose from her chair. Something terrible had happened. Wally was no more.

“I’ve got a short statement for the press,” Burl said, his voice flat.

He made his way through the doors and onto the lawn. Willa rustled J.J. and Nate. They followed outside into the bright lights, where the cameras started to roll. Photographers snapped.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Burl began, “I’m here to inform you that last night—”

“Is he dead?” a reporter shouted.

“Please,” he said. “I’ll take questions in a minute.”

He cleared his throat and began again. “Last night Wally Chubb was admitted to Brodstone Memorial after a syncopal event.”

“A what?”

“A fainting episode,” Burl said.

“Is it serious?”

“Doctors have completed all of their tests. On behalf of the hospital board, I can report that—”

Words beamed live around the globe….

“Wally is alive and well.”

A cheer erupted in the back row, then one by one, the reporters began to applaud. Willa saw Rose slip out the employee entrance of the hospital. Her braid was a mess, her eyes puffy.

“What caused the fainting?” a reporter asked.

“Dehydration and food poisoning,” Grimes said. “Hard work in the sun, plus a bad clam, as best we can tell. The doctors insist this condition has nothing to do with the 747.”

As Burl continued to field questions, Rose eased
her way through the throng and took Willa’s arm. They walked away from the crowd. Willa could feel her friend shaking.

“This was a warning,” Rose said. “Wally’s got to stop.”

“But the doctors just said—”

“You’ve got to tell him to quit. You’re the only one who can. He’s killing himself for you.”

Nate leaned back in a gray metal chair tipped against the wall of Room 239. The sunlight was bright, the old wind blew, and the rippling leaves on the big oak in the parking lot threw wavy shadows over the room. No doubt about it, Wally was fine—and that was the rub. Why couldn’t he just stop eating the plane now, before he really got hurt?

The newspaper was lying on his blanket, the front page facing up. His smiling picture was right there and so was a story about him, written by Willa.

Wally read the headline out loud two more times: “‘Superior Man Eats 747 for World Record.’” Then he said, “You think she meant I’m a superior man? Or a man from Superior?”

Nate kept his silence. His best buddy was flat on his back and under the illusion—or delusion—that Willa was coming around. Truth was, the damn fool would never win Willa’s heart, even if he killed himself trying.

The door opened. Doc Noojin, the town
veterinarian, edged inside. He held a finger to his lips—ssssshhhh—listened for a long moment, then went straight to Wally’s bedside.

Doc was a sturdy man with a dent in his forehead from a mule kick. He had a degree in veterinary medicine from Kansas State with a specialty in large animals. He was the only medical professional in the area whom Wally and most of the farmers trusted.