The Man Who Ate the 747 (16 page)

“Your color’s back,” Doc said. “How you feeling?”

“Never better,” Wally said.

Nate leaned forward. “How’d you get in? Thought they banned you from this place.”

“Rose let me in,” Doc said. “Her pup Mookie is over at the clinic. She just winked and looked the other way.”

He punched Wally in the arm. “In a tractor pull between you and a John Deere, I’d bet on you.”

“All that hydraulic fluid better be good for something,” Wally said.

“You’re invincible, man. Something’s protecting you, something powerful,” Doc said.

Nate stood up, overcome by guilt. He walked to his best friend’s bedside. “I never should have helped you build the machine. Doc, you should be ashamed for encouraging him.”

“Whoa,” Wally said. “Slow down. This was my idea. No one else’s. I’m perfectly happy—”

“Don’t you see?” Nate interrupted. “This is never going to work. You’ll never get what you want this way.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Doc said. “You need a rabies shot or something?”

“Relax,” Wally said. “Everything’s going according to J.J.’s plan.”

“J.J.’s plan? He just wants to sell more books,” Nate said. “He doesn’t care about you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Wally said. “I know what I’m doing—”

Nate wanted to throttle his dear, deluded friend. He headed for the door; he wanted to get away before saying what would hurt, but the words spilled out.

“Face it now or face it later,” he said. “You’re never going to get Willa to love you.”

A
little girl in pigtails and a sun bonnet rode a palomino pony down Main Street. It was a warm and bright day, perfect for the annual Memorial Day parade and Lady Vestey Festival.

J.J. was perched high in the bleachers across from Menke Drug. He watched the girl on her pony trot along the yellow line in the middle of the road. It was time her dad taught her to stay in her own lane.

Then, in his mind, he heard Peasley say, “The home office has a problem with this record.” Sure, that statement had been followed by assurances that he would fight for J.J., but there had never been a bigger weasel than Peasley. J.J. had promised
the town that if Wally ate the plane, there would be a world record. And with that feat, there would be a bonanza for Superior. He couldn’t let them down. And he couldn’t let himself down either.

“Biggest parade ever,” Righty Plowden said. He was sitting beside J.J. on the metal bleachers. He wore a straw hat that looked as if a goat had feasted on a good chunk of the brim. “We’ve usually got a few flatbed trucks strung up with crepe paper ribbons, the high school band, and that’s it. But today, well, this is special.”

A gold ’64 Cadillac convertible rolled majestically toward the intersection of Fourth and Central. Doc Noojin was at the wheel. Standing on the passenger seat, hailing the crowds, was Wally Chubb, grand marshal of the parade. Pretty young women called out “Hey, Wally,” and children waved flags at the man eating the 747.

“That’s one happy young fella,” said Righty.

“With good reason,” J.J. said.

A dozen young baton twirlers scampered down the street.

“There’s my granddaughter,” Righty said. “She wants to be in your book someday.”

The motley high school band showed off next, followed by a sharp phalanx of WWII veterans, stepping smartly to the beat. Working his way up the sidewalk, Otto Hornbussel merrily made twisty balloon animals for the children.

J.J.’s steady throb of anxiety about the world record dissipated for a moment as he munched on
caramel popcorn and reveled in small-town America on a national holiday. He could remember this same sunny feeling as a boy in Ohio when the parade always launched a long, seamless stretch of summer. But he knew this nostalgia was just a passing fancy. He could take only so much of a small town before he’d hunger for Manhattan, carbon monoxide, skyscrapers, and the energizing effect of 1.5 million people living on top of each other.

“Coming to the dance?” Righty asked.

“Don’t know about any dance.”

“Tonight at the Elks. Just down the block. Come as my guest.”

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You should come anyway. She’ll be there.”

Righty pointed his finger across the road. How had he missed her? There at street level, her banged-up Leica aimed at the procession, was Willa. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts and her hair was pulled up on her head.

His heart lurched with a sense of inevitability he couldn’t quite grasp. It was incomprehensible, but he felt as if he’d known her for a long time and that he always would.

“Better hurry,” Willa said. “We’re going to be late.”

Rose looked up from the old Singer sewing machine. She was surrounded by yards of luscious fabric and a flurry of Butterick patterns.

“You can’t wait to see him, can you?”

“Who?”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Rose said. “Never seen you worry about a neckline before—”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Willa emptied the wine bottle from the kitchen table into her glass. “Now hurry up.”

Rose hit the speed control pedal on the Singer and pulled the hem through the presser foot. The machine had zigged and zagged through untold miles of chiffon and silk, satin and crepe, taffeta and gabardine. It had stitched dresses and gowns for every prom, dance, and special occasion in Nuckolls County for over three generations.

Now Rose ran it once more, pushing fine silk over the needle plate. She would have finished the hem by hand, but there was no time. Willa hovered nearby, holding her gown up to the mirror. It was a long way from the days of flat chests, corrective shoes, and ugly dresses. They had started sewing together way back in Home Ec. Willa was always impulsive, ripping up the tissue patterns, ignoring the darts, improvising. Rose was patient, steady, careful with her pinning, working her way through the instructions, never faltering.

“Truth or dare,” Rose said, mischief in her eyes.

“How old are you?” Willa asked.

“Don’t be so uptight. Come on, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Willa said with a huff. She took a gulp of wine.

“Which would be better?” Rose asked. “Going to bed with J.J.? Or waking up with him?”

“Don’t be crazy!”

“Relax. It’s just a game.” Rose leaned closer to the bobbin to inspect the stitch. “I think I’m a morning person. Even with Bad Bob, I loved waking up next to him, opening my eyes, seeing his ragged face.” She looked up from her sewing. “Lying there next to him always felt so innocent, no matter how rotten we were doing. A whole new day was ahead of us. Anything was possible. Made me feel hopeful.”

“Guess I’m a night person,” Willa said. “The day’s done. You take a long look at your man, close your eyes, and you know you’re together. Doesn’t matter what’s happening outside in the world. For that moment, as you drift off, you know you’re safe.”

Rose smiled. “If Bob had been around more at night, maybe I’d feel the same.”

“You deserve great love,” Willa said.

“You too.” Rose released the presser foot and pulled the gown away from the machine. With no time to waste, she bit the thread with her teeth. “There. All done.”

In a jumble of stockings and slips, they threw on their dresses. Willa helped Rose with her makeup. Rose helped Willa with her hair. Then they ran barefoot, high heels in hand, down the street to the summer dance.

The Elks was an easy stroll from the motel. J.J. entered from the quiet street into a mash of loud country
music and rowdy conversation. This time he picked her out of the crowd in an instant. She was in the center of the long and narrow room, surrounded by a hundred people dancing on the slick wood floor.

She wore pale, luminous pink, a dress with a low-cut neckline that hugged her tight at the waist, then billowed out in airy layers of fabric swirling around her thighs. He hated to take his eyes from her but he had no choice. She was not alone. She spun in the arms of a tall young farmer he’d seen drinking at Jughead’s. The lucky guy had a full head of thick black hair and was built like a Chippendale’s dancer. She was smiling into his face as he twirled her around the room. J.J. knew it shouldn’t bother him, but the sight of her—Willa—just plain hurt.

He pushed through the mob, found the bar, and ordered an Asphalt, his father’s favorite drink. The bartender had never made one but was eager to please and took instructions well. Brandy and Coca-Cola over ice with lemon. J.J. guzzled the syrupy drink, ordered another, and watched the dance from the sidelines. There were two bands: a local group named Free Beer and Chicken played decent Elvis. Then the Chuck Bauer Band took over, just two musicians, but they launched into a lilting rendition of the “Tennessee Waltz.”

Meg Nutting from the motel scurried over and tapped his shoulder. “Dance with me, Mr. Smith?”

“Okay, sure,” he said. “I’ll try.”

He’d forgotten how to waltz but made a good show
of it, following Meg, who was well in control. He felt another tap on his shoulder. Someone was cutting in.

“Can I take your picture?” said Hilda Crispin, author of the
New York Times
best-selling
Jumbo Jet Cookbook.
A flash went off in his face.

Shrimp appeared at his side with a tall and substantial brunette almost twice his size. “My wife, Dot, wants your autograph.”

J.J. smiled. “You two make quite a pair.”

“She’s my high school sweetheart,” Shrimp said, looking up into Dot’s eyes. “My shade in the summer and warmth in the winter.”

J.J. autographed a napkin just as Righty Plowden and a frizzy blond woman danced by.

“Nice night for a party,” Righty said, slowing to a stop. “This is the fella I’ve been telling you about. Meet my bride Sally.”

“You didn’t tell me Sally was such a beauty,” J.J. said.

“Yup, she cleans up good,” Righty said with a laugh. “Easier to bring her along than kiss her goodbye.” Sally slapped Righty’s bottom.

“Forty years of marriage,” she said.

“Just like a hot shower,” Righty said. “After a while, it’s not so hot.”

“You old salt lick.” She poked him in the side. “Didn’t know you ever took a shower!” Then the two spun off onto the dance floor as the band played “I Get a Kick Out of You.”

Forty years of marriage. Not bad at all. J.J. looked across the dance floor and saw Wally surrounded by
fans. Nearby, Otto told a story that made everyone laugh. J.J. searched the room for Willa. He saw Rose in a gorgeous red gown, twirling on the dance floor.

Had Willa already left with Mr. Chippendale? Why had he even bothered to come? He was stag at the Elks. Enough was enough. He’d done his public relations duty, and now it was time to leave.

He slugged down one last Asphalt, his third, and made his way toward the bright green exit sign wavering at the end of the hall. He had wedged his way into a group of people blocking his path when he heard a voice calling him.

“You leaving?”

He was pressed on both sides by farmers and wives. He turned and came face to face with Willa.

“Uh. Hi,” he said. “Big day tomorrow. Gonna go get some rest.”

“Mmmm. I understand, but I don’t see how you can leave without asking me to dance.”

His arms were full of her, his nose inches from her luxuriant hair. The band played Frank Sinatra’s “The Nearness of You.”

She was a better dancer than he, but she made his clumsy footwork seem smooth. If only his head
wasn’t spinning. How much brandy did that infant bartender put in his drinks?

“Sorry about running off yesterday at the water tower,” Willa said. “You did a wonderful thing, saving my stupid brother.”

“Uh-huh. He’s a nice kid.”

Willa gave him a squeeze. “Thanks.”

“ ’Welcome,” J.J. said. He remembered to breathe as the band played …

“You okay?” Willa asked, looking into his face.

“Not sure.” J.J.’s mind was thick and his feet felt heavy. He searched for a world record to organize his thinking, but the facts in his head were hopelessly confused. “I can’t remember if the largest country line dance was 5,966 people or if that was the biggest hula dance—”

Willa laughed. “Wow. You forgot your stats. Hold the presses.”

J.J. chortled, a bit too loudly, then stepped on her toes. But she didn’t seem to notice. She was singing along….

“Thanks,” she said as the music stopped. People around them applauded, and the room began to spin ever so slowly. J.J. reached out and grabbed for Willa’s arm.

“I need some fresh air,” he said.

The railroad tracks ran right alongside the grain elevator, twin towers in the night, just a block or so from the Elks. Moonlight glinted off the rails. A ground fog was pushing in.

Willa held J.J. by the arm, steadying him as they walked away from the sound of the dance hall and into the silence of the country. She sure liked this J.J., and she actually felt lighthearted. But she had to be careful. If she didn’t protect her heart, no one else would.

She stopped, took off her heels, and wiggled her toes. “There, that’s better.”

“Was that your boyfriend you were dancing with?” J.J. blurted.

Willa chuckled. “I used to baby-sit Barney. He’s my pressman.” She paused. “Don’t have a boyfriend.”

She checked his expression. He seemed relieved.
And then his brow furrowed, and he looked as if he were going to ask her The Question.

“How come no man has dragged you off to the altar?” he said.

Bingo.

“Oh, I’ve had offers,” she said.

“I’ll bet. So, why no takers?”

“Holy moley. Ask me something easy.”