The Man Who Ate the 747 (7 page)

She was younger then, just back from the University of Nebraska. It took about two years to come to her senses. She was fine now, all healed, stronger than ever. That is to say, she was never going to forget.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. The stranger stood in the doorway. He was nice looking with a full head of brown hair and gentle blue eyes that benefited from their association with his blazer. She took her legs off the desktop one at a time.

“You can toss all those papers on the floor if you want a chair,” she said.

He moved the pile, sat down, leaned forward, and handed her a business card.

“Sure is hot,” he said.

“Air conditioning’s out again.” She bent down under her desk, unplugged the radio, and connected the table fan. She aimed the little blower right at the stranger. “That ought to help.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m burning up.”

She noticed the sheen on his remarkably straight nose. Then she saw the gilded crest on his coat pocket. Pretty slick.

“We’re a little busy today, Mr. Keeper of the Records,” she said, reading from his card. “Got a paper to close, and I’m short on time. What do you need?”

She reached across the desk for her water bottle. She could feel his eyes on her and wished her hands weren’t stained with ink, that her nails were polished like women in the city. She pulled the rubber band from her braid and shook out her hair.

“I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I heard you might be able to help me with the man eating the plane.”

“Who told you that?”

“A man never reveals his sources.”

“A woman never reveals her information,” she said.

They both laughed. A standoff. Then she saw him glancing down at her blue cotton dress.

“I met Wally Chubb this morning,” he said, “and he wasn’t very helpful. In fact, no one seems very helpful. Thought since you’re with the press, maybe you’d—”

“What kind of world record is this, anyway?”

“Personal aviation. We’ve got a whole section on people and planes. Eating a 747 would go right next to the category we call ‘plane pulling.’ A few years ago, a guy named David Huxley in Australia pulled a 747—all by himself—298 feet 6 inches in 1 minute 27.7 seconds.”

His face was alive with his statistics. She liked his voice, rich and deep, probably a baritone.

“The team record,” he continued, “was set by 60 people in London who pulled a 747 a distance of 328 feet in 59.13 seconds.”

“You think that’s impressive, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“No. Rattling off all those statistics.”

“It’s my business,” he said, fiddling with the pen in his hand.

“Don’t mean to be rude,” she said. “But I’m not impressed. Don’t think anyone around here is looking for your kind of attention.”

She saw his gentle eyes sadden. Did she really have to be so harsh? This guy with a nice nose and good voice was just doing his job. Still, after Mr. Odysseus, it had become an involuntary reflex. She had to be on guard. For the town. And, yes, for herself.

“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Why is Wally eating the plane?”

“Did I say anyone was eating a plane?”

“Look, Miss …” He blinked at her.

“Willa,” she said. A peace offering.

He smiled, a fine dimple on his left cheek. “Willa, I
saw what he’s eaten of the plane. I know what’s happening out there in that field. Seems like a pretty big story.”

“Not really,” she said.

“A man eating a 747 isn’t news around here?”

“No, in these parts that’s not news.”

“Seems more important than what I read this morning in your paper about Mrs. Bodkin going to see Mrs. Toppin for coffee Sunday afternoon.”

“Spare me the journalism lesson,” she said, standing up from behind her desk. “I’m sure you can find the door.”

He stumbled out into the sun and, for an instant, thought he might fall over.

She was a vision, that Willa Wyatt, with her wild blond hair, caramel eyes, and long tanned legs. From the moment he walked through the door and saw her leaning back in the chair, he felt the surge of dopamine in his veins. The table fan only accelerated the buzz, shooting pheromones through the air between them right into his hypothalamus.

He could barely stay on target during their meeting. He needed information about Wally Chubb, but all he really wanted was to know more about this woman, this Willa, this editor of a two-bit newspaper in south-central Nebraska.

He knew it was wrong. He knew it would lead to disappointment. And yet, when he thought of this
woman kicking him out of her office, the feeling inside him was clear and inescapable.

He knew then and there, in a town with only one stoplight, that he was about to get hopelessly, irretrievably lost.

No doubt about it, Superior had once known glory. The streets and sidewalks were wide. Pioneers with big dreams had made them this way. J.J. loped down East Fourth Street toward the center of town. He could not have been farther from East Fourth in Manhattan. The air smelled of earth and crops. He could see the great twin towers of the grain elevator poking up beyond the rail yard. He passed the sturdy red brick post office. A sign said it closed at noon.

It was quaint, all right, maybe even pretty, but J.J. couldn’t imagine why Willa would stick around here. Didn’t she realize it was a losing proposition? This place was just a wide spot in the road. Like so many towns on the plains, all the young people would gradually move away, leaving only the old folks behind. It was death by slow strangulation, life sucked out breath by breath.

A few beat-up trucks were parked in front of the Git-A-Bite Café. J.J. pushed open the screen door and walked inside. Lunchtime. The place was packed and hot, an ancient ceiling fan simply overwhelmed. A man in a plaid shirt with a baseball cap pulled down over his ears left a tip on a small table with a red-checked
plastic cover. J.J. sat down. He ordered a cup of coffee from a waitress who had a pretty face gone flat with resignation.

“Special’s on the board,” she said, banging down the cup.

Nearby, an old woman and a middle-age man were eating. “Can we use that flyswatter over here?” the woman asked the man at the cash register.

“Go right ahead.”

“Jimmy, you go, boy. Get the swatter.”

“Okay, Ma.”

The man stood up, shuffled over to the counter, reached for the swatter, and returned.

“Go ahead, Jimmy. Kill ’em.”

The man whacked the table.

“Did you get it?”

“Yeah, Ma.”

“Good boy, Jimmy. They sure come in lately. You don’t even have to hold the door open.”

J.J. wondered if he still had the appetite for lunch.

“Hey, stranger,” a voice said. “Don’t mind Jimmy and his ma. Harmless as flies.”

A tall man in overalls standing over the table guffawed. “Mind if I have a chair?”

“Not at all,” J.J. said.

“Name’s Righty Plowden,” the man said. “I farm a quarter or two around here.”

“J.J. Smith.”

Righty’s handshake was strong, his palm and fingers cracked and rough. He was easily in his 60s,
with a gray beard, and white creases radiating from the corners of green eyes. He wore a stained work shirt, jeans, and boots.

“Hope you’re not one of those vegetative types,” he said. “Not much to eat here at the Git-A-Life that isn’t deep-fried or cut off a cow.”

The waitress materialized, and Righty ordered a cheeseburger and fries. “What kind of cheese?” she asked. “White or yellow?”

“I’ll take yellow.”

“Same here,” J.J said.

As the waitress walked away, Righty leaned closer and whispered, “She vacuums in the nude.”

“No!” J.J. said.

“By golly she does. Or so I’ve been told.” Righty tightened the bottle top on the ketchup. “We’ve got the same number of sickos and perverts that you do in the big city. We just know who they are and we keep an eye on ’em.”

Righty laughed and went on. “So, you’re here about the plane.”

“I am.”

“You gonna put it in your Book?”

“If I can verify it.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“For one thing, is he really eating it?”

Righty stroked his beard. “Can’t say for sure. Never seen for myself.”

“You know anyone who has?”

“Nah, Wally don’t like people coming on his farm. We hear the grinding every day. It’s been going on for
years, ever since that plane came down in his field. Far as I know, he could be preparing for Armageddon. Stockpiling for when the UN takes over the world.”

“You don’t believe that.”

Righty leaned back in his chair and picked his teeth with a matchstick. “You on an expense account?”

“I am,” J.J. said.

Righty ordered another cheeseburger and milkshake.

“Wally’s a good kid,” he said. “Fact is, no one’s sure why he’s doing it. Doc thinks it’s a disease called pica or something. Kids eat dirt. Wally eats a plane. Could also be a brain tumor making him do it. My wife, Sally, says it’s psychological. Obsessive repulsive something or other.”

Righty lowered his voice. “Churchgoing folks swear he’s possessed by the devil.”

“So?” J.J. said. “What’s your opinion?”

Righty leaned back and stretched. “It’s pretty simple, really. Wally’s crazy in love. Simple as that. Always has been, always will be.”

“Come on,” J.J. said.

“I’m not putting you on a pound. Best I reckon, it started in fifth grade. Wally fell in love with a local girl and never stopped loving her. He’s spent his whole life trying to prove it to her. Heck, he’d even give three fingers off his shooting hand to win her heart.”

J.J. scrawled in his notebook. A man eating a plane for love? This record attempt was getting better
and better. He could definitely sell it to headquarters and the world. He was back on track and in control. The Willa euphoria in his brain had subsided.

“No one pays much attention to Wally anymore,” Righty was saying. “Nothing we can do about it. He’ll be that way forever. And we just have to live with it.”

Whack. The sound of the flyswatter at the next table.

“Good boy, Jimmy,” the old woman said to her son. “You got another one.”

The door to the café opened. A woman wearing a nurse’s uniform entered first. Then came Willa, the bright sunlight catching her dress for a moment. J.J. could see all of her in silhouette.

“Thought you were just passing through,” she said as she walked by J.J.’s table.

“Behave!” Righty told her. “Our friend here is all right.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “Meet my friend Rose. This is Mr. Smith from New York.”

Rose had dark eyes with round cheeks and a smattering of freckles. Her hair, long and straight, reached the middle of her back. Her white nurse’s uniform was neatly pressed, and she wore a yellow button on her lapel with a simple smiley face.

“Nice to meet you,” Rose said.

“Pleasure,” J.J. said.

Willa pulled on Rose’s arm. “Have a nice day, Mr. Smith. And don’t believe a word Righty tells you. He’s a crazy old fool.”

J.J. watched her walk to the back of the café and sit down. Why didn’t he ask her to join them? Why did he freeze?

“Where were we?” Righty said.

J.J. had absolutely no idea. He fumbled with his notes. “Let’s see. ‘Wally’s eating the airplane for the love of a woman.’ ” He took a sip of iced tea. “Must be quite a woman. Where do I find her?”

“Friend,” Righty said with a grin, looking over at Willa, “you just did.”

I
t was supposed to be easy in a place like this—sticking to the straight and narrow. Two lanes in every direction. One coming, one going. No real choices. And yet J.J. had no idea what to do next.

He tried to focus on the 747, but Willa flashed in his mind. He knew the very thought of her would end up bringing him a world of hurt. He was there to verify the record, not to veer into Wally’s lane. But he could feel the pull, the chemicals firing, the sensation in his chest.

He wanted to know her. He wanted the world record. But he wasn’t sure if he could have both.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and
saw the boy on the bike. The kid had tailed him all through town, first to the mayor’s office, then the bank, then the shopping district on Central. He kept a smart distance, 50 feet or so, falling back when J.J. wandered into a store, then pedaling fast to keep up when he drove to his next stop. The boy cut through alleyways and shot across green lawns to stay close.

He first noticed the kid in front of the Git-A-Bite. He was accustomed to youngsters tagging along when he visited little towns. They just wanted to kill the boredom, follow the stranger, and maybe even snag a free T-shirt or pin.

This kid, though, wasn’t like the others. He just watched. When J.J. went into the drugstore, the boy stayed outside, peering through the window. He wasn’t hiding; it wasn’t a secret; he just didn’t seem to want to interfere or to get too close.

J.J. drove along Central, checked his mirror and saw the boy cycling hard on the sidewalk. He slowed down at the stop sign, waited for the boy to catch up, then signaled a right turn. He passed the Crest movie theater and the public library, crossed Bloom Street, and pulled into the Dairy Queen. He parked in the lot, without looking back, and walked inside.

He ordered two large shakes from a pimply teenager at the cash register, then sat down at a Formica table. Through the window, he could see the boy, perched on his bike, waiting.

“Miss,” he said to the clerk. “Would you mind taking one of those shakes out to the boy on the bike?”

“No problem.” She looked out the window.

“You know his name?” J.J. asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s Blake. What a loser.”

Another girl behind the counter added: “Teacher’s pet.”

“You the guy from
The Book of Records?”
the first girl asked.

“That’s me.”

“What’s the biggest shake ever?”

“Easy,” he said. “England, a few years ago. A 4,333-gallon strawberry shake.”

The girls giggled.

“Believe me,” he said, “it wasn’t nearly as good as this.” He slurped.

Then one of the girls took the shake, walked out into the parking lot, and handed it to the boy on the bike.