K. Weiland - Storming

They drove in silence for several miles more. Griff took the turn into the erstwhile airfield—shorn now of all but two planes: a red one and a red-white-and-blue one. Half a dozen automobiles filled in the gaps. Blankets had been spread on the ground and pinned down with picnic baskets.

Beside the biggest basket, Nan and Molly knelt, doling out potato salad and fried chicken—and swatting away the twins whenever they tried to stick their fists into the pitcher of lemonade.

Lilla, wearing a tremendously wide-brimmed yellow hat, swept in and grabbed a twin’s waist in either arm. She looked up at the oncoming motorcar and released one of the girls long enough to raise a hand and wave. No Rick in sight. Last Hitch heard, Rick had skedaddled out of the state with Lilla swinging a broom at his backside. Good riddance.

The menfolk—Byron and the Berringers and a few others—stood back a ways with a handful of youngsters. Judging from the bats and worn leather gloves, they were getting ready for a ball game.

Griff bumped the auto across the field toward the crowd.

“What’s all this?” Hitch asked.

“Celebration. Hopefully, it’ll end a little better than the last one.”

“No kidding.”

Griff parked at the end of the row of motorcars and shut off the engine.

For a moment, they both just sat there. In front of them, the hot cylinders ticked. A meadowlark sang from atop a fencepost. The men’s raised voices drifted across the field.

“Now, now,” Matthew said, “why can’t you let these boys play it how they want to?”

“They want to play it right or not?” J.W. jammed his hand into a glove and held out the other for Matthew’s ball. “If they want to play it right, I reckon they better listen to the rules first.”

Matthew passed over the ball. “The thing I can’t figure is how you keep forgetting the right way and your way are not the same thing.”

“And I s’pose your way is?”

“In this case—yes.”

Hitch laughed. “Old buzzards.”

Griff tilted the corner of his mouth. “They’ll go to their graves arguing about something.”

A stout older woman with a mop of frizzy red curls piled atop her head sashayed over to the Berringers. Whatever she said wasn’t audible, but it sure did a number on them. In unison, they clammed up. Eyes got big. Matthew’s face went beet red.

She laughed—no, giggled was more like it—then twirled her fringed parasol over her shoulder and flounced off, ample hips swaying.

“Who’s that?” Hitch asked.

Griff let a grin slip. “Ginny Lou Thatcher.”

“Wha-at? That’s the girl they been fighting over all these years? And they’re still fighting over her?”

“Not exactly. Anymore, I think they just fight ’cause it’s easier than fixing things up.” Griff’s grin faded. “You know, everything that’s gone under the bridge here lately…” He shook his head. “You’re not the only one who’s got things to be sorry for.”

“You don’t have to say that to me.”

“Yeah, I do. You wanted me to forgive you, and I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t blame you for that.” Lord knew, he probably wouldn’t have forgiven himself either. “I hurt you bad. I see that now, where I didn’t before.”

“That’s the point. You always were a clueless lug.” Griff studied the steering wheel. “I felt like you needed to be punished.”

“I probably did.”

“Well, it wasn’t mine to do.” He looked over. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

“Me too.”

Griff smiled. “Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we join the party?”

Hitch climbed out slowly and looked around.

On the far side of the baseball players, his Jenny burned red against the gold of the cropped grass. From the sound of things, she’d gotten pretty banged up in that last landing. Her skin was ripped in places and in need of mending. But she looked all of a piece. Earl must have been patching her up around the clock.

Next to the open engine cowling, Jael crouched. Walter hunkered beside her, watching intently as she fiddled with the carburetor.

Hitch shoved his hands in his pockets and started toward them.

Jael looked back and flashed him a grin. The sun glinted against the smudge of grease across one cheek. She was back in breeches and boots—with a red kerchief over her silver-streaked hair.

She looked like she belonged here. No more the bedraggled, wild-eyed ragamuffin who’d parachuted in front of his Jenny. She now looked about like a woman who had taken on pirates should look.

She was the reason for all of this. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d have been on the far side of the country by now. He’d have left town without ever knowing about Walter, without ever making things right with Griff.

He smiled back at her. Someday he’d tell her that. And thank her for it. Maybe today, as a matter of fact. He lengthened his stride.

“Captain Hitchcock.”

Livingstone. He winced and slowed up enough to look over his shoulder.

Still in his white suit and Stetson, Livingstone propped his walking stick across his lap and used both arms to wheel his chair toward Hitch. His bandaged legs stuck straight out in front of him on the chair’s wicker leg rests.

That explained the other plane.

Hitch faced him. “Still here, are you?”

“Couldn’t rightly leave the vicinity without laying eyes on our own true-blue hero, now could I?” Livingstone scanned Hitch from top wing to landing gear. He almost looked impressed.

“This isn’t about the bet, is it?” Hitch asked. “’Cause it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to take that management position after all.”

“Is that a fact?” Livingstone pursed his lips. “Well, then, might it be our purposes are coinciding without our even realizing it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean simply this.” Livingstone wheeled a little closer and lowered his voice. “As you may know, the Extravagant Flying Circus has met with a rather tragic demise.”

“Ah, yes.” After Zlo’s escape, all Livingstone’s pilots had winged it out of the valley, intent on saving their planes while they still could.

“But,” Livingstone said, “a new venture has come to my mind. Despite the recent tribulations, this area has proven itself ripe for the expansion of aviation. I am considering opening a flying school.”

“A school?” Hitch frowned. “With one plane?”

“Or perhaps two.” Livingstone glanced at Hitch’s Jenny. “Knowing the art of good publicity as I do, I believe if I were able to advertise a flying instructor of some heroic notoriety, we could draw in quite a crowd.”

Stay here—and still be able to fly? His mind started spinning with the possibilities.

Livingstone smoothed his mustache. “We could even put on a small circus hereabouts. A monthly affair, perhaps. I’ve already signed on your fair wing walker.”

“Ah…” The words wouldn’t come fast enough.

Livingstone smiled—a little too victoriously maybe—and started wheeling his chair back. “You think about it. Take your time. Let me know whenever you’re sure.”

Hitch was already turning to his Jenny—to Walter and Jael. “Oh, I’m sure.” Saying so was a mistake, of course. Livingstone would use it against him when the time came to negotiate wages. But the words popped out, right from the bottom of his soul.

He started across the field toward the Jenny.

Earl hobbled over from the other direction, his roll of tools under his good elbow. The fingers poking out of his filthy bandage held a chicken thigh to his mouth.

He gave Hitch a grin and a nod, then turned and caught sight of Jael and Walter kneeling beside the engine. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You two ain’t grease monkeys yet, no matter what you think.” He stomped toward them.