Cynthia Cartier - Wings

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight,” he said.

“Calm down, boy. We both have our own business. I suggest you go take care of yours.”

Daniel entered carrying a stack of papers. He slid into the booth and sat across the table from Liddy.

“This is your business?” pouted Rowby.

“Rowby, I don’t think our business is of the same nature. You’re doing just fine.”

He walked back to his subjects. Ula, sweet girl, tried to resume her lounge on his shoulder, but Rowby rejected her affection. He sat facing Liddy with his elbows planted on the counter. One of his ‘good ole boys’ noticed his surly disposition and saw the object of his irritation sitting in the booth across the room. “What’s Liddy doing here?”

“Driving me crazy,” Rowby grumbled.

Back at the table Daniel spread the papers in front of Liddy. She studied them and listened, while Daniel talked and rifled through the pile.

In the light of the black and blue moon, Liddy rumbled down the dusty road toward home. She sorted her conversation with Daniel and played with her thoughts of being accepted into the WASP. She pulled onto the long drive that led to the farm and saw the flames of a small ground fire lick the air. Liddy parked in front of two small hand-built trailers that she and Crik called home. When Jack went into the hospital Liddy had to give up the little house she’d grown up in, and she moved out to the farm with Crik. She had everything she needed in her little space. Crik was family and she was surrounded by planes, so it made for a comfortable little life.

Crik, Orrin, two men and a woman sat around the glow of the blaze. Stragglers always hung around on show days. They’d look at the planes and talk to Crik. If he took a liking to them, he’d keep the stories coming and the visit might last late into the night.

Liddy went into her trailer and came out munching an apple. She grabbed a bucket, swung it over and took a seat in the circle. Muck was lying across Crik’s boots. He forced himself up and limped over to Liddy, brushing up against her knees. Liddy pulled the mutt in and rolled his skin away from his muscle, and he moaned.

Crik found the dog as an abandoned pup. Her uncle had woken one night to the sound of a piercing squall coming from the woods that bordered the field. In the morning, he tramped through the trees and heard a low whimper echo at the bottom of an old well. The pup was sinking in a puddle of sticky clay, whimpering with the last bit of cry he had in him. Crik rigged a line and brought out a furry ball of muck, and so he was named.

Crik was well into a bout of storytelling, “…we was poppin’ straight down on them dogs and spinnin’ to miss their guns. Well we’d just about knocked them all out when this hot fella in the squad, Ticking Tom, got himself wound up like a top, and we was sure he wasn’t gonna be pullin’ out of it. All us other flyers could do was decide, were ya’ gonna look till the end, or just wait for the report? I decided I was lookin’.” Crik attempted to intensify the moment with a slow pass by each pair of eyes that shone above the flush of the flames. He was sure he could lay a veil of suspense on his audience, except for Liddy, who liked the story but had heard it many times before, and Orrin who had heard it too but now couldn’t hear a cricket dancing on his ear drum.

“So this Tom was spiraling down in a blur—it was mesmerizin’—faster, smaller, then, all the sudden—”

“Don’t forget the leaf,” Liddy reminded her uncle and smirked.

Crik hushed Liddy with a stern glance and continued, “All the sudden that machine stops spinnin’ and starts to fall like a dried up autumn leaf, helpless in the wind, like it weighed nothin’, nothin’ at all. It floated back and forth, back and forth. Then what seemed inch by inch, inch by inch the nose starts to pull-up, pull-up, pull-up, and ‘ventually loops back out level.”

“How?” asked the woman.

Crik leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands on the back of his head. “Back at camp, Ticking Tom is struttin’ and everyone wants to know what kind a magic he had in that pit. He’s real cool like and says, ‘mashed potatoes.’”

“Mashed potatoes?” the men questioned in unison.

“Mashed potatoes,” Crik affirmed. “And he won’t say no more. ‘ventually he’s got about twenty-five pilots and engine jocks ‘round him and says, ‘Haven’t flown till ya whipped ya a bowl of mashed potatoes in the cocker. Ever the old girl won’t do nothin’, grab the stick and whip ya a big bowl of mashed potatoes’.”

“That’s it?” asked one of the men.

“Guess so. Somethin’ about crankin’ the stick like that that’ll pull ya outta a hopeless stall I guess.” Crik got up and stoked the fire.

“Ever done it?” asked the other man.

“Has anyone ever done it? That’s the question,” Liddy teased.

“You hush, girl. Never had to. Old Jack, Liddy’s daddy has though. Shoulda had him in the skies that war.”

“Think of the stories,” said Liddy.

Crik flashed another stern look her way. All flying legends pick up speed as they’re told, so they’re best not analyzed, just accepted and enjoyed. Liddy believed this, but part of her wanted to peel away the layers and know for sure. The other part wanted to leave it alone, so she quickly got Crik going again. “Flying with the stars?”

Crik was more than happy to paint the picture for her. “You’ll get there, honey. And you won’t ever wanna come down. ‘Cuz being up at night is like floatin’ on nothin’ and into nothin’.”

Liddy leaned back and took in the sprinkles that filled the black bowl overhead. She drifted off on the calm of Crik’s voice and the gurgle of Muck’s pleasure as she worked her fingers through his fur and scratched his hide.

Morning reveille was called out by the rooster. This was his third round and he was clearly hitting his stride. Liddy was awake but lay in her bed with the covers drawn up under her chin. She listened to the sounds of a farm that didn’t know animals, other than chickens, mousers and Muck.

The land had forgotten the sown and grown, and the soil was deep and well rested. Weeds hid the rock and cement foundation of the farmhouse that once jeweled the property—it had burned years before Crik and the show. Wind did the only talking as it skimmed the barns and out buildings and whistled against the wood and tin of the trailers. Liddy lay very still to see if she could feel any rocking, and was reassured that it was only a breeze with enough gale for a few soft notes, but thankfully no real push.

Jack’s old aviator watch sat on a little wall shelf above her bed. It no longer had a band, and the shine of the chrome had long ago been scratched away, but it could still be trusted. Liddy scooped it into her hand and checked the time. It was three minutes to nine and Liddy watched the hour hand circle until it clicked nine sharp. Then she flipped off her bedding and sat on the edge of the mattress.

Liddy pinched a match from the Mrs. Barleys Beans can at the back of the stove, turned the knob, struck the match against one of the grates and held it near the burner ring. The flame danced for a few moments, waiting for the gas to seep out. The mixture lit and she placed yesterday’s pan of coffee on the heat.

Her arms reached up and when she stood, she pressed the palms of her hands flat on the ceiling and arched her back in a good long stretch. She washed her face in the little sink and pulled on the clothes that were laid over the back of the little chair. When the coffee sizzled, Liddy poured it into a cup, gulped the brew and ate a biscuit with jelly. She swept Jack’s watch into her hand and slipped it into her jacket pocket, grabbed her cap, gloves and goggles and ducked out the door into the snip of the morning air.