Cynthia Cartier - Wings

“I should be flying somewhere else.” Liddy plucked her gloves from the pot.

“Been sayin’ that since you were sixteen. Why don’t ya’?” Crik tilted back in his chair and reached for the cigar box. Liddy handed it over, and his fingers rapidly flipped through the pile of bills inside. “Did real good, honey, Orrin even heard the whoops.”

Orrin shook as he placed one end of a pounded brass ear trumpet in his ear and aimed it at Crik as he asked for a second go at the words, “What’s that?”

Crik counted and then pinched a stack of cash from the box and held it up the way a deal maker does when trying to entice the seller. Liddy flattened her palm open in front of him, and he laid the bills across it. His sleeves were rolled-up displaying a collection of scars creased in skin that loosely clothed his well used muscles. The scars came mostly from time working on the engines of planes—the deeper ones had come from a plane crash he’d lived to tell about from the first war. A story that was true. He had spent much of the following year in a hospital bed fighting for his life.

It was the telling from Crik’s sister, Liddy’s mother, which assured Liddy of this history of Crik’s. Edda Hall had spent that year in prayer and service to ensure her little brother’s recovery. He was her only living relative and the main focus of her life until she married Jack Hall, Liddy’s father, when she was past thirty. Marriage didn’t release her from the bonds of being older sister to Crik though. After leaving the hospital, Crik went to the Hall home before he was on his feet again. So with three year old Liddy underfoot, Edda was nurse and mommy. Her husband was soldiering overseas at the time, and the presence of a man in the house was a welcome addition.

When the war ended, Crik bought his first Jenny off the Army for two hundred dollars. He hooked up with some war buddies and started storming. Eventually he found a good place with the Great Gilbert Flying Circus, and took his pay from them. In order to draw the crowds, the air shows started to push the risks. Crashes became more frequent, and the government stepped in and wrote some laws. The new regulations grounded many of the planes the stormers flew and called their more risky stunts illegal. The circuit couldn’t make it after that, and Crik returned home to Holly Grove.

He set up dusting farms and put on a show every few weeks during the warmer months. As long as he only drew a crowd to his own place, no one bothered him. And it was useful to have a pilot in farm country. Things needed to be picked up and delivered, including people that needed emergency medical care that a small town doctor couldn’t offer. Farmers wanted to dust more and more fields as the practice took hold, and Crik also became known as the plane doctor. With the exception of the cut he took from the show that Liddy and Daniel flew at his place in his planes, repairing engines, skins and wings was the way he now got by. It had been over ten years since Crik had flown for a crowd.

“Okay, sit down here and give us a stab at that money there,” Orrin prodded Liddy.

“You’ll never give up, will ya?” Crik hollered to his friend.

“It’s worth askin’,” Orrin said to Crik and then looked up at Liddy. “What’s it gonna take for you to sit a hand with us, girl?”

Liddy leaned toward Orrin’s ear, patted his back and raised her voice, “When there’s no chance of losing, you give me a holler.” She stuffed the money deep into her pocket then moved behind Crik, circled his neck with a hug, kissed the top of his head and polished it in with her hands. “See you later.”

As she left the barn Crik called after her, “Tell Jack hi for me.”

From over her shoulder Liddy called back to Crik, “I will.”

While looking up at Daniel’s flight, Liddy wound her path in and out of the cars parked in the field. She could see that wig woman had a life grip on the sides of the cockpit. Daniel was patient—he endured the screeches and screams that Liddy simply couldn’t. He had his niche and she had hers.

In the distance, two ‘good ole boys’, Rowby Wills and one of his side-kicks leaned on a car, her car. The 1927 Dodge Four was pocked with rust and couldn’t remember the last time it wore a top to keep it dry from rain or shaded from the beating sun. Its second round of paint was faded and flaking. Still, somehow it staked out its identity as a car to find fun in.

Rowby leaned with intention. He took great care with the angle of his hat down to the crossing of his legs at his ankles. His side-kick mirrored the pose without the same cool. The third son on one of the biggest ranches in the state, Rowby had the skin of… How do you describe bronzed, flawless, polished-looking skin? Perfect, his skin was perfect, the skin of the gods. It was pulled tightly over high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, but not so tight that two deeply set dimples didn’t sink in at the sides of his mouth, even when he wasn’t smiling.

His jet black hair competed with his dark blue eyes that you couldn’t look into because the color was so thick—your gaze just slid over the surface like they had landed on a frozen pond. His form was carved high and low in all the right places, and he had one of those sexy walks that you can only enjoy as the person is leaving because there is no way to be nonchalant about the viewing.

With all his good looks, Rowby suffered from an anemic self-worth that showed itself in an overactive use of the most inappropriate assumptions. Accomplishments that involved the intellect were lacking in his bag of tricks, and all of his claims laid on the successes of his family and their money—claims he’d decided entitled him to all of everything, anywhere from anybody. The other members of the Wills clan were not only as great an eye feast, they shared a brain function that Rowby didn’t have or understand, leaving him out of family conversation and ventures. And as it usually goes, identity is often a result of the relative experience in the family and circle of friends where people are formed.

It’s too bad that Rowby didn’t possess the self-worth of Liddy’s car. Despite her worn state, she looked offended by the uninvited guests that had planted their backsides on her skin—she knew what she was worth.

Liddy spoke up in her car’s defense, “Hi, boys, watch the paint, would ya?”

The request didn’t stir the two men. “Hey, Lid, we’re gonna take a ride down to Larry’s place, wanna ride along?” Rowby pinched the brim of his hat and moved it up off his forehead. “I’ll buy you supper at the diner when we get back.”

Liddy looked at Rowby as she would a child who just asked if they could raise fish in the toilet. She grabbed him playfully by his shirt collar, pulled him off the driver’s side, swung in around him and grabbed the door handle. She tossed her gear in the back seat, opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Rowby was still straightening his collar.

“Tempting, can’t though. Next week, okay?” Liddy reached under the dash panel and touched two wires that were twisted together to one that was dangling free, and the engine sputtered and rocked.

Rowby’s perfect skin reddened, which was such a shame because the golden tenor was so nice. He clenched his teeth, “Liddy I’m gettin’ tired of…” Then he collected his outer calm and took down a different road, “Marry me, Liddy Hall, and I’ll buy you a car worth drivin’.”

Liddy caressed the body of her jalopy. “May not be pretty, but … if she had wings, I’d take her up.” She popped the gear shift and rolled out, brushing Rowby off the side.

Liddy knew that the Rowbys of the world were fragile and dangerous. Since she was very young, she was guided by a strong intuition, so from the time they were children in school together, Liddy had a sense that a fine line should be kept with Rowby Wills. Still, in high school she had been on a few dates with him, but she soon realized he wasn’t going to accept her on her terms, so she drew a line of friendship. This however, didn’t keep Rowby on the right side of the line, but she was consistent.

Liddy’s tactic had always been to dole out huge kindness to Rowby, hoping for the day when he would be distracted elsewhere. This had happened many times, but nothing had stuck. She did care what happened to him and felt bad for his challenges. Many people with a steady sense of themselves feel deeply for those who don’t have this sense, and Liddy felt for Rowby. She knew how essential it was to her own survival. It was a matter of course for Liddy to depend on what she knew she could count on in herself and stick close to it.

As she pulled away from the field and drove down the dirt road to the town of Holly Grove, Missouri, she tapped a beat on the steering wheel and sang out to the tune in her head, “Comin’ in on a wing and a prayer, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. Though there’s one motor gone, we can still carry on, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer.” Daniel flew over her as he circled around to land and Liddy thought to herself, Every day should begin in the air.

A loud stillness falls on a town during wartime. Is it the absence of the hell-raising and of cars that drive too fast down Main Street on Friday nights? Is it the quiet left in the dearth of fluttering girls who have no one to flutter for? Or is it the echo of empty and aching hearts, the hearts of sweeties and mamas and daddies in a land that has sent its young men to battle on foreign soil? Young men have a vigor that only they can live and draw from others. When they’re gone, there’s a pause in living that waits for their return.

The Second World War had all but stripped most small towns of their young men. Some were kept from the effort because of flat feet, weak vision or less than perfect hearing. A few were excused by their lineage. Most that were excused would slink about the streets or stay close to home, hiding from the grip of guilt that stalked them for not being with their friends and brothers. But for some, it just wasn’t their time yet. They hadn’t been called up and wrestled with waiting for the call or enlisting.

The town of Holly Grove was papered with posters calling for the support of their soldier boys and encouraging the purchase of Defense Savings Stamps. Posters called for the use of properly issued ration coupons—HELP US SMASH THE BLACK MARKET. Meat, sugar, coffee, shoes, gasoline and rubber were just some of the things that were dealt out sparingly, all to keep the supply available for the war effort…except for gasoline. It was plentiful. But rubber was not. Japan had been the main supplier of rubber to the United States and those ties were no longer. If people drove they wore out their tires, and a car without gas couldn’t burn much rubber. Since a plane wasn’t seen as a major rubber consumer, pilots were able to get extra gas coupons by showing documents for special needs, and Crik kept the planes in the air. Even with that, the gasoline rationing kept the paying customers closer to home, so Crik cut back on shows as the war dragged on.

Liddy drove through her hometown and felt the lingering, silent fret of people who didn’t know what lay ahead. Blue Star Flags were displayed proudly at both home and business, but following the visit of a black sedan, a blue star would be patched over with a gold one. Fear and anger were camouflaged with pride and patriotism. A façade of resolute determination was erected that no one would confess to or let falter. The War was a fume that permeated every moment and the senses were heightened and then numbed to it.

Liddy parked in front of Tully’s Market where Raymond Tully sat in a rocker on the sidewalk. The old man rocked and scanned the sky through binoculars. It had been over two years since Pearl Harbor had been attacked, but an uneasiness still lived in every man, woman and child that some people were set on killing Americans. Such uncertainty was foreign to people who had only known living on peaceful soil. Liddy left the Dodge and stepped up on the sidewalk where she sat in the empty chair next to the man.

“Hey, Mr. Tully, anything up there?”

Raymond Tully tremored with the frustration and helplessness of a man who could no longer take the battlefield but had a personal knowledge of the battle. In some form, war seems to make itself available to every generation, and he was well acquainted with the moments that were being lived out by the young men of his family and of his friend’s families, many who were young enough to do the job and at the same time, too young to do the job.