Airfield (13 page)

I notice, though, a couple of chickens that Clo's got all cut up and ready for frying.
I could offer everybody something better for supper than cold sandwiches...

A moment later I'm reaching for a skillet.

 

When I arrive at the airport in the late afternoon, picnic basket strapped across my bike handles, I go first to the terminal. Grif is in the operations room, shaking his head, reading a dispatch as it clatters off the teletypewriter.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"Just trying to make sense of contradictory weather reports. Some of the rural stations are reporting hail here and thunderclouds there, but the official word is that skies are fair all across Texas."

"The sky looks OK right now."

"That can change. What smells so good?"

"Fried chicken. I'll set you out a plate. And Grif? If Dad does come in on the mail plane, when you two get back to the tourist court will you have him come say hello? I'm going to wait up."

"It'll be late."

"That's OK. I want to see him, and I'm going to wait up for Clo, anyway."

 

"Moss, Kenzie!" I call, going in the hangar.

"Moss ain't here," Kenzie answers, climbing down from Annie Boudreau's plane. His limp seems more pronounced than usual as he walks toward me. "Seemed fair to give him the day off, seeing as you got one."

"But I brought you both fried chicken!"

"Well, him being gone won't keep me from enjoying it! Any drumsticks?"

As I pick them out, I mention that my dad may be coming in on the night mail flight.

"
If
it comes in," Kenzie says. "My bum leg and my nose both say a storm's on the way."

"So do some of the farmers who call in, but the weather service says flying is going to be fine."

"There's weathermen who wouldn't know rain if they looked out a window and saw water."

I
KNOW CLO DOESN'T
want me going out to Moss's place—"Beatty," she says, "it's just not a good idea"—but I've got all this food left. Clo wouldn't want me to waste it.

So, I tell myself,
go put it in the cabin icebox before it spoils.

But honestly, it's as if my bicycle has a will of its own. I intend to turn the handlebars toward town, I truly do, but somehow I end up pedaling north.

 

I find Moss near the creek, working at a table he's put together of scrap wood. He's writing a letter but sets it aside when he sees me.

A grin spreading on his face, he exclaims, "Beatty! What are you doing here?"

"I've come to have a picnic supper with you. I've got fried chicken."

"Really?" Moss lifts the basket top. "Great!"

He's all for eating right away, but I suggest, "Moss, let's make it a true picnic. We can hike up the bluff and eat on top—I've never been up there."

 

The bluff is higher and harder to climb than I'd have guessed, but it's worth every step. From where its highest part juts out in a flat ledge, the view is of land stretching miles and miles to a curved horizon.

"This must be how things look from an airplane," I say.

"Sort of," Moss answers. "But from really way up the land seems kind of checkered."

We talk and talk, and by the time we're done eating the sun has become a blinding half-ball in a western blaze of copper and pink, while to the east the sky has begun shading darker and darker to dusk.

I've run down all the things I wanted to tell Moss, and he's as excited and pleased for me as I hoped he'd be.

But now he says, "Beatty, things are goin' to change for me, too. I got a letter from Ma yesterday. She wrote that my pa has got the government work he was after and thinks I can sign on, too."

"But ... I didn't know you were thinking of leaving here, Moss. Where to?"

"Pa's planting trees in Montana, so I reckon Ma's thinking up there. Only, the other thing is Mr. Granger's offered me a regular job at the airport. I guess between extra shop work and what the show did there's money comin' in."

"So you can stay! Moss, that is so much better."

"He says I can move into the little upstairs room at the terminal. I'd keep the grounds and help Kenzie part-time. It'd let me go back to school."

"And once you finish high school, Moss, then maybe you can go on to really learn about radio work and—"

He seems more troubled than excited. "What bothers me," he says, "is joining Pa or this new conservation corps outfit for young men, I'd likely make more money than here. Ma expects it."

"Moss, I know you've got to help your family, and I don't mean to be disrespectful to them," I argue, "but maybe you need to do different than what they expect of you. More, perhaps, but different..."

Moss nods. "That's what I was trying to write Ma when you got here. It ain't a easy thing to say."

Then he grins and corrects himself. "Isn't.
An
easy."

It seems the most natural thing in the world when Moss puts his arm around me. And when I tell him, "I guess I ought to be getting back," Moss agrees, "You're right," but we continue sitting together.

Bit by bit the sun drops out of sight, the streaking western clouds turning a dark, inky purple and the sky overhead deepening through all the blues to charcoal. A star pops out, and then another.

And as though the land is trying to keep pace, a light appears far off to our left, and then one to our right, at the very edge of the horizon.

"Look, Moss. Those must be airway beacons. It's like we really are in a plane, with one light behind us and one in front. Annie says that sometimes you can see a whole string of beacons stretched out to guide your way."

"On clear nights, maybe. But I'd put my faith in radio range signals."

"Annie says things can go wrong flying the beam, too ... Moss, do you think everything's going to turn out all right for us?"

"Who knows?" he answers. "But I hope so."

A breeze picks up, one so suddenly cool that I shiver, and Moss tightens his arm around me. Annie's scarf, the one she gave me, flutters against my face, and Moss laughs and brushes it free.

Together we watch Muddy Springs become a distant electric glow and see the airport lights come on atop the terminal and hangar. A revolving beacon sweeps white ... green ... white ... green.

Even after the moon comes up, neither of us says any more about leaving.

And then other airport lights come on: red ones that warn of the pole line, and perimeter floods that illuminate the landing field.

"Moss ... Are those on because the night mail plane's due in?" I ask, suddenly panicked. "I've got to get back to the tourist court before the others do."

"Come on," Moss says, on his feet in an instant.

We're scrambling to gather up the picnic things when a wind gust yanks a napkin from my hands. And moments later, far in the west, lightning streaks in a tall bolt. I count to twenty—it's an even four miles off—before thunder rumbles. "You think that rain's coming this way?"

"Might be."

 

The first drops hit before we reach the base of the bluff, and by the time we get back to the caboose the rain is pelting down.

"You want to wait it out inside?" Moss asks.

"I can't. If I'm not at the cabin when Grif gets there, he'll be worried sick. And Dad ... if he comes in and finds me missing, he'll really be upset. I've got to try to get to the airport."

"Beatty, no plane's going to fly in here, not in this weather. But come on, I'll go with you."

"You don't need to," I tell him. "Besides, I've got my bicycle."

Lightning strikes, this time only a count of eleven away.

Moss says, "You can't be hanging on to a metal bike in an electric storm. And you ain't goin' alone."

We take off holding hands, half running, half sliding over newly slick ground. Soon the rain is beating so hard on my face I can hardly see, and I'm out of breath and my side hurts and I'm worried. In fact, I'd be plain miserable, except I don't think I've ever had more fun. I feel silly and happy, and I can't stop laughing.

Half way down Airfield Road, Moss suddenly halts.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Just this," he says, kissing me. And it's not just a peck on my cheek, either, though I hardly have time to kiss back before he breaks off to pull me along again, running.

 

The storm moves faster than we do, blocking out the moon but lighting the land in jagged lines so frequent we can make our way by them. We're still a long half mile from the airport when the strikes begin coming so close together that it's impossible to tell which bolt goes with which
crack.

Something nearby snaps and rips, a splitting tree maybe.

Suddenly I remember Millie.

"Moss!" I exclaim, shouting to be heard over the noise, "Where's the dog? She must be scared to death."

But instead of answering he tells me, "Listen, Beatty. Do you hear a motor?"

"You told me nothing would fly through this." A second later, though, I hear coming from behind us the unmistakable sound of an airplane engine. "You don't think it's the mail plane, do you?"

Just then the landing field floodlights flicker several times and go dark, along with the red obstruction lights.

"It's that bad line," I tell Moss. "Grif's jury-rigged fix must not have held up to the storm."

The sound of the airplane engine gets fainter and then disappears.

"It must be going on to another landing field," I say.

 

Moss and I hurry along as fast as we can, but we're still a good piece from the airport when we see a lightning bolt appear to touch earth right there. Instantly the revolving beacon and building lights go dark.

"The power must of been knocked out," Moss says.

And it's then that the engine sound returns, this time over to the right and behind us. It gets louder and then again fades out in the direction it came from.

"Moss!" I say as a sudden fear hits me. "Do you think that plane is lost? That it can't find the airfield?
Could it be the mail plane
?"

For long moments strong waves of wind keep us from moving forward at all. When they die down, the rain doubles in force.

"Moss," I urge, "hurry!"

And then, as quickly as the storm came on us, it lets up, becoming no more than single raindrops and a light breeze by the time we reach the airport drive.

T
HE LOW CLOUD
cover hangs on, though, keeping the night dark enough that Moss and I almost bump into the terminal door, which is standing half-open.

My uncle wouldn't have left without closing up.

"Grif?" I call, not getting any answer. "I'll fetch the flashlight he keeps behind the counter."

Feeling my way across the room, I knock over two or three objects before my hand closes on the light. I swing its beam over scattered papers and glass from a broken back window.

"Do you think Grif was still here when the storm hit so hard?" I ask.

"I don't know," Moss answers. "But we best get on the radio in case that plane comes back. Though with the power down, we got to get the generator going first."

Behind the building, I hold the flashlight and try to shield Moss from the dregs of the storm while he sets the generator's choke and swings the crank a couple of times. Then he switches on the ignition and turns the handle one more full turn. The engine makes a single
chuunk
and dies. He turns it again...
chuunk...
and again...
chuunk...
before finally it catches.

We run back inside, to the operations room.

"This is Muddy Springs," Moss says, twisting radio dials. "Can you hear me?"

The loudspeaker is emitting static so bad that Moss switches it off, and I jam my face next to his trying to hear a voice in his earphones.

"Any aircraft around, please answer," Moss says.

One disconnected part of me thinks that this probably isn't even legal. Moss doesn't have a license for transmitting.

But all the rest of me is focused on the faint sound I'm hearing, Dad's voice trying to answer.

But that can't be. Even if it is the mail plane up there, it must be the pilot talking. Dad is coming in as a passenger.

I know Dad's voice.

"Muddy Springs," I hear, "...read? Can ... read?"

"That's my father!" I tell Moss. Dad is almost incomprehensible in a crescendo of static and buzz and whine.

"Captain Donnough, come in," Moss says. "This is Muddy Springs."

"...Springs?" Dad says again. "...bearings..."

"Captain Donnough? I think you're somewheres northwest of the Muddy Springs Airport. Can you pick up the radio beam?"

The static gets louder.

"Moss," I say, clutching his arm, "with the electricity out, is the radio beacon even sending signals?"

"I don't know, Beatty. I don't think the generator powers much more than this set."

Static from the radio grows louder.

"Captain, can you hear?" Moss repeats. "I think you're northwest, that's northwest, of Muddy Springs."

Something pops inside the receiver and the sound from the set goes dead. The glow around the rims of the dials becomes faint and then disappears altogether.

"The generator must of quit," Moss says.

I run to the main room so I can look outside. The rain has completely stopped and the sky is lightening up a bit, but it's still far too overcast and dark for me to see anything in it.

 

We try the telephone, but that's dead, too.

"If we could just call Grif or Kenzie," I say, "one of them might have an idea what to do."

"Maybe the hangar phone's still OK," Moss says.

The hangar doors stand partway open, and inside there's another chaos of knocked-over equipment and scattered paper.

Again, I realize that open doors are wrong—the wind might have blown them off their tracks but not rolled them sideways.

Before I can think more about that, though, something slams into my legs.

Then Millie is all over me, shaking wet dog fur and nipping at my hands. "Not now," I tell her.