Barnstorm (4 page)

Deb released the button one last time for receive mode. There was nothing to receive. Only silence. The radio was dead. Was her Buzz dead? There were only blank stares in the cafe as no one wanted to make eye contact. The three wrinkled pilots had the experience. They could only reach one conclusion. Deb caressed the radio mic to her cheek.

The Liar Flyers bowed their heads.

The deathwatch cafe silence was in stark contrast to the frantic scene of cockpit smoke and loud surge of a desperate engine not responding to Buzz’s pleas. Sparks flew from behind the altimeter. Multi-tasking as he shouted into the radio mic that had ceased transmitting, Buzz flipped toggle switches. He looked out the window and checked his location.

Buzz broadcast, “Old stone quarry, southeast,” into a nothingness that would never be received. The radio crackled and popped into one final gasp. Buzz instinctively replaced the mic to its holder on the instrument panel. Buzz knew that his plane was going down in spite of his efforts. There comes a time when the fighter pilot ejects and watches forty million dollars in taxpayer money go up in flames. Now was one of those times. Absent the rocket-powered ejection seat of his F-15 Strike Eagle, it was time to abandon ship. He confirmed only farmland below. No schools. No hospitals. The plane wouldn’t crash into an orphanage. He unstrapped his safety harness and left the cockpit. He grabbed the parachute standard for a skydiver pilot, fastened the clasps, shook the harness and took one last look at the smoke sifting from behind his instrument panel.

Buzz did not see Trip crack his door connecting the rear compartment and the main cabin. He maneuvered to the opening and surveyed the swirling farmland below. Buzz jumped from the plane.

Seeing Buzz bail out of the plane sent chills down Trip’s spine. His knees were wobbling so much that he could only crawl through the main cabin. He rocked-and-rolled to the cockpit and crawled into the pilot’s seat. He eyed the controls and coughed as the engine continued to belch smoke. He rushed back to the opening just in time to see Buzz’s chute deploy.

Stumbling back toward the cockpit, true to his nickname, Trip tripped over what appeared to be a backpack. Frustrated by his clumsiness, he kicked it aside. Almost instantly he realized what he had done. It was the spare parachute left by one of the skydivers safely on the ground negotiating a business deal. The chute slid and hit the wall to the right of the door opening. He dove after his lifeline. At the moment his fingertips were ready to grasp the parachute shoulder harness, the plane lurched to the side. He accidently hit the chute with his forearm. Out it went. He stood, hands choking the handles above the opening, and watched the spec of a parachute pack disappear into the clouds. He was afraid of heights for a reason. He shuddered in fear as he visualized himself crashing through the clouds toward the ground.

Back to the cockpit, Trip stared at the instrument panel. He grabbed the radio mic and pulled it toward him. Trip shouted, “Help! Mayday!” The cord broke loose from the instrument panel, taunting Trip as it dangled hopelessly. Trippy’s gonna fall. Trippy’s gonna fall. He could hear the school-yard taunts. He had to shake his head to eradicate the image of the perfect squares of his childhood jungle-gym hell.

Trip failed in his only attempt to plug the cord back into the dash. Sparks flew. He shook his hand and dropped the mic to the floor, it bounced away. He fumbled randomly at the controls.

The plane bounced erratically. Trip returned to the main cabin. True to form, he tripped and fell again. His fall was broken by the last parachute. Trip might have been about to fall out of an airplane, but he didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. He immediately knew that he clutched his last lifeline in his hands. His previous daydreams and hands-on practice with parachutes now paid off. He was able to quickly don the chute and tighten the straps. He wobbled to the opening, and yes, bumped his head.

Trip was out of options. He tried to jump three times–no good. He saw farms, barns, trees spinning below. “On the count of three; one, two,” he commanded.

The plane shuddered. Smoke. Frozen, summoning up his courage, he continued the countdown, “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.” Without an intervening force, Trip might have counted to a million and still never jumped.

One hand above each side of the opening, he had a white-knuckle grip. The plane lurched, tossing Trip over backwards to the side of the plane directly opposite the open door. He resembled a random pinball rolling from pillar-to-post. Regaining his balance, he stood up with his back to the opening. He fell over backwards, somersaulting across the floor and tumbled out! No more counting to one million was needed. Trip was in free fall.

Trip could now cross skydiving off his bucket list. That he had yet to land safely was a minor detail. This was a real free fall. No daydream with Socrates as a parachute buddy. To his own surprise, Trip was good at this. Arms and legs fully extended, he floated gently. No out-of-control tumbling and spinning.

Having no idea of his altitude or location, pulling the rip cord seemed advisable. He wasn’t prepared for the rapid deceleration in descent as the jerk almost ripped off his shoes.

The parachute performed as designed. He looked up at a canopy of billowing, orange fabric. Off in the distance, a pilotless plane plummeted out of control and crashed in a ball of flames in a clump of trees. The smoke mushroomed skyward. The violent explosion was in stark contrast to his graceful glide to earth and the peaceful sound of rushing wind.

Graceful and peaceful probably didn’t describe the next moments for Trip. He looked down, measuring the distance and timing of a hoped-for landing and roll through a soft wheat field. No such luck. He was surrounded by wheat and cornfields, but he was clearly headed for the tall oak, ash, and hickory trees of a dense woods.

Trip glided closer to the peaceful green of trees that were becoming larger and more threatening. The sound of rustling leaves and breaking branches confirmed that the wheat field would be left untouched. Golfers wisecrack that trees are ninety percent air. Go ahead, aim toward that tree. While technically true, Trip discovered that leaves that flutter in the breeze were connected to twigs and branches that had sharp edges. Twigs that bent to the touch could slap the arms and face when hit by a falling skydiver. And full-size branches and limbs didn’t bend as easily as elbows and legs. This wanna-be pilot, afraid of heights, was now suspended in an oak tree, twenty feet above the ground.

“Ugh, I’m dead,” Trip cried. However, kicking his dangling feet and waving his arms confirmed that he had no broken bones. “I’m alive. Aha.” He checked out his groin area where parachute straps choked his private parts. Wiggling, he tried to adjust, change position. Like a helium-induced soprano a full-octave higher than normal, he squeaked, “I’m dead.” There was no one to hear his falsetto plea.

☁ ☁ ☁

The airstrip parking lot was illuminated by the alternating blue and red flashing lights of Sheriff Carter’s squad car. Buzz sat in the back, holding the tangled cords and fabric of his parachute. Disgusted, he was not particularly interested in the Liar Flyer welcoming party.

He was interested in the rib-crushing hug from Deb. She wouldn’t let go. For the preceding hour, she had thought Buzz dead. The Sky Gypsy Café had been as cheerful as a dermatologist’s waiting room at a leper colony. Even the Liar Flyers had agreed a cease fire prudent.

In tears, Deb whimpered, “Thank God, thank God. Ya okay?” Dejected, Buzz confirmed, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

While Deb approached the situation from a purely emotional standpoint, the three Liar Flyers understood what a close call it was. For an Air Force trained fighter pilot to abandon ship from an eighty thousand dollar jump plane–it had to have been bad.

“Pretty close call, eh?” Hooker consoled.

“Too close,” Buzz agreed.

Then it started. The cease fire ceased. First it was Bomber, “Louisville, back in 1947.”

Crash corrected, “Toledo, ’49.”

Bomber, Hooker, and Crash continued their incessant blather as they drifted away from the Sheriff’s car. While exasperating, this return to normal comforted Deb that everything was indeed alright.

Sheriff Carter’s radio squealed. He reached to his shoulder to speak into his portable radio mic. “Go ‘head, George,” he answered.

Everyone gathered could hear George confirm, “Found it, chief. Crashed over by the old stone quarry, ‘cross the Highland County line-”

Buzz butted in, “--Hurt anything?”

“Any damage, George?” the Sheriff relayed.

“Nope. Went down in a ball of flames in a hay field. Got a few cows running loose, but nothin’ serious over here.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Buzz exhaled, “Whew.”

“Call Sheriff Brown in Highland County. Get him on it. Roger out,” as Sheriff Carter signed off.

Deb put an arm around Buzz’s waist as they entered the cafe. “Ya want some coffee?” she asked.

“Something stronger might settle the nerves better. Let’s break out the private stash.”

The Liar Flyers followed in formation, as though each had an assigned position.

Crash said, “Summer of ’47.”

Bomber followed with, “1946, it was fall.”

Hooker offered a third opinion, “1948, spring.”

The never-ending drivel settled nothing.

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip dangled in the old oak tree. Sunset painted a crimson sky. A crow on a nearby branch cawed. “Gonna starve to death. Hope you’re not hungry. Get outta here. Help. Anybody?”

Sunset, Trip was suspended, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It would make a great postcard if the parachute harness weren’t beginning to chaff and burn.

☁ ☁ ☁

Sheriff Carter, Deb, and Buzz sat at a table in the cafe. The Sheriff was knee-deep in forms, having concluded his crash investigation. This being his first airplane crash report, the Sheriff jerry-rigged forms designed for reporting of automobile accidents. Someday they might share a good laugh about some of the boxes he checked and answers to questions like: Which vehicle had the right of way? If a tow truck was required, how long was traffic blocked? Today was not the day to see much humor in the situation.

Buzz mopped his brow. The bottle of scotch on the table was draining fast. Buzz poured another round for Deb and offered a slug to the Sheriff. Sheriff Carter held up his hand, demurred as if ‘on duty.’

Deb, her hand resting on Buzz’s arm asked, “Have ya seen Trip?”

A bit puzzled by her timing, Buzz said, “Nope, been a bit busy. Destroyin’ a jump plane’s a full-time job.” He downed an inch of scotch in a single gulp, tabling the glass triumphantly.

“Hmmm, strange,” Deb pondered.

“He’s probably mopin’ ‘round somewhere. After I read him the riot act this morning.”

Not overly concerned, Deb said, “Nothin’ to worry ‘bout, he always shows up.”

Sheriff Carter scooted his chair back from the table, satisfied that he had checked all of the boxes. Even the dumb ones. Sliding the clipboard to Buzz for his review and signature, he announced, “All done. That should do it.” He slid his glass in front of Deb. She hoisted the bottle, and the Sheriff nodded, “Off duty, now.”

Deb poured the Sheriff a short inch of scotch. As she pulled the bottle back, he touched the neck of the bottle and coaxed a more generous portion. Deb readily complied. The exhausted Sheriff raised his glass in a salute and said, “Off duty, all night.”

Three friends settled in to make history of the remaining scotch. It had been a long day.

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip’s long day wasn’t over. He evaluated his options. He had options earlier and had picked poorly. Had he crawled into the main cabin while Buzz was still taxiing on the tarmac, he would have been dumped off the plane. Buzz would have fired him, but he wouldn’t be hanging twenty feet above the ground in the pitch of night in the middle of some forlorn, possibly haunted woods.

The branches above him cracked, his parachute slipped a foot. Trip waved his arms to get leaves out of his face. He saw his parachute and cords tangled in the branches above him. Only one small branch was holding him up. It snapped. The sound of breaking limbs shattered the early night silence.

Options considered, Trip acted. He decided that he couldn’t hang around all night. It was hard to get a good night’s sleep with goodies all squished and crunched. Trip released his harness leg clasps, then the chest clasps. Some falls are in slow motion. Every scratch, bruise, yelp of pain recalled as clear as a bell. Other falls just happen. Boom. Over. Ouch. Trip’s fall was the worst of both. He tumbled through the branches, hitting them all. That golfer wisecrack about ninety percent air? Crap. Trip missed one hundred percent of the ninety percent ‘air.’ Leaves flew. He hit his head on a rock. Unconscious, Trip slept soundly, oblivious to the nighttime sounds of the crickets and frogs.

Sunrise meant bedtime for the crickets and frogs. Trip stirred, his head beside a bloody rock. A rooster crowed in the distance signaling a farm nearby. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and tried to stand up too quickly. Still a bit wobbly from his head injury, he doubled over and settled back on the cushy leaves for one last snooze.

☁ ☁ ☁

Early dawn was a busy time on the small farm. A rooster bugled his reveille. Most animals saluted their concurrence that it was time to do whatever it was they did. Bessie the cow mooed that she was ready to unhomogenize her udder. Light spilled out an open barn door. The barn was in poor repair, looking like a paint brush hadn’t visited its faded boards in years. Overgrown weeds had assumed possession of portions of the barnyard.

Inside the barn, a weathered old farm woman sat on a three-legged stool, milking ole Bessie. Gerty Murphy leaned her head into Bessie’s side, spat some chewing tobacco juice on the straw-covered ground, and began a rhythm with fingers, thumb, and palm that streamed to fill her stainless steel milk bucket. Baggy pants, a denim shirt, and a straw hat completed a picture that would tempt Norman Rockwell to pick up a paint brush. Zack, her black-and-white border collie, supervised Bessie’s cooperation.

“Come on, Bessie,” Gerty pleaded. “Give it up, a few more drops.”

Bessie, mooed, looked back at Gerty. Zack barked.

“You tell her, Zack.” A few more tugs, squirts and Gerty pulled the bucket away. She rose, scooted the three-legged milk stool aside. Gerty patted Bessie, “Good girl. Best Guernsey milk in Highland County.”

Gerty limped slightly as she exited the barn. She admired her prize rooster perched on a fence post as he welcomed a new day. The county fair championship ribbons won two straight years by that rooster were displayed on the milking stall wall and ceiling with hundreds of other ribbons snatched over the decades.

Milk bucket in hand, she paused in the barnyard. She looked over the fence into a well-tended garden. The local grocery store could close and Gerty wouldn’t notice. She could feed an army with the fresh produce arranged in perfect rows. Not a weed in sight.

“Um. Um. ‘Maters are lookin’ mighty fine, Zack. Probably get some cash money at the farmers’ market this week.”

Zack barked. Gerty bent down and confirmed, “Yer one smart dog. Those radishes are lookin’ good too.” Zack barked appreciation that his observation had been noticed. Gerty rose, shuffled toward the house.

“Yep, yer right. Even if we picked every tomato, not going to make a dent in that mortgage with banker-man Mel Smith.”

Zack’s bark turned into a nasty growl. Gerty stopped. “Now Zack, no need to growl at Mel Smith. Without Mel and the bank’s help over the years, Lester and I would never have been able to keep this place goin’.” Looking around the barnyard, she sighed. Milk bucket in one hand, Gerty struggled to open the floppy gate on the faded picket fence surrounding her white, Victorian farmhouse. Exasperated, she kicked the gate. A final rusty hinge broke. Exhausted by its years of service, the gate fell to the ground.

“Rats, one more thing that won’t get fixed ‘round here,” she fussed. She actually would have preferred to whip out a salty curse word, something stronger than rats. College-educated and pretty good with pencil and paper, she had always lectured her son that curse words were what ignorant people used because they weren’t smart enough to have initiated a more dignified confabulation. Kinda hard to smack a kid with a ruler if she said something more descriptive of how she felt than rats. She kicked the broken gate one last time and asked Zack, “Suppose you’re not much good with a screwdriver?”

Zack barked no as if he really wanted to hold up his paw and communicate, Hey, does this look like an opposable thumb to you?

Gerty nodded agreement as she eased over the gate. She ascended the steps to the kitchen-side of the traditional, wrap-around Victorian porch that shaded both the kitchen and front doors. The white-frame house needed work. Peeling paint, shutter hung by a single hinge, knee-high lawn. Weeds might have been absent from the garden, but they had figured out they could flourish in the yard surrounding the house.

Gerty maneuvered around a swarm of farm cats. As she poured milk into a large bowl outside the kitchen door, she nudged a cat or two aside. Nothing serious. Sometimes, gotta show semi-feral cats who was boss. Never find a mouse in Gerty’s barn or house, probably not within a five-mile radius of this milk bowl. These cats earned their keep.

“Hold your britches Tiger; there’s enough for everyone. Not enough for the bankers, but there’s plenty for y’all.”

Gerty sat on a porch bench, her back resting against the house. She sighed, looked at Zack, then a quick glance skyward. “I know Lester. Gettin’ tough to hold it together. Damned if I’m gonna let them take this place without a fight. I can feel it in these old bones. Today, Lester. Today, we’re gonna find a way to save this place.” Gerty could forgive herself a few wayward damns when talking with her dead husband.

☁ ☁ ☁

The tall trees in the woods provided a shady canopy for the leaf packed, soft ground below. Torn orange fabric and nylon cords fluttered in the early-morning, treetop breeze.

Trip was still asleep. Not unconscious, asleep. His deep nasal snore had alerted the creepy-crawlies near a fallen log that this dormant creature should be given a wide berth. He stirred, yawned. At least he was not dead. Stretching his arms above his head, he sat up. In obvious pain, he grabbed the back of his head as it throbbed like a tom-tom. He crawled around on all-fours, not yet sure of his bearings.

Holding his head again he mumbled, “Whew, what a crash landing.”

Seated on his butt, he looked around, as if where in the heck am I? The freefall tumble through the limbs and branches had dislodged his wallet. Failing to realize its absence, his hand unknowingly on his fumbled wallet, he pushed to a standing position. As he dusted off leaves, dirt, and spider webs from the nocturnal party held on his chest, he discarded an acorn from his shirt pocket. Trip was unaware of the name Buzz scripted above the pocket of his work shirt.

A rooster crowed in the distance. Trip turned his head and stumbled toward the source of the sound. Leaving his nighttime abode, he stepped on his wallet hidden among dead twigs and leaves. Walking under the shade of his orange parachute, he glanced up, nodded a thanks for saving his life, and made a mental note to cross skydiving off his bucket list. Been there, done that. He adjusted his direction to pursue the rooster that hopefully would lead him back to civilization. Trip touched the back of his head and winced once more as he worked his way out of the thick woods.

☁ ☁ ☁

From the side porch outside the kitchen door, Gerty heard the phone ring. She rose slowly from the bench and limped into the kitchen. The screen door bounced closed as she walked to the phone. Her country, eat-in kitchen conjured images of a bygone era reminiscent of the 1950’s: a room-centered bear claw table, high-back wooden chairs, multi-purposed Hoosier hutch on one wall, a porcelain, oversized sink below a window that overlooked the barnyard.

“Hello,” as she began the verbal wrestling match with her busy-body neighbor, Maggie.

“Oh, hello, Maggie.”

“No, I haven’t found a hired hand yet.”

“Yes, I have run another ad in the paper.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I find someone.”

“No, I don’t care if he’s handsome.”

“And no, I don’t care if he’s single or married.”

“Yes, I remember that you’re a good cook.”

“Goodbye, Maggie. Good. . . goodbye, Maggie.”

She muttered a silent curse that Alexander Graham Bell ever invented that darn contraption. As she hung up the phone, she talked to her rooster Thunderbolt perched on the windowsill above the sink, “Desperate woman. Thinks I’m hirin’ her a husband. All I want is a handyman. Help me keep this place out of foreclosure.”

While Thunderbolt cocked his head and twitched a wing, he was considerably less conversant than Zack. Gerty looked at the picture of her departed husband on the Hoosier, “I’m trying Lester, Lord knows I’m tryin’.” Closing her eyes, Gerty could almost imagine Lester’s end of the conversation. After fifty years of marriage, they could complete each other’s sentences and read thoughts before they were verbalized. She missed his raspy voice and quick wit.

Gerty shuffled to the porch, looked through the shade of an apple tree into the barnyard. She put a small pinch of chewing tobacco in her cheek. A terrible habit, but she didn’t have many vices. Not a smoker. Rarely any alcohol unless a Thanksgiving brandy or Christmas rum punch was forced on her. Gerty wasn’t one to insult a hostess.

Her grandfather teased her into a hunk of chaw when she was only six years old. Born with a competitive spirit, little Gerty wasn’t going to back down from a dare. She won the bet. She still had the Liberty silver dollar that Grandpa reluctantly surrendered. He didn’t see her throw up behind the outhouse five minutes later.