Coast to Coast (2 page)

“It will, Pop … but, listen, when you were young, did your parents keep things from you?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, just things.”

He pulled back to look at his airplane. It was a small high-wing plane with two seats, one behind the other. “You know, a Piper J-3 Cub was the first thing I ever wanted out of life.”

“I can’t remember the first thing I wanted.”

“I was sixteen, and all my life people had been telling me I couldn’t leave one place or another. I couldn’t leave the yard. I couldn’t leave the house. I couldn’t leave the field until five o’clock. I cut tobacco in those days.”

“I didn’t know that, Pop.”

“So I was sixteen and it had just hit me that it was going to be like that the rest of my life. I was bent over cutting tobacco with a knife—that’s about the hardest work there is. My head was down around my knees, sweat was pouring off me, my back was breaking, and I straightened up and saw a yellow airplane in the sky. It might as well have been pulling a banner saying FREEDOM. I wanted to be up in that airplane as bad as I ever wanted anything in my life.”

Birch’s eyes were on her grandfather, his on the invisible freedom banner. For once, she let the silence stand.

“On Sunday, I hitchhiked to the airport, found out lessons were ten dollars an hour, and hitchhiked home.”

“You didn’t get to take flying lessons?”

“Birch, back then if I had two quarters to rub together, I was rich.”

He moved to the other side of the plane. Birch followed. “I knew you were poor, but not that poor.”

“I had one hope. There was a radio show back then called ‘Wings of Destiny.’ It was sponsored by Wings cigarettes. Every week they gave away a J-3, and a uniformed pilot named Arthur Segar Pierce would deliver it.”

“Did you win?”

“No. To win you had to send in a coupon out of a pack of Wings and I didn’t smoke. I learned my flying in the war,”—Pop rested his freckled hand on the plane—“in a J-3 just like this one.”

“This is getting off the subject,” Birch said. Her mind kept flicking back to that moment in the attic when she had held the unopened box and felt the first stirrings of unease. And, later, the poem—an arrow pointing to something she dreaded to see, yet had to follow. “But do you happen to remember the day I was born?”

He paused, trying to make the connection. “June twelve, wasn’t it?”

As he said the date, Birch saw it as it had been written on the bottom of that sheet of old blue paper. She felt from now on she would always see it that way, even on calendars.

“I know the date, Pop. I want details, like, oh, were there any problems? Did I have a hard time breathing?”

“No, you were as big and healthy as they come—weighed eight or nine pounds.”

“Nine. But did I, you know, stop breathing?”

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody.” Birch felt she was getting too close to that invisible edge. She pulled back. “Tell me a funny flying story, Pop.”

“Let’s see. Well, I flew a J-3 in the war.”

“That’s funny?”

Her grandfather turned the nozzle of the hose, and the water changed to a fine mist.

“I was what they called a grasshopper pilot. We took off and landed anywhere. I dropped supplies to patrols in the jungle, I delivered blood plasma to the wounded, I spotted for the artillery. One time I flew Bob Hope to entertain the troops.”

“The Bob Hope?”

Pop nodded. He picked up two dry towels and threw one to Birch. Together they began drying the yellow fabric of the fuselage.

“Now this plane,” he said, “I bought this plane ten years ago. My partner—Dwane Hicks—and me were going to fly it across the country coast to coast.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, first Dwane moved to Florida. Then your grandmother got cancer, and I had to look after her.”

“You could still go.”

“Time’s run out.”

“If I wanted to go as bad as you do, I’d go. I wouldn’t let anything stop me.” She gave him a narrow look. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re probably smart to go to a nursing home.”

He drew back as if stung. “Retirement home!”

“Whatever. You used to go, ‘Life’s an adventure, Birch.’ You used to make it an adventure. The best thing about you and me was our secret missions. You’d say, ‘Birch and I are off on a secret mission.’”

Those days seemed so far away that she felt tears sting her eyes.

“I used to love our secret missions,” she went on. “One time you took me to the old Charleston museum. I was real little. There was a mummy in a case, and you showed me a way to sneak my hand under the back of the case and touch the mummy. I was so impressed. I was the only person in my play group at Kiddie Kollege who had touched a mummy.”

“Well, I touched it too,” he said stubbornly.

“Yes, but you weren’t in my play group.” She grinned and then sighed.

“Now you’re through with things like that, Pop. If a secret mission came along right this minute, you’d go, ‘No, I’m too old for secret missions.’”

She looked away.

“I guess all the good times are over.”

B
IRCH’S GRANDFATHER TURNED ABRUPTLY
to watch a Cessna coming in for a landing. Even after the white wings had disappeared behind the hangar, he kept his face turned away. His neck had reddened.

“I’m sorry I said that—about you getting old.”

He didn’t answer.

“Pop, I don’t even know why I said it. I’ve got things on my mind and I know that’s no excuse but …”

Birch kept watching him, looking for a sign that her apology was taking effect.

“Pop, don’t give me the silent treatment. You know I can’t stand it.”

Pop turned with a sigh.

She continued in the same nervous way. “You know who gives me the silent treatment all the time? Mrs. Bumgardner. That’s Dad’s receptionist. See, every time I do something wrong, I have to go down to Dad’s office to have a talk. And I sit there with all the little kids waiting to have their teeth straightened, and I go, ‘Mrs. Bumgardner, do you know what I did wrong?’ She puts one finger to her lips. I hate that. I go, ‘I honestly don’t know what I did!’ One little kid got so interested he said, ‘When you find out what you did, let me know, all right?’”

Birch fell silent. She wouldn’t mind being in that waiting room right now. She would go in and have a serious, office-type talk with her dad. She knew she couldn’t talk to her mom. Her mom was too emotional.

Birch straightened. “Hey, I’ve got an idea—one final secret mission,” she said. “Let’s go up.”

Pop’s expression did not change. When he was hurt, he looked like something carved from stone.

“I’m serious,” Birch said, putting more enthusiasm into her voice. “I really want to go up, don’t you?”

He gave his head a shake, the way a horse shakes off a troublesome fly.

“Why not? You wanted to go up yesterday. You offered to fly me over the beach, remember?”

Again he shook his head.

“Why are you shaking your head? Because you don’t remember or because—”

“You don’t want to go.” His smile was tight.

“I do. I want to do something. I can’t explain it. I have to do something. And here is this perfectly good airplane.”

His jaws moved, chewing on the idea.

“What I meant about getting old, Pop, was that it’s not getting pain in your joints or bad teeth. It’s, like, not wanting to have fun.”

Her grandfather got busy. He emptied the bucket and put the wet towels inside. “Help me push the plane back in the hangar. I’m tired of talking about my age.”

“Yes, but it’s my turn to pick. Remember? I picked being named for a tree, you picked flying in the war, now I pick this. I want to talk about you.”

“Birch, the airplane is sold.”

“You haven’t got the money yet.”

“I don’t want to take any chances.”

“See? Don’t take any chances—that’s exactly what getting old is. Don’t step on the grass. Don’t go out of the yard!”

“That’s enough. I mean it.”

Birch was silent for a moment. Then in a different voice, as if she were taking up a new topic, she said, “You never have taken me up.”

Her grandfather glanced at the sky. Beneath her eyeshade, Birch’s eyes narrowed. She knew she had him now.

“I really want to go!” As she said it, she realized it was true. She needed to get away from this world, and this was the way to do it. “What are we waiting for?”

“I don’t guess it would hurt to fly to the beach and back.”

“Then get in! Let’s go!”

“Don’t get in too big a hurry.” Her grandfather smiled. It was his first real smile of the afternoon.

Birch followed him around the plane. “What are you doing?”

“Well, right now, I’m doing a preflight inspection. I check the tires, the control surfaces, move them for freedom and cable looseness.” He raised the aileron and looked at the cable underneath. “I check the tail wheel springs … the stabilizer trim …”

“Does everybody do this? Or are you just extra careful?”

“There used to be a saying. ‘Kick the tire. Twang the wire. Light the fire and let her go.’ Nowadays a pilot checks everything—the prop for nicks, the cowling pins for security …” He moved around the plane. “Look under the cowl—birds are very fond of building nests under cowls. Check the oil—the gas. The gas cap’s up here.”

“What’s that wire sticking out of it?”

Pop unscrewed the cap. “That’s the gas gauge. See, there’s a cork on the end. The cork floats on the gas, and as the gas goes down, so does the cork and the wire.”

Pop reached in the cabin and removed a clear plastic tube from the seat pocket. He drained some gas into the tube, checked it and threw it out. “Good! No water got in the gas from our wash job.”

“How do you know Pop?”

“Water’s heavier than gas, so it would be on the bottom. And they look different.”

“So can I get in now?” He nodded, and Birch stepped to the right side of the plane. “Do I sit in the front or back?”

“The pilot sits in the back.”

“But how do you see the instruments?”

“I can see all I have to. Put your foot on the tire, not on the strut and …”

Birch pulled herself in and fastened the seat belt. “This is the first time I’ve been in a little airplane. Pop, your instruments are ancient.”

“They’re 1940, same as the plane.” Her grandfather leaned into the cockpit. “This is the altimeter—it tells you how high you are. I’m setting that to the altitude of the field—it’s about sea level so I set it on zero. Carburetor heat—off. Switch—off.”

He moved the stick back and forth while looking at the tail, then from side to side while watching the wing. “Put your heels on the brake pedals.”

“Oh, we both have brake pedals?”

“Yes, it’s dual control.”

She looked down at the pedals and positioned her feet so that her heels were on the smaller ones.

“I’m going to swing the prop to start the engine.”

“You mean, like, it’s going to start and I’m going to be sitting in here by myself with the engine going?”

Pop opened the throttle a half inch.

“Look at my feet Pop, and make sure they’re on the brakes.”

“I did.”

“Because I do not want to take off by myself. I saw that in an Abbott and Costello movie.”

“This is the gas primer.” Pop pulled out a knob and slowly pushed it back in. Then he stepped to the front of the plane and gave the prop a few turns. Birch listened to the clicks and watched the tip of the prop over the cowling.

“Now turn that overhead ignition switch on for me.”

“This?”

“Right, and yell ‘Contact’ just before you do.”

“Incidentally I’m terrified. Contact!”

“Brakes?”

“Brakes!” she yelled, pressing her heels harder.

Pop came around and stood by the cabin. He reached forward with his right hand and gave the prop a quick downward pull. The engine caught. Pop leaned in and pushed the throttle back. The propeller turned slowly at idle, almost invisible against the blue sky.

Then he climbed in. “I got the brakes now,” he yelled above the noise of the engine.

Birch took her feet off the pedals. “I feel a lot better with you in here.”

The plane started forward. Following the yellow line on the pavement, they moved from the ramp down the taxiway and stopped just short of the runway.

“I’m revving up the engine now to check the magnetos and carburetor heat.”

“Check everything!”

He leaned forward. “Belt tight?”

“You bet. Let’s go!”

“Birch?”

“What, Pop?”

“Let’s don’t say anything about this to your mom.”

“Of course not! It’s a secret mission.” She put one hand on the window. “Aren’t you going to close this?”

“We can close it later if you get too much wind.”

“No, I like it open! Let’s go!” And Birch’s heart raced as Pop turned the J-3 onto runway nine.

W
IND RUSHED AROUND BIRCH,
whipping her hair from her face. The noise was terrible. She grabbed the steel bar above the instrument panel with one hand, her visor with the other.

The J-3 picked up speed.

Birch glanced out the window over the side of the plane. The gray concrete runway flashed by below. The right tire spun as it left the ground.

“We’re up!” she yelled. The J-3 lifted smoothly into the air. Birch took a deep breath. The sound of the engine roared in her ears. She could feel its throb beneath her feet.

The thrill of the air overtook her and for the first time she forgot the sickening jolt of the birth poem she had read that morning.

The wings wavered as the plane hit an air current. Birch gasped, but the ride was already smooth again.

“I like it, Pop!” she yelled over her shoulder.

She looked down. They were still climbing, leaving the airport behind. They passed over the Stono River, then the ribbed fields of open farmland. She could see the ocean beyond.

“Let’s don’t go home yet. Let’s just keep riding—let’s go all the way down the coast.”

“We’d end up in Florida.”

“Fine with me!”