1922 Kansas

That plane would crash. Its single engine spurted. It sounded as if it couldn’t stay up a moment longer. Michael shielded his eyes against the sunset’s orange light. He could see the Curtiss Jenny’s bi-wings; the wooden struts with the crisscrossing wires that held their fabric skins in place, all dark shadows against a glittering sky. The Jenny started to turn over his camp. Michael had seen it before. The fool would crash and catch the prairie grass on fire. He waved, his mind whirling.

“Down, you idiot! Set her down while you still have some time!”

The plane began to drop in an attempt to land as if her fool pilot had actually heard him. Michael ran in an effort to clear himself from the Jenny’s path.

With a slight dip of her wings the crippled plane banked. It avoided Michael and his own open-cockpit, two-seater Jenny already set down in that field. The plane landed, bumped over the uneven ground and came to a halt. Michael blew out a disgusted sigh. He hadn’t come so close to a crash like that since the Great War had ended. The Jenny’s pilot ought to be strapped to a rock.

Michael strode up to the plane, his handsome features knotted with anger, jaw set, dark blond hair tousled. As the single propeller slowed, the pilot looked down with a sheepish grin planted on his freckled face.

“You should have never taken a plane up in that condition!”

The pilot shrugged, that grin even bigger. “Sorry.”

Michael grumbled and shook his head. This pilot was an idiot. He turned heel and returned to his small camp. His bedroll was unfurled near a modest fire, his pack nearby. That was his entire camp. Using a branch, Michael lifted the iron lid off the pot warming against the dancing flames. Well, at least the beans hadn’t burned.

The pilot stood beside him and took a whiff of the homey aroma. Michael felt for the pistol hidden beneath his leather flight jacket, but the fellow didn’t make a move.

“Hungry?” Michael asked with an eyebrow raised.

He eagerly nodded and removed his leather cap and goggles to expose a mass of curly red hair.

Michael narrowed his green eyes. “Then you better find something to eat.”

The man’s smile faded. “You’re not very friendly.”

Michael used the stick to clear the small iron pot off the campfire. “You’re damn right. So, maybe you just better leave—on foot.”

The Jenny’s pilot sat right next to him, gaze level, blue eyes unflinching as he stared at Michael. “Have you noticed nobody’s amazed anymore?”

Michael pulled a spoon from his pack, dipped it into the pot of beans, shoved a full helping into his mouth and swallowed. He gave the guy an unfriendly look as he asked, “What the hell do you mean?”

The man stretched. He was a soft, lanky fellow in a contrast to Michael, who’d been toughened from a hard life. He was probably the same age, twenty-two, maybe twenty-three.

The pilot leaned forward, the firelight glowing on his pale skin. “Well, here it is 1922. Just nineteen years since the Wrights flew at Kittyhawk. But it seems like these farmers think nothing of seeing a plane anymore. Where’s the amazement? Hats off, appropriately gawking, just like they’d witnessed a miracle. There’s no ohhs and no ahhs any longer. And worst yet, I can’t get anyone to pay one lousy dollar for a ride in my Jenny.”

“When it comes to your Jenny, I can see why they wouldn’t pay a dollar. Let alone get in.” Well, Michael still saw the wonder, the up-turned faces, the look of amazement, but there wasn’t as much, not nearly. He shrugged. “I suppose people are getting used to the airplane.”

“Exactly. That’s why we should team up.”

“And do what?”

“Form a flying circus. A traveling air show.” The pilot swept his hand upward. “Now people would pay to see that. Community fairs. Public events. We’d be the main attraction.”

“Oh, we would? You and me?”

“Exactly!” The man smiled broadly then adjusted himself as if to get comfortable. “Just think about it. A plane ride used to be five dollars, and people were glad to pay it. Then it was three, two-fifty, spiraling down until it won’t be worth a buffalo nickel soon. We can’t run our Jennies on spit. So we have to find another way to make money. A flying circus. Keep them amazed. A few tricks. Some razzle dazzle. Some hooey with a pinch of malarkey thrown in. After the show they’ll line up for those rides. Five dollars a piece, maybe more. You can count on it because they’ll want to climb into that airplane and catch a piece of the dream they just witnessed. Think it over. I’m offering you an opportunity.”

“An opportunity?” Michael looked over at the man’s plane. “Nobody’s going to get into that coffin of yours.”

“That’s why we’ll fix it up.”

“You and me?”

“Well, you, would be more correct.”

Now Michael was certain the man was an idiot. “I don’t fix anything without getting paid. And you’re looking at a lot of work. That’s an OX-5 engine, temperamental and water-cooled. And by the sound of it you’ll probably have to replace the whole thing. And that wouldn’t be the end.” Michael tilted his head. “Judging by the way she handled she’ll probably need rudders, maybe elevators, too. And the wings need mending, some re-gluing for certain. You’re looking at a hundred dollars just in parts and materials, not counting my labor.” He pulled his lips taunt. “And my labor will cost you.”

“Not if we’re partners. And we will be partners. Because I can see you haven’t got anything better lined up.”

“Just a damn minute.” Michael closed his mouth and stared into the campfire. He hadn’t anything better. The truth was he never had anything better, or easy, his whole miserable life. He looked once more at the man seated next to him. “If I fix your plane what will you do?”

“Promote us.” The pilot held up his hand. “I guarantee that by the time you finish working on my Jenny, I’ll have our first exhibition booked.” He pointed east. “Right there in that backwater town I just flew over before I came here and nearly ruined your dinner by falling on it.” Once more the man smiled.

Michael rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t know.”

“You do know, because you want a chance. Everyone does. Even barnstorming gypsies.”

Everybody wanted a chance, Michael more than most. He wanted a future, a home, a piece of ground to settle on, permanence in a life that had never had a fixed, solid moment in which a soul could find rest. He ached for one chance in life. He could afford some time fixing a broken-down crate. Time was the one thing Michael had besides his prized Jenny.

“All right. I’ll fix it. But you better have something lined up by the time I’m done or you’ll wish you never met me.”

“A threat.” The pilot hooted. “What a great way to start a friendship.” He stuck out his hand. “Jake Stimpson, Mr. Ryan.”

Michael didn’t move. “How did you know my name?”

“I’ve chased you across the state line. You have a reputation already, fixing equipment for these farmers. The best mechanic that ever flew through these parts.” Jake Stimpson chuckled. “Probably the only mechanic who ever flew through these parts.”

“You chased me across the state line?” Michael drew back. “Just to hoodwink me into fixing your plane for free. You smooth-talking bastard.”

“Don’t be so suspicious.” Jake pushed his hand closer. “Partner.”

Michael still refused the gesture. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Jake Stimpson, an attorney, Harvard educated.”

“Damn. No wonder you’re a smooth-talking bastard.” It took a moment before Michael wiped his hand on his knee, a thin smile curling on his mouth. “Partner.”

                                                 ******

Michael heard about the air show even before he’d received all the parts for Jake Stimpson’s plane. It was the talk of that backwater town, a genuine spectacle coming soon. Even the local mechanic knew, asked questions whenever Michael came to borrow a tool or machine some part in the man’s shop. He wondered how Jake Stimpson had spread the word so well without a cent spent on notices, not a poster in sight.

Then the day came bright with spring light and the smell of fresh Kansas air. A good number of people traveled to that flat, open meadow just outside of town. There were ladies dressed in their Sunday best, gentlemen, straw hats tipped at an angle.

Jake climbed aboard his single engine aircraft.

Michael shouted, “Contact!”

Stimpson answered, “Contact!”

Michael spun the prop. The Jenny’s engine backfired, then started to hum. He got into his own plane as Jake took off. Stimpson had gone to the extra expense of adding a siren to his Jenny’s equipment and Michael had mounted it to the plane’s underbelly. At the appropriate moment, Jake hit a switch in his cockpit causing that siren to wail. The crowd hushed, not a whisper. The local mechanic spun the prop for Michael. Soon, he was airborne as well.

They had rehearsed a few tricks, ones Michael had seen at Texas’ Baron Field. The planes circled together, then Jake flew away from the meadow. Michael’s hands grew sticky with sweat as his Jenny climbed. He pushed the control stick forward, bringing her nose down. She dove. The blood rushed to his head. Michael pulled the stick back, slow, steady, guiding the Jenny into a perfect loop. He circled the crowd before climbing again, almost reaching the plane’s ceiling, well over 10,000 feet. She dove again, this time in a spin. Michael felt dizzy and sick and scared all at once until he brought her level. Another pass over the field, then Jake took his turn at entertaining —two loops, a spin, and a barrel roll for a kicker. They flew together again and buzzed the crowd. Men took off those hats. Ladies put their hands to their bosoms. A genuine aeronautical spectacle had come to their small niche of the world. The planes landed, but the show wasn’t finished quite yet.

Jake took a wooden crate he kept in the passenger’s seat and tossed it out of the open cockpit. He stood up, sprang from his seat, coming down squarely on both feet. He flipped the crate over with the toe of his boot, turning it upside down on the Kansas soil. He leapt on top, arms spread, goggles pushed atop his leather cap.

“It’s heaven up there, ladies and gentlemen. God’s church. He made the earth and He made the sky. And here He put us.” Jake pointed to the ground. “To work and to yearn, our eyes always turned upward, hearts always aching. He made us want to climb up to heaven. Made us long to touch His very face and look down on His creation and wonder.

“For the first time in history. For the first time in all existence we can attend church, my friends, right there in His heaven. Your chance, ladies and gentlemen, maybe your only chance, to touch heaven itself has come to your town today. For the small fee,” Jake looked to Michael and winked, “of seven dollars you can fly. You.” He pointed, sweeping his arm. “Can experience wonder and awe and heaven itself.”

They lined up, those men, their straw hats pushed back, those ladies in their Sunday best. They paid seven dollars a piece to two gypsy flyers, small-town folks eager for the privilege of touching heaven itself.

                                                  ******

Jake used his “Heaven Itself” speech accordingly. For the small-town folks he put in a little more heaven, for city dwellers a little more emphasis on the amazement of flying. He was an asset to any partnership, not a doubt. But even so, the more Michael knew Mr. Jake Stimpson the more he didn’t trust him. He had seen them before, well-mannered men, wedding bands— glittering gold on their fingers—tipping the boy who took their hat and coat at the brothel door. Michael knew the type because he had been that boy at the brothel door, bred and born in a whorehouse.

A few weeks came and went. Michael sat across from Jake, a campfire sparkling against the deep, evening shadows. It was one of the few nights Jake Stimpson hadn’t chosen to seek company elsewhere.

Michael set his jaw before he finally said, “I want my share off the top.”

“That’s not how it works. I have to see to expenses then we divide whatever is left.”

“After whose expenses?”

“Our expenses.”

“You mean—yours. Entertaining ladies any chance you get. Dinners. Gifts. Using more than your share of the take.”

“So, I spend a little on women.” Jake shrugged and tried his winning smile. “Some of us have to use a bit of persuading when it comes to the fairer sex.”

“Then persuade them with your money, not mine.”

“Maybe you ought to spend a little yourself.” Jake had no use for his smile anymore. “You work on these planes. Find extra jobs fixing broken-down machinery wherever we are. And what do you do? Nothing, that’s what you do. Except, on occasion, complain about the cost of a can of beans.”

Michael stood. “I plan to do a lot with my money.”

Jake came to his feet. “What? Buy yourself a sharp looking coffin? Because, my friend, you’re not living much of a life.”

Michael stretched out his hand, palm up. “My share. Up front.”

The curly-haired man hesitated, irritating Michael. Then Jake reached in his pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills and slapped it in the Michael’s hand. “Aw, hell, here it is.” Jake scooped up his pack. “I’ll be billing you for expenses from now on.” He started off.

“Where are you going?” Michael called after him.

Jake looked at a small collection of sparkling lights not far away. Michael knew what the man wanted. There had to be someone with moonshine in that town, and if Jake were lucky, a willing lady to keep him company.

Stimpson finally answered, “To spend my share.” He flung the pack over his shoulder. “Up front.” He walked away.

Michael sat down to count his money and tucked it safely away in his own pocket. He laid his blanket down and rolled it over himself, arm beneath his head as he stared out at the darkened landscape. He planned to do a lot with his share because somewhere there was perfection in the world. He had dreamed of it, heard Jean speak of it, a place where a body could forever hang their hat, an honest home. He wanted that home, a place of his own, a chunk of land and a woman who smelled of spring just like Jean had.

Jean Abel was part of his soul, her deep brown eyes warming his memory. He could still inhale the sweet scent of her hair as she hung her head while she read to him. Her soft voice would always whisper to him a promise of something decent and clean. He loved her like someone loves a perfect vision, with all the aching hope a body could hold. He would always love her, even now when she lay in her grave. Jean Abel was one of the few people in his life who'd ever showed Michael the least bit of kindness. He had to believe she was still there, a thin vapor of hope trailing the dusty wind. He needed to believe in a home where he could be somebody at last. He pulled the blanket about him even more, closing his eyes, not a sound stirring the still, empty night air.

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