Flying Jenny Page 17

  Laura watched the interplay. What was it with these two? Clem had said that Roy just wanted Jenny to be a top-notch flier. And Laura agreed with that; Jenny should push herself more. Roy was right, of course. Roy was always right. And she glowed with pride at his saying he admired women with spunk. He’d used that very word to describe Laura to Jenny yesterday. And again last night when he’d talked to Laura about her making a parachute jump.

  “Bobbi’s aiming for a week in the air, not a day,” said Roy. “She’s asking around for another woman to fly with her so they can spell each other off.”

  “Stop trying to browbeat me, Roy! I’m not interested in that endurance nonsense and you know it. A week in the air? What an infernal bore!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  JUMPSUIT

  Laura stepped out of the plane into the open void as Roy had instructed her to do, and sure enough, everything was just as he had said: breath-stopping wind rush, dizzying impact, blinding sun. Tumbling, she had to tilt her head to see the sky. Then with arms outstretched, she flew like a bird. She was not afraid—she knew as soon as she opened her chute the world would slow down—but she had to count to one hundred, mustn’t entangle herself in the plane. She pulled the cord and waited. It seemed a lifetime. She was racing fast toward the trees, must guide herself away. Oops. Now she was headed for the courthouse with its cliff on the other side. And then with a thud she was yanked upward, abruptly stopped, bang, another rush of wind as the chute filled. She reached up, grabbed her lines, and sat watching the landscape slowly take shape, color, and form as she focused on her surroundings and slowly descended on the breeze.

  What a strange country she saw below, so foreign, another world from New York. Another world from her or her life. She couldn’t imagine being from here or being like these people who were straight out of another century. But what would happen now that she was in love with Roy? She would need to come here from time to time. She wondered how often he would come to New York.

  As Laura watched this astounding array of trees and bluffs and tiny dots of houses come up to meet her, she remembered Aunt Edna talking about being in love—she always seemed to be falling in and out of love—I know a winter when it comes. Not her mother. Her mother just had lovers. “Ate them alive,” as she’d once heard John Reed say.

  Laura smiled remembering an article about the derby entrants she’d read in a Cleveland paper: Young, small for the most part, and pretty, these women of our century wear goggles instead of knitted shawls. They burn up distance in a way which is ridiculous. Just imagine your dear old grandmother hopping in a plane, tossing away a cigarette butt, pulling goggles over her eyes, giving the ship the gun, and heading from California to Ohio.

  Could something similar be said of her? She was young and pretty and chasing fire trucks and wayward pilots. But she didn’t know any little old gray-haired grandmothers wearing shawls. She only knew women like Aunt Edna and her mother, who were poets and writers and took lovers who were painters and artists. If this was the way people outside of Greenwich Village viewed women—wearing shawls—perhaps she wasn’t missing so much after all, not being versed in conventional ways.

  She shifted her body and pumped her legs, trying to guide herself away from the trees around the bare plot behind the courthouse. And she must stay away from that sheer bluff that dropped down to Main Street. Roy had warned her about allowing herself to drift too far. Laura could now make out individual houses and buildings and streets of the town and that funny triangle building at the foot of the cliff. Arms held high, tightly gripping the ropes of her parachute, she tried to remember all of Roy’s instructions. “Before you hit the ground, you need to keep your knees together, slightly bent, and prepare to run or walk as you touch down.”

  For the first time, her heart started thumping. There wasn’t going to be any space to walk or run if she didn’t shift herself away from those pines—slip, Roy had called it. But as she pulled the overhead cords first one way and then another, she overadjusted and was heading for the sheer cliff below the courthouse. Tumbling down the side of that or hitting all those steps would break every bone she had! The chutist who had fallen from Roy’s plane in Atchison flashed through Laura’s mind. Had that woman been given careful instructions?

  When Laura finally managed to get herself lined up with the pasture, she could see Jenny, Clem, and Cheesy below. The photographer was snapping away, seeming to be everywhere at once. Clem and Jenny were moving their arms around wildly. For a minute Laura thought they were waving hi, but then realized they were signaling her to slip to her left. She took her hand from her right riser and waved back, then grabbed the lines hard and pulled the riser down to her chest to move herself away from the trees. She’d really gotten the hang of it! Roy was a perfect teacher. As the ground came at her, she could see she hadn’t adjusted quite enough away from the bordering trees. She yanked hard on the riser to pull it into her chest, but a spurt of wind slipped her backward. She jerked to a stop, her knees still properly together and bent, but her feet were dangling, nothing solid beneath. She saw Cheesy still snapping and Jenny and Clem racing toward her. Their feet were on the ground, why weren’t hers? Her arms felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. She looked up and saw that her chute was caught, hanging in the low branches of a pine tree.

  Geez, she thought, at least I’m not hanging upside down like that stunt pilot who crashed at the rodeo. I pray Barnes never sees this picture, but I know he will. Cheesy’s camera was moving so fast, it nearly made her dizzy.

  Jenny was grinning up at her, as Clem, muttering under his breath, moved around with a pocketknife, trying to cut Laura down.

  “You’ve got guts, kid,” Jenny called out. “I’ve never had the nerve to jump. And not a bad landing. You were slipping fine until that last gust of wind caught you.”

  Laura’s dangling body bounced from side to side as Clem cut one cord and then another. Jenny held up her arms to break Laura’s fall as the last line was severed. The two of them, both laughing, tumbled to the ground in a heap.

  Clem was irate. “I don’t see what’s so durned funny. That Roy ought to be horsewhipped, letting you do this.”

  “Roy didn’t let her do anything,” Jenny said. “Laura’s the one who did it, and good for her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE LION’S ROAR

  A short time later, Laura and the others were back at the raggedy field to meet the famed movie stuntman Roscoe Turner, who was joining their show for a day. Laura was exhausted and sweaty, but so exhilarated from her jump that she hadn’t bothered to change her clothes. They were her badge of honor, a symbol of her accomplishment, a reminder to her lover that she could follow where he led.

  Roscoe blazed in with a roar of rolling flyovers and power dives before landing in the by-now rutted grass. Sporting highly polished tall black leather boots, puttees, a waxed mustache, and something that resembled an officer’s jacket, he climbed from the plane then reached back up for a lion cub. Roscoe’s uniform was dotted with gold stars. Gilmore, the lion, was on a golden leash and sported a parachute strapped onto what resembled a doggie coat. Roscoe walked the lion over to a bush, where it squatted to relieve itself, then the duo moved on to Roy.

  The flamboyant pilot spoke in an unhurried manner that gave Laura flash images of long, lazy days on a Mississippi River boat. His exuberance and energy belied such a vision.

  He saluted. “At your service, Herr Commandant.”

  Roy laughed. “You old son of a gun. Your antics never change. We’re expecting a whale of a show tomorrow. We’ve got posters around, and excitement seems to be running high.”

  “A spectacle it will be,” Roscoe said, and gave another salute.

  “So, you old blighter, I hear you didn’t come in first yesterday in Cleveland,” Roy answered with a grin.

  “Not up to old Roscoe’s standards,” Turner said. “Lost the cross-country race over a technicality. And only third
for the Thompson Trophy, fifty miles of speed and stunts. I’ll be durned if Doug Davis wasn’t flying something they were calling the Mystery Ship, and came in first. Walter Beech was smart. Purposely had that Travel Air hidden away, so the press went nuts trying to figure out what was going on. Little beauty of a monoplane, it was.”

  “Oh,” said Laura, “that’s exciting. I did a story on the Mystery Ship when I was in Cleveland. You came in third in that race? It’s very prestigious, I understand. I must interview you.”

  “Glad to oblige, ma’am.” Roscoe bowed to Laura. “So you carry your own press contingent, do you, Roy? You can bet I’ll be back next year and win the Bendix and the Thompson. And who’s this other lovely?” he asked, turning to Jenny. “I see my old pal John here. Hello, friend, haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”

  “My wife Jenny,” John replied, placing his arm possessively across her shoulder.

  “Enchanted,” Roscoe said, making another sweeping bow.

  “She’s a fine flier,” Roy said, exhibiting his own possessive tone. “Sister of Charles Holmes. Ninety-fifth Aero Squadron.”

  “Really?” Roscoe’s eyebrows shot up. “Young Roosevelt’s unit. Mighty fine bunch of boys. Very few survived.”

  “Nor did my brother,” Jenny said crisply. Her distaste for the man many thought a buffoon was apparent on her face.

  “My, my, a young lady picking up the gauntlet!” Roscoe boomed, as he gave her a hearty pat on the back.

  “Hardly, Mr. Turner,” Jenny said primly, shrugging her shoulder away from his hand. “I just learned through my brother what fun things boys can do, and I wanted to do some of them too.”

  “Hmm.” Roscoe gave her a quizzical look. “They were fierce fighters, those boys. Roosevelt’s downed plane had twenty bullet holes. And he took two in the head.”

  “Spare us the graphic details,” John said mildly, a slight twitch appearing at the left side of his jaw.

  “Of course,” Roscoe said, taking a look at Jenny’s pinched face. He had no way of knowing that her strained look represented disdain for what she referred to as his “circus antics” as much as sorrow over her dead brother.

  “Ah,” Roscoe cleared his throat and waved a leather-gloved hand at his sleek monoplane,“these Lockheeds have got the speed. Damned shame Amelia couldn’t handle hers. But they’re tricky beasts, just like Gilmore here. You really need to know what you’re doing. Let’s find food and drink. I’m famished.”

  They ended up back at the long table under the trees. Jenny looked around and counted, seven of them now. Her sense of foreboding hadn’t abated. Laura jumping out of a plane with seemingly little instruction or worry about the risk. Heaven knows what that crazy Roscoe might add to the mix.

  Out came the cold pitchers of beer, the moonshine in pickle jars, and the early announcement from Jim: “We has pecan pie today, ’sted a cobbler. Special made this morning.”

  The men were swapping war stories. The same tired old stories, Jenny thought. The war had ended ten years ago.

  “Say, Roscoe, you’ve taken a long time to catch up,” John needled. “While Roy and I were at the Battle of Verdun, you were working as a mechanic on dirigibles.”

  “Fella, you have that right,” Roscoe said with a grin. “I got a slow start. My daddy wanted me to be a farmer. Used to always say: ‘You’ll never be worth nuthin’ if you keep fooling around with things that burn gasoline instead of oats.’ So, John, Roy tells me that you’ve turned into something of a mechanic yourself.”

  “Close. I’m working for Cord designing new cars.”

  “I’ll be durned. I started out in love with cars and switched to planes. He that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not. Psalm 15:4. Speaking of the Bible, did anyone ever solve your old college mystery of the runaway man of the cloth?”

  John laughed. “The priest in St. Louis? I can’t believe you remember that after all these years.”

  “A Jesuit philosophy dean running off with a high school student he met at a lecture on Sigmund Freud?” Roscoe shook his head. “How could I forget? All the hocuspocus ingredients. So what happened?”

  “I don’t really know much. I just heard that he died in Germany a few years later, and the Jesuits brought his body back to St. Louis.”

  Laura leaned across the table to question Roscoe: “Germany? Just when was this?”

  “Beats me. Ask John or Roy. It’s their story.”

  “What did the woman look like?” she asked, turning to Roy.

  “I don’t know. Statuesque blonde. That’s all I ever heard.”

  Laura put her hand to her mouth, squinted, almost seemed to be having an argument with herself. “Blue eyes?” she asked.

  “Probably, if she was blond.” Roy shrugged. “I never saw the woman. This happened years before I ever got to college. It was still a campus legend. The Jesuit dean who ran off with a high school kid, scandal of the decade.”

  “Don’t you ever stop asking questions?” Jenny said. “Surely this ancient history can’t be of interest to anyone.” She’d been watching Laura’s reactions to this story and found them strange. And how had she been cajoled into that parachute jump? Jenny felt sure she’d glimpsed Laura in the hall this morning coming out of Roy’s room, but John had pooh-poohed her suspicions. “Don’t be silly. Maybe you saw her or someone else coming from the bathroom. Darling, there are people in the halls in the mornings.”

  “Look at this.” Laura was digging around in her handbag. She held up the picture of her mother and grandfather that she’d dropped in her purse as a last-minute thought before she left New York. “Could this be her?”

  “I have no idea,” Roy replied brusquely. “I never saw the woman. It was ten or fifteen years before my time.”

  After Laura insistently pushed the picture on him, he took a closer look at the fading photo in the waning light. “Good Christ,” he said, “that could certainly be Father Bernard, the Jesuit. Those high cheekbones. His picture was handed around from time to time in campus beer halls.”

  “Father Bernard?” Laura said, her mouth open, her hand gripping the side of Jim’s rough-hewn picnic table.

  “Why are you asking these questions?” Jenny said impatiently.

  “That’s my mother. But you’re wrong,” Laura’s tone was suddenly strident, defiant, emphatic, as she spit out the words, “the man can’t be her husband, he’s my grandfather.”

  Everyone at the table turned toward her in stunned silence. Jenny could hear the crickets chirping at the back of Jim’s field, pots and pans clinking in his wife’s kitchen. Laura looked from one to the other, blinking rapidly as though she had smoke in her eyes. She finally turned to Clem, her voice wavering. “Remember, your brother told you the story.”

  “That incident was around the turn of the century. The guy would be way too old to have been from around these parts.” Clem’s voice was soft, apologetic. “The Osage were moved here from Kansas only in 1871.” He went on to explain that in those earlier Kansas days, many of the Indian children were sent to mission schools run by nuns and overseen by Jesuits. “It would be a logical step,” he said, “for a boy sent off to Jesuits at a very young age to end up in one of their seminaries.”

  Whew, Jenny thought, that revelation took the air out of everyone’s exuberance, and based on a picture that no one really recognizes. Besides, who would want to touch the hot potato of grandfather versus father? She’d known the reporter would be trouble, but this was too bizarre. She impatiently watched as the others proceeded to get drunk. Laura was downing moonshine like an old hand, but said little. She had the furrowed brow of someone trying to solve an algebraic equation in her head.

  “We have a show to do tomorrow,” Jenny kept warning the men as they dipped back into the pickle jar. But no one paid any attention. She said nothing at all to Laura. Not that she was rude, she just didn’t have a clue what to say. She knew she should be using this opportunity to quiz Laura about her strange situation with
her mother, not knowing where she was from, not being able to tell the difference between her own father and grandfather. But good gracious, how could one ask such questions? Scandalous. The poor girl. What kind of life must she have had? Jenny thought of her own stiff banker father, and how at times he exasperated her with his rigid ideas of what was proper. But she couldn’t imagine her life without him. Without guidance, without a window on the larger world outside of home. Surely Laura’s mother wouldn’t have completely deprived her daughter of knowledge of her father? Didn’t make any sense.

  Staggering, most of them, they all finally climbed into Clem’s Pierce-Arrow and went back to the hotel to go to bed. Laura, unbeknownst to the others, headed straight for Roy’s room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  “Kiddo, I don’t know what to tell you,” Laura heard Roy saying as though from a long distance. “You’re the one who knows what your mother looks like, not me.” He shrugged. “The guy could be the Jesuit, no way for me to know for sure. And sorry to say, if he is, he could be your father. Or he could be your grandfather, as you keep insisting. He could be anybody. How am I supposed to know?”

  Laura was trying not to cry. Her head was spinning with the drink and the mystery. Sitting slumped on the bed in Roy’s room, she could see her dejected reflection in the mirrored dressing table against the opposite wall. A man’s silver-backed hairbrush resting on the table seemed to be growing from her left cheekbone, exaggerating its size, making it look square, totally blocking sight of her ear. The deformed image startled her, frightened her for a moment. High cheekbones! Who was she anyway? She must pull herself together. But she had to figure this out. Clem had said his family was embarrassed because the Jesuit was an Osage; he’d also said Laura looked Indian. Laura herself felt she looked like the man in the picture. But he must be her grandfather, she’d always believed that, had to believe that. Why was she driving herself crazy with this notion that her mother was the high school girl who ran off with the Jesuit? Because the picture was taken in St. Louis, because the time frame fit perfectly, because her mother would never tell Laura who her father was. She’d never, ever had a father, not even an image of one.