Airfield (8 page)

Moss, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but in here overhearing, ducks closer to what he's working on.

 

"Beatty," Clo says when I go back to our tourist cabin, "how could you?"

"I guess Grif called?"

"Mrs. Granger came by just to tell me." Tears well in my aunt's eyes. "Don't you know the trouble you've made?"

I try to tell her how I wish I could undo this whole afternoon, but she hurries through to the bedroom.

"Clo," I say, following. "I'm really sorry."

She goes around me and outside, no more ready than Grif to hear my apologies.

 

I learn what happens by eavesdropping. Or maybe that's not the right word, because I don't have to sneak and hide to listen, just take in what's being said around me.

I'm just grateful it doesn't include talk of involving Dad.

And Grif doesn't lose his job—I think because Mrs. Granger gets Mr. Granger to put in a placating word with Grif's division manager. But he is placed on probation, and he tells Clo, "Another slip and I'm out."

There's an unspoken understanding that I won't go anywhere near the airport, and in the next days I don't much know what to do with myself instead.

Clo and I pick out material and a pattern for lightweight dresses, but there's quiet between us as we lay out tissue, and pin and cut.

The girls come for me a couple of times, but I can't seem to enjoy myself much with them.

And when Moss appears at the door it's clear he's still bewildered by what I did—and maybe embarrassed for me, which is much worse.

"Millie doing OK?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"And you're still helping Grif?"

"Some, but Kenzie more. He got paid a tip the other day for a job we worked on together, and he gave me most of it. I sent half to Ma and bought me some food with the rest so I won't be so beholden to you all."

"I'm proud of you, Moss," I tell him, no idea how to get into the web of things I want to ask about, tell about, explain.

"Beatty," he says, his ears reddening the way they did when he brought me birthday flowers, "I miss seein' you at the airport."

"Yes ... well ... I guess I won't be going back."

 

I do wish I could undo things. I'd almost be willing to take a vow never to go up in a plane, if that would unwind the trouble I've caused.

I realize how precarious I've made things when Clo's sewing machine gets lowered into its case to clear space for a rented typewriter. Her eyes steady on a propped-up lesson book, she taps,
jjjj ffff jjjj ffff...bed red fed jut...

She's thinking she might have to go back to work and might need to earn more than she did as a file clerk.

Just watching her makes me angry, and, of course, I don't have anyone to be angry at except myself. Unless maybe it's Dad, who would have prevented me doing something so
stupid
if he'd just kept his promise.

Along with the regret and guilt, though, what surprises me is the loss I feel, the tug that gnaws whenever I hear an airplane engine overhead.

It's as though my days are marked off by the planes that fly regularly into Muddy Springs: the 6:00
A.M.
milk run, then the morning passenger flight heading east, and the afternoon one westbound. I go to sleep listening to the night mail plane come in.

With each engine sound I imagine what might be going on at the airport. I picture Grif working the desk, Moss washing the service truck, and Kenzie tinkering at his workbench. I hear the radio squeal and see the landing lights come on.

It makes no sense to care so much for a place I hardly know, but every time I think of it, I feel hollow.

I tell myself I should keep busy, move along the way I always have. Visit the malt shop. Grab a ride to the tank.

Or call Aunt Fanny and ask if she'll let me share her boardinghouse room until her own house is ready. I could sleep on the floor.

And I do actually get as far as the telephone in the tourist court office.

"Operator," I say, stretching on tiptoe to talk into the mouthpiece, "I'd like to place a long-distance call to Dallas." I give her the number of the insurance office where Fanny's got a temporary job. "And please let me know the charges."

It rings, and then Fanny herself answers, surprised to be hearing from me.

"Beatty, is something wrong?"

"I ... yes...," I begin. And then I can't go further. "No, Aunt Fanny. I just was going to write a thank-you note for my birthday watch and decided to call instead."

"It's an expensive way to say thank you, Beatty. But you're welcome."

I replace the receiver carefully and count out my pocket money while waiting for the operator to ring back with what I owe.

 

Dad finds out what I did when he gets his June 30 paycheck and sees he's been docked the cost of the fuel it took to return me to Muddy Springs. The next day he deadheads down from New York—comes all this way as a nonrevenue passenger on another pilot's flight—just to talk to me face-to-face.

"You were a fool, Beatty," he says, "taking a risk like you did, causing a plane to divert from its flight plan. Didn't you think how your actions might be dangerous to you and everyone on the plane?"

Dad gets more upset as he talks, his face becoming ruddy and his eyes glistening with held-in anger. "Flying's not some sport that always turns out right.

"And look what you did to Grif. He's got a hard-enough job being everything from radioman to dispatcher to ticket agent without you bringing his boss down on him."

Grif raises and drops his hands as though to say maybe things aren't quite as bad as Dad's making them out.

"Dad," I say, "Grif knows I'm sorry."

"Get your things packed, Beatty. I'm going to call Fanny and Maud and see if they can't work something out between them."

"You want me to leave Muddy Springs? Dad, I don't want to go."

But he's already walking to the tourist court office.

"Dad, wait ... Grif ... Clo?"

I grope for ideas, only coming up with a single, sorry one I realize isn't likely to be accepted—but I offer it anyway.

"Grif, Moss says he's not helping you so much now that Kenzie has him doing mechanic stuff. If I promise to do only what you tell me, will you let me take his place? I'll do any kind of work ... I'd like to make up for the trouble I've caused you."

Poor Grif: I can hear how it pains him to answer, "Beatty, I'm sorry."

 

I go to bed listening to the murmurs of Grif and Clo, murmurs still going on when I wake up in the middle of the night.

Of course, I was asking way too much.

Early the next morning, though, it's Grif who calls, "Some fried eggs, Beatty?"

"Where's Clo?" I ask.

"I let her sleep."

I'm squeezing us orange juice when he says, "About your idea. You've got to understand how important this airline job is to your aunt and me. If anything else goes wrong, whether it's my fault or not..."

"It's OK, Grif," I tell him. "I do understand."

"So, if I let you help out—which I can't unless my division manager at the airline says so—then..."

"But I thought..."
Is he saying what I think he is?
"Grif, you're considering it? You'd take that chance for me?"

"No, Beatty," he answers, "probably not. But I would for Clo, and it's what she's asked."

 

Later on I try to thank my aunt, but it's so hard I wind up offering a joke. "Clo, are you forgetting that the easy part of taking care of me is being able to send me on?"

She says, "It's easy only as long as you want to go."

***

Dad washes his hands of the whole decision.

"I told you only fools take unneeded risks, and here you're taking one with Grif's job. But I guess you're your mother's daughter."

"What do you mean by that?"

Clo steps between me and him, the quick temper she never shows for herself now flaring up. "And Beatty's also
your
daughter, Collin. Though staying on to fix what she's responsible for—that's not a trait she gets from you."

For a moment Dad stares stony faced at his sister, his anger apparent. Then his features suddenly relax. "I've got a flight to catch."

T
HE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY
, I ride to work with Grif. "Was it hard to get permission for me to do this?" I ask.

"I didn't exactly get it," Grif answers. "My division manager just agreed not to notice, as long as nothing happens he can't ignore. He said he has seven kids himself and every one of them's needed something sometime."

Oh.

"So," I ask, "what do I do first?"

"Golly, Beatty, I don't know. Usually Moss or I put up the flag and rake the walkway. Why don't you start with that?"

 

And then I clean out the flower bed and scour the grounds for trash and wash the outsides of the terminal windows. Moss tries to help, but I don't let him. "Doesn't Kenzie have something you can do?" I ask.

"Yes, but it ain't right, Beatty, you doin' this work."

"Moss," I tease, "are you worried I'm taking your job?"

"No." Moss sounds troubled. "But you're not ... Your people ain't ... This ain't ladies' work."

"You told me you never knew a girl to do shop work, either. Just what do the girls of your acquaintance do?"

He sees I'm kidding him, but he's still flustered. "I don't know, Beatty. But they weren't never none of 'em like you."

"And ain't none of the boys I ever knew like you, either."

"You're making fun of me."

"Yeah. Do you mind?"

"No."

 

"Now what?" I ask Grif.

"I don't know ... Here..." He hands me a notebook full of company bulletins. "Some of those cover the duties of ground personnel," he says. "Why don't you read though them and figure out for yourself what you can help with?"

I take the binder outside, where I find a nice shady patch of grass by the side of the terminal, get comfortable, and look to see what Grif's given me.

The bulletins don't seem to be arranged in any order, but paging through them I begin to glimpse the huge number of things an airline has to be concerned about.

I skim safety regulations regarding clearances of passenger flights, seeing things as shapeless as the weather defined in measured phrases: "visibility less than ... less than one thousand feet of ceiling..."

Flipping to the beginning of the notebook, I find instructions for providing courteous, efficient service. The second part of that memo is missing, though, and in its place are directions for preparing load manifests. After that comes a bulletin amending the clearance regulations I read about earlier.

Dang...
I smush a tiny red bug moving up my leg.
Well, at least I know my next project.

And finding Grif, I say, "How about if I put this operations manual in order? It seems pretty disorganized."

"Would you?" he asks, and the real appreciation in his voice makes me feel wonderful.

 

At lunchtime I go hunting for Moss but hang back when I see him at the workbench with a couple of men I don't know. Moss is busy filing on a metal part, nodding along while the two men visit.

Kenzie, coming by, says, "They're just crop dusters killing time with 'hangar flying.' Go on over."

I shake my head, suddenly shy.

"Suit yourself."

I eat my sandwich sitting on the concrete ramp area, leaning back against the terminal building. All but the last bite, anyway. Millie snatches that away.

"You know," I tell her, "a really well-trained dog wouldn't steal food. And where'd you appear from?"

She offers a length of belly for me to rub.

"Aren't you supposed to stay at the caboose when Moss is down here?"

She jabs me with a foot.

"OK, OK!"

But something on the landing field diverts her attention, and she races away. After flushing a bird that flies off, she chases it until she's almost out of sight.

Moss, joining me, laughs. "That crazy dog's gonna wear herself out. How come you ate without me? Kenzie said you come to the hangar and then left without saying nothing."

"
Anything.
"

"'Anything.' Beatty, you should of listened to those pilots. They was telling a story—"

"
Were
telling."

"Yeah. They
were
telling a story about this flight they was on—were on—when their engine conked and—"

"Moss, I'm sorry. I shouldn't keep correcting your grammar."

"I'm grateful." He looks at me kind of sideways. "I admire people not too proud to learn."

A man's voice behind us interrupts. "Are you Moss and Beatty?"

He's a cheerful-faced man, perspiring, in a straw hat and a business shirt and a tie. He says, "Thought I'd meet all this new help I've been hearing about. I'm Mr. Granger, by the way, and—"

He breaks off to exclaim, "Gol
darn
it! Look at those danged sheep. If I have told the ranchers around here once I have told them a thousand times, 'Keep your animals off the landing field. They are a hazard.'"

Millie has also spotted the band of ewes and lambs wandering onto the weedy hard-pack, and now she's running at them, a low-streaking blur of black and white. The confused animals dart this way and that, but Millie barks orders and nips at hooves until she's herded them off the field. Then she drops into a watchful crouch, appearing ready to defend the whole airport if they return.

"Well, gol
darn
it!" Mr. Granger repeats. "Ordinarily I don't want dogs on my airfield any more than I want sheep, but maybe I should hire that one."

Which, of course, he doesn't mean, but he doesn't chase her away, either.

"Well," I say to Moss after Mr. Granger's left, "it looks like you, Millie, and I all have jobs now."

"And not a one of us gettin' paid regular," he says.

I ask, "Do you mind?"

"Nope. Not so long as Kenzie and me keep gettin' enough tips so I can buy food and not take so much from you all. You?"

"I'm just glad to be here. And it's
Kenzie and I.
"