Barnstorm (5 page)

“Gone, just gone,” Deb said. “No good-byes, didn’t even pick up his paycheck. Took nothin’.”

Trip’s bunkroom was neat and clean. Socrates sat in his corner nest and quacked. The rapture could have emptied this room–a time capsule to a dreamer, a wanna-be pilot.

Buzz picked up a plastic airplane from the dresser. He had a choice of about a dozen. He picked the F-15 Strike Eagle he had flown in the Air Force. “Who would want this junk?” he smirked. “And what are we gonna do with that crazy duck?”

Socrates quacked.

Buzz handled a few items, looked at posters, pictures of exotic places pinned to the wall. “A real dreamer,” Buzz continued. “Do you have any duck recipes?”

Smarter than the average duck, Socrates protested violently. Quacked, flapped his wings.

“I couldn’t do that to Socrates,” Deb protested. “What did you say to make him pick up, vamoose?”

“I gave him some gentle, firm coaching. Never thought he’d run off.”

“Hope he’s okay. I’ll come back later today, box up all this stuff.”

They exited Trip’s room.

Buzz looked back toward Trip’s room and suggested, “Don’t box it up just yet. He’ll be fine. Might show up in a day or two.”

“Aren’t you Mr. Softie?” Deb teased.

☁ ☁ ☁

Gerty worked at the kitchen sink. As she peeled potatoes, she hummed or whistled, maybe a blend of the two if that were possible. She glanced up and looked out over the barnyard. Distracted by some rustling branches, her hum-whistle stopped for a moment. Must be the wind, she thought. She turned off the water, or more accurately, she tried to turn off the water. The slow drip that started a week ago Thursday had advanced into a steady stream that was becoming difficult to ignore. “Stubborn faucet,” she frowned. “Add it to the list.”

Had Gerty not turned away from the window to fill Zack’s water bowl, she would have seen Trip wander aimlessly in the barnyard. Farmers rarely get aimless wanderers out in the country. Decades ago, the Fuller Brush man, Watkins, Raleigh, and the local Avon lady might stop by, unannounced. But they weren’t aimless. They wanted to sell something. Trip fit the definition of aimless. He had no other purpose than escaping from the woods. Trip paused beside an apple tree near the broken gate that was on Gerty’s list of things to fix.

Gerty had returned to the kitchen sink. Her hum-whistle wafted out the kitchen sink window toward the barnyard. She cocked her head again. This wasn’t rustling wind. She definitely heard something.

The hum-whistle was replaced by the kitchen screen door bouncing closed. She had exited onto the side porch. And she was not alone. Mr. Remington was at her side. Her late husband Lester used to say, “Gonna grab Mr. Remington and go shoot some rabbits.” Mr. Remington was pump-action and could hold five, twelve-gauge shotgun shells. Farmers didn’t need security systems. If a suspected prowler needed encouragement to leave the premises, all that was required was to stand outside and work the pump-action on Mr. Remington. It wasn’t even necessary to fire a warning shot. The shunk - shunk sound of the pump-action did the trick.

Lower branches in Gerty’s apple tree jiggled, an apple fell. She moved cautiously from the side porch to the lawn beside the tree. She spat to the side. “Raccoon!” she exclaimed. “Sic ‘em, Zack.”

Zack barked aggressively at the base of the tree. Gerty held the shotgun at her hip. She moved closer to the tree, shotgun now propped beside her hip, angled at the top of the tree. “Outta my apple tree you varmint,” she ordered.

Shunk - shunk. Boom. Gerty shot one round into the top of the apple tree. Leaves exploded. Trip surrendered his hiding place from behind the tree. This was no raccoon. Zack barked.

Holding a half-eaten apple, hands raised above his head, shaking, Trip exclaimed, “Don’t shoot!”

“You’re no raccoon,” Gerty said. “Yer lucky I didn’t blow yer guts out. Got nothin’ better to do than steal an old woman’s apples?”

Trip reached for his wallet. He desperately patted his pant and shirt pockets for something that was buried under some leaves in the woods. Still shaken, he said, “I’ll pay. I’ll pay.”

“Settle down. What’s yer name, young fella?” Gerty asked as she leaned her shotgun against the fence. Trip was still in shock.

He continued to search his pockets.

“Crime-a-nitly Zack. Scared him so bad he can’t even remember his name.” Gerty noticed Buzz on his work shirt. “Alright, Buzz?”

Zack’s barking could no longer be ignored. Bending down, Trip did his Socrates hypno-magic routine on Zack. Zack stopped barking, sat quietly, panted, tongue out. Speechless, Trip wondered, why is she calling me Buzz?

Gerty was now the one puzzled and questioned, “Hey, what did you do to Zack? Where you from?”

“I’m from nowhere. Just dropped in, lady.”

“You need a job? I knew it. Manna from heaven. Felt it in my bones.”

“Huh?” Trip pondered, what the heck is manna?

Gerty’s usual measured speech pattern was shelved as she rattled, “Look here Buzz, the pay isn’t so hot. Gotta sleep in the barn room. Food’s good. Actually better than good. You any good with a hammer?” Gerty didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed both of his hands, pulled him toward her, and noticed that most fingers were bandaged. “Look here Zack, opposable thumbs.”

Zack barked.

“Hungry? Not too late to fry up an egg. Fresh, pulled them out from under the hens yesterday. Teach ya ‘bout that later.”

Gerty pushed Trip up the porch steps and into her kitchen. She put her hands on Trip’s shoulders to welcome him into a chair at the table. She noticed that the back of his head was a bloody mess. She gently touched his head.

Evidently not gently enough as Trip jerked in pain, “Yeoch!” he yelped.

“What’s this, boy? Let’s get you cleaned up.” Gerty wet a dish towel and cleaned the wound. “Nasty bump ya got there, Buzz.”

Trip had that puzzled look one has when unlubricated brain gears grind. He knew exactly how he got this bump on the head. Somehow, a long dissertation about jumping from a smoke-filled airplane didn’t seem helpful at this moment. He couldn’t imagine anything positive coming from traipsing through the woods to show this old woman with a shotgun the orange parachute dangling from one of her trees. What would be the point?

Trip considered his next move. She thinks I’m Buzz. If Buzz were actually here, he’d fire me. She thinks I’m Buzz. I have no place to go. Okay, I’m Buzz, until I figure things out.

A new Buzz was born.

It was another typical day at the Sky Gypsy Café. Liar Flyers held court at the lunch counter. It wasn’t a skydiving day, so that hustle-bustle and adrenaline wouldn’t show up in earnest until the weekend. Socrates waddled around in search of his best friend. Bomber and Hooker had their theories about Trip’s sudden disappearance. Crash was too busy maneuvering a toothpick around his few remaining teeth to focus on much else.

“Don’t know. Nobody knows,” said Deb, flipping eggs at the flattop.

As if he knew, Bomber opined, “Zap. Off the face of the earth. Just like Gladys, that floozy in Detroit, 1948.”

Not one to let bad facts go uncorrected, Hooker insisted, “Gladys, 1949. Cleveland. Yep, 1949.”

Building on that foundation of highly doubtful misinformation, Crash added, “Off to Portland–knocked up.”

Bomber and Hooker surrendered their hands as if, not me. They might have averted direct eye contact had one of the scores of other alleged ladies been named. They seemed fairly certain they weren’t the fathers of the progeny of Gladys. At least the aforementioned Cleveland Gladys. In 1949.

Deb tried not to bite at the endless lures cast her way by the

Liar Flyers fishing off her dock. She knew when she was being played. Some of the womanizing exploits, subtle or blatant, were hard to ignore. “That’s it,” she succumbed. “Trip is pregnant.”

Buzz entered the cafe from the hangar. “Who is pregnant?”

When the three Liar Flyers all pointed to Deb at the same time, Buzz knew better than to continue this line of discussion. He stepped to the end of the counter and motioned for Deb to come a little closer. “Any sign of Trip yet?”

Deb shook her head, “Nope, sorry.”

“I’m a little concerned. Three days is unusual. Even for him.”

☁ ☁ ☁

Later that evening, in the next county, only about twenty miles away from the Sky Gypsy Café, a car pulled in Gerty’s driveway. The headlights illuminated the long, gravel lane.

Gerty sat at the kitchen table, writing in a journal. She heard a car door slam. Unconcerned, deep in thought, Gerty looked off into nothingness, jotted down another line. The kitchen screen door bounced as someone knocked.

“It’s open,” Gerty invited.

Maggie announced her presence, “Yoo-hoo.” She entered the kitchen with a fresh-baked pie under a dish towel. A forty-something, flirtatious, buxom woman, she surveyed the kitchen. She poked her head into the living room, searching for the new hired hand. Attractive, particularly her infectious smile, she could lose a pound or two. Or forty. Obviously disappointed in her failure to locate Trip, she peered over Gerty’s shoulder.

“Sit a spell, Maggie. Coffee’s fresh.”

Maggie looked around, held the pie up as if sniffing.

“Sure, one more cup won’t hurt. So. . .”

“Pull in the radar, Maggie. He went to bed early, had a rough week. A bit confused. He’s gettin’ better every day though.”

Maggie took a seat and set the pie on the table. “Now, Gerty, I came here ‘cause I know rhubarb is your favorite. Any idea how stressful it is to walk a pie through that screen door, knowin’ you’re the best darn cook in the county?”

Gerty finished writing one last sentence. Maggie went to the Hoosier, removed two pie plates, placing them on the table. She returned to the Hoosier, grabbed another journal from a stack of half-a-dozen. As Gerty cut the pie, Maggie waved the student notebook as if seeking permission. She joined Gerty at the table.

Responding to Maggie’s request, Gerty agreed, “Fine by me, just us girls. Reams of personal stuff no one really cares about.”

Maggie crossed her heart promising, I’ll never tell. “You still doin’ this?”

Gerty took a bite, shook her fork acknowledging that the pie was good. “Yep. There’s a trunk in the attic full of these wayward musings. Good pie. Come in second to mine at the county fair.”

“Musings?” Maggie said as she flipped through some pages. “I’m embarrassed to confess that’s a new word to me.”

“Musings. Mind journeys,” Gerty responded.

“Hum, musings. Don’t hear hifalutin’ words like musings ‘round these parts,” as Maggie faked a dumbed-down hillbilly accent.

Even Gerty had to chuckle. Maggie and Gerty had been neighbors for five years. Maggie had returned to her father’s farm when he died, thinking she would get things in order and settle his affairs. An only child, one thing led to another with Maggie staying for the long haul. She couldn’t bring herself to sell the family farm. Gerty was a kindred spirit who helped Maggie negotiate the pitfalls of running a farm. They had grown close, become confidants. Maggie continued to thumb through the journal, eating pie.

Gerty nodded another compliment about the rhubarb as she continued, “After college, thought I’d write a book. Then Lester, the farm, Luke. One thing, then another. Before ya know it, all of today’s tomorrows slip into yesterdays.”

“Musings.” Maggie turned the pages slowly and read aloud:

There’s an old covered bridge back home,

Where we carved our names in wood.

Where the stream of life flows by,

Where I’d dunk you if I could.

Ten thousand miles away,

A soldier so far from home.

Where freedom takes a stand,

Where we feel so all alone.

I’m fishing in my dreams, from that bridge so far away,

I’m really not alone, ‘cause I hear you as you say:

Come home and we’ll stroll along the meadow past the ridge,

And the slow, cool stream to that old covered bridge.

Back home, back home, back home.

As the chaplain said some words,

I no longer felt alone.

Someone took me by the hand,

To finally take me home.

One last time, to that old covered bridge back home.

Maggie stopped reading and swallowed twice to gather her emotions. Both ladies avoided eye contact.

Toss my ashes to the wind,

On that lazy stream below.

I’m home again to rest,

By that old covered bridge back home.

Home, to finally rest at home.

Maggie sifted through more pages and asked, “Mind if I take this, read some more?”

“Fine by me. Kind of boring stuff actually.”

They silently finished their pie, enjoying the company.

Hillsboro, Ohio had those maple-shaded streets that cooled the soul. The kind of small, Midwestern town where, if someone forgot his bank balance–ask a neighbor–he knows. Everyone knew about Gerty’s pending foreclosure. A church on every corner and small shops struggling ever since Walmart came to town. In the Highland County seat, the town square courthouse sported a clock-tower spire.

A new Mercedes pulled in front of the First National Bank, parking in a handicap space. Mr. Wiley Robinson, a mid-forties, arrogant, big-city hotshot in an expensive business suit, got out of the Mercedes. A twenty-something young photographer, camera around his neck, also exited. The photographer eyed the handicap sign, shrugged his shoulders, and started to climb the steps to the bank.

Robinson put a hand in the photographer’s chest. “Stay here, sit,” he ordered.

A basset hound would have been treated with more respect. He pointed to a bench in front of the bank. The photographer meekly sat, pulled out his iPhone to pass the time. He bounced his leg impatiently.

Small-town banks all looked alike. Hardwood floors, two story ceilings, open office seating behind a brass railing for simple transactions. It used to have iron bar cages atop a long, oak counter that separated customers from the tellers. Bank President Mel Smith had the cages removed a few years ago. Thought it made the bank more accessible. Now customers bellied-up to the oak counter. Kinda like ordering a sarsaparilla in an old-fashioned drug store. The town was split 50/50/50 over removal of the iron bar cages. Fifty percent liked the old traditional, nostalgic look. Fifty percent felt closer to their money without the cages. Another fifty percent frankly didn’t care.

Mel Smith’s office was beyond the bank tellers next to the walk-in safe. ‘Branch Manager’ was stenciled on the frosted glass of his office door. The faded lettering of ‘President’ was still visible. The title change, a not-so-subtle demotion, had nothing to do with Mel’s competence. Sixty years old, forty of them holed-up in the bank, he was respected and honored throughout the county. He and his bank were there for the common folks during good times and bad. The ‘Branch Manager’ snub had everything to do with the acquisition by the cold and impersonal bank holding company. He had not wanted to sell out, but the board thought the time was right. High finance was now global. To survive, a close vote resulted in Hillsboro losing control of its last, small bank.

Wiley Robinson was a hard charging senior executive from the home office who had deserved his first name from the day he was born. He was slick and ruthless and didn’t care how many orphans he crushed on his rise to the top. He wouldn’t know what ‘common folk’ looked like. This small-town bank, where the board members were farmers, merchants, and the local funeral director, was now owned and run by the big boys in Cleveland.

Mel’s secretary, Dorothy, was at her desk between his office and the board conference room. In her late twenties, attractive, and efficient in anticipating her boss’s day, she was generally a step ahead of him. Ignoring her completely, Robinson charged straight into the conference room. Mel Smith gracefully excused himself from one customer, skirted his way past a protracted hello with another, and bent down, delivering a lollipop from his suit pocket to a young depositor. He finally made it to the conference room.

“Took you long enough,” Robinson quipped.

Large plat maps covered the conference room table. Robinson took charge, leaning over maps, he stabbed a specific property with his index finger.

Mel had his arms folded across his chest in classic defensive posture. Dorothy entered with a tray of china cups. “Thanks, Dorothy,” Mel said.

Robinson totally ignored Dorothy, the dictionary definition of rude.

“Cream, sugar? Mr. Robinson?” Dorothy asked.

Still the center of his own universe, Robinson emphatically focused, “This one right here. We need this one. Whole deal, gone, without this one.” He slapped the map vigorously to indicate the most important property.

Polite to a fault, Dorothy repeated, “Sir? Cream, sugar?”

“Leave us, please. And shut the door behind you.”

Local banker Mel looked at Dorothy apologetically. Dorothy bit her lower lip and left the conference room.

Erroneously thinking that a little local flavor might make this meeting a tad more tolerable, Mel volunteered, “That’s the old

Murphy farm. Gertrude Murphy runs it–all by herself. Puts her heart and soul into that place. She’ll never sell.”

“Everyone has a price.”

Knowing that it wouldn’t do any good, Mel still felt compelled to add, “Gertrude Murphy is not ‘everyone’.”

“Spare me,” Robinson smirked. “You hold the mortgage. My research group says she’s late on her payments.”

Sounding more sheepish than the words felt when first formed, Mel said, “Gerty’s good for it. Sure, she might be four or five months behind; but, corn crop this year gets her close to current.”

Recognizing a lamb ready for the slaughter, Robinson ordered, “Foreclose, now. Before the crop comes in.”

“This isn’t the big city, Mr. Robinson. Wouldn’t sit well with folks from ‘round these parts.”

Robinson stared down the overmatched yokel banker, saying, “When that freeway off-ramp is announced by the State Transportation Department, development in this entire area is going to skyrocket. I’m not missin’ out on this golden opportunity. Narrow window to make a killing. I got screwed on one of these last year. Never again. She owes forty thousand dollars. No way am I losin’ out on millions because of some nobody, down-home folk from ‘round these-here parts.”

The mimic of Mel’s rural upbringing didn’t sit well, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He knew that Cleveland was all-in on this and he wasn’t holding any of the cards.

Robinson continued, “Foreclose. Now. You seem to forget that we acquired your lousy, worthless bank. Your time is up.”

Mel finally found a crack of an opening. Clearing his throat, meekly he said, “Not quite that easy Mr. Robinson. Contract says we give thirty days’ notice, then another thirty days before a foreclosure is finalized.”

“Then I suggest we start the clock ticking.” Robinson packed up his briefcase. This meeting was over.

Options now closed to him, and probably Gerty as well, Mel tried one last time, “But-”

Quick on the take-down, Robinson cut him off, “--But nothing. Call Sheriff Bubba, or whoever the hick constable is in this one-horse town and schedule a sheriff’s sale. Sixty days.”

Turning to exit, Robinson whirled around, pointing a finger at Mel, and in no uncertain terms said, “Lousy, backwater banker. Courthouse steps. Sixty days. Or you are fired!”

Alone, former bank president Mel Smith, slumped shoulders, leaned both hands on the plat maps on the table. The demoted Branch Manager lowered his head in defeat.

Robinson strutted directly to his Mercedes. He removed the parking ticket from his windshield. With zero to negative emotion, he tore it in half, and dropped it to the ground. Finding the photographer on the bench, iPhone to face, leg still bouncing, he yelled, “You coming or you want to walk?”