Barnstorm (9 page)

Gerty zipped around the kitchen, clearing the dinner dishes. Trip helped ferry the serving bowls to the counter. Eyeing the leftover pot roast, he envisioned the next day’s cold, lunchtime roast beef sandwiches. Deb was the best cook he’d known. However, Gerty could put the Sky Gypsy Café out of business in three days.

“You don’t need to help clean up,” Gerty insisted.

“Great supper,” Trip said as he had learned to ignore Gerty’s daily admonition. “What’s the secret to your cooking?”

“First rule, never answer that question. Then garlic, butter, an onion, and always a little more garlic.”

Trip reached under the table and pulled out a shopping bag. While Gerty was busy at the kitchen sink, Trip set the brown paper package in Gerty’s place at the kitchen table. When she turned around, holding two coffee cups, she saw Trip, all smiles.

Sliding his coffee cup across the table, Gerty remarked, “And, what’s with the goofy grin?”

“Happy birthday!”

Her limp leg almost betrayed her as she balanced her cup and saucer and pulled out her chair. Finally settled, with the package in front of her, she gave Trip a pat on the back of his hand.

“Go ahead, aren’t you going to sing?” she quizzed.

As she explored the plain brown package before her, Trip stumbled through one of the worst renditions of Happy Birthday she’d ever heard. No matter. The sound of ripping brown paper somewhat drowned out Trip’s concluding chorus. Removing the dress, Gerty clutched it to her chest, then buried her face in the fabric. Trip wasn’t sure, but this last maneuver probably masked a tear.

Wobbling to her feet, Gerty sashayed around the kitchen table, holding her new prize tight under her chin. Modeling her new dress, she stopped directly behind Trip; hands on his shoulders, she kissed him on the top of his head. Embarrassed beyond description, Trip blushed a new redness in his cheeks.

“Aren’t you nice,” Gerty broke the tension. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Trip whimpered, as he rose to clear more dishes from the table.

“Stop,” Gerty ordered. “Leave the dishes. This is my favorite time of day. Come.”

Re-filling both coffee cups, Gerty led the way, through the living room, and out onto the front porch. A single, yellow bug light swallowed only a smidge of the darkness. Before television, before radio, families talked. In parlors. On front porches. The joys of the day were reviewed. Crop rotations were planned. Crickets serenaded. Bull frogs romanced. Dusk cooled the heat of the day.

Gerty settled heavily into her wicker rocking chair. Trip parked himself on the top step, back resting against a post he had painted only a week before. The white spindles of the railing still had that new smell that only a can of paint could provide. The silence of the early evening had a rhythm. Crickets, bull frogs, and the creak of Gerty’s rocker. The click of Gerty’s china cup and saucer as she set them on the porch railing at her elbow.

Gerty fished a pouch of chewing tobacco from her calico apron. Trip never quite understood how this farm lady of some grace and upbringing could have such a disgusting habit. He’d seen plenty of old, slobbering farmers at the airstrip spitting chaw in Deb’s cups and glasses. He’d even had to clean up some of the mess. A small pinch now assaulting Gerty’s gums and cheek, she glanced over at Trip and captured his grimace.

“Well, Gertrude Murphy,” she exclaimed. “Where are your manners?”

Folding over the edges of the foil pouch, she tossed the chewing tobacco to Trip, hitting him in the chest. Not exactly a clean catch, Trip fumbled and furled his brow at Gerty as if pondering, really?

“Come on, Buzz,” she laughed. “Man up.”

Challenged, Trip thought he best not back down. He knew Gerty well enough after their first month together to figure that the abuse heaped on him by the Liar Flyers at the airstrip would pale by comparison to Gerty’s daily ribbing if he chickened out now. He opened the pouch and removed a huge wad of this revolting cancer delivery vehicle. He held it up, pinched between his thumb and index finger to gain Gerty’s approval.

“No, no.” she coughed. “Much too much. Just a pinch. I’d have to call Maggie to give you CPR.”

Wrinkling his nose, Trip failed at his first attempt. Sporting only one Band-Aid, he finally succeeded in placing the chaw in his mouth. Chewing slowly, as if his jaw were rusted shut like the Tin Man’s in The Wizard of Oz, he held back a choke that dribbled some brown ooze out the corner of his mouth. He was clearly struggling. Gerty grimaced as she saw him turn as green as a cucumber. She leaned across and placed her coffee cup directly under Trip’s chin.

“Alright, son,” she winced. “I can’t bear it.”

Rejecting the chaw-blob into her cup, he pronounced, “My God, it’s horrid.”

“You get used to it.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why would anyone want to get used to it? I understand trying it once–I just did. But why? Why do it a second time?”

Gerty arched a well-placed spit over the porch railing. Shaking her head, she enjoyed one of the best laughs she’d had in ages. It took Trip a while to appreciate the humor in his plight. Wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve, he finally offered a feeble chuckle. Even the bull frogs and crickets seemed to agree that the episode was funny. Dancing fireflies signaled their approval as well. It wasn’t clear whether the creaking came from Gerty’s wicker rocker or the porch boards massaging each other under her feet. In any case, this was how farm evenings were supposed to be.

Trip finally broke the silence, “Gerty. Somethin’ I been meaning to tell you.”

“Yeah?”

“My past. I’m not who you think I am.”

“You on parole?”

“No.”

“Abandon your kids? Run over a dog?”

Fumbling to get started, Trip began again, “I’m embarrassed. Left something behind.”

Abandoning the humor, Gerty recognized that Trip was trying to say something important. “Do you need to fix it?” she asked.

“Don’t know. It’s a little confusing,” he admitted.

“Some things fix themselves. If not, if it needs fixed–fix it. You’ll know when.”

Puzzled, Trip asked, “That’s it?”

“You seem like a straight arrow. ‘Lot like my son. You’ll know when.”

“Nice evening,” Trip said. While he hadn’t fully confessed, he found comfort that he’d at least broken the ice. “Farm’s quiet at night.”

“Lester and I would sit here, reflect on our day. Sit on that step, hold hands. Watch our little boy run, catching fireflies. That oak tree there? He could leap for the sky from that swing.”

“Your son. What was your son’s name?”

“Luke. His name is Luke.”

“How old was he? How old when he. . .” Trip trailed off, he couldn’t finish the question.

“Still hard to talk about,” as she looked out over the front yard. “Twenty-nine. Thought we’d never be blessed with a child. Not that we didn’t try,” she added with a wry smile. “Then just when we’d given up, Lord gave us Luke. Buried him two years ago. Seems like yesterday. He was twenty-nine.”

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry.” Trip shifted his weight against the porch post awkwardly.

“First Luke, then Lester six months later. I think Lester gave up, died of a broken heart. Damn Afghanistan. One day, like in the movies. Lester and I, sitting right here on this porch.”

Gerty seemed ready to talk now. She had suppressed her feelings and not voiced anything meaningful for a long time. She had come close a few times with Maggie. But her true sorrow was contained in her writing. Her journals. Strange, how this clumsy oaf of a wanna-be pilot had drawn Gerty out.

“It was Indian summer, a warm, September afternoon,” she continued. “Iced tea, fresh mint from the garden. Ford Crown Vic pulls up the lane. Strange how the details come back. Crown Vic, not a Buick. When that young Marine officer stepped out of that Crown Vic, Lester and I just stared at each other. Never forget the look in Lester’s eyes. He knew. I didn’t want to believe it, but the emptiness in my stomach, the almost instant ache in my heart. I knew it, too. Navy Chaplain, holding a black Bible. I guess all, most Bibles are black. Local Pastor Jones was with them. Poor Zack. . . old Zack didn’t even bark. Tucked his tail and plopped his chin on the porch. Even Zack knew.”

She looked up at Trip with a quizzed brow. “Ever been to a military funeral?”

Trip slowly shook his head no.

“Like Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities–it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I still shudder when I recall the honor guard, those rifles. Smell of that gunpowder might have been Luke’s last whiff of life when his Humvee hit that IED.”

There. She’d said it out loud. IED. She swore she’d never utter those letters again. She’d said IED and Luke in the same sentence. Connected her son to that evil. Trip had never experienced anything like this moment. A new friend had confided in him. Life. Death. Love. His life at the Sky Gypsy Café might as well have been on Mars. Had he really traveled this far?

Gerty continued, “Flag-draped coffin. Military graveside. Then the flag. That flag so carefully folded. Marine salutes, bends at the waist in front of me. His white gloves, whiter than a new Christmas snow. I can hear Lester breathing. I can hear my own heart pounding in my ears. Then those words: On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s service to Country and Corps.”

Trip moved closer to Gerty, sat on the porch railing at her shoulder.

“Country and Corps. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. But I’ll never forget those words. Then, Taps. How that soldier is able to play Taps day in, day out? Then silence. No one wanted to be the first to move. A touch of wind stirs the first fall leaves from a maple tree. Leaves gently tumble across the green cemetery grass. Maple tree. Not an oak. Crown Vic. Not a Buick. The details, so clear. I close my eyes, remember Luke’s crooked little grin. God permits me the pleasure and memory of those details most of all. Country and Corps.”

Shaking his head, Trip offered, “Wish I knew what to say.”

“Whew,” Gerty smiled at Trip. “I haven’t been down that Crown Vic lane in quite a while. Still happens, every day. Another mom, a wife, husband, girlfriend. And the kids. Oh, dear God, the kids. I just want to hold them, tell them it will be alright.”

“And, are you alright? Still need fixed?”

“Close my eyes, see my Luke, catching fireflies. Parachuting from that swing? Yes, I’m getting there. I’m close to alright. Takes time. I’m an old woman. Been to too many funerals. We shouldn’t focus so much on the sorrow and the loss. It’s important to remember something grand and glorious is at work–focus on that.”

Not recalling a similar, serious conversation quite like this, Trip reflected, “Never thought of death quite that way.”

With a renewed firmness in her resolve, Gerty concluded, “I’m going to figure out a way to keep this farm. For Luke, for Lester, darn it. For me. For me.”

Trip let this last resolution, this promise settle into the night. He nodded agreement.

“Bedtime, Buzz,” Gerty said. “It’s late. County fair tomorrow. Up at dawn.”

Gerty reached in her apron, pulled out the pouch of chewing tobacco and tossed it to Trip. He caught it cleanly, considered the offer for only a moment and lobbed it back to Gerty.

“Good night, Mrs. Murphy.”

Stepping off the porch into the cool darkness, Trip walked across the barnyard. He heard the porch boards voice their friction under Gerty’s rocker. Her wistful humming of Taps was accompanied by the symphony of crickets and bull frogs. An owl swooped low over the garden, announcing its ownership of the night.

The first day of county fair week was like no other day. Months, in many cases a year of preparation culminated in this day. This day’s activities started before sunrise. The pickup truck had only been half-loaded and the full moon still cast shadows. Gerty’s limp disappeared, if only for one morning. The pickup truck was packed with the precision of a space launch. A one-foot layer of fresh straw was scattered to provide protection and cushioning for the precious cargo that the truck springs and shock absorbers had long since abandoned. Trip nestled boxes of canning jars of jams, preserves, pickles, and beets into the golden wheat straw. Newborn babies weren’t coddled with care any more lovingly.

The kitchen-side porch, cleared of Gerty’s prize-winning cargo, was now ready for her grand entrance. The screen door opened. Gerty graced the porch in her new dress. She paused, did a quick spin worthy of a Paris model on a Milan fashion runway. The grand empress of the Highland County Fair was ready for battle. No one had ever won more blue ribbons than Gertrude Murphy. Many competitors had retired, or more correctly– given up.

Eyeing the fashion show on the side porch, Trip exclaimed, “My, my. Won’t you be the prettiest lady at the county fair?”

Only slightly embarrassed, Gerty responded, “You hush up, let’s get to it. We’ve got some blue ribbons to win.”

Gerty bounded down the steps as Trip hustled to open her door.

“Your carriage awaits, m’lady.”

Other than muttering a few expletives when she hit unseen potholes on the country roads to the Highland County seat, the ride to the fairgrounds was uneventful. Trip now understood why Gerty was so insistent that the foot of straw in the back had to be arranged ‘her way.’ Gerty’s ‘way’ was not to be challenged. Life was easier that way. Besides, the list of instances where Gerty had been wrong were few and far between.

Destination arrived. Gerty stopped the truck at the fairgrounds entry gate. Puzzled at the white paint blob on the truck hood, the ticket steward barely glanced at Gerty and Trip’s fair passes.

“Howdy, Gerty,” he greeted. “I see ya painted yer truck.”

“It’s a long story, Floyd,” she smirked as she threw an accusatory glance at Trip.

“So, ya gonna give my wife a chance to win best pumpkin pie this year?”

“In your dreams, Floyd.”

“Don’t know why anyone else bothers,” Floyd admitted. “They might as well give you all that prize money right now.”

Gerty flashed her crooked grin and slowly eased her treasure-loaded pickup truck into the excitement of fair setup day.

The Highland County Fair was typical of Midwestern farm exhibitions. Barn upon barn housed animals of every variety. The usual hogs, cattle, and sheep had been expanded to include alpacas and llamas. Gerty thought that was a waste of time. The only people making any money from alpacas and llamas were those selling them to naïve farmers thinking they would become breeders and sellers to other farmers gullible enough to think they could enter this circular business model and become rich. At least this woolly pyramid Ponzi scheme had a cute face.

Trip marveled at the crowd that greeted Gerty’s arrival at the Grange Exhibit Hall. Even with the help of neighbor farmers, it took three trips to empty the pickup truck. Gerty was in charge. Trip knew he was the lackey, the labor. He handed her canned jars and tried to stay out of the way. She was meticulous in how she arranged her entries on the display table. She shifted the quilt on her display rack three times. The murmur, chatter of other exhibitors betrayed their spying on Gerty. Pleasantries were exchanged. Even though they knew it to be futile, lots of ladies, dressed similar to Gerty in their floral-prints, prayed for the year when they might sneak through and win a blue ribbon.

Maggie entered and flashed her eye lashes at Trip, “Hello there, swim boy.”

“Mornin’, Maggie,” Trip blushed.

Gerty whispered an aside to Trip, “I suggest you run for it while you can. Try not to kill any animals.”

Gerty stepped between Maggie and Trip, distracting her, giving Trip a much appreciated head start. Directing Maggie’s attention toward a jar of beets, Gerty asked, “What do you think, Maggie? Which looks better in the front? These blood-red beets or the green of the dill pickles?”

“Gertrude Murphy, you and I both know you don’t need any advice on how to win blue ribbons. You’re tryin’ to keep me away from Buzz.”

Squinting into the bright morning sunlight at the Grange Hall main entrance, Maggie looked after Trip. He had escaped. Temporarily defeated, she weaved her way through the farm implement exhibits. She shook her head at the sheer size of the hardware and the price tags. She and Gerty had farm equipment, tractors, plows, discs. All at least thirty years old. This new stuff had price tags of half-a-million dollars, or more.

She eyed a John Deere salesman demonstrating an ATV Gator to an elderly gentleman. Sitting astride this off-road contraption, the old man was having trouble figuring out the four-wheel drive lever. Maggie covered her mouth to control her laugh, thinking, this guy should stick with his 1959 Buick. Turning her back, she thought she caught a glimpse of Trip ducking into a Port-o-Let. Trapped. He couldn’t escape now. And even Trip wouldn’t hide for long in a temporary outhouse. Pig sties smelled better.

Maggie decided to wait him out. After only a minute or two, the Port-o-Let door opened. It was not Trip. Avoiding an awkward shoulder-rub with a guy who obviously had not washed his hands, Maggie decided to cover her tracks. It would appear strange to have waited outside this non-porcelain convenience and then wander off. She entered the green one-seater and locked the door.

She should have wandered off. The John Deere salesman finally succeeded in instructing Mr. Old-Man-ATV how to negotiate the four-wheel drive lever. He failed to instruct the gray-haired grandpa as to which foot pedal operated the brakes. No sooner had Maggie locked the door, the Gator ATV lurched forward and crashed into the Port-o-Let. The fiberglass outhouse wobbled as Mr. Old-Man-ATV fumbled with the controls. Bang. Thump. Bang. The ATV repeatedly hit the front of the green poop shack. Bang again, the oversized knobby front tires did what they were designed to do–climb. Now angled at a forty-five degree angle on the front door, the weight of the ATV won the battle.

Maggie’s scream from inside confirmed that the power of the ATV had succeeded in toppling the Port-o-Let onto its back. Mr. Old-Man-ATV fell off the ATV and crawled under the safety of a nearby hay bailer. The ATV rolled onto its side, wheels pawing at nothingness. Spinning in the air. The John Deere salesman found the off switch and quieted the scene. He would not find Maggie’s off switch so easily.

Dark green, disinfectant fluid was dripping from the Port-o-Let. Or possibly the Jolly Green Giant had eaten too much of something very unsettling. Not designed to rest on its back, the fiberglass outhouse started to split at the seams. Rivets popped. Maggie fumbled with the lock above her head and kicked the door open. A prairie dog raises its head from a desert floor more confidently than Maggie did. When she saw the assembled crowd of onlookers, faster than any prairie dog, she ducked back down into the collapsed wreck of fiberglass. One more peek revealed that a photographer from the local newspaper was focusing his camera. She had no choice. Before the photographer could create his front-page Pulitzer masterpiece, Maggie pulled the Port-o-Let door closed over her head. She would stay here all fair week if it kept her picture out of the paper. Her whimper became a full-fledged cry as she pumped hand sanitizer onto her arms and legs.

☁ ☁ ☁

Sights, sounds, and smells bombarded his senses as Trip explored the fairgrounds. It was hard to rank the smells. Challengers for top smells varied by who was doing the smelling. Popcorn, cotton candy, roasted peanuts, French fries, grilled sausage and onions. Contenders all. Trip settled on roasted peanuts.

Bringing up the rear on the smell index was a tossup between the sheep barn and the poultry barn. Maggie probably earned an honorable mention. Cracking peanut shells in his mouth, Trip looked up at the poultry sign above the exhibit barn. Taking one step forward, he lost his nerve and concluded, no way am I going in there. Trip still had images of Thunderbolt’s talons gouging at his eyes. The smell of chicken feathers and dander made his skin crawl. Turning on his heels, he decided to explore the midway.

Smells were replaced by sights and sounds. The collision of merry-go-round calliope, drums, and bells with the high-pitched squeal of children created a dissonance that challenged the ear. Each sound, heard individually might have been acceptable. The combination was best avoided, much too screechy. Fingernails on a blackboard sounded better than this out of tune calliope.

Finishing his bag of roasted peanuts, Trip followed his nose toward the cotton candy. While he was waiting in line, the Ferris Wheel captured his attention. His fear of heights kicked in, the swaying of the top chair reminding him of his parachute crashing through the trees in Gerty’s woods. Was that really almost two months ago? He thought. Shaking it off, he recognized the guy rocking the top chair back and forth. It was Buzz. Deb was punching him on the shoulder in protest. Buzz was enjoying Deb’s reaction. To avoid recognition, Trip slid behind the cotton candy booth and continued to spy on Buzz and Deb.

Deb continued to punch Buzz as they hopped off the swaying Ferris Wheel chair. Buzz pointed toward the banner above the grandstand depicting rodeo scenes. The not-quite-ready-for-prime-time assortment of cowboys, bucking broncos, bulls, and clowns was always a hit at the county fair. Arm-in-arm, Buzz and Deb disappeared with the crowd into the grandstand.

Trip melted into the bustle of activity in the games of chance area. The gyp-joint carnival barkers plied their banter to coax the weak and unsuspecting suckers into their web of deceit. Two Coke bottles, one tennis ball, huge stuffed animals. Looked easy. Fifty cents down the drain. Come on. Try again. Good natured insults of intelligence and physical prowess. Manhood challenged in front of embarrassed young lovers. Everyone loved the carnies.

Rufus and Gomer worked as a team. No one knew what these one-week carnival workers did the other fifty-one weeks of the year the fair wasn’t in town. How do the traveling carnival bosses find these low life creatures? When not running the shooting range, Rufus and Gomer fleeced unsuspecting fairgoers. Dirty, tooth challenged shysters with rotten, sardine breath, they both looked like they picked their clothes from a dumpster behind the local Goodwill store.

Rufus had the quick tongue and the sharp wit. He created the distraction. Gomer was the follower, the pickpocket extraordinaire. He could steal someone’s socks and underwear before they could figure out how they got commando. Their highest success rate in picking wallets and watches wasn’t in random walks around the fairgrounds. Their greatest haul was gleaned at the shooting range. Rufus could have hosted a late-night T.V. talk show. His verbal banter would have made Shakespeare proud. He drew them in. All eyes were on Rufus, the spinning whirligigs, parade of ducks and rabbits, and the current contestant shouldering a .22-caliber rifle. No one noticed Gomer.

Mingling in the crowd, Gomer took his lead from Rufus. The carnies made eye contact and agreed on their next victim.

The male ego made the scheme work to perfection. Rufus insulted a young buck with his doe-date in tow. Challenged, the testosterone flowing, a ninety percent hit ratio resulted in the young man taking the rifle from Rufus.

“Step right up, right this way,” Rufus barked. Ignoring the young buck, Rufus chose to work his date. “Hey, purdy lady, yuz need a great big Teddy Bear.” Switching back to the young man, Rufus blurted, “Yuz her Teddy Bear?” The trap was set.

Embarrassed, the lady drifted into the background. This left the man in a vacuum of loneliness. Suckered in by all of the attention, he was stranded. If he retreated beside his lady friend, he was a coward. In the clutches of a skilled carnie at the fair, every man is a man’s man. No retreat. Grasping the rifle, Rufus extended his arm, shoving the rifle into the man’s face. There was no backing down now. The man accepted the challenge– and the rifle. Slapping his dollar on the shooting range counter, his pulse quickened. He must remember the Alamo. Defend his honor. Sucker!

From the back of the crowd, a neighbor of the rifle man shouted, “Show ‘em, Frank!”

The lady had settled into the first row of the gathered spectators. Gomer slid in beside her. One last confirming glance between the two carnies, Gomer expertly removed the lady’s billfold from her purse and slipped back into the crowd. Gone. Success.

Frank shouldered his rust bucket of a weapon and shot; pop, pop, pop, pop, pop in rapid succession. He hit a few targets. Bells, whistles, but he did not win a prize. The crowd hissed and booed its disapproval. The woman looped her arm into Frank’s elbow as they strolled away. Her laughter would subside once she discovered that her billfold was missing. It could have been lost in any number of places. A dozen other fairgoers would suffer a similar fate this day.

Some of the crowd bled away as Rufus begged anew, “Step right up. Right this way. Who’s next? That last dude? Blind in one eye, and cain’t see outta d’other. Look at these targets.”

Using a yardstick, Rufus pointed to the assortment of stuffed bears and worthless treasures. When the crowd waivered, he slapped the counter with his yardstick. It was hard to ignore Rufus.

“They’re huge,” he shouted. “Biggest targets at the fair. How ‘bout yuz young feller?”

Rufus had turned his attention to a thirteen-year-old boy. He took the bum rifle the previous man had been using and secreted it below the counter. Rufus replaced it with a good rifle. This bait-and-switch routine worked particularly well with the younger kids.

“It’s easy, son,” Rufus assured. “Dat last dude couldn’t hit the barn side of a broad. Here,” as he handed the good rifle to the young chap, “two free shots. Wow. Did I say free? Don’t let the boss man hear that or I’m fired. Hey, son, I’d give these stuffed bears ‘way if ’n I thought I’d get away with it.”