The Floatplane Notebooks (11 page)

Aunt Sybil passed the biscuits.

“Well, I'll just miss them being away for one thing,” I said.

“Who was in the Civil War?” asked Dan Braddock.

“Isaac, Walker's boy, was killed, then Walker went in sometime, a couple of times, I think,” said Uncle Hawk. “Turned around and came home the first time because they told him it was over. While he was gone Caroline threw boiling water on the Yankees. Did you ever hear about that, Frances?”

“Rhonda.”

“I mean Rhonda. Excuse me, honey. It was Frances last year, wadn't it, Meredith?”

“You lie, Uncle Hawk.”

“Anyway, Caroline threw boiling water on the Yankees.”

“What did she do that for?” asked Rhonda.

“She was mad. They stole her meat and was sitting around in the front yard eating it.”

“I'd been afraid they might have killed me if I'd done that.”

“She won't afraid. Poured a pan of boiling water on them and said she wished they were dead and in the belly of hell. Next day Ross, who won't big as nothing, shot at them from out of a tree, a hollow tree, holed up in a hollow tree, and
they couldn't find him. He climbed up the inside of a tree.”

“Pass some of that casserole,” said Dan Braddock. “Maybe Mark can fly that floatplane to Vietnam, Albert, and scare all the slant-eyes to death.”

“It won't fly,” said Meredith.

“That's what I mean,” said Dan Braddock.

“I get me some bigger engines on it and it'll fly,” said Mr. Copeland. “That's all it needs—a little more horsepower.”

“You just need a horse,” said Mildred, buttering a biscuit. “Or a mule. Keep figures on
him
.” She looked up. “He's got a notebook with his figuring in it—on the floatplane. Plus all the children's heights and weights, and newspaper clippings and I don't know what all.”

“I got two notebooks,” said Mr. Copeland.

“Except the stuff on the floatplane ain't accurate,” said Thatcher. Thatcher worries about that. I don't think it's all that important. The thing will fly or not fly regardless of what's in the notebooks. Except I guess the notebook would be a fun thing for Taylor to read once he's grown.

I remember being about ten, when Uncle Albert would sit in his cloth beach chair in the front yard, holding his bird notebook that he'd drawn birds in—how they look when they're flying. They weren't very good pictures.

He's quizzing Thatcher, Meredith, Noralee, and me. He has his teeth out, so he's talking funny. A bird is flying over the trees. “Whath that one, Noralee? Be quiet, Meredith.”

“A crow.”

“It's a buzzard!” says Meredith.

“I thaid be quiet. Give her another chance. Nexth time she gets two chances. Everybody gets two chances from now on. Underthand? Do you underthand, Meredith?”

“Yeth thir.”

“Don't you mock me.” He jumps, holding on to the chair arms, like he's going to get up. Then he does this jaw motion, where his chin goes up into his face. Then he sits back.

That night I'm staying at Meredith's.

Uncle Albert goes to bed early. Meredith begs Aunt Mildred to let us stay up and watch TV. She says okay.

The Channel 9 news signs off, and suddenly there is an F-104 Starfighter, climbing higher, then rolling into a lazy aileron roll.

“Look at that!” says Meredith.

The camera zooms in. A white-helmeted pilot is in the cockpit and there's this poem about slipping the surly bonds of earth and dancing the skies on laughter-silvered wings, and goes on to something about “reach out and touch the face of God.”

“Man, that's something! Did you see that?”

“Yeah I saw it.”

“Turn the station! Maybe it's on another station!”

“That's what I'm going to do,” says Meredith. “I'm going to fly one of those.”

“I am too.”

“No, you're not. You can't go in the Air Force if your daddy got killed in the war. You can't go. It's going to be me.”

I tell Mother I want to be a jet pilot, and she says, “If you were a doctor or a missionary you could fly to see your patients maybe, or whatever. But if you were just a pilot you wouldn't be able to be a doctor or a missionary—or a concert pianist.”

We were eating dessert when Dan Braddock said, “Mark, you're going to find you one of them slant-eyed girls to marry? They'll walk on your back and make you feel good.”

“I don't know,” said Mark. “I might end up staying in the States. That stuff might be over before too long. I'm not going to volunteer to go, but if I have to, I have to.”

“Find you a slant-eye in the States then.”

Rhonda looked at Meredith. “I'm going to check your back for footprints.”

“Maybe he won't have to go over there either,” I said.

“I wish,” said Rhonda, “but that ain't what he told me.”

“I'll probably go,” said Meredith.

Then Thatcher got into his military arm talk, which pretty soon changed to talk about the next day's hunt. Mildred, Aunt Sybil, and Rhonda were talking about Silver Springs, and Miss Esther and Noralee were eating quietly. I wish Noralee would speak up more. She'll talk to me, but not much, unless we're alone.

I got to thinking that I would miss Meredith during the next three days of hunting, and Thatcher, but especially Meredith and Mark, in light of their going off in a few months. It occurred to me that I could go along on a hunting trip. Why not? I could join these men, be with them. For one day, at least—one of the three hunting days. But I dared not broach the subject in front of everybody at once.

I waited until later when the men had gone out to the guest house, just before we were settling in for the night, and I asked Rhonda, who had a rollaway bed in the living room, “Have you ever thought about going hunting with the men?”

“Nope. Shoot little birds? Fishing is hard enough for me.”

“I think I might see about going one day.”

“I don't think I'd like it.”

That was enough for me. I went quietly out the back door so that I could knock on the guest house door, get Thatcher to come out, and ask him.

Meredith was sitting on the back steps, alone. It was cold.

I sat down beside him. “What are you doing out here?” I asked.

“Just thinking. Kind of.” He looked at me and smiled. “And Rhonda's supposed to sneak out.”

“Should I go back in?”

“Oh no. No.”

So I sat. I had to say a few things. “You know, I think about you leaving a whole lot, Meredith. And nobody talks about it much, one way or the other. And coming down here makes it worse.”

“Makes what worse?”

“Thinking about it. I don't know why. Because we're all together, I guess.”

“It's just something I have to do, and then it'll be over.”

He was wearing blue jeans worn thin at the knees—little fuzzies. I put my hand on his knee, the soft cloth, and rested my arm on his leg. “I wish you weren't going. That's all I can say.”

The side of his face was lighted by the dull green light from the street light. “Hell, three years from tonight we'll be sitting right here,” he said.

“I'll remember that,” I said. We sat not moving. I could feel his leg and knee with my arm and hand. “You be sure to write me.”

“I will.”

“Good. Listen, what do you think about me going hunting with you-all tomorrow?”

“Why?”

“Just to see what it's like.”

“Fine with me. Yeah. That'd be fun.”

“I asked Rhonda. She didn't want to go.”

“Yeah, it's all right with me. You might get a little tired, though.”

I realized that I wanted to be Rhonda for a night. Just one night. But I knew the deep and sacred futility of such thinking.

“I guess I ought to ask Thatcher first,” I said, standing.

“Tell Papa I'm watching some more TV”

I stood, walked to the guest room, and knocked. Mr. Copeland opened the door and stuck his head out. I got a glimpse of Mark in his underwear. “What ith it?” said Mr. Copeland.

“I want to ride along on the hunt tomorrow. Think that'll be okay?”

“You?”

“I just want to see what it's like.”

“Okay. We'll make room. Damn, ith cold. Thee you in the morning. Thatcher'll come wake you up. We got the clock thet.” He shut the door.

I knocked. The door opened.

“Meredith said to tell you he's watching TV,” I said.

“He better get to bed.”

I turned and started back to the house. The street light shone through the Spanish moss. Rhonda was sitting with Meredith on the back steps. The cold, damp air went straight through my clothes, through my skin, to my bones. Cold weather in Florida is very cold, because it's so damp, Florida being between two oceans, or an ocean and a gulf.

I walked up the steps past them.

“You going hunting tomorrow?” asked Rhonda.

“I'm not sure. I'm thinking about it. I think I'll see how cold it is. Good night, y'all.”

The next morning at about five-thirty Thatcher came in and held my foot until I woke up. It was quite cold, even inside. Before we had gone to bed, Aunt Sybil put out a pair of her leather boots and extra socks since the boots were a little big. Thatcher had brought over some of Mr. Copeland's hunting clothes: pants equipped with extra thickness in front to guard against briars, hunting coat, flannel shirt, and black crewneck sweater. In the coat pocket was toilet paper and an apple. How practical! I rolled up the sleeves and pants legs.

We walked out the back door into the freezing damp darkness.
There was a bright new moon. We walked across the yard and the road and into the back door of the store where Uncle Hawk was cooking breakfast. Mr. Copeland, Meredith, and Mark, dressed in their hunting clothes, sat around a small table in the kitchen.

Uncle Hawk was singing at the stove. I sat at the table with the others. I could tell that no one had strong objections to my going along. I happily anticipated being in on this ritual of the hunt, watching the dogs “work”—I'd heard so many exclamations about their exploits—and finally, spending some time with Meredith, and Mark, Thatcher.

“They ever tell you about Tyree and the hot coal?” Uncle Hawk asked me.

“No. I don't think so.”

“He thought he saw a piece of chocolate on the floor one time—in front of the fireplace—picked it up and it burnt the hell out of him, but instead of hollering he handed it to his half-brother, Dink—said ‘Here, Dink, you want some chocolate candy?' and Dink took it and it burnt the hell out of him, blistered him and left a scar, but it didn't burn Tyree at all—leastways it didn't leave any scar.”

“I always thought that was Walker and one of his brothers,” said Mr. Copeland.

“I know you did, but I told you I remembered it. I remember it happening. It must have been before you was born.”

“Maybe so, but I always thought it was Walker.”

We had a wonderful breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, honey buns, maple syrup, and coffee—black. I didn't ask for cream since no one else was using it.

While we ate, Uncle Hawk and Mr. Copeland talked about
progress on the floatplane. We all thought that Mr. Copeland had given it up several years ago. But he hadn't. He's started back on it and last summer when Uncle Hawk was up for the gravecleaning, they towed it to Lake Blanca and drove it around on the water. Meredith says next time they go, he's going to get Rhonda's band, The Rockets, to come and set up on a flatbed truck and do the song she's writing about the floatplane.

It worries me because Mr. Copeland does the flying—or should I say, the floating—and he has had only a few flying lessons. He has a student license, I think, and claims that flying off water will be easier than flying off land because the whole big lake is your runway. Thank goodness, he will not let any of the children drive it. He say's he's the one built it and so he'll be the one to fly it—when he gets some bigger engines on it, and gets it balanced right. It worries Mildred to death.

After breakfast, Uncle Hawk sent Thatcher to the dog pen to get the dogs. I went along. They were so excited, jumping around in the pen, up on each other, vapor puffing from their mouths into the cold, damp air. Thatcher opened the door and they sprinted out, packed with energy and about to burst with excitement, running around, relieving themselves, then heading across the side road toward the jeep truck.

Bobby Simms, a little man who is Uncle Hawk's hunting partner, arrived in his jeep, three dogs in back; and we got all packed in and were off. I sat in Thatcher's lap for the drive, which started in darkness.

“How come you doing this?” asked Thatcher.

“I just want to see what you-all do.”

“We shoot birds. We walk and shoot birds. You'll get tired.”

“Maybe so.”

The drive ended in the woods as the sun peeped through the trees. I was mortified to discover that we were hunting on posted land.

Uncle Hawk, fixing a great big breakfast in the cafe part of the store, sends Meredith into the grocery part to get honey buns for everybody. Uncle Albert goes with him. They pack up on cans of Vienna sausage and beans and boxes of crackers and cookies and stuff for the hunt. Bliss is going with us.

I can't wait. I mean I really look forward to this, and I went dove hunting enough this fall that I think I might be able to outshoot Meredith today.

Sometime before we start eating Uncle Hawk asks me, “You still got that little Fox Sterling?” I say yes.

Meredith and I were twelve: The guns were for sale at an estate auction, twenty gauge, double barrels. A Fox Sterling and a Remington. They were leaning against a wall between two rocking chairs on the front porch. A woman played a fiddle behind a microphone on the auctioneer's stand.