The Man Who Ate the 747 (17 page)

“Sorry. The kid put a quart of brandy in my—”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I was engaged once. Chet was the son of the town banker. Supposedly we were perfect for each other. Problem was, he wanted me to be just like his mom, and I wasn’t about to give up the paper and stay home for the rest of my life.”

“So you dumped him.”

“No, he dumped me,” Willa said. “But that was a while ago. Don’t think much about getting married anymore. I’m too old and too difficult for most guys.”

“You’re not difficult,” J.J. said. “You’re—you’re wonderful.” He leaned toward her, but she swerved away.

“Hey, cowboy. Stay in your saddle.”

J.J. tried to right himself. He laughed. “Uh-oh. Maybe you better point me toward the motel. I’ll behave better tomorrow.”

“It’s just a few blocks,” Willa said. “I’ll walk you.”

Through his own fog, J.J. recognized they were on Bloom Street. Cars zipped by and honked.

“What about you?” she asked. “How come there’s no Mrs. J.J.?”

He tried, unsuccessfully, to silence a burp. “Sorry,” he said. “I was engaged too. Emily told me I didn’t know anything about love. She was right.”

“Oh. You mean you didn’t have that special feeling for her?”

“Special feeling?”

“You know. That feeling. The one that screams out: ‘This is it. This is the person I’m supposed to spend my life with.’”

“Aw, that feeling doesn’t mean anything, Willa. I’ve done a lot of research on this subject. The sensation comes down to three things—”

Willa turned her eyes up to him. J.J. found himself staring at her, soaking up the angles of her face so he would remember. He was surprised when she said, “You’ve done a lot of research?”

For a moment, he was in free fall. He forgot entirely what they were talking about.

“The sensation comes down to three things …” she prompted.

“Oh,” he said. “Symmetry, scent, and sound. The way a person looks, the way they smell, the sound of their voice. That’s what love is. That special feeling is just nature’s way of telling you to mix your genes. As for true love, friendship, or even compal … compab …”

“Compatibility?”

“Compatibility,” he said. “I don’t believe in any of that—”

“Well, I beg to differ.”

She walked a few steps ahead then turned toward him.

“My mom was a nurse at the VA hospital during the war. She had a collection of Big Band records she brought to the day room to share with her patients. One night the best records disappeared, but she knew the culprit because she heard music coming down the hall….”

J.J. didn’t quite follow, but he didn’t care. He liked the way she sounded, the way her voice played up and down the register. This beautiful woman with her asymmetrical face just lit up the night. She could have been an angel with a heavenly glow.

“You listening, J.J.?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Well, Mom went off to confront the young vet. She knocked on his door and threw it open. He was lying on his bed, singing along to an Artie Shaw record, and she took one look into his amber eyes and instantly forgot why she was there.” Willa laughed, remembering.

“What was he singing?” J.J. asked.

Willa took his arm. “Oh, a sweet old Gershwin song.”

“Which one?”

She began to sing softly:

“When love walked in with you,” J.J. murmured, standing transfixed at the door of the Victorian Inn as Willa’s voice stilled. The terror he felt before was magnified now. She had been so vulnerable singing that song. Now he wanted to sweep her into his arms. And then what? What would he do with her?

“That was beautiful,” J.J. said. “What a voice.”

“What a song.” She smiled up at him. “My folks have been married 35 years. They’re still so in love, they had Blake when I moved away to college.”

Another couple passed them and entered the motel. He saw Meg Nutting watching through the window. In a moment he’d have to say good night. He didn’t want the evening to end.

“You’re not convinced.”

He smiled.

“Come to dinner at my parents’ house. I want you to see true love for yourself.”

“Sure,” he said.

“Tomorrow night?”

“Fine.”

“Good,” she said. “That white Victorian with the windmill I showed you. On the edge of town. Seven o’clock.”

“Okay.”

She started walking away. “See you tomorrow,” she called back. “Good night.”

He stood outside the motel watching Willa until the fog closed around her and he was alone, again.

Y
ou’d think the King of Siam was coming over,” her father said from the porch. “Never seen you work this hard in the kitchen.”

“Come on, Dad. He deserves a nice meal, doesn’t he?”

“Okay, what about your makeup?” her father said.

“Dad, stop.”

“Just fooling,” he said, and she could hear him chuckling to himself.

Willa checked the dinner table. She fussed over the flowers in the vase. Everything looked right. The white damask cloth and the matching napkins. Her mom’s best silverware and dishes. The finest meal
they could cook: rump roast with brown gravy, mashed potatoes, roasting ears, homemade rolls, and a chocolate meringue cream pie.

She went to the living room. The walls were lined with shelves of books. Her father’s collection, and his father’s, too. There were newspapers stacked on the floor, magazines piled on the coffee table. Every corner of the house looked like the reading room of a college library. Well, J.J. would see her family as they really were.

She went to the pantry, fixed her father a drink, Wild Turkey and water, then brought it to him with some crackers and cheese.

“You be good,” she said.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, lighting his pipe.

Actually, she was worried about everything. How she looked. How she would behave. Whether J.J. would find his way to the house. Would they have anything to talk about? Would he like her folks? Would he see what they had built, day by day, over 35 years?

She went back into the house, let the porch door close behind her. She poured herself a glass of white wine. A special bottle she brought back from Kansas City a few years ago. She went to the oven to check the pie. Then she heard clattering on the porch floorboards. Heard her dad say “Evening.”

Then J.J.’s baritone: “Good evening to you, sir.”

“I’m Early Wyatt. Thanks for what you did for Blake. We’re in your debt.”

“He’s quite a kid. We’ll find a safer record for him to break.”

Willa washed her hands, wiped them dry on a dish towel, ran her palms over her wild hair, and went to the door. Her father and mother stood arm in arm on the porch, smiling at the guest of honor.

There he stood holding a ragged bunch of black-eyed Susans and meadow rue that he must have picked in a field. His hair was wet and freshly combed, his shoes nicely shined. He held out the bouquet, looking every bit a schoolboy, coming to take a girl out on a date for the first time, ever.

She melted.

When his pager beeped in the middle of dinner, J.J. didn’t know what to do. He needed to return the call. It was Peasley. At the same time, he didn’t want to be rude.

“Who’s paging you?” Blake asked. “Someone important?”

“Don’t be impolite,” Mae said. “It’s none of your business.”

“Feel free to use the phone,” Early said.

“No hurry,” J.J. said. “It can wait. I’m having a lovely time.”

A lovely time, indeed, except for the unrelenting cross-examination from Willa’s father. He seemed friendly enough in his candy-striped seersucker shirt and Dockers. But J.J. knew that behind the wire-rimmed glasses and pipe smoke, Early was keeping
close watch. So too was young Blake, who trailed J.J. around the house.

Dinner had started off with Willa’s report on
The Express.
Thanks to all the excitement over the 747, billings and collections were on target for a record-breaking month. Early was clearly tickled and raised a glass of wine to the honored guest.

Then, his opening question, an easy one: “First time to Nebraska?” Quickly he moved to more obscure and difficult terrain: “You a Ford man or a Chevy man?” A real stumper. J.J. knew it was loaded with judgment, like asking if you’re a Republican or a Democrat. He looked to Willa for a clue to the right answer, but she popped up to get more food. Mercifully, the beat-up old newspaper truck flashed in his mind. He went with Ford. What a relief when Early banged the table in hearty agreement.

Despite the automotive common ground, J.J. figured Early had already decided the friendship with his daughter would probably lead to trouble. Either the outsider would take his cherished daughter away from Superior, or he’d break her heart.

Only his wife, Mae, seemed genuinely open and accepting. Maybe it was because in her eyes, lips, and pulled-up hair, he saw traces of Willa’s features and a graceful map of how she would grow old.

“How’s the roast?” Mae asked. “You have enough of everything?”

“Sure do, thanks. I’m stuffed. You know,” he said, winding up for another story, “reminds me of a trip to Egypt last year. Measured the world’s largest item
on a menu. It’s a Bedouin wedding dish. A whole roasted camel stuffed with eggs, fish, chickens, and a sheep.”

“Ewwww,” Blake said. “Did you eat any?”

J.J. nodded. It was his third tale in half an hour. He was definitely overcompensating, a filibuster to avoid Early’s questions. He wanted them to like him. He wanted them to trust him.

“Dad,” Willa said, “more potatoes?”

Then J.J.’s pager went off again. Peasley summoned.

“It must be someone important,” Blake said.

“Need the telephone?” Mae asked. “We’re between courses. We’ll bring in dessert and coffee in a few minutes.”

“Here.” Willa reached for the portable. “It’ll be more private on the porch.”

J.J. excused himself and went outside. The night air was surprisingly cool. A great thunderhead gathered strength on the horizon. He punched in his calling card number, and Peasley answered on the first ring.

“What took you so long?” he began, his voice pinched.

“I’m at dinner, sir, and I—”

“It’s over,” Peasley interrupted. “There will be no record.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No record,” he said. “Headquarters has rejected the 747 attempt.”

“That’s impossible.”

“The decision is final,” Peasley said. J.J. could feel
the sneer. “The directors made their ruling. The risks are too great.”

“But—”

“You’re too close to it,” Peasley said. “You’ve lost perspective. It’s time to pull out. I need you in Greece by Monday. There’s another record—”

“You said you would fight for this,” J.J. said.

“It’s out of my hands.”

“But what about all these people? You can’t—”

“Win some, lose some,” Peasley said. And he hung up.

J.J. sat down with a thud on the porch steps.

He stared out at the puffy clouds rising in the west and the vast expanse of sunflowers before him. Ten-footers. Not even close to the world record, 25 feet 5½ inches, but they were gorgeous, saluting the setting sun, row after row, as far as he could see.

He wanted to run for the fields, disappear into all those flowers. What on earth was he going to do now? How would he ever make this right?

“J.J.?” Mae called through the screen door. “Everything okay?”

“Absolutely,” he said, getting up from the steps. “Just tying my laces.” He went back into the house and sat down at the table.

“What’s wrong?” Willa asked.

“Nothing.” What could he possibly tell her? He had promised her everything, and now it was gone.

“You sure?” she said.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“So,” Blake said. “What’s your favorite place in the world?”

“The Taj Mahal,” J.J. answered. He could find refuge in the records. This was the safest place for him, protected by his army of facts. “No question about it. The most beautiful place on earth.”

He could feel Early’s eyes measuring the response.

“What about you, sir?” he said. “What’s your favorite place in the world?”

“Easy. Don’t have to go all the way to India. I figure the best place in the world is my pasture. A field, a stream, some cottonwoods, and a whole lot of sky. No better place on earth.”

“Oh, Dad,” Willa said. “You sound like an old blister. J.J.’s been all over the world.”

“I proposed to your mother in that pasture,” Early said. “We were married there. Someday that’s where we’ll rest in peace, together forever.”

He took his wife’s hand. “No better place on earth, no matter what anyone says.”

“Love you 65,” Mae said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.