The Man Who Ate the 747

  Now his worries warred with his pride in his great pulverizer. It was the best on the Great Plains. He could stick anything into that machine and it would spit out dust. And he also knew how to put on a show. When bigwigs at the Boeing factory in Wichita called around earlier in the week looking for help, Big Lou knew it meant great things for the scrapyard. So he bought his workers suits and ties, told them to get all cleaned up for the important day and to get to work on time.

  The swelling sound of helicopters signaled Wally’s imminent arrival. Big Lou went out to the driveway and welcomed the men in the red truck. His workers stood in a neat line behind him, their necks bursting from new collars.

  “An honor to have you here,” Big Lou said, as Wally got out of the truck. “We’re going to make mincemeat out of the black box.”

  “It’s orange,” Wally muttered, “and there are two of them.”

  “Let me see the objects in question.” Big Lou signaled his son, Little Lou, who ran over to the truck and released the bindings on the two boxes. They were the size of toaster ovens, 17 pounds each. He slid them to the edge of the flatbed, lifted them up, and carried them to his father. As photographers snapped pictures, Big Lou cradled the boxes in his arms, like twin babies. Then, with Wally’s approval, he jammed them into the mouth of the pulverizer.

  The machine coughed, shook violently, and spewed smoke. The hydraulic parts squeezed and pushed, and the clanking sounds made people cover their ears. Audio technicians pulled off their headsets. Big Lou cranked the groaning machine to its highest gear. The orange boxes vanished.

  Big Lou slapped Wally on the shoulder and marched to the other end of the pulverizer. He carried a wicker basket in one hand. He opened the little door and looked inside. Reaching in with his hand, he felt around for a moment, then stood up and looked at the row of cameras. He smiled faintly and wiped his sweaty face.

  “One more minute,” he said. “Just one more minute.”

  Then he kneeled down next to the pulverizer and discreetly made the sign of the Cross. He waited for an answer from Above. And then suddenly, divinely, the machine spit out shreds of metal, curlicues of hardened-state stainless steel. They landed in the wicker basket.

  The crowd cheered wildly. Andrea Bocelli blared from a loudspeaker.

  Big Lou raised his eyes to the sky, then gave a signal to his team. They advanced on a great red curtain that closed off an area at the end of the yard. They yanked the veil aside. There, resplendent in shirtwaist and starched pinafore, was Mama Lou. She was surrounded by pots, pans, and huge steaming bowls of spaghetti, clams, and red sauce.

  “A feast for Wally Chubb!” Mama Lou exclaimed. “Mangia!”

  The workers carried tables and chairs into the middle of the junkyard. Reporters, cameramen, technicians threw down their gear. Even the grim men from Boeing, lurking behind great piles of scrap metal, stepped out from the shadows.

  Everyone sat down as Mama Lou spooned out mountains of noodles and poured rivers of Chianti. Big Lou heaped Parmesan on his pasta, while Wally sprinkled his spaghetti with fine shavings from the vanquished black boxes.

  THIRTEEN

  A trattoria in Italy. Its name, Far-farello, in the port of Marina di Massa. Her table overflowed with antipasto, smoked tuna, and swordfish. There were bowls of vongole salad, tagliarini with little shrimp, and a sprinkle of peperoncino. For dessert, a plate of ciambella. Willa had found this spot on the Web. Now, with waves splashing in the harbor, she swirled Asti de Miranda in her glass. A man with soft blue eyes and a fine aquiline nose sat across from her. He leaned forward, put a hand in her hair, and pulled her toward him….

  She awoke with a start.

  Hard fluorescent light nailed the surroundings into focus. The waiting room of Brodstone Memorial Hospital. Then the feeling of dread …

  Willa remembered something had gone terribly wrong in the middle of the night. Wally had collapsed in his kitchen and barely managed to dial 911. He had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Rose thought it was a seizure.

  Did he make it through the night? All these years, this hulking presence in town, friendly and reassuring. Always there. Always.

  Why hadn’t she taken him more seriously? Why hadn’t she stopped him sooner? If anything happened to poor Wally, it would be her fault.

  J.J. snoozed in the seat beside her. Nate stretched out on the speckled tile floor. Otto shambled in the hallway, trailing streams of blue smoke. Through the windows of the lobby gift shop, a purple bunny and an orange elephant stared at her. The clock on the wall said 5:55.

  Out the main door, Willa could see the television trucks parked in the lot. Camera crews huddled in groups, drinking coffee, eating doughnuts. Chief Bushee stood at the front door. The vigil had gone on through the night.

  There was a scuffle of footsteps coming down the hallway. Burl Grimes, funeral director and hospital board chief, walked sluggishly, shoulders stooped, expression glum, in intense conversation with a doctor.

  Willa rose from her chair. Something terrible had happened. Wally was no more.

  “I’ve got a short statement for the press,” Burl said, his voice flat.

  He made his way through the doors and onto the lawn. Willa rustled J.J. and Nate. They followed outside into the bright lights, where the cameras started to roll. Photographers snapped.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Burl began, “I’m here to inform you that last night—”

  “Is he dead?” a reporter shouted.

  “Please,” he said. “I’ll take questions in a minute.”

  He cleared his throat and began again. “Last night Wally Chubb was admitted to Brodstone Memorial after a syncopal event.”

  “A what?”

  “A fainting episode,” Burl said.

  “Is it serious?”

  “Doctors have completed all of their tests. On behalf of the hospital board, I can report that—”

  Words beamed live around the globe….

  “Wally is alive and well.”

  A cheer erupted in the back row, then one by one, the reporters began to applaud. Willa saw Rose slip out the employee entrance of the hospital. Her braid was a mess, her eyes puffy.

  “What caused the fainting?” a reporter asked.

  “Dehydration and food poisoning,” Grimes said. “Hard work in the sun, plus a bad clam, as best we can tell. The doctors insist this condition has nothing to do with the 747.”

  As Burl continued to field questions, Rose eased her way through the throng and took Willa’s arm. They walked away from the crowd. Willa could feel her friend shaking.

  “This was a warning,” Rose said. “Wally’s got to stop.”

  “But the doctors just said—”

  “You’ve got to tell him to quit. You’re the only one who can. He’s killing himself for you.”

  Nate leaned back in a gray metal chair tipped against the wall of Room 239. The sunlight was bright, the old wind blew, and the rippling leaves on the big oak in the parking lot threw wavy shadows over the room. No doubt about it, Wally was fine—and that was the rub. Why couldn’t he just stop eating the plane now, before he really got hurt?

  The newspaper was lying on his blanket, the front page facing up. His smiling picture was right there and so was a story about him, written by Willa.

  Wally read the headline out loud two more times: “‘Superior Man Eats 747 for World Record.’” Then he said, “You think she meant I’m a superior man? Or a man from Superior?”

  Nate kept his silence. His best buddy was flat on his back and under the illusion—or delusion—that Willa was coming around. Truth was, the damn fool would never win Willa’s heart, even if he killed himself trying.

  The door opened. Doc Noojin, the town veterinarian, edged inside. He held a finger to his lips—ssssshhhh—listened for a long moment, then went straight to Wally’s bedside.

  Doc was a sturdy man with a dent in his forehead from a mule kick. He had a degree in veterinary medicine from Kans
as State with a specialty in large animals. He was the only medical professional in the area whom Wally and most of the farmers trusted.

  “Your color’s back,” Doc said. “How you feeling?”

  “Never better,” Wally said.

  Nate leaned forward. “How’d you get in? Thought they banned you from this place.”

  “Rose let me in,” Doc said. “Her pup Mookie is over at the clinic. She just winked and looked the other way.”

  He punched Wally in the arm. “In a tractor pull between you and a John Deere, I’d bet on you.”

  “All that hydraulic fluid better be good for something,” Wally said.

  “You’re invincible, man. Something’s protecting you, something powerful,” Doc said.

  Nate stood up, overcome by guilt. He walked to his best friend’s bedside. “I never should have helped you build the machine. Doc, you should be ashamed for encouraging him.”

  “Whoa,” Wally said. “Slow down. This was my idea. No one else’s. I’m perfectly happy—”

  “Don’t you see?” Nate interrupted. “This is never going to work. You’ll never get what you want this way.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Doc said. “You need a rabies shot or something?”

  “Relax,” Wally said. “Everything’s going according to J.J.’s plan.”

  “J.J.’s plan? He just wants to sell more books,” Nate said. “He doesn’t care about you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Wally said. “I know what I’m doing—”

  Nate wanted to throttle his dear, deluded friend. He headed for the door; he wanted to get away before saying what would hurt, but the words spilled out.

  “Face it now or face it later,” he said. “You’re never going to get Willa to love you.”

  FOURTEEN

  A little girl in pigtails and a sun bonnet rode a palomino pony down Main Street. It was a warm and bright day, perfect for the annual Memorial Day parade and Lady Vestey Festival.

  J.J. was perched high in the bleachers across from Menke Drug. He watched the girl on her pony trot along the yellow line in the middle of the road. It was time her dad taught her to stay in her own lane.

  Then, in his mind, he heard Peasley say, “The home office has a problem with this record.” Sure, that statement had been followed by assurances that he would fight for J.J., but there had never been a bigger weasel than Peasley. J.J. had promised the town that if Wally ate the plane, there would be a world record. And with that feat, there would be a bonanza for Superior. He couldn’t let them down. And he couldn’t let himself down either.

  “Biggest parade ever,” Righty Plowden said. He was sitting beside J.J. on the metal bleachers. He wore a straw hat that looked as if a goat had feasted on a good chunk of the brim. “We’ve usually got a few flatbed trucks strung up with crepe paper ribbons, the high school band, and that’s it. But today, well, this is special.”

  A gold ’64 Cadillac convertible rolled majestically toward the intersection of Fourth and Central. Doc Noojin was at the wheel. Standing on the passenger seat, hailing the crowds, was Wally Chubb, grand marshal of the parade. Pretty young women called out “Hey, Wally,” and children waved flags at the man eating the 747.

  “That’s one happy young fella,” said Righty.

  “With good reason,” J.J. said.

  A dozen young baton twirlers scampered down the street.

  “There’s my granddaughter,” Righty said. “She wants to be in your book someday.”

  The motley high school band showed off next, followed by a sharp phalanx of WWII veterans, stepping smartly to the beat. Working his way up the sidewalk, Otto Hornbussel merrily made twisty balloon animals for the children.

  J.J.’s steady throb of anxiety about the world record dissipated for a moment as he munched on caramel popcorn and reveled in small-town America on a national holiday. He could remember this same sunny feeling as a boy in Ohio when the parade always launched a long, seamless stretch of summer. But he knew this nostalgia was just a passing fancy. He could take only so much of a small town before he’d hunger for Manhattan, carbon monoxide, skyscrapers, and the energizing effect of 1.5 million people living on top of each other.

  “Coming to the dance?” Righty asked.

  “Don’t know about any dance.”

  “Tonight at the Elks. Just down the block. Come as my guest.”

  “I’m not much of a dancer.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You should come anyway. She’ll be there.”

  Righty pointed his finger across the road. How had he missed her? There at street level, her banged-up Leica aimed at the procession, was Willa. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts and her hair was pulled up on her head.

  His heart lurched with a sense of inevitability he couldn’t quite grasp. It was incomprehensible, but he felt as if he’d known her for a long time and that he always would.

  “Better hurry,” Willa said. “We’re going to be late.”

  Rose looked up from the old Singer sewing machine. She was surrounded by yards of luscious fabric and a flurry of Butterick patterns.

  “You can’t wait to see him, can you?”

  “Who?”

  “You’re not fooling anyone,” Rose said. “Never seen you worry about a neckline before—”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Willa emptied the wine bottle from the kitchen table into her glass. “Now hurry up.”

  Rose hit the speed control pedal on the Singer and pulled the hem through the presser foot. The machine had zigged and zagged through untold miles of chiffon and silk, satin and crepe, taffeta and gabardine. It had stitched dresses and gowns for every prom, dance, and special occasion in Nuckolls County for over three generations.

  Now Rose ran it once more, pushing fine silk over the needle plate. She would have finished the hem by hand, but there was no time. Willa hovered nearby, holding her gown up to the mirror. It was a long way from the days of flat chests, corrective shoes, and ugly dresses. They had started sewing together way back in Home Ec. Willa was always impulsive, ripping up the tissue patterns, ignoring the darts, improvising. Rose was patient, steady, careful with her pinning, working her way through the instructions, never faltering.

  “Truth or dare,” Rose said, mischief in her eyes.

  “How old are you?” Willa asked.

  “Don’t be so uptight. Come on, truth or dare?”

  “Truth,” Willa said with a huff. She took a gulp of wine.

  “Which would be better?” Rose asked. “Going to bed with J.J.? Or waking up with him?”

  “Don’t be crazy!”

  “Relax. It’s just a game.” Rose leaned closer to the bobbin to inspect the stitch. “I think I’m a morning person. Even with Bad Bob, I loved waking up next to him, opening my eyes, seeing his ragged face.” She looked up from her sewing. “Lying there next to him always felt so innocent, no matter how rotten we were doing. A whole new day was ahead of us. Anything was possible. Made me feel hopeful.”

  “Guess I’m a night person,” Willa said. “The day’s done. You take a long look at your man, close your eyes, and you know you’re together. Doesn’t matter what’s happening outside in the world. For that moment, as you drift off, you know you’re safe.”

  Rose smiled. “If Bob had been around more at night, maybe I’d feel the same.”

  “You deserve great love,” Willa said.

  “You too.” Rose released the presser foot and pulled the gown away from the machine. With no time to waste, she bit the thread with her teeth. “There. All done.”

  In a jumble of stockings and slips, they threw on their dresses. Willa helped Rose with her makeup. Rose helped Willa with her hair. Then they ran barefoot, high heels in hand, down the street to the summer dance.

  The Elks was an easy stroll from the motel. J.J. entered from the quiet street into a mash of loud country music and rowdy conversation. This time he picked her out of the crowd in an instant.
She was in the center of the long and narrow room, surrounded by a hundred people dancing on the slick wood floor.

  She wore pale, luminous pink, a dress with a low-cut neckline that hugged her tight at the waist, then billowed out in airy layers of fabric swirling around her thighs. He hated to take his eyes from her but he had no choice. She was not alone. She spun in the arms of a tall young farmer he’d seen drinking at Jughead’s. The lucky guy had a full head of thick black hair and was built like a Chippendale’s dancer. She was smiling into his face as he twirled her around the room. J.J. knew it shouldn’t bother him, but the sight of her—Willa—just plain hurt.

  He pushed through the mob, found the bar, and ordered an Asphalt, his father’s favorite drink. The bartender had never made one but was eager to please and took instructions well. Brandy and Coca-Cola over ice with lemon. J.J. guzzled the syrupy drink, ordered another, and watched the dance from the sidelines. There were two bands: a local group named Free Beer and Chicken played decent Elvis. Then the Chuck Bauer Band took over, just two musicians, but they launched into a lilting rendition of the “Tennessee Waltz.”

  Meg Nutting from the motel scurried over and tapped his shoulder. “Dance with me, Mr. Smith?”

  “Okay, sure,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  He’d forgotten how to waltz but made a good show of it, following Meg, who was well in control. He felt another tap on his shoulder. Someone was cutting in.

  “Can I take your picture?” said Hilda Crispin, author of the New York Times best-selling Jumbo Jet Cookbook. A flash went off in his face.

  Shrimp appeared at his side with a tall and substantial brunette almost twice his size. “My wife, Dot, wants your autograph.”

  J.J. smiled. “You two make quite a pair.”

  “She’s my high school sweetheart,” Shrimp said, looking up into Dot’s eyes. “My shade in the summer and warmth in the winter.”

  J.J. autographed a napkin just as Righty Plowden and a frizzy blond woman danced by.