The Man Who Ate the 747

  “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.

  “65,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  It was their code. Those simple words and the number 65 seemed to transport Early and Mae to some faraway place. Or perhaps the phrase made the world around them fade away for just a moment, leaving them alone at the dinner table, 35 years together, and still with that spark, that feeling.

  J.J. thought he heard the growl of thunder in the distance, and then Willa whispered, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  The truck rolled through darkness toward the west. There was a charge in the air. The clouds, fluffy earlier, now looked black and threatened rain. Willa kept to the center of the country road. A possum waddled through the headlights.

  “Was that the longest dinner in the world?” she asked.

  “Nope. Not a record.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “Me too,” J.J. said. “It was a great evening. Thanks for—”

  “You hated it. Sorry about my dad.”

  “Why be sorry? That’s the way dads are. He loves you.”

  “Loves me 65,” she said.

  “Was wondering what that means.”

  “Goes back a long way. When I was three or four, my parents came to tuck me in one night. I told them I loved them. Dad asked ‘how much?’ So I thought of the biggest number in the whole wide world and came up with 65. It was the highest I could count.”

  “It’s a perfect number,” he said. “You’re right. Nothing bigger in the whole wide world.”

  They rode in silence, bumping along the country road. The sky, the horizon, and the land blurred into a great sheet of black.

  “I loved my dad that much, too,” J.J. said after a while. “Makes me think of going to the beach in the summer. I was terrified of the water. He would lift me up and hold me against his warm chest. The hair tickled. He smelled so good, a cross between Ivory soap and road paint. And he would carry me into Lake Erie. He was strong and safe. I forgot to be afraid. He loved me 65.”

  Willa let his words trail off as the old radio played a George Strait song, “We Really Shouldn’t Be Doing This.” She listened as J.J. hummed to himself, miserably off key, and yet oddly in tune. She was charmed by this man. So sweet at dinner, so patient under the interrogation. Heck, he was even domesticated, too. On the way out of the house, he actually helped clear the dishes. And, best of all, he had a big heart hiding under all those world records.

  Why had she resisted him? Why was she so scared? What an old woman she could be.

  “Where we going?” he said.

  “Someplace I want to show you. It’s just a few minutes from here. The sky’s about to open up. Look.” A crooked finger of electricity jabbed a distant field. “Good one!”

  She reached under the passenger seat, brushing his leg, and produced her Leica. “I like taking pictures of lightning. They’re just like snowflakes. Each strike is unique—no two can ever be identical.”

  Willa turned off the road and drove into a field. She stopped, switched off the lights. Silence and darkness. She could hear him breathing. She knew he was trying to make out shapes.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Forever Field. Mom and Dad’s pasture.”

  She got out of the truck.

  “Come with me,” she said, and J.J. followed her into the high grass. The air was warm and electric.

  “Look,” she said. “There.”

  A fresh flash of lightning, trailed by the rumble of thunder.

  “You see the land?” Willa said. “There’s a stream down there in a grove of cottonwoods.”

  Rain began to fall, just a few droplets on their faces, but the storm was gathering force. Willa stood beside J.J. She wanted to touch him. Wanted him to put his arms around her. She turned to face him.

  “So I got one for you,” she said. “Why’s the Taj Mahal the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  She could see him looking at her. She wondered if he thought she was beautiful, too. He had known women all over the world. Why would he want a country girl from Nowheresville?

  “It’s a perfect example of Mogul architecture,” he was saying. “Sits on the banks of the Yamuna River. Almost looks like it’s floating in the air.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Took 20,000 workers 22 years to build. More than 1,000 elephants hauled the marble and precious stones.”

  Lightning cracked, lit up the whole sky. The storm was moving fast.

  The fine hair on her arms stood up. The air was charging for another strike. She was aware of the beat of her heart.

  “I knew the guy with the record for most lightning hits,” he said. “Old park ranger named Roy Sullivan. First time he got hit was 1942. Only lost his big toe-nail. A strike in ’69 got his eyebrows and loosened a screw ’cause he started walking through storms with a golf club over his head—”

  “Come on!” She laughed.

  “Burned his shoulder in ’70. Set his hair on fire in ’72 and again in ’73. Injured his ankle in ’76 and burned his stomach and chest in ’77.”

  “That’s crazy,” she said.

  “Craziest thing of all was that after all that, old Roy ended up dying of a broken heart. They say he took his own life when he was spurned by a woman.”

  A streak of lighting caromed across the sky. There was a look on his face she didn’t understand.

  “What is it?”

  “Thirty million volts per bolt. Chance of getting hit is two million to one. But you never know. You can be safe one minute …”

  Then she got it, what the expression on his face meant.

  “You’re afraid,” she said softly.

  He couldn’t see a thing.

  The rain slashed his face, soaked through his clothes. He held Willa’s hand as she led him along a winding path in the dark. He heard water drumming on metal. Branches grabbed at his face, plants slapped his legs. Lightning flashed, once, twice, again. The storm was right overhead. He followed her up a short flight of stairs and then, he was inside, water dripping around him.

  “We’re home,” she said.

  “This a trailer?” he asked.

  “An old Royal Spartanette. I bought it at an auction. Let me find you a towel.” She vanished into darkness. “Shoot,” he heard her say. “Power’s out.”

  J.J. flinched as something furry brushed his face. A match was struck, a candle lit. He smelled lavender in the air, incense, and tried to fathom his surroundings. He was in the dining area. Saw the built-in table and banquette. A bowl of fruit. A jar of honey. Eyes stared at him from the top of the refrigerator. Meowed.

  “That’s Flash,” Willa said, materializing right beside him. “As in News Flash. Watch out, she likes men.”

  “Nice kitty.” J.J. couldn’t find more words. His voice box felt paralyzed. He could hear Willa rooting around in a drawer. He knew the trailer was made of cambered aluminum—essentially a modified airplane fuselage—manufactured by Spartan Aircraft of Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the late 1940s. He also knew exactly what happened to aluminum when hit by lightning.

  “Can’t find the flashlight,” Willa said. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” Okay for a man who had never been more frightened in his life. “This place grounded?”

  “Definitely,” Willa said. “Lighting rods at the front and the back. Don’t you worry.” She brushed past him. “Want some tea to warm up?” He was aroused by her scent, vanilla and cinnamon, blending with rain, rising on humidity.

  “Right.” Monosyllables, all that he could muster. There were beads of water in Willa’s hair and they glittered in the candlelight. Her wet dress clung to her. She shook cat food into a bowl on top of the re
frigerator. When she raised her arm, her breast rose, outlined by the light of the flame. He watched her fill the kettle at a tiny sink, turn on the stove.

  “It’s gas powered,” she said.

  She took two mugs from a cabinet, turned to face him. “Chamomile?” she asked. “It’s very soothing.”

  “Good,” he said.

  She came closer. They were almost touching.

  “It’s cramped,” she said, shaking her hair, “but it’s cozy.” He felt the spray on his face, the smell of her hair. He was mesmerized, and reached for something, anything to say….

  “World’s biggest mobile home belongs to a sheikh in Abu Dhabi. Five stories, eight bedrooms, eight baths, two garages.” Then he stopped. “What an ass I am.”

  Her eyes sparkled as she laughed at him. It was now or never. He reached for her. Their lips met. Mugs dropped to the floor. He fell into the kiss like a thirsty man into a well. One hand finally running through her untamed hair, the other pulling at the small of her back. She pressed hard against him. They broke apart, took deep breaths.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  The bedroom was half again the size of the bed covered with pillows, taking up the entire end of the trailer. A fine old quilt was draped over a rocking chair.

  Willa lit candles on the built-in dresser. Outside, lightning crackled. Inside, light danced over their bodies as they undid every snap, zip, and button and threw their clothes all over the room.

  Damp, naked, they fell into her nest of a bed. They rolled and wrestled, hungrily touching, feeling. And finally they joined together, thankfully, safely tucked into the aft section of a small aluminum shell.

  It was a world record. J.J. forgot to be afraid.

  SIXTEEN

  Dread shook J.J. awake at dawn. Wisps of morning light snuck through cracks in the window shades. Willa’s breathing was soft and slight. Her head rested on his chest. Her lips curled up like a bow.

  All he could think was: What have I done?

  She would hate him for the rest of her life when she found out about the record. She would know he hadn’t told her the truth last night. She would never forgive him. And the rest of Superior, hell, they might even run him right out of town.

  And then where would he go? Peasley would give him the ax, and what would he do?

  He had broken his rule. He never should have ended up in this trailer. There would be hell to pay. And yet …

  And yet he had no choice. He was falling for Willa, tumbling for her, rolling, careening. She made him feel alive. If she ever forgave him, ever took him into her life, she would discover the truth. He was an ordinary man who lived through other people’s dreams. And of late he was a failure at that, too. She deserved better. She belonged with a man who shattered records for her, not one who simply rolled out the measuring tape.

  He would leave, quietly, without fuss.

  She pushed her nose into his neck, reached her arm across his chest, and snuggled closer, breathing a sweet dream. Then she came awake in his arms and lifted her face to be kissed. Willa. The warmth of her skin, the delicious smell, the golden hair.

  He ran his fingers over her lips and pushed aside all worries beyond this moment. No man on earth could resist this woman.

  And so he kissed her mouth, softly, then her throat, moving slowly, inch by inch, until he reached her knees. Gently, he turned her over on her stomach and moved his lips up her legs, across the delicious dip in the small of her back, to her shoulders. He pushed aside her layers of hair and found the warm spot at the base of her neck. The fine hairs were damp and he took his time there, kissing, pushing against her. She shivered, then began to move beneath him.

  She rolled over, arching her back to stretch, and put her hands up to his face. He kissed her palms and each finger all the way to the tips.

  And then they folded into each other, dissolving the last distance between them, and for the longest time they were lost, again.

  He snored.

  A true, window-rattling snore.

  It made her laugh. She was wide awake. Open. Wide open. This feeling had ambushed her. Without planning, she let this man, this stranger, into her town, her home, her bed, now her heart.

  She touched one of J.J.’s feet with her own. She took his hand. Looked at his long fingers. He had touched every part of her, and now she tingled with the fingerprints of love.

  He coughed.

  “You awake?” she said.

  He muttered something.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said. “It’s wonderful. You are wonderful.”

  He gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  “That’s just your oxytocin talking,” he murmured.

  “Oxy-what?”

  He sat up and stretched, rubbed his eyes. “It’s a hormone,” he said, falling back on the pillow. “Induces labor. Starts lactation. Attaches women to their babies and to men they sleep with. Stimulates brain receptors that create emotions. We have it too, but not as—”

  A rebuff.

  “Okay. That’s enough,” she said. “Sorry I asked.” She released his hand and turned over to stare at the clock ticking on the mantel.

  Through some unspoken agreement, they pretended nothing had happened when they arose. J.J. saw Willa was guarded now. He had already wounded her. That oxytocin remark. It was stupid.

  She let the cat out, made a breakfast of cornflakes, fruit, and coffee. He sat in a barber’s chair as she served it on a small iron table in her overgrown garden.

  Twice he caught her staring at him.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She poked a piece of cantaloupe. “Nothing really.”

  She stood, returned to the trailer for coffee, topped off J.J.’s cup. She changed the subject, coloring it with cheer. She was pretending.

  “I’m so jealous of all the things you’ve done,” she said. “Always thought I’d get away from here and travel the world. That’s why the trailer hitch points out toward the road.”

  “On a minute’s notice, you can pick up and go.”

  “Well, it hasn’t worked out that way.” She cleared off the table. “But, hey, you never know….”

  “You never know,” he repeated.

  He looked around the garden, so welcoming in daylight. Tomato plants climbed up wire cages. Flash, the chubby calico, rolled in a flower bed. Birds jostled at a feeder and honeysuckle grew along a rustic fence. A hand-painted sign said: TWO HAPPY ACRES.

  J.J. felt urgently compelled to leave.

  He helped clear the dishes and nearly vaulted into the passenger seat in the Ford. She listened to the farm report on the radio during the short ride. No conversation was necessary. The truck puttered through town, past the windmill, toward Wally’s farm.

  The oxytocin gaff kept coming back to him. How could he explain that away? He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him. What to say, how to say it? He kept silent.

  They drove up the dirt path into Wally’s field, and he was about to say “Let’s have dinner, so we can talk,” when he saw her expression freeze. There, amid a throng of reporters, standing head and shoulders above the tallest, was Wally. He was coming toward them.

  He looked mad.

  The television masts had fallen like timber. The banners had been yanked from their moorings. Tent poles were strewn like pick-up-sticks with clumps of canvas bunched around them. Wally had watched with befuddlement as the journalists and corporate sponsors decamped, and then he saw the old green truck roll to a stop in his mashed cornfield.

  Willa and J.J. were in the cab. Together. That was strange.

  Wally stalked out to meet them.

  J.J. rolled down the window. “Morning.”

  “Where’s everyone going?” Wally asked.

  “What do you mean?” J.J. said.

  “Look around. Everyone’s packing up. Pulling out.”

  “I really don’t know,” J.J. said, getting out of the truck.

  “Tell the truth
. What’s going on?”

  Finally J.J. mumbled, “There was a snag back at headquarters. Reporters come and go. They’ll be back.”

  “What about this?” a journalist said, right behind Wally. He held up The Omaha Herald. A banner headline ran across the front page:

  BOOK OF RECORDS TO ABSTAIN FROM 747 GLUTTONY

  Wally grabbed the newspaper. He stood just inches from J.J., casting a shadow across the smaller man’s face. He began to read: “‘Because of concerns about liability, The Book of Records announced it will not recognize the 747 eating attempt. Nigel Peasley, a high-ranking official with The Book, urged all record seekers in the inorganic category to cease and desist.’”

  The reporters closed in on J.J. and Wally.

  A young correspondent waved the Chicago Tribune. “When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “You know why,” Wally said. “He doesn’t care. It’s just another record to him.”

  Willa was standing by the truck. There were tears in her eyes.

  Wally walked over to her. “What are you doing with him?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

  Why was she so upset? Did she care about him or the record that much?

  Then he realized exactly what had happened. He understood why she looked so devastated. He turned back to J.J., stretched out a meaty arm, and grabbed his shoulder. Spun him around.

  “What did you do to her?” he shouted.

  J.J. didn’t have time to say a word. Wally pulled back his fist and let it fly.

  Bone snapped. Blood spurted. J.J. staggered back and fell down hard.

  “There,” Wally said. “So much for your perfect nose.”

  “You knew last night the record was canceled,” Willa said, eviscerating J.J. with her look. She jerked the gear shift, and the truck lurched down Wally’s road. She took the corner without slowing, throwing him hard against the door.

  His nose throbbed.

  “I wasn’t sure.” His voice was muffled by a thick wad of paper towels stanching the flow of blood. Every bump and turn, every rut under the wheels sent new pain radiating across his face.

  “That phone call at dinner. You didn’t tell me.”