Fly Away

“Keep the ailerons and rudder centered. The air speed is dropping now, but you want to have just enough speed to keep us in our seats.”

  “We’re upside down!”

  “Yep. See the horizon up there behind us?”

  “Oh, wow! My mom would freak out!”

  “Good thing she didn’t come. Now, you don’t want to rush the loop. Your nose should coast downward as the speed begins to pick up again. Keep the wings level . . . and . . .”

  “We did it!”

  “Quick, check the altimeter. If we’ve done it right, we should level out at the same altitude we started.”

  “It’s the same!” The plane bumped suddenly, like a car hitting a pothole. “Whoa . . . what was that?”

  “We just passed through our own wake.”

  “That’s awesome! Are you really going to let me try one now, Mr. Dolan?”

  “Can you stay cool and not panic?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s go for it! What have we got to lose?”

  *****

  Wilhelmina was grateful for the long stretch of four-lane highway as she switched the car to cruise control. Her mind wasn’t on her driving or the magnificent fall foliage all around them. Tomorrow was Monday. A new week. An endless week, with nothing to look forward to. The heavy weight of depression slipped over her shoulders again. Lori’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “I didn’t like the way the ballet ended,” she said. “Why did they both have to die?”

  “There can’t always be a happy ending. Life isn’t like that. Dying is a natural part of life.” She should be having this conversation with Mike.

  “What happens when you die, Professor Brewster?”

  “You go to heaven. To paradise.”

  “And live in the clouds with the angels?”

  “Yes, something like that. Lori, does your family belong to a church?”

  “No. I used to go to Sunday school sometimes with my friend Melissa, but Daddy got mad and stomped around a lot whenever Mommy let me go, so I don’t go no more.”

  “Any more.” Wilhelmina corrected her automatically. “But, why? Do you know why your father got mad when you went to Sunday school?” She felt guilty for pumping Lori about her home life, but if she wanted to help Mike, she needed to learn more about him.

  “Daddy says Grandma Dolan used to make him and Uncle Mike go to church with her all the time, and he hated it. He says they teach a bunch of lies at Sunday school.”

  “Was your Uncle Mike the one who died in Vietnam?”

  “Yeah, a long time ago. I only seen pictures of him.”

  “You saw pictures. What about your grandfather? Does he ever go to church?”

  “No, but he got real mad at Daddy for saying they teach lies. He told Daddy not to say things like that. Then they both got mad and started shouting. Mickey said it was all my fault for making them get in a fight. That’s why I don’t want to go with Melissa no more.”

  “Any more. How long ago did this happen, Lori?”

  “It was before Grandpa got cancer and went into the hospital for his operation. But I went with Melissa last Christmas to see the play about the baby in the manger because she was an angel in the play, and she wanted me to see her. She’s my best friend. Mommy said don’t tell Daddy.”

  Wilhelmina slowly digested this new information about Mike and his family, wondering what to make of it all. She had considered inviting Lori to church but not if it meant family friction.

  “Professor Brewster?” Lori’s voice trembled slightly.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Can you only go to heaven if you belong to a church?”

  Wilhelmina gripped the steering wheel tighter. How could she possibly answer such a question in a way that an eight-year-old could understand? She wasn’t trained for this sort of thing. Perhaps she should ask the Christian education director at her church to talk to Lori. He would know what to say. But the director wasn’t here now, and Lori was waiting for an answer.

  “Did someone tell you that, Lori? That you only go to heaven if you belong to a church?”

  “When Grandpa got cancer and had to be operated on, Melissa said he better not die because he never went to church and . . .” Lori’s voice broke and she sobbed out the rest through her tears. “Melissa said Grandpa wouldn’t go to heaven . . . that he would go to hell . . . and burn forever in a lake of fire!”

  The highway blurred in front of Wilhelmina. How could Christians be so cruel and thoughtless? How could they say such things? Then she remembered the tract that she had almost given to Mike. The one with the picture of hell-fire and brimstone. She silently thanked God for stopping her.

  “Lori, listen to me, dear. Everyone in the world deserves to go to hell because no one is perfectly good. Even the people who go to church every week. If God judged everyone fairly, we would all belong in hell . . . your grandpa, me, even Melissa. But God doesn’t want anyone to go to hell. God loves you and me, and he loves your grandfather too. He wants all of us to be with Him in heaven, not in hell.”

  “Then why did God make hell?”

  Another theological monstrosity to explain. Father devoted entire seminary lectures to this subject. How could Wilhelmina hope to explain it? She had to try. “Do your mother and father punish you when you do something wrong, Lori? Let’s say, you broke a window or something. Wouldn’t you have to pay for it?”

  Lori nodded and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “Mickey broke the remote control for the TV when he was horsing around, and now Daddy says he’s gotta pay for it out of his allowance.”

  “Well, God is like a father to us, and we have to pay for all the wrong things we’ve done. That’s what hell is for. But do you remember the baby in the manger at Melissa’s Christmas play?”

  “It was really just a doll, but it was supposed to be baby Jesus.”

  “That’s right. Well, Jesus is God’s Son and He lived in heaven—”

  “With the angels?”

  “Yes, with the angels. Then He came down to earth as a baby and grew into a man, just to pay for all the bad things we’ve done. It would be like . . . like Jesus paying for a new remote control so that Mickey wouldn’t have to. Because of Jesus, you and I and Melissa and your grandfather don’t have to go to hell because Jesus took our punishment for us.”

  “But don’t you have to go to church for Jesus to do that?”

  Wilhelmina hesitated, a lifetime of strict doctrinal beliefs clinging to her like barnacles on a rusty old ship. “No, Lori. You don’t have to go to church. You only have to believe in Jesus and tell Him you’re sorry. Then ask Him to forgive you and to come into your heart. But we should go to church to worship Him. To say thank you for all that He has done for us. And to learn more about Him.”

  Wilhelmina rounded the last corner and pulled into her driveway. Mike’s pickup was parked at the end of it. He was leaning casually against the tail gate.

  “Grandpa’s here!” Lori scrambled out of the car and flung herself into his arms. “Oh, Grandpa, it was so beautiful! You should’ve seen it!”

  Yes, he should have. Wilhelmina’s irritation at Mike returned, full strength.

  “Maybe next time, Princess. That is, if the professor ever invites us again. Did you remember to say thank you?”

  “Thank you, Professor Brewster,” she said, then she sprang to life once more. “Grandpa, you know what? She gave me a piano lesson. I want to learn to play just like she does. Can I, Grandpa? Can I take piano lessons? Please?”

  “You don’t even own a piano.”

  “But you do, and I could practice at your house. Please, Grandpa?”

  “You have to ask your mom and dad, Princess. It’s up to them, not me.”

  “But I don’t want to ask Daddy. He’ll say no. Please, Grandpa? Can’t you ask him?”

  Mike looked at Wilhelmina helplessly. The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I would be happy to teach her, Mike, if
her parents don’t mind. We can work out a price they can afford.”

  Was she going totally crazy? Taking on a beginning student, with no musical background? Her brother Larry would say it was beneath her. A waste of her talent. But it was the only way she could think of to see Mike again.

  “I’ll ask him, Princess. That’s all I can promise. Hop in the truck now, and I’ll be there in a minute, all right?”

  “Bye, Professor Brewster. I’ll remember the part about holding the egg.”

  Mike took Wilhelmina’s arm and led her around behind the truck. He would probably try to apologize and make excuses. She stiffened with anger.

  “I want to thank you for taking her with you today, Willymina. We’re just simple folks, you know, and we don’t go to many cultural things like that. I figured she’d really enjoy it.”

  “Yes. She did.”

  Mike twirled his Yankees’ cap for a moment before looking up at her. He wasn’t what anyone would call handsome, probably never had been, but there was a warmth in his smile and a gentleness in his clear blue eyes that somehow made him attractive.

  “I get the feeling you’re kind of mad at me for not going today, Professor.”

  “Lori said you were giving a flying lesson. Couldn’t it have waited one more day?”

  “Well, no, Ma’am. It couldn’t.” He spoke quietly, “I didn’t want Lori to know, you see, but the lesson was for a kid not much older than she is. He’s dying of leukemia and this was his last wish, to fly an airplane. Well, he really wanted to fly a fighter jet, but I don’t own any jets, so—”

  “Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry. I—”

  “No, no. I should have explained it to you, but there just wasn’t much time, you see. The Rainbow Society called me this morning because Ryan was starting to go downhill and they had to arrange to get him out of the hospital and—”

  “Please, Mike. Don’t say any more. I feel terrible. The truth is, Lori and I had a wonderful time. Next time I’ll get three tickets, and you can come too.”

  “I’d like that. Thanks again, Professor.” He gave her arm a gentle squeeze and hopped into his truck. Lori waved out the window as they roared away.

  Wilhelmina walked toward the house feeling totally drained. Piano lessons and flying lessons. Older brothers and younger brothers. Heaven and hell. It was only six o’clock, but she was going to take a hot bath and go straight to bed. What was it about Mike Dolan? Every time Wilhelmina was with him he made her take a good look at herself. And Wilhelmina hated what she saw.

  As she unlocked the back door she heard the kitchen phone ringing. She recognized her older brother’s voice. “I’m glad I finally caught you, Wilhelmina. Listen, we need to talk about Homecoming Weekend at the college next Saturday . . .”

  Resentment flared in Wilhelmina at the mention of Faith College. The thought of being polite and sociable to the dean and all her former colleagues for an entire weekend filled her with dread. She did not want to go to Homecoming this year. But it would be the first year she had ever missed.

  “Marge and I plan to drive down for the weekend,” her brother’s deep bass voice droned on.

  “Of course, Larry. And you can spend the night here if you’d like.” There was a long pause on the other end.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. You stay with me every year, don’t you? Why would you even need to ask such a question?”

  “Well, because you sound a little . . . upset.”

  “It’s been a long afternoon. I just got back from the ballet in Hartford. I’m tired, that’s all. Tell Marjorie I’ll have the guest room ready and I’ll see you both on Saturday for lunch.”

  But Wilhelmina had already decided that she would not set foot on the Faith College campus for Homecoming Weekend.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday, October 17, 1987

  When Wilhelmina awoke the following Saturday she felt like she had spent the night inside her piano with all 88 hammers pounding against her head. She wished it meant she was getting the flu—anything to give her an excuse to stay home from the festivities at the college. Larry would never understand why she didn’t want to go. He would badger her about her duty and her responsibilities, pressuring her with guilt until she would finally paste on a phony smile and agree to go with him. Wilhelmina had never won an argument with him in her life. When Homecoming ended and Larry went back to his fancy church in Springfield, she’d be depressed for weeks.

  She took two pills for her headache and found clean sheets for the bed in the guest room. If only she had a legitimate excuse to stay home, one that Larry couldn’t possibly argue with. She was still searching for one when the telephone rang.

  “Hey, there, Professor. Mike Dolan here. I hope I’m not disturbing you or anything.” It felt good to hear Mike’s voice, in spite of her lingering guilt for failing to witness to him.

  “Why, no. You’re not bothering me at all! What can I do for you, Mike?”

  “Well, I hope you were serious about giving Lori those piano lessons, because she hasn’t given her father or me a moment’s peace since last Sunday.”

  “Of course I was serious. Did her father agree?”

  “After a little arm-twisting. What I wanted to ask you, see . . . well, I offered to give Helen’s old piano to Lori, but I’m not really sure if it’s still any good.”

  “Would you like me to take a look at it?”

  “I would really appreciate it, if you don’t mind. No one has played on it in years.”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  “Well, I don’t want to bother you if you have other plans. There’s no big hurry.”

  “Actually, this afternoon would work out very well for me.”

  “Great! OK, then, how about if I pick you up around one?”

  “I can drive over, Mike. I don’t mind.”

  “No, I don’t want you wasting any gas on my account. I’ll pick you up around one.” He hung up before she could argue.

  Wilhelmina hummed to herself as she finished making the guest bed. Another ride in Mike’s truck wasn’t half as bad as trying to be sociable at Faith College all afternoon. She had a valid excuse to stay home. That was all that mattered.

  Laurentius and his wife, Marjorie, arrived with style and pomp later that morning. He swept grandly into Wilhelmina’s house like visiting royalty and immediately took over. He reminded Wilhelmina more than ever of a great bald eagle, with his patrician nose and scowling, hooded eyes. Larry’s towering presence overshadowed his plump, gray-haired wife. Marjorie took the biblical injunction for wives to be submissive to their husbands quite literally, and as far as Wilhelmina knew, had never ventured an original opinion in her life. Nor was she ever likely to as long as she was married to Larry, the world’s foremost authority on any issue.

  The Reverend Dr. Laurentius Horatio Brewster, B.D., M.Div., Th.D., had successfully shepherded wayward sinners into the heavenly kingdom for more than 45 years. During lunch, Wilhelmina decided to mine his vast resources of knowledge for a few pointers on how to witness to Mike. But she would have to be careful to keep the questions general or Larry would begin asking questions of his own. She passed the platter of ham sandwiches and asked, “Larry, how much of your job involves ministering to those who are already Christians and how much involves reaching the unsaved?”

  “Well, I have a rather large church to administer, as you know, so I’ve had to delegate many duties to my associates in specialized areas. In fact, I currently have a very competent minister of evangelism whose job it is to reach the unsaved.”

  “How does he do that? Does he go out on the highways and byways and round them up?”

  “Of course not. It’s a specialized field of theology now. They have a major in evangelism at the seminary.”

  Wilhelmina took this piece of news very hard. If ministers earned advanced degrees in order to witness to unbelievers like Mike, how could she hope to do a good job of it? Her purse full of 3”
x 5” cards suddenly seemed ridiculous compared to a seminary degree in evangelism.

  “Let’s suppose your minister of evangelism encountered an unbeliever . . . it doesn’t matter how. What might he say to him? How would he begin?”

  Larry took a bite of his sandwich and blotted his lips. “Well, the first step would be to point out to this sinner his utter depravity, the debauchery and degradation of his immortal soul, the corruption and impurity—”

  “Oh, good grief, Larry. We’re not talking about an axe murderer. He’s just an average man on the street.”

  He gazed at her patiently through half-closed eyes. “The Bible says in Romans 3:23 that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. So even your average man on the street is a vile, debased creature in God’s eyes, worthy of the fiery punishments of hell and death—”

  “Don’t be so pompous! Mike isn’t vile or debased.”

  Larry smiled astutely. “Are we talking about a real person now?”

  Wilhelmina wanted to swallow her own tongue. Larry had outsmarted her again. He wouldn’t be satisfied now until he knew the whole story. She never should have brought up the subject in the first place. She passed him the plate of pickles, hoping to create a diversion, but Larry had stopped eating. His forkful of salad was poised in midair. He would continue to stare at her until she answered his question.

  “Oh, all right! What if he is a real person? I still don’t see why you have to start off by telling him he’s vile and debased. He would turn on his heel and walk away. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit.”

  “Nevertheless, the truth must be spoken, Wilhelmina. Until he is shown the vast, yawning gulf that separates him from God and the fiery torments of judgment that await him, this sinner will see no need for repentance or for a Savior.”

  Wilhelmina couldn’t do it. She could never talk about moral depravity or hellfire and brimstone to Mike Dolan. She was sorry she had asked Larry for advice. “Would anyone like some cake?” she asked, as Larry paused in his sermon.

  Marjorie cleared her throat, a sign that she was, at last, about to speak. “I don’t mean to rush you, Wilhelmina dear, but it’s nearly one o’clock. Why don’t you go get changed and I’ll clean up the lunch dishes?”