Fly Away

  “Before you ever preach a word to them, Mina . . . before you even open your mouth to speak, get down on your knees and ask God to help you love that person. Christ didn’t save the world with His words, did He? He saved it with His love. Do you love this person? Really love him?”

  Wilhelmina didn’t answer. She didn’t know. She watched as Catherine’s tears overflowed and spilled down her cheeks. “John and I were warned to leave the mission station, that there was trouble coming. But John refused to go. He sent me to safety, but he insisted on staying with the tribespeople. He loved them. He was a very gifted preacher. Knowledgeable. Articulate. Persuasive. But more people came to Christ after John’s death than all during his lifetime. Because ‘greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ Your friend may not hear your words, Mina. But he’ll see Christ in your love.”

  *****

  Late that afternoon, when everyone had finally gone home, Wilhelmina drove out to the cemetery alone. The day had been gray and cold, and as she walked to her father’s grave, pulling the belt of her raincoat tighter around her, the bitter wind whispered that winter was on its way. The canopy, railing, and chairs were gone, and the earth around her father’s grave looked ugly and scarred, mounded high as if an ordinary grave couldn’t contain him. The funeral wreaths had begun to wilt in the chilly air, and dry brown leaves swirled across the bare earth. The leafless tree branches scraped against each other in the wind.

  Beside Father’s grave, Mother’s was grassy and smooth. That wound, like Wilhelmina’s sorrow, had healed over time. The pain she now felt would also heal. Like the seasons, life was ever-changing. Only God remained forever the same. She remembered reading about the Jewish custom of placing a small stone on the headstone after visiting a grave, and without knowing why, she bent down to place one on her parents’ tombstone.

  Wilhelmina walked back to her car, then drove to the tiny building that housed the cemetery offices. A large woman in a garishly printed orange dress slouched in a chair behind the counter, reading a tabloid. “Excuse me. Do you have a book or something that would tell me if a person is buried here?” Wilhelmina asked.

  The woman waved her cigarette at a shelf of ledger books. “It’s all up there. Alphabetical. Help yourself.”

  Wilhelmina scanned the untidy shelves, paging through three ledger books before she found what she was searching for. She asked for directions to “The Garden of Tranquility,” then drove through the cemetery to a quiet, older site near the back.

  The two graves were well cared for. Rust-colored mums, wilted by the cold fall weather, grew in large pots on each grave. A bronze U.S. Air Force plaque marked the foot of one grave. A small, faded American flag flapped in the breeze. Cpl. Michael G. Dolan, Jr., U.S.A.F., the headstone read. March 1, 1948—Sept. 23, 1967. He had been only 19 years old.

  To the right of Michael’s grave was his mother’s. Helen Ann Dolan. Again Wilhelmina subtracted the dates. Mike’s wife had died at the age of 48. What had she been like? Wilhelmina knew nothing about her except that she had played the piano and had attended church, taking her two sons with her. Her tombstone was centered over a double plot. The grave beside Helen’s was empty.

  As Wilhelmina looked around at the barren tree branches, the dry, brown grass, the withered flowers, a desperate sense of urgency gripped her. She stooped to pick up two small stones and placed one on each grave marker, praying that God would help her before it was too late.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, October 24, 1987

  A blaring car horn woke Wilhelmina from a dreamless sleep. Exhausted from the funeral a few days ago, she had fallen asleep on her sofa, watching the evening news. Was the car horn on TV? She gazed, bleary-eyed at her grandmother’s clock on the mantelpiece. Almost 6:30. She yawned and sat up to hear the weather report. Her neck ached from the cramped sleeping position. The horn tooted again. It sounded as if the car was in her driveway. What day was it? Friday? No, Saturday. Was she supposed to be somewhere tonight? Her doorbell rang.

  With a vague feeling of dread, Wilhelmina smoothed her clothes and hurried to open the front door. Mike Dolan stood on her doorstep. It had only been a week since she’d gone fishing with him, but Wilhelmina was shocked by how thin and unwell he looked. His skin was faintly yellow, like old sheet music. But his broad smile was unchanged.

  “Evening, Ma’am. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Well, no. Not really. I was just watching TV.”

  “I suppose this is kind of short notice again, but it’s a beautiful Indian summer evening, and I was hoping you could come along and help us out.”

  “Help who? With what?”

  Mike grinned. “Why don’t you grab a jacket and come find out. It’ll be a surprise. Have you had supper? We’ve got some doughnuts and a jug of coffee in the truck.”

  Wilhelmina gazed at him mutely as she tried to sort everything out. She couldn’t eat doughnuts. She hated surprises. And she had hoped she would never have to ride in Mike’s rusted pickup truck again. What she really wanted was to go back inside and watch TV. But she also wanted to say yes to God.

  “All right, come in. I’ll get ready.”

  “No, I’ll wait out here. My grandson Pete is in the truck.”

  As she hurried upstairs to comb her hair and grab a sweater, Wilhelmina began to have second thoughts. She didn’t even know where she was going. She welcomed the chance to talk to Mike, but how much would she be able to say with Mike’s little grandson listening. She certainly couldn’t mention Mike’s illness or discuss why suicide was wrong. Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed to come. She looked at herself in the mirror as she combed her hair, certain that she was looking at a fool.

  Mike helped her climb in the passenger’s seat, then ran around and slid behind the wheel. Peter sat between them, clutching a box of doughnuts. He had blobs of sticky red jam on his face, a fine dusting of powdered sugar down the front of his sweatshirt, and a mouthful of doughnuts.

  “There’s still some jelly ones left,” he told her. “They’re my favorites.”

  “So I see. Maybe later.”

  As they drove across town, most of the traffic seemed to be young people, cruising the streets on a Saturday night. But dozens of cars poured through the main gates of the city park and Mike followed them inside. A large sign announced “The Eighth Annual Fall Hot Air Balloon Race.” Arrows directed spectators to the right, participants to the left. Mike turned left.

  “Oh, Mike! You can’t be serious!”

  “It’ll be great. You’ll love it.” Peter bounced up and down on the seat with excitement.

  It was the same field where the kite contest had been held, but this time dozens of pickup trucks and vans were parked along the edge. Work crews scurried around, unloading gondolas, fans, and all sorts of strange equipment. Mike parked the truck and turned off the engine.

  “There’s Max over there,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Can’t I stay here and watch? I don’t know a thing about this.”

  “Hey, I was serious about Max needing our help. We’re his pit crew, so you can’t back out now. He won’t get very far without us.”

  Wilhelmina hauled herself out of the truck and trudged across the grass behind Mike and Peter. She saw two local TV stations setting up camera crews and wondered if the entire city was about to watch her make a fool of herself again.

  Max was a stocky, bulldog of a man in his mid-60s with an unlit cigar sticking out of his mouth. If he had been an actor, he could have easily played the part of Winston Churchill. “Max, I’d like you to meet your new pit crew member, Willymina Brewster,” Mike said. “This is my old air force buddy Maxwell Barker. He’ll tell us what we need to do.”

  Max scrutinized Wilhelmina as if deciding whether or not she would measure up. “Brewster, huh? You any relation to Brewster Hall and Brewster Library and all them other Brewsters over at the college?” Wilhelmina nodded. He gave an ambiguous
grunt and jerked his thumb toward the back of his truck. “Let’s get her unloaded.”

  They obviously expected Wilhelmina to help, so she went to work, helping to lower a wicker gondola from Max’s pickup. It felt amazingly flimsy to her—little more than an overgrown laundry basket. Strapped inside, looking oddly out of place, was a fire extinguisher. They set the gondola on the ground, then Max tossed an array of other equipment down to them, which they spread out beside the basket. All along the field on either side of them, two dozen other crews were going through the same routine. Max tossed Mike a long bag.

  “Here, help me get this burner set up.” He jumped down from the truck and handed Wilhelmina one end of a thick rope. The other end was tied to the gondola. “Can you tie a knot, Miz Brewster? Tie this onto the truck bumper. Tight enough to hold it, but loose enough to get it off in a hurry.”

  The responsibility overwhelmed her. She had visions of the knot coming loose prematurely and the balloon taking off with no one in it. Or worse, sailing away with the truck still attached like the tail of a kite because she had tied the knot too tightly. She looked over at Max, but he was busy helping Mike assemble the stand to the propane burner. Peter was trying to lug the nylon balloon out of a huge bag.

  Tight enough to hold, loose enough to get off in a hurry . . . , she murmured to herself as she fumbled with the rope.

  “Let’s give Pete a hand with the balloon,” Mike shouted to her when she had finished tying what she hoped was a satisfactory knot. She grabbed a handful of nylon and started pulling the multicolored balloon out of the bag and spreading it on the field. But the more she pulled out, the more of it there seemed to be. It kept emerging, unfurling endlessly from the bag.

  “Why, it’s enormous! There must be thousands of yards of it! I never dreamed it was so huge!” She was truly astounded at its size.

  “Yeah, I think this thing could cover my whole house,” Mike said. “We’ve got to spread it out all the way. The end with the cables attaches to the gondola, so make sure it’s down here. There are shroud lines on top that should be spread out too.”

  Wilhelmina glanced over at the other balloonists who were spreading their balloons across the grass as well. “Is this really a race? Where’s the finish line?”

  “It’s a race, all right, but the finish line is wherever the wind takes us. They’ll send up a chase balloon first, and it’ll drop a marker out in the country somewhere. We have to try to get airborne soon afterward—before the wind changes direction—and follow it. Then we’ll drop our flag as close to the marker as we can. The closest flag wins,”

  Wilhelmina’s stomach turned queasy every time Mike said we. She continued to tug on the balloon, spreading it out across the grass, and it continued to grow, larger and larger every minute. At last the bag was empty and a huge sea of nylon, covered with multicolored stripes, lay before her. Max tipped the gondola on its side and attached the balloon cables to it. Now the entire field seemed to be blanketed with brightly colored nylon cloth, the various shaped gondolas tipped over and waiting. A small shiver of excitement raced through her.

  A loudspeaker announcement called for all pilots to report to the officials’ booth for a short meeting. Max wiped his greasy hands on the seat of his trousers and strode away, the unlit cigar still clamped tightly between his teeth.

  “Things are going to get real exciting in a minute,” Mike warned her. He plugged two large fans into a portable generator, then started the generator. “When Max gets back, we’re each going to have a job to do. Pete, you hold the balloon’s mouth wide open, like this, see? Willymina, when Max says so, you’re going to start up these fans and make sure they’re aimed inside the balloon.”

  “Oh, Mike . . . I can’t—”

  He ignored her protest and pointed to the top of the balloon, halfway across the field. “I’ll be down there, hanging on to the shroud ropes so we don’t float away before we’re ready.”

  “But Mike, I never—”

  “When Max gets ready to fire the burner, make sure you’re both out of the way. That burner is hot!”

  “Mike, listen—”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to plug your ears. The burner makes a real racket. Get ready, here he comes.”

  The pilots hurried back from their meeting, with Max in the lead, still chomping on his dead cigar.

  “There goes the chase balloon, Grandpa.”

  Wilhelmina looked up as a brilliant blue balloon lifted off and slowly floated above them. “Get ready,” Mike said. He sprinted across the colorful sea of nylon to hold down the shroud ropes on top.

  Start the fans, Miz Brewster,” Max shouted above the roar of the generator. He helped Peter hold the mouth of the balloon open while Wilhelmina fumbled for the fan switch. The first one started up with a rumble and nearly vibrated out of her grip as she tried to aim it toward the opening. “OK. Now the other one,” Max yelled.

  The second fan started with a jerk and she struggled to aim it into the slowly swelling balloon. Peter looked as if his clothes were about to be blown off in the wind. He laughed so hard he could barely stand up. Max crawled inside the huge balloon and unfurled it from within, making sure the air from the fans reached every empty space. Slowly, magnificently, like a huge, prehistoric monster, the balloon came to life, swelling up in front of Wilhelmina, looming larger every second. All around her, dozens of brilliantly colored balloons were rising up as if God had suddenly declared, “Let there be life,” and the living creatures arose from the dust of the earth. A glorious thrill of excitement coursed through her veins at the breathtaking sight.

  “Get out of the way,” Max shouted as he sprinted past her. “I’m going to fire the burner.”

  She motioned to Peter, and they both stepped aside. But she forgot to plug her ears and the sudden, deafening roar of the burner caused her to clutch at her heart, which had momentarily ceased to beat. The intense heat from the burner made her take a few steps back.

  Slowly, ponderously, the top of the balloon began to rise as the air inside it warmed. It swung around to a vertical position, pulling the gondola upright along with it. She saw Mike, hanging onto the shroud lines, guiding the balloon so it would rise up smoothly. It was a magnificent spectacle, as graceful and beautiful as a ballet.

  “Get in! Get in!” Max shouted. He was talking to her. “Hurry up, Miz Brewster!”

  “No . . . I . . . I can’t!”

  “I need a spotter,” he shouted. “Get in!”

  Deep in her heart, Wilhelmina longed to go. But she stood rooted to the ground, unable to move. Mike sprinted up beside her and tugged on her arm.

  “Come on, get in, Professor. You’ll love it once you’re up there.” The gondola lifted from the ground a few inches, but it was still tied to the truck bumper by Wilhelmina’s knot.

  “I can’t, Mike . . . I just can’t.” She couldn’t will her feet to move.

  “Somebody better get in, fast!” Max shouted. Several other balloons had already lifted off and were slowly floating skyward.

  “You go, Mike. I can’t.” He studied her for a moment and seemed to understand her tremendous fear.

  “OK, Professor,” he said gently. “Untie the rope.” He ran to the gondola and hoisted himself over the side while Wilhelmina undid her knot. Max fired the burner again and the flame shot up with a deafening whoosh. The balloon seemed to draw a deep breath. For a moment it didn’t move, then the gondola rocked slightly and began to bump across the ground.

  “Max, wait a minute!” Mike shouted as the balloon bounced slowly away from her. “I forgot to tell her what to do!”

  “I can’t stop now!” Max said. The balloon rose a few more feet.

  “Willymina, listen! You have to follow us in the chase car!”

  “What?” She could barely hear him above the roar of the burners. She jogged across the field behind them as the balloon drifted slowly skyward.

  Mike cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down to her. “Follo
w us in my truck!” The giant balloon rose above her head as if by levitation and floated away from her. She sprinted faster to keep up.

  “I can’t drive your truck!” she panted.

  “Willymina you have to! We need you to pick us up!”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “Here, catch!” He tossed the keys down to her from the balloon and they landed in the grass about 10 feet in front of her. Then, like a huge, magical sailing ship, the balloon suddenly caught a breeze and floated off into the clear, evening sky. Multicolored balloons filled the heavens, and Wilhelmina paused to catch her breath, watching in awe as they drifted slowly away. She would never forget the magnificent sight.

  She was still gazing at the sky when she felt someone tugging on her sleeve. Peter held Mike’s keys out to her. “We’re gonna lose them,” he said.

  “What? Aren’t those his keys?”

  “We’re gonna lose Grandpa’s balloon. We have to hurry up and follow them.”

  “Do we have to leave right now?”

  “How else are we going to know where they land?” he said, giggling.

  It took Wilhelmina a moment to realize what Peter was telling her. She glanced anxiously back up at the sky, searching for Mike’s balloon. It sailed high above the trees, moving away at an alarming rate of speed. She grabbed Peter’s arm and hurried toward the truck.

  “You forgot the bag,” Peter told her when they reached the parking lot.

  “What bag?” she said, panting.

  “The bag that the balloon goes in. We’re supposed to bring it with us.”

  Wilhelmina groaned and hurried back to retrieve the huge canvas bag, lugging it clumsily behind her. She could barely catch her breath. She hadn’t exhausted this much energy in her life. She glanced up at the sky once again. The balloons were rapidly sailing northeast.

  She fumbled the keys into the ignition but forgot to put the clutch in. The truck lurched forward and stalled, nearly slamming Peter into the dashboard. Some loose change and an envelope slid onto the floor. “I’m sorry, Peter. I haven’t driven a standard shift in ages. You had better buckle up.” She restarted the engine and lurched, kangaroo-like, out of the parking lot and through the gates. Peter picked up the envelope and pulled out its contents. She glanced at the letterhead: “Aviation Medical Examiner.”