Fly Away

  “Hey, Professor, how about a cup of coffee? There’s a doughnut shop just down the block. I know you’re probably a busy person and all, but as long as we’re here . . .”

  Wilhelmina couldn’t imagine anything she’d enjoy less than sitting in a doughnut shop beside Mr. Dolan in his embroidered work clothes. But since she had no other plan of action, she might as well accept his invitation. She glanced at her watch, pretending she was on a tight schedule.

  “Well . . . I suppose I have time for a quick cup.”

  “Great! Let’s go!” He waved good-bye to the receptionist and held the door open for Wilhelmina. They started down the street together.

  “Sure has been great fall weather, eh, Professor?”

  “Yes. It has.”

  “I love these warm days and cool nights, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this what they call ‘Indian Summer’?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll bet your students can hardly keep their minds on their lessons on a gorgeous day like today.” He sounded breathless from trying to keep up with Wilhelmina’s brisk pace. She forced herself to slow down.

  “Actually, Mr. Dolan, I’m not teaching at the college anymore. I’ve retired.”

  “No way! You’re too young for that!” He looked shocked, but she spotted a twinkle in his eye.

  How cold and unfriendly her disposition must seem to someone as good-natured as Mr. Dolan! Wilhelmina tried to justify their opposite moods by telling herself that he still had a job to go to every day while she had none. Then she remembered that he was terminally ill.

  Wilhelmina drew a deep breath. She simply must try to be a little friendlier. After all, she was on an important mission. And besides, she’d never have to see him again after today.

  “Yes, Mr. Dolan, it’s true. I retired from teaching last spring after 41 years at Faith College.”

  “Well, that’s great. So, do you have lots of plans now, with so much freedom? Travel around the world and all that?”

  “No, I never cared much for traveling. I’m busy with my work for the Cancer Society. And my church, of course.” She was pleased with herself for slipping religion into the conversation. It was a good beginning. But they had reached the doughnut shop, and by the time they took a seat at a greasy booth by the window the opportunity to witness had passed.

  “We’d like two coffees,” Mike told the waitress. “I’ll have a grape jelly doughnut. . . and what’ll you have, Professor?”

  “I really don’t care for anything.”

  “But these are the best doughnuts in town. Come on, try one.”

  When would this ever end? Greasy foods made Wilhelmina’s gall bladder act up. But she ordered a plain doughnut to make him happy and to avoid a lengthy explanation about her inner anatomy. After the waitress served their food, Wilhelmina struggled for a way to bring their conversation back on course. Before she could think of one, Mike started talking.

  “Yes sir, I think retirement’s the reward for a good life well lived, don’t you? So tell me, your volunteer work can’t keep you busy all the time. What else have you got cooked up?”

  Wilhelmina was at a loss for words. Most people her age usually did make retirement plans, but she had never dreamt that she would have to retire. If only she hadn’t relied on the dean’s assurances that she could teach part-time. If only he’d kept his promise . . .

  “Sorry. I guess it’s none of my business.” When Mike interrupted her thoughts Wilhelmina realized that he had been waiting a long time for her answer. She silently scolded herself for her atrocious manners and decided to be honest with him.

  “Actually, Mr. Dolan, I haven’t made any plans. You see, I loved teaching. It’s all I’ve ever known. And I didn’t want to retire. I thought I might stay on at the college part-time, but it didn’t happen that way.”

  “That’s a real shame, Professor . . . a talented lady like yourself . . .” His eyes held hers, and she saw so much sympathy and compassion in them that Wilhelmina’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t turn away in embarrassment. Instead, she had the feeling that he was about to reach for her hand. She quickly folded her hands in her lap.

  “But even if that college is stupid enough to let you go, there must be a dozen other places that would be tickled to have you, Professor.”

  “I’m 65, Mr. Dolan. Most schools look for a much younger person.”

  “That’s dumb!” He banged his fist on the table, causing the coffee cups to rattle. “You’re not ready to be put out to pasture yet!”

  “True. But it happened. Anyway, I’m not sure I’d be happy at another school. Faith was my alma mater, you see. Father taught at Faith College and the seminary, too, for ages and ages. My entire life has revolved around the college, I suppose.”

  “Does your family live around here?”

  “My older brother, Laurentius, is senior pastor of a church up in Springfield, and my younger brother, Peter, is a professor of religious studies down at Yale.”

  “Wow! You’re all a bunch of eggheads!”

  Wilhelmina smiled in spite of herself. Her attitude toward him softened slightly. “No, not really. But Father always stressed the importance of a good education, and I guess we all took him seriously. After I graduated from Faith I earned a master of music degree from Hartford Conservatory, then took a job back here. I wouldn’t know where else to teach even if they would have me.”

  “Well then, how about your other lifelong dreams? What did you always want to do when you were a kid that you never had a chance to do?”

  He seemed so kind and so genuinely interested in her that Wilhelmina found it easy to be open with him. “To be honest, Mr. Dolan, I don’t remember dreaming of anything else. I remember piano lessons and recitals and practicing for music competitions and—”

  “Did you win any?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The competitions . . . did you win any of them?”

  “Most of them, yes.” She allowed herself to smile. “Father taught us how to set goals and how to work to achieve them.”

  “Well, I’m happy that you won . . . and I hope you won’t take this wrong . . . but it all sounds pretty dull. How about time off to have fun? Doing kid stuff. You didn’t have to practice piano all the time, did you?”

  “Oh, but I enjoyed practicing! I never cared much for silly childhood games.”

  “Didn’t you ever play hooky from school and go fishing? Explore a haunted house? Ride a toboggan? Fly a kite? Fun things like that?”

  “Not that I recall . . . but I did have a happy childhood, Mr. Dolan. Truly.” Why did she suddenly feel like she’d missed something in life? “Music has been my whole life, and I’ve been very content with it.” Until now, she finished silently. She wondered how she had ever started talking about herself and decided to steer the conversation back to him. “How about yourself, Mr. Dolan, do you enjoy music?”

  Mike laughed, and it was an easy, rumbling sound, like a child toying with the low registers of a piano. “I enjoy certain kinds of music, but I don’t know very much about your kind. I’ve never been to a symphony or a ballet or anything like that. And my dad never bugged me about getting an education like yours did. He had to work two shifts down in the shipyards just to keep food on our table, so we never saw much of him. There were seven of us kids, and we were on our own most of the time. Had some great times together. Got in some real scrapes too!” He laughed again.

  “When did you become interested in flying?”

  “When I was 14 I met a guy named Joe Donovan. He’d been a genuine World War I flying ace. Even fought against the famous Red Baron once. I used to spend hours down at the little airfield and Joe would fill my ears with all his flying stories. Taught me a lot about planes, too. Even taught me to fly one. Joe was some guy! Like a father to me. Anyhow, when the second war started heating up, I quit my job and signed up for the air force. They taught me to really fly . . . P51 Mustangs
. . . bomber escorts. You know?”

  Wilhelmina nodded, but the world he talked about was alien to her.

  “I saved all my pay, even made a little extra on the side, and after the war I started buying scrap aircraft and fixing them up. Pretty soon I had my own little fleet. I worked a bush pilot operation for a while up in the Yukon, Northwest Territories, and Alaska. I could tell you some stories! Those were the days!”

  He was quiet for a moment, but his face seemed to glow as he reminisced. Again, Wilhelmina was struck by how different their lives were, how very little they had in common. Finally Mike sighed. “But after I got married and the kids came along . . . you know how it goes. Helen wanted to settle down back home. She couldn’t take those northern winters. So, Dolan and Sons Aviation moved back here.”

  The waitress returned and silently refilled their cups. He took a few sips and finished his doughnut. “I asked you about your dreams, Professor, because I guess I’ve always had my own little dream. Ever since those days I spent with Joe Donovan I’ve always dreamed of owning a little fleet of antique planes, World War I types—Sopwith Camels, Spads, Fokkers. I’d like to fix them up and give air shows—mock dogfights, just like Eddie Rickenbacker and the Red Baron. Flying was really flying, in those days. Now everything’s computerized on modern fighter jets. All the fun’s gone. But in those days it was man to man, machine to machine.”

  Wilhelmina was about to ask him why he didn’t pursue his dream when she remembered why. She stared down at her hands, wrapped around her coffee mug, and tried to think of something to say.

  “I guess flying is my reason for living, Professor, and music is yours. I love being up in the air more than I do being on the ground. Maybe I should have been a bird. You like to fly?”

  “Me? I don’t know . . . I’ve never flown.”

  “What? Never in your whole life?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I can change that!” He leaped to his feet and pried her hand off the coffee mug, taking it firmly in his own. “Come on, my favorite Cessna is all fueled up and ready to go. And this is the best time of year to fly too. You haven’t seen a New England fall until you’ve seen it from the air!”

  She pulled her hand free and stared at him. “I couldn’t possibly go!”

  “Why not? . . . Don’t tell me you’re afraid to fly, Professor?”

  Wilhelmina was too dumbfounded to answer. His face broke into a kindly grin.

  “Ma’am, you’re safer in my airplane than you are driving home today. Come on, give it a try. I promise we’ll land safely again.”

  His blunt kindness unnerved her. This man had no facades or hidden agendas like so many of her colleagues in the academic world. Here she was, a virtual stranger, yet he had offered to plop her into his airplane and fly her all over the countryside to see the fall leaves. He meant well, but it was out of the question.

  “No, really. Thank you, but I can’t.” She checked her watch without seeing the time and rose to go.

  “Well, if you change your mind, Professor, you can give me a shout anytime and I’ll take you up, free of charge.”

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Dolan, but—”

  “It’s Mike. Call me Mike. And I’m serious about that offer, Professor.” He paid for their coffee and doughnuts and left a generous tip.

  Wilhelmina could find nothing to say as they walked back to the Cancer Center along the tree-lined street. Mike shuffled his feet through the fallen leaves, deliberately making them rustle, and the sound grated on Wilhelmina’s nerves. The leaves looked ugly to her— dry, dead, useless things, cast-off and unwanted, fit only to be burned.

  “Isn’t that a beautiful sound, Professor?” Mike said suddenly. “The sounds of fall are one of my favorite kinds of music. You know what I read somewhere once? The leaves actually sacrifice themselves. They fall off the branches and die, just so the tree can survive the winter that’s coming. Isn’t that something?”

  “Mm . . . yes,” she mumbled. How could he be so perpetually, unceasingly cheerful, especially under the circumstances? Wilhelmina’s own depression weighed so heavily on her that she could barely get out of bed in the mornings. At night, she would lie awake unable to sleep.

  When they reached the center she turned to him. “Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Dolan. I’m sorry about the piano and the wasted trip.”

  “Not at all, not at all! I enjoyed talking with you. You take care, now, and I’ll be waiting to hear from you whenever you decide to take your first flight. Bye now.” He waved his baseball cap in salute and disappeared around the corner.

  Wilhelmina walked slowly to her car, rustling the leaves with her feet, trying in vain to hear the “music.”

  When she opened her purse to get her car keys, she saw the two tracts. And for the first time in her entire life, Wilhelmina Brewster swore.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, September 19, 1987

  Mike hummed a country-western tune along with the car radio as he pulled his aging pickup truck into his son’s driveway. He tooted the horn and the door of the ranch-style house burst open. Three children rushed out, laughing and shouting all at once.

  “Where are the kites, Grandpa? Did you get the kites?” From the back of the truck, Buster and Heinz joined in the tumult with a chorus of barking. Mike hopped down from the cab and opened the tailgate.

  “Yep, the kites are all in the back here, ready to fly—unless these dumb mutts trampled them to death.”

  “Can we see them? Where? Which one’s mine?”

  Mike reached into the back and pulled out a large box kite. “This one is yours, Mickey. I made it myself out of aluminum tubing and parachute cloth.”

  “Awesome! Thanks, Grandpa!” Mickey grabbed the silver kite from Mike with one hand and pushed his thick blond hair off his forehead with the other. He was a handsome boy of 10, almost as tall as Mike, with the sturdy build of a future football player. With his ragged jeans, bulging pockets, smudged face, and lopsided grin, Mickey had the mischievous look of a modern-day Tom Sawyer, ready for adventure.

  Mike punched him playfully. “I sure hope I won’t need my parachute until after I’ve sewn up all the holes.”

  “Where’s mine, which one’s mine?”

  “OK, hang on, Pete. Here, this little jet-propelled number is for you.” Peter’s blue eyes widened in delight as Mike handed him a sleek, black, delta-wing kite. Peter grinned, revealing a wide gap where his two front teeth should be. He was a skinny, wiggling six-year-old, with dark hair that hung raggedly over his eyes. He twirled the kite through the air, making airplane sounds. Mike was convinced that Peter could amuse himself for hours in any empty room.

  “And last but not least, for Her Majesty . . . this beauty!” He drew out a long, silky, multicolored tube kite and swirled it gracefully around his granddaughter Lori’s neck. She was eight and had short-cropped, light brown hair and a sweet, turned up nose, liberally dotted with freckles. As wistful as a wood sprite and as impish as an elf, Lori sprinkled her charm like pixie dust, never failing to capture Mike in her spell.

  “Oh, Grandpa! It’s beautiful! It’s even got purple and pink, my favorite colors!”

  “Oooh, purple and pink...,” her older brother said, mimicking her. “Gimme a break!”

  The front door banged again and Mike’s son, Steve, strolled across the lawn, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cutoffs, his T-shirt hanging out. He had a stocky, muscular build and thinning brown hair. Mike saw himself, 30-some years ago, in his son’s energetic stride.

  “You coming with us?” Mike asked.

  “Naw ... I promised Cheryl I’d get some stuff done around the house today. Wish I could, though.”

  “OK then, are you three guys ready to go?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah!”

  “Well, hop aboard!”

  Peter climbed over the tailgate to join Buster and Heinz in the back of the truck, then held up a red, diamond-shaped paper kite with a tail of knotted socks. ?
??Grandpa, who is this kite for?”

  “That’s my 59-cent special, for a friend of mine. We’ll pick her up on our way to the park.”

  “Her? Is she my age?” Lori asked.

  “Nope, she’s my age, and she told me she’s never flown a kite before. Isn’t that awful?”

  Steve grinned at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a date! Is it that mysterious lady who keeps calling you at the hangar?”

  Mike felt his face grow hot. He certainly had no intention of courting Professor Brewster, yet he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her ever since their conversation in the doughnut shop.

  “No, it’s not like a date or anything. She’s awfully homely, if you want to know the truth, and not my type at all. But she just retired a few months ago, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. I think she’s kind of depressed. I feel sorry for her, that’s all. I thought maybe we could cheer her up. Put a little fun in her life.”

  “Sure, Dad . . . whatever you say!” Steve winked at Lori. “Make sure you keep Grandpa out of trouble, all right? See you later.”

  The kids chattered noisily as Mike drove across town, bragging about the future prospects of their kites and arguing over who would win the contest. Mike drove past the Faith College campus, then turned onto a broad, tree-lined boulevard.

  “Wow! Look at the mansions!” Lori said. Mike slowed down, checking the house numbers until he spotted the right one. He pulled into the long, curving driveway. “Is this your friend’s house, Grandpa? It’s big!”

  “Yep, this must be it, because there she is.”

  Wilhelmina knelt in the garden in front of the house, planting tulip bulbs. She wore an old pair of brown tweed slacks, a faded blue windbreaker, and a flowered kerchief on her head. As the truck rattled to a stop, with Buster and Heinz barking loudly in back, she looked up in surprise. Mike jumped down from the cab and waved his cap at her in greeting.

  “Hi, Professor. Lovely day, isn’t it?”