Cynthia Cartier - Wings

Liddy caressed the body of her jalopy. “May not be pretty, but … if she had wings, I’d take her up.” She popped the gear shift and rolled out, brushing Rowby off the side.

Liddy knew that the Rowbys of the world were fragile and dangerous. Since she was very young, she was guided by a strong intuition, so from the time they were children in school together, Liddy had a sense that a fine line should be kept with Rowby Wills. Still, in high school she had been on a few dates with him, but she soon realized he wasn’t going to accept her on her terms, so she drew a line of friendship. This however, didn’t keep Rowby on the right side of the line, but she was consistent.

Liddy’s tactic had always been to dole out huge kindness to Rowby, hoping for the day when he would be distracted elsewhere. This had happened many times, but nothing had stuck. She did care what happened to him and felt bad for his challenges. Many people with a steady sense of themselves feel deeply for those who don’t have this sense, and Liddy felt for Rowby. She knew how essential it was to her own survival. It was a matter of course for Liddy to depend on what she knew she could count on in herself and stick close to it.

As she pulled away from the field and drove down the dirt road to the town of Holly Grove, Missouri, she tapped a beat on the steering wheel and sang out to the tune in her head, “Comin’ in on a wing and a prayer, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. Though there’s one motor gone, we can still carry on, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer.” Daniel flew over her as he circled around to land and Liddy thought to herself, Every day should begin in the air.

A loud stillness falls on a town during wartime. Is it the absence of the hell-raising and of cars that drive too fast down Main Street on Friday nights? Is it the quiet left in the dearth of fluttering girls who have no one to flutter for? Or is it the echo of empty and aching hearts, the hearts of sweeties and mamas and daddies in a land that has sent its young men to battle on foreign soil? Young men have a vigor that only they can live and draw from others. When they’re gone, there’s a pause in living that waits for their return.

The Second World War had all but stripped most small towns of their young men. Some were kept from the effort because of flat feet, weak vision or less than perfect hearing. A few were excused by their lineage. Most that were excused would slink about the streets or stay close to home, hiding from the grip of guilt that stalked them for not being with their friends and brothers. But for some, it just wasn’t their time yet. They hadn’t been called up and wrestled with waiting for the call or enlisting.

The town of Holly Grove was papered with posters calling for the support of their soldier boys and encouraging the purchase of Defense Savings Stamps. Posters called for the use of properly issued ration coupons—HELP US SMASH THE BLACK MARKET. Meat, sugar, coffee, shoes, gasoline and rubber were just some of the things that were dealt out sparingly, all to keep the supply available for the war effort…except for gasoline. It was plentiful. But rubber was not. Japan had been the main supplier of rubber to the United States and those ties were no longer. If people drove they wore out their tires, and a car without gas couldn’t burn much rubber. Since a plane wasn’t seen as a major rubber consumer, pilots were able to get extra gas coupons by showing documents for special needs, and Crik kept the planes in the air. Even with that, the gasoline rationing kept the paying customers closer to home, so Crik cut back on shows as the war dragged on.

Liddy drove through her hometown and felt the lingering, silent fret of people who didn’t know what lay ahead. Blue Star Flags were displayed proudly at both home and business, but following the visit of a black sedan, a blue star would be patched over with a gold one. Fear and anger were camouflaged with pride and patriotism. A façade of resolute determination was erected that no one would confess to or let falter. The War was a fume that permeated every moment and the senses were heightened and then numbed to it.

Liddy parked in front of Tully’s Market where Raymond Tully sat in a rocker on the sidewalk. The old man rocked and scanned the sky through binoculars. It had been over two years since Pearl Harbor had been attacked, but an uneasiness still lived in every man, woman and child that some people were set on killing Americans. Such uncertainty was foreign to people who had only known living on peaceful soil. Liddy left the Dodge and stepped up on the sidewalk where she sat in the empty chair next to the man.

“Hey, Mr. Tully, anything up there?”

Raymond Tully tremored with the frustration and helplessness of a man who could no longer take the battlefield but had a personal knowledge of the battle. In some form, war seems to make itself available to every generation, and he was well acquainted with the moments that were being lived out by the young men of his family and of his friend’s families, many who were young enough to do the job and at the same time, too young to do the job.

“Hi, Liddy. Nope, don’t ’spect there will be. Ain’t gonna catch our boys off guard more than once. Better be safe though. How’s Jack?”

“Ornery as ever.”

“Tell him Ray says hi.”

“I will.” Liddy patted his hand and went into the store. As she pushed open the front door, the bell jingled over her head and she was met instantly by the smell of cellared apples and Lysol. The floor sparkled and the shelves were scrubbed clean where they were ration bare. She took three bottles of Coca-Cola from the icebox and slipped a newspaper from the rack.

Raymond Tully’s granddaughter May brushed past the burlap curtain to the back room and greeted her customer and friend, “Hi, Liddy.” She swept crumbs from her mouth and off the white apron that was wrapped twice around her tall, slender frame.

“Hey, May. How’ve you been?”

“Tired, bored and bloated from eating so many potatoes. When this war is over I plan to never even look at another potato. How are you?”

“Great!” Liddy laid her purchases on the counter and peeled a bill from the wad she dug out of her pocket.

May pushed down on the register keys. “Heard you’re goin’ to the dance in Kirksville next Saturday with Frank Paulson?”

“Who told you that?”

“Frank.”

“He asked, but I’ve gotta work, I told him that.”

“Still shuffling plates at the diner?” May stowed the pop in a brown paper sack and the exchange was made.

“Still,” Liddy said as she scrunched the bag opening in a clutch and slipped the newspaper under her arm. “You and Harlan going to the dance?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why though. He’ll just perch himself on his car outside the hall with the Shelley boys and smoke and drink Clarence Kimmel’s hooch. I’ll end up driving him home, leave him parked in front of his mama’s house and then walk myself home. Quite a life I’ve mapped out for myself, don’t you think?”

“Well, May, you could always get a different map.”

“Wish you were goin’, Liddy. We could have some laughs.”

“Me too. You make it a good day, okay.” Liddy left the store, snapped a salute to May’s granddaddy and climbed into the Dodge.

Beneath the big cottonwood trees that lined the drive, Liddy drove slowly toward the large white building on top of the hill. Spring was drawing out the leaves and Liddy looked up at the specks of green that dotted the sunshine breaking through the web of branches.

The local hospital was housed in the old Newell mansion. The Newell empire had included banks, land and railroads until Arthur Newell decided to go into the oil business—in Missouri. The man was sure he sensed the bubbling brew beneath him, or it may have just been the tumor that was pressing on his brain. Before Arthur died of brain cancer, he had dwindled the family’s fortune hunting for the black gold, so when the coffers emptied most of the Newells scattered around the country, trying to make a way for themselves. Had the family not left the business solely to Arthur, the second eldest of the surviving matriarch, the plunder may have been avoided. But the eldest son and the rest of the family were too busy living on family money, which was a full-time job.

Old Mrs. Newell still lived in a little house in the center of town where she managed to keep herself with the money she made from the sale of her childhood home. The big house she grew up in wasn’t something she could afford to rattle around in, so she sold it and it was turned into a hospital, the only hospital for a hundred miles.

Carrying the sack of pop and the newspaper, Liddy walked down the hall of the hospital where a nurse was sitting at a desk.

“Hi, Liddy, good show today?”

“Always. How’s my guy?” Liddy asked as she sailed by.

“Keepin us on our toes.”

Liddy turned into the room at the end of the hall and side-stepped Ruth who was changing the sheets on the bed. Liddy’s father was sitting in a chair by the window. His robe hung off his right shoulder and wisps of hair floated above his head. Struggle tensed his face as he studied the day, straining to catch his thoughts before they escaped. Life and hard living had swallowed Jack Hall’s mass, even before illness took hold. His sixty-three years sat on him like seventy-five plus. He had big opinions and a big voice that didn’t match his current size, which seemed out of balance to anyone who had just met him.

“Hi, Daddy.” Liddy kissed the top of Jack’s head. “Hey, Ruth.”