Where The Sky Doesn't End

By Ron Nichols

To Brendan, flying is not only a dream about his future; it’s an important connection to his past. Reading the half-filled pages of his deceased father’s flight logbook, Brendan seeks to know a father who died too young, and to face a future that seems wrought with peril. If he realizes his dream of flight, Brendan believes he will also sever the abusive grip of his stepfather.
When a precocious 11-year-old girl named Aria is thrust into his life, Brendan’s world is turned upside down. Forced to work together after school, Aria’s know-it-all personality runs head-first into Brendan’s quiet resolve. But through the wisdom and insight of Mr. Washington, the school’s janitor and former Tuskegee Airmen mechanic, the two eventually forge a friendship that they both desperately need.
Where the Sky Doesn’t End is a story about hopes, dreams, disappointments, triumphs, sacrifices and friendships. It is a story that will touch your heart and make your spirit soar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Sisters Publishing
• Release date: Mar 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781937273316

Ron Nichols

A former journalist turned marketing communications practitioner, Ron Nichols is a graduate of the University of Missouri’s School of Journalism.The author of two photography books, Where the Sky Doesn't End is his inaugural novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Magneto check complete, Brendan O'Brian slowly pushed the throttle knob forward and immediately heard the engine increase its throaty volume. He felt the vibration rumble through his body and scanned the windscreen one more time for approaching aircraft as he taxied the Piper Cub onto the runway's threshold.

He then pulled the throttle back to idle, pushed his leg forcefully into the right rudder pedal, which caused the single engine airplane to make a sharp right turn onto the end of the runway. He toed both rudder pedals forcefully, which brought the aircraft to a stop. Its nose was now perfectly aligned with the center strip of runway 34.

Brendan keyed the transmitter button on the radio and announced, Piper 647 rolling on runway 3-4, as he steadily pushed the throttle knob forward.

Simultaneously, almost instinctively, Brendan O’Brian extended his right heel into the bottom of the rudder pedal as the airplane began to move in response to his application of power. Overcoming the engine’s torque to the left, his rudder compensation was so perfect that the nose of his aircraft stayed unwaveringly on the center strip of the runway. As the aircraft picked up speed, Brendan could feel a gentle thud through the seat as the airplane’s tires rolled across the expansion joints separating each section of concrete runway.

He glanced down at the instrument panel and calmly observed that the engine perimeters (manifold pressure, engine oil temperature, RPMs) were in the green. Looking up again, he concentrated on keeping his aircraft in the center of the runway as it picked up speed. Brendan was in his element. At 40 knots indicated airspeed, he pushed the Piper Cub’s control stick slightly forward to lift the tail of the aircraft off the runway. As he did he could clearly see the end of the runway ahead of him through the wind screen.

Within seconds the little aircraft had reached 55 knots indicated airspeed. Its wings, generating an amazing capacity for lift, would not be denied flight any longer. Brendan yielded to the aircraft’s desire by releasing the front pressure on the stick. Instantly, the nose pitched slightly up and, without the added weight of the instructor in the seat behind him, the plane leapt into the air. Using less than half of the 3000-foot runway, Brendan and his aircraft were airborne.

Brendan O’Brian was pilot in command.

Now applying slight backpressure on the stick to increase his rate of climb, Brendan continued to scan the sky for other aircraft. One must never get complacent in the cockpit, his instructor’s words echoed in his mind. With another glance at the instrument panel, Brendan could see that his rate of climb was a comfortable 500 feet per minute. Even with plane’s nose at this steep attitude, the little Cub maintained a respectable airspeed of 65 knots.

Brendan leveled the aircraft at 2,000 feet and concurrently pulled the throttle knob back to maintain his 65-knot airspeed, twisting the throttle control knob to lean the fuel mixture. He scanned the sky to the left and then banked the aircraft’s wings to 30-degrees, keeping the ball in the turn-and-bank indicator perfectly centered.

Below, he could see his little hometown, with the little cars and the little people. Further ahead he could see the bell tower of his school. Brendan smiled. The first 13-year-old to take flying lessons, Brendan would soon be the envy of every earthbound student in Osage, Missouri. Again he pulled the throttle knob back and pushed the nose of the aircraft down. He felt himself go temporarily weightless as the aircraft headed toward the earth.

He applied left rudder and pushed the stick to the left while simultaneously pulling it slightly toward him to properly coordinate his turn. As the aircraft banked, he could see clearly below. The doubting teachers who said he couldn’t do it. The bullies who had tried to hold his shoulders to the earth – had tried but had failed.

They were shielding their eyes from the sun, looking up at his great soaring machine. They were looking up with envy – just as he had looked up at the hawks soaring above his head. From his place in the sky he could see how small they were. How little they knew. They were little people on a little playground in a little town. Just little people. Period.

Brendan was smiling. He didn’t consciously intend to, really, but he simply couldn’t help it. It was, as he had learned in his literature classes, poetic justice. Good had overcome evil. Right had triumphed over might. He was doing what no one believed he would do.

Brendan…. He could barely hear the words echo through his headset. Brendan… his name echoed again.

Something wasn’t right. Why was the controller using his name instead his aircraft’s tail number? It wasn’t proper radio protocol.

Something’s clearly amiss, he instinctively knew. The engine sputtered, coughed, and then abruptly ceased. He made a quick aileron correction with the stick, and tried to level his wings, but the aircraft wouldn’t respond. His heart suddenly quickened its pace. Things were beginning to unravel.

Think! He forced himself not to panic. Look for a place to land. Don’t panic. It’s all routine. You’ve trained for this. Extend full flaps. Trade altitude for airspeed. Routine.

But it wasn’t routine. There wasn’t enough altitude to trade for airspeed. The aircraft refused to respond. Nothing he did had any effect on the aircraft. The little cub began to spin faster and faster. The control stick felt like mush in his sweating hand. He moved it to the right, pushed it forward, but nothing happened. It was a complete loss of control. Despite all of his training, he wasn’t prepared for this.

Brendan. The voice came louder now through the headset. I’ve got my hands full here, he thought to himself, too busy to respond to the controller’s call.

The aircraft was corkscrewing wildly. But he wasn’t heading toward the ground. Strangely, it was racing up to meet him. In a fraction of a second the ground filled his windscreen. In one heart-wrenching instant it was over.

BRENDAN!

He looked up from his desk, blinked his eyes and saw his teacher. Her left hand was cradling his chin. Her face just inches from his. Her beautiful green eyes locked on his.

Brendan! She punctuated each syllable with a direct, drawn out enunciation. BREN-DAN… You will go see the principal after class and explain to him why you're incapable of paying attention, Miss Cypret said, Do you understand me?

He nodded absently. The classroom roared with laughter. Brendan was suddenly aware of his surroundings, but his heart was still racing wildly. Mercifully, the bell rang just as she turned to face the class. Brendan was thankful for this small gift.

The other students intermittently rose from their desks, picked up their books and filed out of the classroom. Some looked and pointed his way. Others simply shook their heads in feigned disbelief. The laughter and the subsequent chatter dissipated as the students exited the room.

But Brendan’s embarrassment did not. It swarmed around him like flies on a pile of rotting watermelon rinds.

Rookie mistake, Brendan thought. Never should he have allowed the aircraft to stall at such a low altitude. He knew better. He had plenty of airspeed. His turn was perfect. That’s it, he thought, it had to have been carburetor icing.

Of course, you idiot he thought admonishing himself. You forgot to pull the 'carb heat' knob to the 'on' position before you taxied onto the runway. As he collected his books and notebooks from his desk, he vowed that he would never make that mistake again.

Miss Cypret was scratching a note with her number two pencil as he walked by her desk.

Here, Brendan. You take this note and give it to Mrs. Newbold in the office. Maybe Mr. Mabry can help you learn to concentrate on your schoolwork. I don’t appreciate you daydreaming in my class, she said with a clear note of exasperation.

He looked into the disappointed eyes of his favorite teacher, took the note, and began the long, lonely walk out the door to face an uncertain future in the principal's office.

Chapter Two

Like many other redheads throughout time, Aria Chandler's character and temperament seemed preordained. She had always heard that redheads were free-spirited, unique, and sometimes contrary. She knew that Hollywood loved casting redheaded boys as bullies, and redheaded girls as spiteful villains who always get theirs in the end as the hero triumphs over the adversary. She also knew that long before movies and television, many novel and short story writers used redheads as their antagonists.

It could have been that Aria was unwittingly molded into society's stereotype. But Aria wasn't a wholesale subscriber to the environment theory of behavior – the one that says you become what you're expected to become based on your treatment at home or in society. Her parents certainly didn't expect her to be non-compliant. They were strong disciplinarians.

And yet she was, she would readily admit, scrupulously non-compliant, even pugnacious.

And on the genetic side of the argument, Aria understood that some people became what they were genetically programmed to be. On this point she was equally conflicted, because neither one of her parents demonstrated her strong-willed, nonconformist personality. Her mother and her father were both soft spoken, gentle people who preferred quiet reading to outdoor activities, and Aria couldn’t even imagine either of the two resisting, let alone challenging any authority figure.

On a number of occasions Aria had considered the very real possibility that she was adopted. But her parents had never broached the issue. So she concluded – based on what she had learned in health class – that her personality difference was most probably based on the random collision of two sets of recessive genes. It had to have been one of nature's little experiments – proof that God had a sense of humor.

Regardless of the physical or psychological reasons for her behavior, Aria was contented with the fact that she was simply herself. For better or for worse. And in the end, she wouldn't have it any other way.

She was notorious in her community. As far as anyone around the little town of Osage could remember, Aria was the youngest child to have climbed to the top of the oak tree in front of the volunteer fire department station. In fact, she was the only person – as far as anyone knew – who had bothered climbing the old tree at all.

It was shortly before her fourth birthday – despite multiple parental warnings about not climbing the tree –Aria decided the tree simply had to be conquered. Like Sir Edmund Hillary's determined ascent upon Mount Everest, the scrappy little redhead climbed, shimmied, and clawed her way to the top of the magnificent budding tree one warm Saturday morning in early April. She did it for no particular reason, she later explained, other than because it looked like it needed climbing. In the end, she would admit to herself, that especially because the tree had been forbidden to climb, she would climb it.

Although it was Aria who had the congenital heart condition, it was Aria's parents who nearly had collective heart failure as they emerged from the Ben Franklin department store on Main St. that Saturday morning. As they looked down the street, they saw a dozen or so people gathered around the tree. Without exception, the assembled individuals were looking upward, intermittently pointing toward the tiny figure perched in the tree more than 40 feet off the ground.

The figure of interest in the tree, the Chandlers soon discovered, was their daughter.

When her mother and father arrived at the tree, the precocious Aria was straddling one of the uppermost branches, her legs dangling and swinging below. She seemed to be mildly amused by all the fuss that was stewing about the ground. Despite the pleas of the adults gathered around the tree, Aria was far too entertained by the commotion she was causing to heed the calls to come down to safety. Resting on a thick branch, she knew she wasn't in any danger, and Aria rather liked the view. She also relished being the center of attention.

At this particular moment, there was no denying she had the undivided attention of all those assembled around the base of the tree. And because it was Saturday, a day when the majority of Osage county residents came to town to do their shopping, there were more people on Main St. than at any other time during the week. And the audience was growing by the minute.

Having apparently satisfied her need to view Osage County from her aerial perch – and having been directly, forcefully and repeatedly, ordered by her parents to climb down, she finally did so, descending as skillfully as she had ascended. As she reached the lowest hanging branch, she smiled gleefully, freefalling the final six feet to terra firma.

But Aria’s amusement turned to bewilderment once she looked up to see her parents push through the crowd. They moved swiftly and directly toward her and Aria knew from their expressions, they were significantly less chipper than she.

The second her size-two feet hit the ground, Mrs. Chandler grabbed Aria by her shoulders and said, What in heaven's name were you trying to do up there, young lady? Are you out of your mind?

Sarcasm, not yet part of a four-year-old’s conversational repertoire, Aria's response of No, I just wanted to get a better view, was simply an honest answer to a simple question. But to a mother whose only child has just cheated death, Aria’s pithy, honest response was interpreted as mockery.

WHAACK! The sound echoed down the street. WHAACK! came number two. Mrs. Chandler led her child away from the tree while she administered the third, then forth hand of discipline to Aria's backside.

Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me? Aria's mother said as tears of relief, frustration, and anger all streamed down her face. Ironically, it was the same concoction of emotions that contributed to the tears streaming down Aria's face at that very instant. The pain from the four, well-place swats on her bottom was only a minor addition to Aria's immediate distress. Mainly, she wanted to know what she had done wrong, and why someone who seemed to love and protect her so much was now suddenly striking her with the purpose of inflicting pain.

But even a four-year-old understands that timing is everything when it comes to asking certain questions. And now was not the time to ask why she was being dealt with so severely.

Whether it was her unique view of the world, the perverse pleasure of watching others become anxious and sweaty on her behalf, or the pure excitement of flirting with danger, Aria had always seemed to enjoy living life on the edge. Her heart might be fragile, but her spirit was strong.

Other tower climbing and tree climbing incidents ensued as she grew up, but most went off without a hitch, unnoticed by either her parents or the authorities. She was small, but tough and always sought adventure. And because she couldn’t find any other girls who enjoyed her brand of play, Aria preferred the company of boys.

She was small in stature – but certainly not small in courage or tenacity. Undaunted by threats from parents, teachers or administrators, Aria was without peer. By 11 years of age, many of her classmates were well into their transition from childhood to adolescence. For most of the girls, boys were changing from playmates to something decidedly different – though most of the girls still didn’t know exactly what that difference was.

Aria was still comfortable with boys as playmates. And as far as she was concerned they could continue to stay that way indefinitely. She enjoyed the physical challenges, the harsh verbal exchanges and the one-up nature of boy-play. Now, however, many of the boys were getting bigger, stronger and unfortunately for Aria, bolder. If she wished to stay in the familiar circle of the boy-group, Aria would have to continue to prove that she was still one of them. She would have to meet the escalating challenges, or so she believed.

As her grade school years went by, Aria’s diminutive body made keeping up that much more difficult. She was, in the vernacular of the southwestern Missouri country folks, no bigger than a minute. Year by year, the growing size difference between the boys was amplifying her gender difference. She knew that if she wasn’t able to keep up to the challenges, she would be out of the boys club. That was something she wasn’t prepared to accept.

As each year went by, Aria noticed that some of the boys were looking to remove her from their unofficial club. The rules were changing in ways that neither the boys nor the girls fully understood. Aria certainly didn’t understand the new rules but that didn’t matter. She had no intention of ever embracing them anyway.

Since coming back to school from the past summer recess, Aria was especially aware that several of her former boy friends had begun treating her with indifference – even hostility. It was clear many of them no longer wanted to have a skinny little girl as part of their inner circle of friends. From Aria’s perspective, the circle was undeniably closing. But she was determined not to let that happen. Aria would leave the club when she was ready, she resolved, not when someone else thought she should leave.

The school year had just begun three weeks before. The sixth grade class was adjusting to its new confines at Osage Middle School. The warm days of summer had not released their grip on the small town – the heat and humidity was pervasive. As a result of the heat, all of the windows in the two-story brick school building were opened wide to encourage what little breeze there was to circulate throughout the building.

Before the start of Mr. Fletcher’s science class, several boys had gathered near the classroom’s second story window to hear Wayne Myers tell the tale of his older brother Mitch, who had purportedly scaled the ledge outside this very window some six years before. The boys were mesmerized by Wayne’s account. Aria had taken her place near the group to hear the description of events as Wayne described them. To her dismay, Aria had to elbow her way between the bigger boys to get within earshot of the conversation.

No one will ever be able to do that again, Wayne said boastfully.

Thinking more about her alienation from the group than she was about the ramifications of her statement, Aria simply blurted, I could do that! Then added, Easy.

The boys’ turned their heads in unison.

Wayne laughed, hesitated, and said directly to Aria, You are such a liar. You could not.

I’ve climbed places that you wouldn’t think of climbing, she said proudly.

Well I’d like to see you do it, Wayne countered.

Aria hesitated. Her pride, or rather her quick wit, had gotten the better of her.

Another moment elapsed.

Wayne laughed. The other boys chuckled.

Aria was feeling trapped.

You are a chicken-shit, Wayne said.

A collective Oooh! settled over the classroom. Multiple heads turned to see if Mr. Fletcher was around. Cursing was strictly prohibited. Anyone caught uttering a foul word would find himself (or herself) being dragged by the ear down the hallway to the principal’s office.

Normally, Wayne’s distasteful insult would not have been enough to make the adventure-seeking Aria Chandler do anything she didn’t already have a notion to do. But when Wayne Simmons insulted Aria in front of Mr. Fletcher’s entire science class, it was an insult she simply couldn’t let go unchallenged, especially with the echo of laughter still ringing in her ears.

The bell rang. Mr. Fletcher walked briskly into the room and commanded the boys and Aria to sit. As she took her seat, Aria seethed with anger – unable to answer the public insult Wayne had just issued.

Once the students settled into their chairs, Mr. Fletcher paced down the rows of desks, placing a mimeographed paper in front of each of the 27 students. He was distributing a test on the anatomy of a worm, which included a fill-in-the-blank illustration of a dissected annelid.

No talking, no cheating, no nonsense, he instructed. Welcome to your first pop quiz. You may begin now, he said forcefully.

Mr. Fletcher watched his students’ heads bow over their papers in deep concentration to begin the test. He decided to take advantage of the brief silence to walk down to the teacher's lounge to, in his words, run some more mimeograph copies of the next chapter's tests and quizzes. Given his rather well-known addiction to Coca-Cola and cigarettes, most of the students in the class knew Mr. Fletcher would most likely use the reprieve to run some caffeine and nicotine through his veins as well.

He scanned the class one more time. Apparently satisfied that his students were sufficiently engaged in the task before them, he quietly exited the room.

As his footsteps faded in the hallway, Wayne turned to look at Aria and said in a heavy whisper said, You even smell like chicken shit.

There were several snickers. But everyone felt the growing tension and so the laughter was uncharacteristically restrained. The students, who had been concentrating on completing the test, were now watching the beginning of a classic classroom confrontation. Nearly everyone was looking at Aria to see how she would react to the continuing insult onslaught. Some of the students looked at Aria with that don’t be stupid look. Others, with eyes bright, seemed to say go ahead, show him you can do it.

Aria felt the eyes of her associates on her and could sense the decision-making pressure building. She knew her face had turned red – both out of embarrassment and anger.