Billie Heartwing

By Albert L. Dulin

Jim Blackburn, out-of-work journalist, meets a prickly old woman at an airport overlook, the start of an unlikely friendship.  Over several months she spins a tale of her amazing life’s journey.  Jim discovers that Billie Hardwicke is a veteran World War II Women Airforce Service Pilot (WASP), an adventurous, sometimes

• Language: English
• Publisher: KeyLight Media
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578461458

Albert L. Dulin

Albert L. Dulin, a North Carolina native, is an artist, musician, photographer, video producer and writer. His current projects include writing a new play based on the life of Wernher von Braun. He has two grown, artistic children and several grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

AN OLD LEATHER JACKET

There’s an old aviator’s saying; You don’t have to know how to take off, but you sure as hell need to know how to land. A complete idiot can hop in an airplane and get airborne without knowing beans about flying. Left unattended, idling airplanes have even been known to take off all by themselves and fly away.

Below I see the shadow of my plane scudding across the billowing cloud tops, and that shadow is growing closer by the minute. Somewhere underneath all that cottony fluff is solid, unforgiving earth, where rocks, ruts and trees wait patiently, ready to reach out and yank this complete idiot out of the air and intermix his soft body parts with sharp metal and hellfire. The deafening engine noise vibrates my brain, blurs my vision, scrambles my thoughts. My racing heart explodes like a machine gun so loudly in my ears that it nearly drowns out the din of the aircraft. The dials on the instrument panel make absolutely no sense to me, a jumble of numbers and spinning arrows.

I have no business being at the controls of this airplane, because quite honestly I don’t know how to fly the damned thing. It’s like the nightmare every actor has dreamed . . . he walks on stage, the audience waits for his first line and he has no idea what play he’s in or who he’s supposed to be. Line? But this is no play and I’m no actor. This is one landing I'm pretty sure I won’t be walking away from. Funny, but it’s not my life that flashes before my eyes. It’s Billie’s. Instead of pondering how the hell I’m going to survive the next few minutes, I find my thoughts flying back to that scorching summer’s day I first happened upon a solitary figure in an old leather jacket.

That afternoon was god-awful hot. The pale Carolina sky had been drained of its usual blueness by the steamy haze of July humidity. A sad orange windsock hung limp and useless in the stifling dead calm that lay thick over the runway. A stagnant bunch of starlings sat in the parched, yellowed grass, too pooped to fly. I leaned against my beat-up Saab, dabbing at the sweat that trickled down the back of my neck with a Happy Meal napkin, evidence of yet another cheap dinner date with my young son.

There were others parked at the airport overlook that day; a young couple making out in a Honda Civic, a Latino paint crew listening to loud norteño music in a beat up Ford van with a teetering stack of ladders atop its roof, a businessman in a gleaming new BMW convertible with a cell phone to his ear, a taxi driver who sat on the hood of his Yellow Cab munching on a wing from a takeout box from Price’s Chicken Coop. There were other solitary figures in their cars or sitting on benches, all staring out expectantly across the shimmering asphalt desert toward the airliners sleeping at the Charlotte/Douglas International terminal. The big planes sat motionless as trucks and ground personnel scurried about like worker bees, engorging their slumbering queens with Jet A fuel, food and baggage.

Then all at once, as if on cue, the airliners began backing away from their gates and taxied out. They patiently lined up, one behind the other, and took turns climbing into the southern sky. As I watched them roar past, I mentally ticked off their nomenclature; Boeing 737s, Airbus 319s, MD80s and Dash 8 turboprops. Then as quickly as it began, the show was over. Car doors slammed, engines started and the gravel lot began to empty. The noon push was over.

But a few spectators remained, guys with nothing else to do, looking for momentary escape from their earthbound, mundane lives. Guys like me. I was forty-six, divorced, unemployed and bored, watching jets take off from Runway One Eight Center. And just like every other slob out there in that muggy summer heat, I wished I were on one of those gleaming metal ships, bound for someplace cooler. Or hotter. Any damned place but here.

But having no ticket and nowhere in particular to be, my attention turned to the thin elderly gentleman, sitting alone on one of the airport overlook benches. He had to be out of his mind, wearing a leather jacket on such a blisteringly hot day. Don’t bother him, I warned myself. But as I said before, I was bored. And having a mind of their own, my Rockports pointed themselves toward the bench where the old man sat.

His eyes were hidden by aviator sunglasses. A tan ball cap shaded his face. He sat as still as The Thinker, except for the cigarette that nervously flicked like a squirrel’s tail in his gnarled, skeletal hand. As I came closer, the old man in the leather jacket stirred.

Sorry, mister, I said. Didn’t mean to interrupt.

Mister? said the stranger grumpily.

The voice threw me. The guy was a gal. An old lady actually.

Sorry, ma’am, I apologized again, feeling more stupid by the minute.

That’s two sorrys. Care to go for three?

I almost said sorry again.

She had to be eighty-five, maybe more, with short silver hair that pooched messily out the back of her cap. Her gaunt, wrinkled face seemed both sad and wise, almost iconic, like the old photo portrait of Sitting Bull.

So? she asked finally.

It must have been obvious I was staring.

What are you doing out here in this frying pan?

Nothing, I answered.

Well then, young man, she said more cheerfully. Take a load off. We might as well do nothing together.

She scooted to the edge of the bench and patted her hand on the empty space left behind. I thought, good god, what have I gotten myself into? But I took the space beside her. She turned profile to me and stared across the runway toward the Charlotte skyline. I studied her fine cheekbones, the rocky promontory of a chin, and wondered what she might have looked like as a younger woman.

She threw the stub of her cigarette into the dry grass, reached into her jacket pocket and produced a tarnished silver flask. She cocked one eye toward the sky and made an observation. Sun’s over the yardarm. Have a snort?

She unscrewed the flask and waved it under my nose. I recognized the smell of Kentucky bourbon immediately, being no amateur on the subject. Back when I had been a student of drinking I had majored in vodka, but I’d minored in alcohol in all forms.

No thanks, I told her. What I really wanted to say was, hell yeah, don’t mind if I do.

What? A strong young man like yourself not wanting a little nip in the afternoon? Afraid what the missus might say?

Nope, no missus to go home to.

Oh, gotta get back to the office then, huh?

No office to go to.

She looked at me hard, trying to figure out what the hell kind of person I was and what I did when I wasn’t hanging around airports talking to strangers. She knocked back a slug.

Gonna bust me for public drunkenness?

I’m not a cop.

Then what the fuck are you, boy?

The salty language threw me. I felt like springing from that bench and running for my life. But I stayed, frozen somewhere between curiosity and embarrassment. I didn’t mean to upset you, I said.

Hell, I ain’t upset. I’m a feisty old lady! Can’t you take a goddamn joke?

I wondered if she’d wandered away from the funny farm, or if she was just mad at the world. I cut to the chase and offered my hand.

How do you do. Jim Blackburn, out-of-work journalist, deadbeat dad and recovering alcoholic.

She shook my hand with a firm, manly grip and flashed me a wide, toothy grin. Her teeth were still her own, but stained yellow-ochre by untold legions of cigarettes.

Pleased to meet you, Jim, she said. Billie Hardwicke, full-time retired pilot and part-time drunk.

Then a sound, much different from the usual jet turbine background noise, caused us both to swivel our heads.

Well looky there! An old DC-3! she announced, pointing out the approaching propeller-driven cargo plane on final approach. Don’t see many of them nowadays. During the war we called ’em C-47s. Or Dakotas or Goony Birds. Hell, she’s almost as old as I am.

The old plane touched down lightly on its front two wheels, slowly settling onto its tail wheel. She knew her aircraft all right, because I’d recognized the plane, too. You ever fly one?

The 47? Shit, I spent half my life in the left seat of one. Flew all sorts of planes, hundreds of ’em. Some hot fighters, too.

No kidding?

She stood up and stretched, working out the kinks in her rickety frame. As she lit up another cigarette I observed her wardrobe more closely. Her leather jacket was in the old bomber pilot style, well distressed, with scratches, rips and one jagged puncture near the left lapel. The dry weathered, crinkled leather mimicked her skin. The back of the jacket was adorned with flaking patches of faded paint. I strained to make out the image, a kind of valentine with wings.

As she crossed behind the bench I turned to keep her in my sight. The sun was hiding just behind her head and when our eyes met she moved a little to the side. I was instantly blinded.

Ha! Let the enemy come out of the sun on you and you’re dead meat, she snickered.

I had to know if she was the real thing. What kind of a pilot had she been? And why was she dressed like something out of Twelve O’Clock High? She was an anachronism, a character from a wartime propaganda poster, Rosie the Riveter in a bomber jacket.

Where do you hail from, Mrs. Hardwicke?

"Mizz. I ain’t found Mister Right yet, she giggled. But I’m still lookin’. Her speech was unmistakably Southern. I just couldn’t quite make out which flavor. Eastern North Carolina? Old Charlotte? Perhaps Upstate South Carolina. She put the cap back on her flask and tucked it away inside her jacket. What did you ask me?"

Uh, where you came from.

You mean where’d I get my tailwind?

Yes ma’am, I grinned back politely, wondering if she were going to speak entirely in aviation clichés. I was fascinated with this old lady and I wanted to hear it all, bullshit or not. I had no job, nothing else to do and all the time in the world. I sat on her bench and soaked her up like a sponge. It was as if a little tape recorder in my head had switched on. As she spoke, I found myself wanting to be back at the paper again, digging up stories, writing on deadline.

I grew up a few hours northeast of here, on a farm, she started. Well, we didn’t actually farm anything. We had a lot of empty pasture, so my father planted some horses to make the landscape prettier.

Sounds like you were pretty well off.

Oh yeah, loaded. Pop was the richest man in the county, a U.S. Senator. We lived in a great big house and I had my own horse. Hell, I even had my own mountain. I’d ride up there every day so I could look out over all the land we owned.

She drew long and deep on her cigarette, then exhaled a memory with the smoke.

There was this one afternoon. One great, stormy afternoon. As she spoke, I found myself penetrating the dark shields over her eyes, climbing inside her skin and riding back through time with her. The more she revealed, the softer her voice became. She was becoming a young woman again. I could see the world through the eyes of an eighteen year-old, smell the grass that carpeted long stretches of rolling pastureland. I could feel the wind against her face as she raced her horse up a hill in the midst of a hellacious lightning storm. I could hear the great crashes of thunder mixed with the pounding of earth beneath the strong stallion’s hooves. And I could hear her laughter.

CHAPTER TWO

FIRST FLIGHT

A white-hot stab of raw electricity shot into the top of the great oak, tearing down through its core, boring and burning, until it finally exited through its deep roots many feet below the surface. The old tree shuddered. Elephant-like skin exploded from its skeleton, falling to the ground as wooden snow. At last, the weary giant gave up one of its gnarled, outstretched limbs with a slow, sickening crack, dropping it to the earth with a great crash.

Billie Hardwicke pulled back hard on the reins of the black Arabian. The horse’s eyes were wide with terror as Billie fought to stay in the saddle. The tree limb had nearly crushed them both. She looked up at the long yellow gash opened by the lightning and laughed. Missed me again! she shouted, shaking her fist at the heavens. She gently stroked the frightened animal’s neck. I’m sorry, Shark. That’s enough excitement for one day. What say we head back to the barn?

Billie led the horse back down the wooded trail toward home, away from crest of the hill where the majestic oak still trembled nervously. The fireworks of the storm had passed and now a slow drenching rain fell. She closed her eyes and let the cool droplets massage her face. It was a pleasing face, though not beautiful, centered with hazel eyes and framed by long brown hair, which she kept pulled back in a ponytail.

It had stopped raining by the time Billie came in sight of the White House. Her father named their home after the more famous Washington landmark, not because he had aspirations of rising to the pinnacle of political power, which he did by the way, but because the house was, quite simply, white.

The White House sat upon a slight elevation, overlooking the sprawling pastures of Hardwicke Oaks. It stood two and a half stories, with five dormer windows that protruded from its red-tinned roof. Four columns supported a wide portico that sheltered white wicker chairs, a glider and a porch swing. Surrounded by the deep-red stables and outbuildings, and framed by such greenness, the White House was in Billie’s eyes a true work of art, the loveliest painting a girl could ever want to live in.

A double rainbow fluoresced in the east. Billie smiled and thought how lucky she was to feel the cooling rain on her skin, have a picture-perfect home to ride back to and see a perfect rainbow at the end of a perfect day. The only wrinkle in all that perfection was dinner. Then she would have to give Mother and Pop her decision about school. It was a decision she had been putting off until the very last second of the very last day. If she hadn’t made up her mind by tonight, the choice would be made for her.

The Hardwicke table was expansive; there were two meats, five kinds of vegetables and a mountain of biscuits. Henry Hardwicke, the patriarch, preferred not to sit at the customary head of the table. Instead, he took his meals at the corner next to his favorite daughter, who was conspicuously absent as the meal began.

Henry was in his mid-sixties and cut a handsome figure, tall and lean with thinning silvered hair and gold-rimmed bifocals. He never dressed up for dinner, unless it furthered his political career. Tonight he wore an open-collar shirt with an unbuttoned vest. He hated being served or watched over as he ate. He longed for the days when he was younger and poorer, when he could just reach for whatever he wanted. Now that he was well off he had to politely ask for food to be passed. And he had to defend his plate with knife and fork when Bessie or Lila threatened to take his plate away, before he’d had a chance to sop up that last dollop of gravy with a bit of biscuit.

Katharine Hardwicke took her husband’s place at the head of the table and dictated to her two domestics as to whom, what, when and how to serve. Mother Hardwicke was in her early sixties, with a wide streak of gray running through her cumulonimbus hair. She was large-featured, though not fat, and not unpleasing to the eye. She preferred more formal dress for dinner and wore outfits that revealed her ample cleavage, which she adorned with several heavy strands of pearls.

Seated on either side of the long table were Billie’s two siblings. Adelaide was the oldest of the three Hardwicke progeny. With her porcelain skin and Irish setter red hair she was a photographer’s dream, a portrait painter’s delight. She had a string of beaus that stretched from one end of Hayes County to the other. The middle child Hank, or Henry Junior, was blond, square-jawed and gifted at music and sports. His game was golf, but he was also very good at tennis, a college sport that brought him trophies, fame and the adoration of swooning young women. While home from Carolina he hosted parties, entertained on the piano and drank. He excelled at drinking.

Katharine Hardwicke impatiently glanced at the jeweled watch pinned to her bosom and decided, in deference to their dinner guest, they should begin eating without Billie. The conversation immediately went to current events, mainly the war in Europe. Katharine jumped in before Henry could clear his full mouth to voice his opinion.

If America had invaded England during the Revolution we wouldn’t have this problem with the Germans, she offered to the dinner guest. Katharine spoke in measured, perfect English, but still dropped her R’s. Even after living in the South for the last quarter century her voice retained strong traces of her Cape Cod roots. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hicks?

Yes ma’am, I believe you are correct, agreed Spencer Hicks, the lanky, well-dressed young Virginian.

His forced sincerity made Henry’s eyes roll. Henry didn’t think much of Adelaide’s newest beau. In fact, he had never liked any one of them. They all seemed to be stamped from the same well-bred, cultured, old-money mold.

What are you blabbering on about, woman? Henry huffed.

I’m saying that England would not be at war with Germany now, answered Katharine.

Well, please explain to the rest of us unschooled in world history how that might be, dearest.

It’s really very simple. England would still be an American possession, she said, pointing a single finger high into the air, a bite of roast beef tucked into her left cheek like a chipmunk. And Germany would never have dared attack an American possession. It would be like the Nazis invading the Carolinas.

Bravo, Mrs. Hardwicke, said Spencer Hicks, applauding politely.

Oh puppy shit! barked Henry.

Mrs. Hardwicke, quite used to having her opinions shot down, furrowed her brow and picked up her wine glass in a mock toast. "Well, just because you hold a seat in Washington, that doesn’t make you the authority on global politics. I happen to think my theory has some merit."

Henry pulled out the napkin that had been tucked into his shirt collar and wiped the spot of gravy from his chin. Lady Hardwicke, I can only thank God your imperialist forefathers never got the chance to invade Britain.

And why is that, Lord Hardwicke?

Because you’d be the damned Queen of England and I’d have to listen to this horse hockey every day in Parliament.

Their sparring was cut short by the tympanic pounding of bare feet on the second-story landing. Henry knew exactly what would happen next. Billie had used the long flying staircase railing as a short cut ever since she was four. Uh-oh. Here she comes, he chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

Katharine was mortified. Elizabeth Harrison Hardwicke, she boomed, using Billie’s formal name, you’d better not be sliding down that—

Too late. There was a loud thump as Billie appeared with a flourish at the bottom of the stairs, barefoot and wearing blue jeans.

"Tah-dah!" she announced herself proudly.

Her father looked at his pocket watch. Wow! Five seconds! You’re getting faster!

It gets better with age, Pop.

Billie strode into the dining room and took her place beside Henry. Katharine was not amused. We have a guest, Elizabeth, she sternly reminded her, nodding toward Spencer.

Oh hiya, Hicks. How’s it hangin’?

Spencer choked on his iced tea, nearly spraying the table. Adelaide glared angrily at her sister.

Sorry I’m late, Billie said.

Riding in the rain again? asked Henry, his mouth full of sweet potatoes.

"Yep. It was electrifying!"

I don’t like you riding out in a storm, young lady, chided Katharine. It’s much too dangerous.

Oh Mother, it’s fun. You ought to try it sometime.

No, thank you.

Billie put both elbows on the table and started buttering three biscuits at once.

Ol’ Granddad took another hit, Pop.

No!

Yep. Lost another arm.

Damn.

The dinner guest looked confused. Who’s Ol’ Granddad?

Oldest oak on the property, Billie explained. Big dang tree.

He must have been here since before the War of Northern Aggression, added Henry in his Charlestonian baritone. I hate to see him wounded again. But he’s a tough old soldier. He’ll probably outlive us all.

"We were discussing the present war, said Adelaide, redirecting the conversation back to her side of the table. Spencer’s going to join the Navy as soon as he graduates."

Is that right, Spencer? asked Mrs. Hardwicke.

Yes ma’am. I figure I’ll get my commission, see the world, then come back and raise a family. Spencer reached over and gently squeezed Adelaide’s hand.

Better figure on seeing a little action while you’re on your little tour, son, Henry said.

But the Germans will be licked by then, surely, Adelaide said.

I’m not worried about the Hun, Addie.

Who then?

The Japs, of course.

Spencer chimed in, You really think they’d take on the most powerful navy in the world?

Son, warned Senator Hardwicke, thanks to our brilliant Congress, we don’t have enough battleships to fill a bathtub. And while Germany’s busy sinking the British fleet, the Japs are building ships at an astronomical rate. If we ever do go up against the little slant-eyed bastards, you’ll see the world all right.

Billie was tiring of the conversation already. She had other things on her mind besides the turmoil in Europe. Her next words stopped the discussion of world war cold. I’ve decided not to go to Carolina.

Her mother peered up over her wine glass. She was the only one having wine with her meal. She had wine at every meal, and too much of it. Well, honey, no one said you had to go to Carolina. We just thought you’d like to attend a school close by, to be near your friends.

I don’t have all that many friends, Billie countered.

Then you can apply to Sophie Newcomb. You’d love New Orleans.

I don’t think so, Mother.

Well, where then?

Nowhere. I don’t really want to go to college at all. Not now anyway. I think I need a break to think about stuff.

Katharine was stunned. She looked to her husband for guidance. Henry? Don’t you have something to say to your daughter?

Henry Hardwicke reached into the tray and split another steaming biscuit, sopping each half in the redeye gravy left on his plate.

Darlin’, if you want to take some time off and decide what you want to do with your life, then do it. No need to rush into something you’ll regret later.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing! said Katharine, astounded.

Now, Mother, Henry said, Let Billie decide what she wants to do. She’s eighteen, practically a grown woman.

This is not what I want for my daughter.

And maybe it’s not what I want either. But it’s her life, isn’t it? Let’s give her a little breathing room.

Forgetting the presence of the dinner guest, Katharine could not hold back her emotions. Fine! She pounded her meaty fist onto the table, causing her wine glass to tip over. The white tablecloth was instantly stained a deep burgundy red. You decide what’s right for your daughter. You two have always been set against me, ever since she was a baby.

Poor Spencer was speechless. Adelaide glowered at Billie. Hank took another swig. After a pause of silence a train could have driven through, Henry wordlessly eased his chair back from the table. He stood slowly, pulled the napkin from his shirt collar, palmed two more biscuits and wrapped them in the napkin. On his way from the table to the foyer he put his hand on Billie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. The front door opened and shut quietly. Even when he was angry Henry never slammed doors.

Two days after the tumultuous dinner, Billie sat in the driver’s seat of her father’s Chrysler. She whistled along with Kay Kyser's Three Little Fishes on the radio and tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel. Slow down, Flash Gordon, her father chided. The plane won’t leave without me.

The Hardwickes had a chauffeur, but Henry preferred being driven by his daughter, even if she did have a lead foot. Henry puffed on a Lucky Strike, taking in the countryside, most of which belonged to him. The Chrysler sped along toward the little airfield at the edge of the county where Henry kept his private plane. The gravel strip wasn’t what most folks would consider a real airport, but Henry would soon change that. He planned to drag Hayes County kicking and screaming into the Twentieth Century with the introduction of his next bill, inside which was tucked a small bit of pork that would fund the project.

Henry flew everywhere, to Washington when the Senate was in session, to Raleigh to meet with all sorts of state politicos, and to New York for business meetings. There were textile mills all over the Southeast, rolling out Hardwicke sheets and towels. And there were Hardwicke tobacco warehouses down in the eastern part of the state.

Henry hated waiting and he hated crowds. He figured the fastest way to get to and from his interests was by airplane, so he found a two-engine Lockheed Electra, a pretty craft with a twin tail and lots of room for stretching out and entertaining. There was a real bar on board, always stocked with liquor and iced-down beer. The only thing the Lockheed didn’t have was a john. Billie often wondered what he did after liquoring up on one of those long flights. Just put it back in the bottle, Henry told her. She never knew if he was joking or not.

Today Henry seemed distracted, letting his cigarette ashes get so long they fell onto his seersucker jacket and pant legs. The lines in his face looked deeper and longer than usual.

What’s the matter, Pop? she asked after a long silence.

Hmm?

What are you so worried about?

He tossed the Lucky to the road and pulled out another. Oh, I was just thinking about this world.

That’s a pretty broad subject, she said.

He pushed in the cigarette lighter button on the dash.

It’s all changing. Nearly the whole world’s at war. It’s only a matter of time before we’re in it, too.

The button popped out and he lit his cigarette.

There’s nothing you can do to stop whatever’s going to happen, Pop, Billie said. I mean you’re just one man.

But I’m a United States senator. I’m supposed to be able to change things. I’m worried about what will happen to you kids if this thing blows up.

Well, they can’t draft women. Hank’s the only one to worry about.

Henry laughed, took a long pull from his cigarette and exhaled into the slipstream of late summer air.

I’m not worried about Hank being drafted. Thanks to his hernia he’ll never have to fight. No, I’m worried about how your world will change. What’s it going to be like when all the boys you know are off fighting and dying? What’s it going to be like if, God forbid, we lose the war? What if—

Pop, she interrupted. As long as you’re here and I’m here and we still have the Oaks we’ll be fine.

I sure hope you’re right, Punkin’.

Henry patted his daughter’s knee. Then he quickly pinched it hard with his vice-like grip, the way he always did. She shrieked like a cat, the way she always did. It was a game they had played since she was two.

Billie pulled alongside the hangar where Henry’s spit-polished, aluminum-skinned Electra sat waiting, angled toward the sky. She bounded out of the car and lifted the trunk door. As she pulled out the first heavy suitcase she was greeted by Arch Robinson, the copilot. Arch was short and homely, with a thin moustache. He always wore a bow tie and cloth jacket, looking more like a taxi driver than a pilot. Arch helped her with the second bag.

When’s your dad gonna let us take you up for a spin, Miss Billie? he asked.

When pigs fly, Henry interrupted, climbing out of the Chrysler.

Yeah, Pop. All the time we’ve had this plane, how come you never let me go up?

It’s a business plane, honey. The insurance won’t cover you.

So you’ve told me a hundred times. She wondered how many other kids in the world had a father who owned an airplane, yet had never flown. Insurance, hell. It was Mother’s doing, Billie was sure of it.

Howdy do, Mr. Hardwicke, Miss Billie, called a voice coming from the hangar. The pilot Gary Sneed was taller than Arch, quite handsome and more than a bit cocky. He wore a khaki shirt and jodhpurs with boots. With his aviator sunglasses, leather jacket and military-style cap, the perfect picture of a rough-and-tumble hotshot pilot. Henry had always said Gary couldn’t be trusted around women and that he was prone to fight in bars. But come time to fly he was the best, none better.

Gary checked around the plane, peering up into the engine cowlings, pushing on the wing surfaces. Last thing, as always, he kicked the tires. Gary winked at Billie and disappeared inside.

Now don’t you worry about Mother and this college thing, Henry said, putting his arms around his daughter. She’ll come around. You’ll see.

Okay, Pop. Billie gave him a great bear hug.

From the doorway of the Electra Henry said, Try to keep the car under eighty, will you?

Yeah, yeah.

Finally, before Arch closed the cabin door, Henry shouted, And for Pete’s sake, go out on some dates, will you? Kiss a boy!

Sure thing, Pop. I’m gonna go back and make some calls right now.

Billie took his hint in stride; she hadn't gone out on a date in months. The boys at her high school bored her. They were either hayseeds from the dairy farm or rich like her and dull as dishwater, like Spencer Hicks. Her last date had ended badly, with the oversexed lad trying to slip his hand down her front and she upending a strawberry milkshake in his lap. He never called again after that.

The first engine of the Electra turned, coughed and sputtered into life. Billie backed off as the smoke cloud was pushed toward her by the propeller blast. The second engine caught and within a moment the plane pulled away. Gary threw her a salute from the cockpit and slid the window closed. Henry waved and blew a kiss through the tiny passenger window. Billie watched as the silver aircraft taxied downwind to the end of the strip, revved its twin engines and rolled out from the gravel runway into the heavy summer air.

The last echoes of the Lockheed’s engines faded into the background, and in its vacuum she heard the gentle sound of wind rustling through the longleaf pine branches. Billie stuffed her hands into her pants pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit one up and sat atop the big Chrysler’s fender. A day of boredom loomed large ahead of her. No school, no job, no real responsibilities. And definitely no boys, thank God.

After a few puffs she stomped the cigarette into the gravel, opened the car door and was about to slide in when the drone of an airplane engine caught her ear. At first she thought it might be the Electra turning back. Maybe they’d had engine trouble, or maybe Pop forgot something. But this engine sound was different. Then she saw the silhouette of a biplane, probably a crop duster. But it was coming in much faster than a duster.

She watched as the blue and yellow plane touched down, taxied back toward the hangar, then killed its engine. After a moment the pilot hopped down off the wing and walked uncomfortably in her direction. He seemed to be in a very big hurry.

Men’s room? he asked.

Hangar’s locked up, she shouted. Just go ’round back.

Disappointed, he strode behind the metal shed. While he relieved himself, Billie studied the aircraft up close. The biplane was very different from Henry’s Lockheed. Its single engine had large exposed cylinder heads and exhaust ports, capped with a massive wooden propeller. All over the skin of the plane there were stenciled cryptic numerals. She ran her hand over the length of a wing and was surprised to feel it gave way to the moderate pressure from her fingertips.

Canvas.

The pilot’s voice made her jump. Huh?

It makes the plane lighter, said the young man in the flight suit behind her.

I see. Is it yours? she asked.

The plane? Mine? he laughed. Hell no. It belongs to my uncle.

Oh, who’s your uncle?

Same as yours, Uncle Sam.

Billie smirked. So you just dropped down to take a piss?

Pretty much. I gotta stop tankin’ up on coffee before a long jump. Billie could hear his spine pop as he stretched his arms over his head. Where am I?

You don’t know? Some pilot you are.

Well, I have a general idea.

The pilot took off his leather flying helmet and scratched his head. He wasn’t overly tall, about the same height as she. He had close-cropped sandy brown hair and jaw muscles that tensed as he worked a wad of chewing gum. His name was Frankie McClanahan, of the Army Air Forces, and he was flying from New Jersey to deliver the Stearman trainer to a base in Camden, South Carolina. The weary pilot asked if there were any hotels with bars nearby.

Nope. Hayes County is dry. Nearest bar’s that way, Billie explained, pointing her finger toward the southeast, about seventy miles.

Damn. I sure could use a hot shower and a cold beer. I’m not really due at Camden ’til tomorrow. He began fiddling with his flying helmet, readying himself to continue on. Oh well, nice talking to you.

Billie wasn’t one to flirt. She’d watched the other girls at the high school wrap boys around their little fingers and thought them foolish and manipulative, the way they dressed, wore too much makeup and generally acted like five year-olds. She didn’t buy in to all the latest fashion and makeup and that other girlie crap. Maybe that’s why the guys never asked her out more than once. But for some crazy reason she felt compelled to keep Frankie McClanahan on the ground just a little while longer.

I just might know where you could put your feet up for the night.

The Army pilot ate royally at the White House, although neither Katharine nor the kitchen staff was too happy about the surprise guest. You can’t just bring men home like stray puppies, Katharine told her. Nevertheless, an extra place was set at the table. Bessie served the food politely but cursed under her breath as she passed behind Billie’s chair, muttering something about Lincoln freeing the slaves.

After dinner, Billie showed Frankie to the stable. He seemed apprehensive about sharing sleeping quarters with the horses. That is until Billie opened the door to Henry’s office. It was decorated in dark pine paneling with large oil portraits of prizewinning horseflesh hung on every wall. There was red leather furniture, a massive green billiard table and, best of all, a fully stocked bar. It was a real man’s man’s room.

Oh, I think this will do nicely, he said.

You can bunk on the couch, she said, handing him a blanket. There’s plenty of beer in the fridge.

Frankie yawned widely. Guess I’d better skip the booze. Gotta get up at oh-dark-thirty. Uncle Sam’ll be wanting his toy. But thanks for everything.

Once again, Billie found herself trying to keep the flier grounded awhile longer, though she couldn’t help feeling she was acting like one of those silly schoolgirls. What came out next surprised even her.

Why don’t you ride with me in the morning before you go.

Ride? Ride what?

Horses, of course. You can ride, can’t you?

Well, sure I can ride a horse. But . . . Frankie scratched his stubbly chin. I don’t know. I have to get up awful early.

I’ll wake you at five.

A low mist hung in the pines and oaks, floating over the hay fields like diaphanous cake icing. The sun would not rise for another hour, but the near-full moon filled in nicely enough to light the path ahead.

Billie looked back at her lagging student. Frankie McClanahan was not as impressive a rider as he was a pilot. He seemed nervous and unsure. As they made their way out of the gate and past the pond, a flock of Canada geese lifted off the water at once in a noisy, unorganized scramble. They grouped up immediately, circled once and flew directly over the two dawn riders in a great V-shape.

Man, I wish I could get my guys to fly formation like that. Frankie watched as the flock disappeared over the treetops. How do they decide which duck flies lead?

You must be a city boy, Billie chuckled.

Huh?

They’re geese. Ducks have little wings and short necks.

Frankie shrugged.

I’ll bet you don’t even know what you’re riding.

Well, of course I know. He’s a horse.

It’s a mare, silly. A girl horse

Oh. Yeah.

The riders rose out of the ground fog onto the crest of the hill that overlooked most of the Hardwicke acreage. She told him it was her mountain and that one day she would build a house there and live in it all by herself. And when she died she would be buried under Ol’ Granddad. Her hand waved left and right in broad sweeps, painting a panoramic canvas of Hardwicke property. Suddenly she was aware she had been bragging.

I’m sorry. You must think I’m some spoiled little Southern rich girl.

No, I think it’s great. It’s just that I’ve just never met anybody who owned a national forest before.

They rode off the crest of the hill and down the back side, following a quiet stream.

So what do you want to do with your life, Billie? I mean, besides living at Tara and being loaded?

She had never really thought about what she wanted to do with her life. Up to this point nothing had been expected of her beyond graduating from a good school, preferably one chosen by Mother. And after that, marriage to someone of the right pedigree, and of course, children. Surely, surely there had to be more.

I don’t know, really, she started. I don’t have a lot of school smarts. I can’t play the piano like my brother and I don’t attract boys like my sister. I think I’d like to do something, I don’t know, kinda physical. Something tough. Something nobody expects of a girl. You know what I mean?

Not really, Frankie said.

"I don’t want to be stuck inside. I mean, a housewife is a wife stuck inside a house, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Hey, you could be a, whatchamacallit, equal, equat . . . a horse rider."

Equestrian? Ride horses for competition? Nah. Don’t get me wrong, I love horses. I practically grew up on horseback. I just don’t care for horse people. They’re snobby and stuffy. She sighed long and deep. No, I want to do something important. And it has to be something with a kick to it.

A kick, huh? He sidled his horse closer to Billie’s until their stirrups nearly touched. What about flying?

Seriously? Billie watched Frankie’s face. There was nothing that gave her the impression he was anything but sincere.

Sure. There’s lots of girl pilots these days.

You really think I could learn to fly? I’ve never even been inside a plane, not even my dad’s.

Miss Hardwicke, you strike me as being the kind of woman who could do just about anything she set her mind to.

The trail ended at a small cabin on the edge of a lake. It was Henry’s private hideaway, his place to fish, to smoke and drink, and to think. What say we take a little break before we turn back? Billie asked her weary riding companion. He nodded with relief.

She opened the unlocked door. Frankie took in the tiny, musty-smelling one-room cabin. Though not as richly appointed as the stable’s living quarters, Henry’s spartan getaway had a definite masculine touch. There were fishing rods on the walls and hats adorned with tied flies. There was a potbellied stove with a rusty blue-enameled coffee pot on top, a small table, two cane-bottom chairs and a narrow bed in the corner.

Boy, I could sure live here, Frankie said.

I don’t think Mother’s ever laid eyes on this place. She opened the back door, letting in the cooling dampness of lake fog. We could catch you a trout for breakfast.

I’ve got a better idea. From behind Billie felt Frankie’s hands on her waist, a second later his warm breath on her neck. She turned to him with a start. I could catch you, Frankie said.

He kissed her, gently at first, cautiously gauging her reaction. When she didn’t push away he kissed her more firmly. Somehow this was different, not a kiss from an adolescent high school boy. It was a kiss from a real man, experienced enough to use lips the way they were meant to be used. She kissed him back. In seconds Frankie was pulling off Billie’s sweater, and she wasn’t trying to stop him. She unzipped his leather jacket and let her hands inside the warmth of his middle. She shed her clothing and her childhood in layers.

His unwashed scent mingled with hers and that of the cabin. Sweat, oil, leather, the pine floorboards and logs, lantern smoke, the seldom used sheets that had taken on the pungency of the cedar chest where they had long been stored, all swirled around her deliciously, mixed with other sensations of touch and taste. There was the warmth of his flesh against hers, the sharp stubble of his chin and upper lip against her cheeks, neck and breasts, the taste of mint on his tongue from his chewing gum. There was also stabbing pain mixed with the pleasure, something she hadn’t counted on.

She tried to take her mind off the pain and the sudden onrush of guilt she felt. And yet she couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to stop it. She grabbed the skin on his back and pulled him closer. She dug her nails into his flesh and she could hear his short cries of pleasure growing closer and closer together. Finally he trembled, every muscle in his body becoming as taut as an archer’s bow. Then his body went limp and Billie could feel his full weight on top of her.

Frankie’s breathing slowed and became more regular. He drifted off into an exhausted sleep beside her in the cramped bunk. She stroked the hairs on his chest as it rose and fell. She listened to the dry tree branches scraping against the cabin roof. In the stillness Billie wondered if she might be moving toward womanhood just a bit too quickly.

There was no romantic movie ending to their short time together, no I love you’s, not even a farewell plane ride. Just a wink from the open cockpit