The Flying Circus Read online

  Cora had stopped sleeping with the hammer hidden beside her—even after Henry had given her fair warning not to startle Gil out of a sleep—which just showed how naive she truly was. Even though the three of them spent day and night together, she didn’t know any more about either his or Gil’s past than she had that first night. It surprised him that she hadn’t tried to find out; most girls were full of questions. It also made him suspicious. He knew why he didn’t pry into people’s pasts. The crowds generally came, tromping down the purple clover and yellow wood sorrel in field after field. Some days people shoved money into his hand in a near-desperate way, as if they were in danger of being left on the sidelines of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He supposed for most of these folks that’s exactly what this was, once in a lifetime. And so the three of them were making enough money to keep the machines running and to feed themselves. Henry considered it acceptable. Gil thought it a cornucopia. Cora insisted they were missing opportunities.

  Early on, Gil had told Henry and Cora that as long as they were all working together, they would both get a 30 percent share of the take after expenses were met, including maintaining the machines and their meals. Henry thought it more than fair, especially since he was only contributing his mechanical skills and not a machine.

  As the weeks passed, things were changing step by step. Mercury’s Daredevils (despite Gil’s refusal to say the words, the name had stuck) was in flaming yellow and red on the sides of the airplane and on the handbills Cora had sweet-talked out of a young printer in Rockville. (The paint on the plane came about less from sweet talk and more from a water-on-stone wearing down of Gil’s resistance.) They now had a routine, a schedule of events for their shows.

  Henry had modified a pair of goggles for Mercury (Cora had dubbed them doggles). If she put on her leather jacket and his goggles weren’t on yet, he ran and got them and commenced a jumping, whining fit until they were on his head. She’d been teaching him some good tricks both on and off the motorcycle. He could now ride on the little seat over the gas tank that Henry had crafted for him. The dog still preferred riding inside Cora’s jacket. Henry couldn’t blame him—for multiple reasons.

  That they were charging only for plane rides had been a sticking point with Cora. At their last stop she’d set out a can with a sign asking for what she called “tips.” She’d said—with a whole lot of wanna-make-something-out-of-it in her voice—that it was the only way people could show their appreciation for her daredevil act. Amazingly, Gil hadn’t risen to the bait. It had been the first glimmer of hope (false as it turned out) that things would settle down between the two of them.

  They were somewhere in central Illinois getting ready to perform at an oval, dirt racetrack used for sulkies and motorcycles. The main attraction, other than the selling of rides, was a heavily publicized race between man and woman, airship and motorcycle. A true competition between the sexes. It had been Cora’s idea—a reenactment of their first meeting. The stakes, also devised by Cora, would not only establish the equality of the sexes, but the loser would be forced to “challenge the Grim Reaper” by submitting to dangers at the hands of the winner. If Gil lost, he would “ride the bucking and swerving mechanical bull” (the handlebars of Cora’s motorcycle) as she cut didoes and thrilled the spectators with “terrifying speed.” If Cora lost, she would put her “delicate feminine physique in mortal peril” as she sat on the wing while Gil performed “death-defying feats in the air.” Cora had a way with the ballyhoo.

  Gil hadn’t been at all happy when he’d discovered the stakes she’d advertised. Henry was pretty sure it wasn’t because he was afraid to ride on the handlebars of Cora’s motorcycle. Gil’s acknowledgment that she was every bit as much a daredevil as he was coming hard and slow. Henry thought perhaps it was compounded because their motivations for taking life in hand were so different.

  Henry sat across the fire from Cora, a position he repeatedly chose. He could look at her without drawing attention to the sad fact that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her—it was getting worse by the day. Luckily Gil hadn’t noticed. And Cora, well, she was all-business, focused solely on building this show into something more than a second-class act held together by spit and determination.

  She got to her feet. Gil’s eyes came open.

  She leaned over him and poked him in the center of his forehead. “If you let me win tomorrow, I swear I will skin you alive. Be a man and accept this challenge with integrity.”

  “Oh, I have no integrity.” Gil stood and looked down at her. “But you won’t win. You’re just a girl.” As he turned and walked away, he threw Henry a rare smile.

  Cora’s fists settled on her hips. “Keep thinking that, buddy! Right up until your fine dinner of crow,” she hurled at his back.

  She sat back down right next to Henry.

  He thought of his first sight of her, tearing across that field, determined to win that race come hell or high water. “Is this need to win something Gil brings out in you, or were you born this way?”

  She grinned. “Oh, I was definitely born this way.”

  His stomach knotted. “Don’t let your pride get you killed.”

  “Pride? Seriously, Kid, pride’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “What is it then?”

  She sat staring into the low-flickering flames for a bit. “I don’t know what to call it. It’s basic, primal; like hunger or reacting to pain. I think it all started with Jonathan. He loved to show off by doing things I was too little to do. That’s why I started doing handstands on the rafters in the stables, because Jonathan could run across them faster, but he was too scared to try a handstand.” She smiled. “It was always so tedious when girls visited the Hudson Valley house; it was all about pushing dolls in prams and having boring tea parties. But when they were boys! Of course, they always assumed they could beat me at everything.

  “We had a pair of giant Norway spruce trees that were great for climbing competitions. I always got higher. Then I’d set the top of the tree to swaying. I was the pirate queen in the crow’s nest, and those boys would have to do whatever I told them to. It was great.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m really a boy inside.”

  Henry looked over at her. “Oh, I seriously doubt there’s anything boyish anywhere in you.”

  She cast him a sideways look. “Well now. I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.” She waved toward her pants and boots. “Considering how I dress.”

  Henry decided to leave it right there. He stood. “You’d better get some sleep.”

  She reached out for him to give her a hand up. He pulled her to standing, then spent the next few heartbeats staring into her eyes. “Good night, Cora.” His mouth was unnaturally dry.

  “Night, Kid.” She slapped his shoulder.

  He slunk to his blanket like a kicked puppy.

  Henry set up the race finish line with a rope decorated with checkered flags rigged with a thin thread to break away when tugged, suspended between the top of the grandstand and a tall pole near the inside of the oval. It was just high enough that Gil could nab it with his wheels as he raced above Cora’s head. Another finish-line rope was at motorcycle height.

  Gil stood with his hands on his hips, looking up into the overflowing grandstand. “By God, you do seem to know how to get a crowd, I’ll give you that.”

  Cora looked up at him with a smile. “Lookey there. And you didn’t even have to spit those words out from between clenched teeth.”

  “I’m starting to think we might be able to do pretty well in a city,” Henry offered. “Maybe Chicago.”

  A glimmer of panic in Cora’s eyes was quickly overcome by a bold smile. “Let’s not push it, Kid. Remember, Gil made it plain, he’s a barnstormer—and he owns the Jenny.”

  Then she spun on her heel and walked away.

  Henry recognized the anxiety in her eyes. Fear of discovery, of exposure. Logi
c said Cora should be jumping at the chance to hit a city like Chicago. It was a curious reaction, for sure. Of course, he was in no position to ask questions, lest he be asked some himself.

  The airship/motorcycle race would be the grand finale of the show. Prior to that, it was business as usual. The motorcycle revved up and Cora signaled Henry to pick up the megaphone and announce her first stunt.

  She did some tricks with Mercury on the motorcycle, saving his on-the-ground doggie antics for entertaining folks waiting while Gil was giving rides.

  When she took a break, she came straight to Henry. “You know, I’ve been thinking. You’re so good with modifications, I want you to work on a way to lock the throttle on the motorcycle.”

  “Lock it? To keep it off?”

  She looked at him as if he were stupid. “Not off! What good would that do? On. So I can let go of the handlebars. And I’ll need something I can engage to help stabilize the front wheel—you know, make it harder for it to turn.”

  He knew where this was going. “No. Impossible.”

  “Kid, you’re a horrible liar and a great inventor. You can do it.”

  “You have no business riding a motorcycle standing up on the seat. That’s what you’re aiming at, right?”

  “Only when we’ve got a smooth enough surface. I’ve already been practicing doing a handstand on the handlebars, but it’s really tough to keep the throttle just right.”

  She was crazy. “Too impractical. Every surface will need a different speed, and probably a different gear, to keep you upright and not have the motorbike run away.”

  “Did you just say impractical? Good golly, Kid, everything we do is impractical.” She started back to the motorcycle. “Time to light it up.”

  Gil had landed and was fueling up. It was Cora’s turn again.

  As Henry prepared the Flaming Arch of Death, he was already figuring in his head how to give Cora what she wanted.

  After a fast lap around the track, she stopped in front of the grandstand and unzipped Mercury from her jacket. She sat him on a little platform on the ground that was just above seat height of the cycle.

  Henry picked up the megaphone and played it up to the audience. “The next stunt is so dangerous, Cora Rose, woman daredevil, will not risk the life of her faithful companion, Mercury.”

  Mercury spun around in place on the platform, stopping every third revolution to paw at Cora, trying to get her to pick him up. She made a show of soothing him and kissing him good-bye. Then she took off with a spray of dirt and went to the fourth turn of the track.

  “Easy, boy,” Henry said through the megaphone as he walked past Mercury. “If she makes it through, she’ll come back and get you.” He walked back to the arch. He’d crafted it out of a lightweight, collapsible metal frame (for transport), to which he attached tightly wound kerosene-soaked rags. When it was first finished, he’d wanted to do the first test run. But Cora had argued there was no difference between the combustibility of men and the combustibility of women; and she was the one who had to be able to do it in a show. Of course, she’d won.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll keep your eyes on the young lady on the motorcycle as she attempts to speed through the Flaming Arch of Death.” Henry lit the narrow arch. Flames licked high. “As you can see, there is only a narrow opening, which is completely filled with flames, above, below, and on both sides. Now, let us pause and offer a quick prayer for Cora Rose’s safety.” Henry bowed his head. Mercury buried his nose in his paws with his tail still in the air. Men’s hats came off and the rumble of the crowd silenced.

  Henry raised his hand over his head. Cora revved the engine. The kid Henry was paying fifty cents started a dramatic roll on his drum.

  Henry dropped his arm.

  The motorcycle roared down the straightaway.

  “Oh, no!” Henry shouted through the megaphone. “No! Mercury, stay!”

  Mercury was pawing at the air, standing on the very edge of the platform.

  As Cora flew by, the dog leaped.

  The crowd gasped.

  “It’s too late!” Henry shouted.

  Cora caught Mercury, doubled over him, and barreled right through the arch.

  Every straw boater, fedora, and flowered hat in the grandstands turned toward where Cora stopped and put her feet on the ground. She held Mercury in front of her face for a moment as if lecturing him, then lifted him up over her head.

  Mercury yipped and waved the way she’d taught him.

  The applause was so loud, Henry could feel it in his chest. “Ladies and gentlemen! A true death-defying miracle! Cora Rose and her faithful dog, Mercury! Next time we’ll have to tie that little feller up!”

  Henry announced the race. Gil took off in the Jenny and did a loop and a spiral before he disappeared into the west.

  Cora did a lap on the track. Henry’s narration kept the drama high as he explained she was getting warmed up. “We’ve come into a modern age, for sure. Women have the vote. Now we have to ask, what’s next? A woman president?” Men booed. “Ah, now, gentlemen, it’s time to put something else to the test. Can a mere woman master a machine well enough to beat a man in an aeroplane? Impossible? Well, ladies and gents, keep your eyes on the sky in the west. History is in the making!” Henry explained the race would be run down the front straightaway, a competition with no turns, just as their initial meeting had been. Although, Henry said, Cora had been at a keen disadvantage then, racing over an uneven pasture.

  “If Captain Gilchrist isn’t at the start line in time, then it’s too bad for him.”

  Just as Cora rounded the fourth turn, Gil’s plane swooped low.

  Henry was transported back to that day on the Fessler farm. The sight of those two machines matched against one another still set his heart racing.

  It was anyone’s race. As it had been that day.

  Just short of the finish, he heard Gil throttle back ever so slightly.

  Cora’s string of flags snapped free and trailed her around the first curve.

  “Sorry, gents!” Henry called. “Looks like our time as masters of machines has come to an end. Let’s hear it for Cora Rose, woman daredevil, faster than a man in an aeroplane.”

  Henry thought he heard more daintily gloved hands clapping this time than men’s bare palms.

  After Gil landed, Cora stomped up to him. “You’ll do anything to keep me out of that plane, won’t you?”

  Gil looked perplexed. “You think I’d let you win? In front of all of these people? Concede for all men around the world?”

  She smiled falsely and waved to the crowd. “Henry?”

  Henry knew she couldn’t have heard the break in throttle. Gil’s stern gaze landed on him.

  “You won fair and square. Now see what you can do to toss his ass off of that motorcycle. The people are waiting.”

  According to Cora’s rules, the loser’s penance had a three-minute time limit. Cora used every second of it. By the end, Gil’s palms were raw and his legs black-and-blue. As she stopped to let him off, she said, “Next time I win a race, I’m going to think of something much more . . . damaging.” Then she gunned the engine and sped off.

  The dirt sprayed both Henry and Gil.

  The crowd roared.

  At the end of that day, Cora asked Henry about the take. “A hundred and ten dollars in rides, plus fifteen extra dollars for kids on someone’s lap.”

  Gil nodded. “A good day.”

  “And?” Cora had quirked an eyebrow at Henry.

  “And the tips are in pennies, nickels, and dimes. You’ll have to count them yourself.” Henry felt he’d owed Gil a little solidarity.

  “If you and Gil each get thirty percent of the tips, you should help count.” Even as she said it, she stuck out her hand with a resigned look on her face.

  Henry handed the
one-pound coffee can over. It was so full a few coins slid off the top and hit the ground.

  “Golly”—she hefted the weight in both hands—“people must think Mercury and I are worth something.”

  “I didn’t say you two aren’t worth anything,” Gil said. “Hell, everybody loves a dog. What I said was, it’s impossible to charge admission when all people have to do is stand on the other side of the fence and see everything.”

  “Today we could have charged for the grandstand.”

  Gil groaned.

  She tapped her chin. “Hey, what if we blocked off the road when we’re in a farm field? People coming to the show pay. Those traveling on through don’t.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gil said.

  “Well, we don’t have to make it so easy for them,” Cora said. “At least we can perform in a pasture farther from a main road. We could charge people to come down the farm lane. Or”—she was almost breathless with her idea—“what about exclusively booking our act with county fairs and racetracks? They already have gates. And we’d be guaranteed a crowd.”

  Henry cringed at the word booking. That meant something planned. Something permanent. A commitment. All things sure to set Gil off.

  “No,” Gil said.

  “You can’t just keep saying no without a reason. You’re not the only one in this act.”

  Gil looked her in the eyes. “I can be.”

  Henry finally stepped between them. “Let’s get the Jenny tied down. Then we need to get fuel out here for tomorrow.”

  After they’d turned their backs, Cora rattled the coins in her can. Her version of the last word.

  Three days later they were in yet another Illinois town that had proven fruitful enough to warrant a second day. Early in the morning Cora came dragging some scavenged boards into the pasture with the idea of Henry’s building her a ramp. There wasn’t enough lumber to build it right, so he refused. He shouldn’t have been surprised when she started to work on it herself. In the end he figured her chances of coming out in one piece were better if he constructed it, so he did.