Tailwind

Short Fiction by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com

Photo by Scott Watson

www.printroom.com/pro/swatsonphoto

“You know, Willie?  I’m right pleased you’re still flying with me.”

“It’s my pleasure, Jack.”

“Hey, just how many times have we gone up together?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know.  I’d have to count ’em up.”

“Don’t really matter,” Jack said, stealing a glance over at Willie.  It never failed to amaze him how old his co-pilot was looking these days, especially for being the slightly younger man.  They liked to spar about that every now and then—you old buzzard I ain’t no buzzard but if I am you’re an older one at least a buzzard gets to spend most of his time in the air.

Willie snorted, then got all quiet for a second.  Finally, he admitted, “Well, what matters is . . .  we always made it back down safe.”  He had a catch in his voice, which hinted at just one of the many reasons there wasn’t another soul Jack would rather fly with.  Willie always remembered never to forget what it was that first pushed ’em both skyward so long ago.

“As many flights as you captained,” Jack said, “—well, I know there had to be a reason you’d still be willing sometimes to take second seat, that, uh, that you, um—”  Damn, there was a catch in his own voice now.  Enough of this nonsense.  He directed his attention to the aircraft.  “God, she’s as sexy as they get, ain’t she?”

Willie followed his gaze to the silver vixen tethered before them, the magnificent, mighty DC-3.  “Man, don’t you just know it?”

“Finest aircraft Douglas ever assembled, that any wanderlusting soul ever conceived.”  Jack caressed her with his eyes, nose to wingtips to ailerons.  Her silver skin shined, still smooth as that day she’d rolled off the line in Wichita, 360,000 rivets lovingly placed, every part machined to a work of art.  They had dressed this one up for Northwest, orange-tipped props, eagle-winged cockpit windows, dual fuselage lightning stripes like Thor himself might dance with this goddess but never quite claim her for his own.  And that nose, those engine cowlings—liquid cobalt, as if the pure blue juices dripped from her face after she’d drunk too many hearty drafts of cerulean sky.

Jack closed his eyes and whispered so no one but Willie could hear: “Let’s take her up.”

“Hmmm . . .” Willie responded, his way of saying well now let’s think about that maybe another day might be better.  “You know there’s a bad storm coming,” he whispered back, any words less than cocksure bravado best delivered on the QT.

“Well, I know that,” Jack said, “but I think we can get above it, at least for a while, maybe find some tailwind to ride.”

“Well then,” Willie said, confidence returning to his voice, “it would be my pleasure, sir.”

As soon as they lifted off, Jack felt it, that familiar vibration, a gentle rhythm that feeds the soul and glides in time to a true pilot’s heartbeat.  “They can keep their jet engines,” he growled, swear words, for sure.  “They work against you, or in spite of you.”  He never liked how jets devour the air, then cough it up, no respect wham bam thank you ma’am got what I come for I’ll be on my way now.  He continued, “I say give me a couple of fine-tuned Pratt Whitneys any time.  They got respect for the sky, feeling for the jetstream, savoring God’s air one slice at a time, then putting it back just the way they found it.

Willie chuckled and nodded the way he’d nodded a million times, that gleam in his eye saying I hear you and know exactly what you’re talking about been there myself a few times yessiree Jack.

“Hey, Willie?  Let’s see if we can still find that wind.”

The co-pilot tilted his head and bit his lip, his way of saying maybe not such a good idea let’s think this through don’t wanna go too far.  “I’m worried about that storm coming,” is what he said.  “Maybe we should think about heading for home.”

“I know I know,” Jack said quietly.  “I hear you, but how many more times we gonna get ourselves a chance like this?  This is our plane, partner.  She’s built to laugh at storms, if only for a little while.”

“Well, it’s—” Willie started to say, but his words caught again.

Jack stole another glance and saw the old man next to him with an instant of clarity, that sparse fringe of hair tasseling the back of his uniform hat, deep grooves worn into the contours of a face that had seen its share of storms, eyes glistening with unrealized passion for soaring above man’s limitations.  No fear, though.  Never afraid, always sure.

“It’s your command, Captain,” Willie said.  “Take us in.”

So Jack started climbing, higher, then higher yet, even as perspiration beaded under his visor, a rivulet or two snaking down the grooves of his own cheeks, his collar now soaked.  “You gotta feel it,” he said reverently, barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of engines slicing cerulean sky.  “Feel it in your hands, through your seat, running right into your body and through your very soul.”  He sighed, then closed his eyes.  “You covering the instruments?”

“I’m right here,” Willie answered.

“It’s to the left—yes, port side, and up a ways.  Feel her?  She’s pulling on the wing, making number one not have to work so hard.”  He eased the DC-3 portward, gently rising.  “She’s pulling us in,” he said, barely stemming the excitement he felt.

“I do feel her,” Willie said, also excited now.

And Jack found her.

He found the tailwind he’d chased every time he flew, his greatest moments in the sky realized when she’d take him for the ride.  He backed off the throttle and embraced her, letting the wind carry them, their props just barely ahead of earth’s every breath, just enough to keep the DC-3 aloft as two old men strapped in to surf the clouds.

But soon the turbulence slammed into them, their fickle tailwind cowed by forces greater than any man can face alone.  Jack felt the storm pass through him, no plane powerful enough to hold them aloft forever.

“We need to set her down soon,” Willie warned, sounding far away, but somehow right in Jack’s ear.

“I—I don’t feel so good,” Jack said, bathed in sweat now, the fever coming faster, turbulence pummeling him unmercifully.  “Willie?!” he called out, opening his eyes again, looking about frantically.  “Willie?! I—”

“I got us, Jack,” said his co-pilot.  “I’m bringing us down.  Just hold on; we’re almost there.”

He panted for breath.  “It’s—it’s a bad—bad one.”

“I got you,” Willie said again, and Jack believed him, so many times he’d said I got you Jack it’s okay don’t worry I’ll get you home we got people waitin’ for us.

Another wave came over him, pushing him down hard, rolling him under as he gasped again, his skin hot, then clammy and cold.

Willie handed Jack a thick cloth, waiting while he wiped his brow, his neck, his face.

Jack covered his eyes with the cloth, rubbing gently, drying them lest somebody see.  He breathed deeply, just a bit longer this time—or maybe not, hard to tell—and when he got his bearings straight he dropped the cloth, opened his eyes, and found himself on solid ground, Willie beside him, both gazing up at that magnificent, mighty DC-3, the finest aircraft Douglas ever assembled, that any wanderlusting soul ever conceived.

“Maybe next time?” Jack started, whispering again.  “Maybe next time we could come here before the treatments?”

Willie gently took the cloth and stowed it in a satchel.  “Well, this place doesn’t open that early, but I think we might can try to get you a later slot at the clinic when one comes available.”

“Yes.  That would be better.”  Jack took a deep breath, then reached down and felt the wheel-bars.  “I’m not—I’m still not feeling so good.”

“I’ll stay on point this time,” kidded his co-pilot, “but next one’s on you.”

Jack reached up and patted Willie’s hand as his lifelong friend wheeled him past a thousand exhibits, myriad visitors pausing to watch two old geezers in faded uniforms must be old-time pilots from back in the day hush now don’t point.  Willie pushed Jack down the long ramp, then out through the museum’s double doors and into the lot, veering toward the handicap-parked van.

Cerulean sky stretched into the distance, a backdrop framing historic Greenfield Village, poignant moments from the past suspended against what sometimes dared to seem like limitless tomorrows.  A gentle breeze stirred.  Roiling storms still lay ahead, but plunging straight into them, knowing the right person is at your side, that’s what helps most when the best you can do is close your eyes and ride them out.

Jack belted himself into the lightning-striped van, his face against the glass, eyes ever on the sky.

“You know, Willie?  I’m right pleased you’re still flying with me.”

*      *      *

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