Ada dusted Rodger’s all‑star football trophy from his senior year in high school. She had tucked it away on the shelf above her bed, out of sight of any probing eyes. She paused, tracing the outline of the hand holding the football, wondering about Rodger. She wrote him long letters about Wilmington and those left behind, adding several postscripts about Adele and his sisters, Rachel and Heather. Ada touched her library book, A Farewell to Arms, thinking she should get Rodger a copy and lend this one to John. Lately John had been taken by surprise more than once when Ada brought up something Rodger had written in his letters. Even Adele did not hide her irritation that Ada knew more than she did.

Ada sighed. It’s not that she really had more of Rodger than they; no, not really. She just had that part of him she had helped free a long time ago.

The mailman’s shrill whistle sounded. Ada laid aside her dust rag, wiping her hands across her apron as she entered the living room, then caught her dangling eyeglasses and pushed them up onto the bridge of her nose as she stooped to retrieve her two letters. Both were postmarked from overseas. She had just received a letter from Rodger last week. A sharp pang hit her in the gut and she tightened her hands around the letters.

She stood before her curtained front window, watching the afternoon shadows on the sidewalk and trees. A breeze stirred the limbs of the sycamore, and they waved gently back and forth. Ada looked down at the letters, then outside, wishing she could delay the inevitable. She slowly tore open the top one, the thinner of the two. It was indeed from Rodger.

She knew, she knew from the first cramped “Dearest Ada” that he would tell her of Sam.

“Sam was killed during a raid here. I personally have taken care of sending him home.”

Sam dead. Sam coming home in a casket. Sam and her nevermore. For a moment she could not breathe, the pain in her heart overwhelmed her. She clutched at her throat, gasping; then the tears began.

Soon the afternoon shadows deepened. Ada watched John walking home from the Longhorn Bank, swinging his umbrella, the evening newspaper gripped in his left hand. His long, slender body moved smoothly when he walked, his wide shoulders always thrown back proudly. Ada saw clearly his unlined, handsome face with deep-set blue eyes, almost turquoise, that really seemed to twinkle. She wanted to cry out to him, to lean into his arms and sob on his shoulder. But the tears came again, and she bowed her head over the letters, the long, government forms that had to be filled out immediately, and the one from Rodger. Memories, unbidden and unwanted, tumbled around her head like weeds caught in a sandstorm. Finally, she closed her eyes and forced an image of Sam’s face that calmed the tumult. She had another memory, ten years ago, that belonged to her alone: the turning time of their lives.

Oh, how she recalled that day, down to the last detail! She saw it all in slow motion, a movie reel with the sound inside her head; she, the leading lady, and Sam, her leading man. Ada had walked across town, picking up Rodger’s sweaty clothes from the gym and the colored folks’ mending at the church. Then, as she had planned, she took a lunch over to the hangar where Sam kept his beloved Lucy. Spreading out the picnic lunch on the rickety card table, Ada waited for him to join her as she poured coffee from the urn in his office into his thermos.

Her chair scraped the concrete floor. Sam jerked his head around to look. Ada dusted her hands of the crumbs and, aware of his stare, drank her coffee with little sips.

“Sam, you always had a way with women. But,” she had teased, “your charms fall short of your coffee.”

“Well, hell, most of the time it’s just me and don’ pay no attention to how much scoops I’m putting in. If you’d tell a body when you planned on comin’, I’d have us a regular tea party.”

“Now, Sam, that would be entirely against my nature. Even might detract from my womanly charm. Why don’t you admit that you like me to surprise you once in a while?”

“Umph.” He shifted around to look at Lucy again. He folded his arms against his chest, his defense from her she supposed. After all these many years, there should not have been so many barriers between them, so many little misunderstandings. She had never even mentioned him to any of her relatives or friends, for what they were to each other was a habit, two people in the same place with time to spare for each other.

He had picked her out of a crowd at the fair, the first fair she had gone to after her husband and son were killed. It was the way the plane burst through the air, the noise and strangeness of it, that had drawn her to the field to watch. Barnstorming, is what they called it. Sam was giving rides to all interested paying customers. Ada had stood aside, observing, until the crowd had waned. Then, like a wild man, Sam had grabbed her hand and yanked her over to the plane where fumes pulsated with the dry summer heat.

She hadn’t said no; she couldn’t although she felt herself suffocating.

He was looking at her again. “You have the same look about you that you did the first time I saw you.”

Ada blushed, so close was he to knowing her mind. But it was like that between them, friends that had secrets.

“And what exactly is that “look” you’re always mentioning?”

“Well,” he fumbled, his turn to be embarrassed, “sorta like a critter that gets itself out of a pretty decent cage. It’s on the outside looking in, asking itself if it isn’t all a big mistake.”

Freedom. Perhaps he had seen her longing exposed in her eyes, her face, her body. Being around him and that damned Lucy always made her want to go places, other places with strange faces and exotic names. She closed her eyes to peek out of the slits, to narrow her vision of Sam and Lucy.

“Perhaps the worst sort of freedom, Sam, is the kind we don’t ask for.”

“You could have married again, Ada. You’re the one who preaches to me that there are many ways to love.”

“But the man I love, my friend, is not mine to have. I would rather not have the cake without the icing.”

“There’s more than one bakery you could shop in.”

Ada laughed. It was the longest conversation they had for in years. Sam was always on the move, in demand as an airplane mechanic now that his barnstorming days were over. For all his gruff and surly ways, Sam was a worrier. He wanted an ordered universe, a home town with seasonal changes and a woman friend or two. So little from such a demanding sort of man.

“How about you Sam? Did you think to buy the whole pie and not just a little tart?”

He growled at her, waving at Lucy. “I got me all the female companion and nasty disposition I need between the two of you. Now, it looks like I even got a kid to boot.”

Ada sat up straight. She knew, knew it as surely as the day was split into the bright blue of the sky and the green‑brown of the earth. She whispered, almost too afraid of being right, “Is his name Rodger?”

“Huh? Yeah, the kid that comes here and watches me work. You know him?”

“Yes. He’s a very special friend of mine, too.”

“I ain’t calling him ‘friend.’ Odd kid, in a way.” Sam glared at her once more, resting his face on his elbows that all came down on the card table with a soft plop. “He comes around for weeks, sneaking a look. Then one day he comes up to me, and I yell at him to get the hell outta here. Then he gets real brave and tells me he’s got to be around my Lucy.”

“And you told him he could stay.”

“Not exactly, Miss Smarty‑pants. He’s got to earn his way.” He leaned closer to her, and she bent into him. “Funny thing, about that kid. I got a feeling he’ll be a flyer, a good one. He listens.” Sam tapped the side of his forehead. “And he thinks.”

“What’s the point of encouraging him, Sam?”

“Ah, hell Ada! It’s just for fun. A man don’t know his future at thirteen.”

“Or at your age, either.”

Sam glared at her, but she would not back down. Maybe Rodger, too, sensed her disapproval. It alarmed her, the risks he took at such an early age, not for the usual reasons of showing off to his friends. She couldn’t trust Sam to discourage this nonsense. Rodger would be the perfect audience for him. Worse, she had to pretend she didn’t know about this until Rodger confided in her. She wondered if John knew; he couldn’t, or he would have stopped Rodger.

“Sam,” she spoke softly, drawing him back to her, “we’ve got one thing in common with married folks.”

“What the hell are ya talkin’ about, Ada?”

“Rodger.” The silence between them was peaceful, several quiet seconds flowing past them. “Take good care of him.”

“I will.” He replied so seriously that she had nothing to say back to him. They sat, drifting in the stillness of the sunshine. “Ya should have had more kids, Ada. A girl with your big brown eyes would have had the world at her feet.”

She smiled. “Doesn’t seem like they did me much good.”

“Ya kept them closed most your life, that’s why.”

Ada would not dispute him. She leaned back in her chair, tilting it off the ground. He figured her foolish in so many ways she wasn’t. She wondered if he would be less kind to her if he knew how she really was, how little she cared for the world.

It was the loss of her child, not the man she had married, that had left a hollow space in her heart. She had stopped loving Dan before Stevie was born. But the price of her freedom had enslaved her to her secrets. She no more could have stopped the reckless cabby from hitting her husband and son than she could turn back the hands of the old grandfather clock and say no to Dan’s marriage proposal. She knew that, she knew that. But it seemed such an ironic thing, a vicious stunt, like someone suddenly pulling the chair out from underneath you.

“Ya all right Ada? Ya look like you’re gonna cry. What did I say?”

“Nothing, Sam, nothing at all. Dust in the air makes my eyes water.”

She had to be more careful. She smiled for Sam, pouring them more coffee from the battered and smudged thermos. Sounds, the vibrations in the air of something distinctly familiar, caught both of them at the same time. Ada puzzled over it until Sam jumped from his chair, jabbing his finger up at the dazzling blue of the sky, shrieking, “I’ll be damned! Lookee there, Ada! It’s the Brown Mustache! Lookee up there!”

Still she couldn’t find the object, the sun blinded her. The noise intensified, then a small, rusty‑brown biplane swooped from the white cloud, down almost to the ground.

Sam wiped his hand across the top of his crew cut. His left hand jingled loose change in his pocket. The biplane was executing a series of loops, leaving cloud trails behind him. Suddenly Sam turned and clamped his hand down on Ada, pulling her roughly to her feet.

“Come on, gal. Let’s go chase a little tail in the sky.”

Dragging her over to Lucy, Sam quickly propped open the stepladder and shoved her forward, placing his hands firmly on her hips as she climbed into the back seat. Until she was actually seated, she did not think of saying no. She looked to the right and left of her as Sam pushed them in position so that he could taxi for take‑off.

It was a brilliant, sunlit day with a hint of fall’s breath. The beauty and warmth of the day pressed into Ada, and she relaxed against the back seat, pulling against the house dress until it covered her knees again. The trees began to whiz past them, blurring at the edges as Lucy’s engine yawned in noisy wakening. Ada jigged and bounced in rhythm with the singing wheels. Wisps of hair tickled her eyes, ears, and lips as she drew one long hairpin after another to catch and hold them to no avail. She dropped her hands to rest in her lap, resigning herself to the wind and speed and Sam’s skillful hands.

Snatches of earth colors and the intense blue of the sky mixed as Lucy dived and spun after the Brown Mustache. Sam’s Tarzan hollering would fade in echoes until Ada, forced by the driving wind, had to shut her eyes and be content to listen to the droning engine.

She no more understood why she was up there than she knew why she clung so to the habits of her life. She was young, still healthy at forty‑two, and reasonably well- provided for. Why didn’t she pack up and move somewhere, just for the change? Why was she allowing herself to be entrapped with all of this concern for Rodger? At the thought of him, she could picture his thirteen-year old’s face, so like his father’s. But it was Rodger’s smile that intrigued Ada, for that was all his own, neither John’s nor Madeline’s.

They were coming in for a landing, leveling out, momentarily suspended over the runway. Ada thought again of Rodger, his defiance as incentive for learning. And wasn’t it Sam who once said something about second love being the truest? True or not, she had known then she could never leave them. As Lucy settled onto the ground, Ada opened her eyes and regretted the ride had ended.

“Oh, my what a ride!” Ada exclaimed, throwing her back and laughing.

Sam’s not-too-handsome face was split wide in a clownish smile, as if he could not take enough air in, nor release enough laughter to fill the outside. The brown plane, easing gently away from their sight, waggled its wings, and Sam threw his arm up into a vigorous wave.

“Sam, I’d better get along home now.” They stopped beside the table. “Thanks for the exciting afternoon.”

“Oh, yeah. Ada, wasn’t it,…ah…well,” he faltered, spreading out his hands in front of him.

“Sam, I had a wonderful time.”

And she meant it. She packed things back inside the dented lunch pail. Then she unpinned her hair, shaking it loose, re-gathering it into a tight coil before jabbing the metal sticks back in. She swooped up her own bundles, smelling of Rodger’s sweat and the colored woman’s smoke. Sam was fussing with Lucy, his eyes frequently darting over to her. She pretended not to notice. Time pressed on her, and she quickened her steps. She brushed against Sam’s shoulder with her own, making him look up at her. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Bye, Ada.”

“See you soon, Sam.”

Ada shook loose from the webs of those memories and walked outside. Standing there beside her weedless garden she scanned the rows, each one neat and orderly. There were early tomato seedlings and rows of corn sprouting green leafage, and her favorites, vining zucchini and butternut squashes. As much as she loved her small, fertile plot of land, there were times she felt guilty about it. She had not spent the necessary time tending it when she was a wife and mother. It was too much of a solitary thing, a not‑sharing, although the feel of the earth, the taste of its produce gave meaning without words. But it had been Dan’s garden first. Now it was hers, hers alone. The squash and radishes. The turnips. Little by little she had replaced his vegetables with hers. With her own loving hands.

The afternoon sunshine softened. The breeze was cooler, and though she might have been tempted to stay here a while, time pressed into a thing solid and heavy inside her. She moved away from the garden and went to the front of the house.

She collected the washing, laying aside the mending carefully so that it would not spill from the sideboard. She mentally ticked off each chore as she methodically began with the next one. At eight, the last of the sewing done, she pushed away from her machine, turned off its light, and stretched up, up to the ceiling, wiggling her fingers. She smoothed back her hair with both hands and stood listening to the night sounds.

She waited. Then after the minutes were tolled by the grandfather clock, she walked over to the radio and flipped on the dial. Music she did not recognize filled the hollow space of her living room. She left it to go into the kitchen and heat tea water. If she listened hard and didn’t clack the spoon, she could barely catch a strain or two of “When My Heart Was Young.”

She thought again of Rodger, when he had learned to box, her own unconditional faith in Big Red, Sam, and John.

Ada massaged the furrows in her forehead. “Damn this small town,” she whispered as hard as she could to dispel some of her bitterness, “May God give us the children to free us!”

There hadn’t been any time to explain things to Rodger about Big Red, Dee and Katie Simmons, the flight from the KKK. She had so much to tell him and so much she wanted to hear from him the night of the burning house.

Ada had had her secrets from Rodger. Hadn’t they all? Each one of them locked away some part of themselves. The day caught up with her. She turned off the radio. The echoes from the house and outside blended and Ada stood quite still and waited for the quiet to come back.

She was tired, but her thoughts, each like a painted carrousel pony, whirled around and around, images at once distinct, then blurred. She felt herself the spectator turned unwilling participant, but a sense of release came over her. Tears stung her eyes, recalling Sam darting about between her and Lucy.

Her involvement with Rodger had led her further and further away from the safety of her solitude. Day by day, birthdays and Christmases and special events marked the time, stopping it in segments of meanings. She could not close her eyes to what was, nor could she, admitting it finally, deny that odd mixed feeling of regret and happiness, that specialness of love lost and regained, was binding her tighter and tighter to Rodger. Now, at fifty‑six, where there had never been a future with John, and only moments with Sam, she could now have one with Rodger, Adele and the baby. They would be a continuation of her life, like it always had been.

“Habits,” she snorted out loud to hear her own voice, “I am bound to this earth by my habits.”

She carried her tea outside, again to stand beside her garden, and weep just a little for the loss of her beloved. Sam had substituted for John, her first, real love. And through him, with him, and by him, she had also loved Rodger. And that second love was the most precious.

The velvet black night, speckled with stars, wrapped its warmth around her. She stared intently at heaven until she saw a falling star.

“For you, Sam,” she whispered, “may your wings never fail you.”

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The late morning air rumbled with incoming transports. Rodger stood beside LinChing, a wiry, intense Chinaman who happened to be the best mechanic around. Rodger loomed over him at least by a foot, yet the man’s quiet dignity and self-assurance erased the differences between them. Together they waved at a C‑47 as the pilot taxied in.

“LinChing, let’s see if any of our supplies made it on this one.”

The pilot handed Rodger an official letter, which Rodger tucked into his shirt pocket. The third man off was short, gray‑haired and very familiar. Sam, the man who had given Rodger his wings, not to mention his freedom from his mother, his studies, and the boredom of his childhood, strode towards him with an outstretched hand.

“Hey! Sam!”

Grinning like a fool, Rodger grabbed him in a one arm bear hug, pounding him the back, amazed by Sam’s iron‑grip on his right hand. Sam’s clothing had the worn look and smell of oil and planes, the essence of his life.

“I’ll be damned!” drawled Sam. “Had to come clear across the world to hook up with ya. I’ll be damned!”

“You probably are! And so am I!” Rodger laughed and Sam joined in. Rodger was thrown back to being twelve and training again in a Piper Cub. They had both come a long ways. Rodger pointed to a rickety jeep. “Hey! Come on! let’s go celebrate in style in downtown Dooma-Dooma!”

“Just let me stash my gear.” Sam stopped, trying in vain to light a cigarette in the stiff wind.

“Those things’ll kill you yet, Sam,” Rodger cupped his hands around the dangling Camel.

The incongruity of Sam’s presence suddenly hit Rodger. “Why the hell are you here, Sam?”

Rodger remembered the envelope that the transport pilot had given him. He pulled it from his pocket and ripped it open. It was orders to return stateside on the next departing plane. It meant only one thing: the Flying Tigers were about to be disbanded. Rodger, disgusted with yet another inanity, shredded the paper and let the pieces flutter like confetti in the breeze.

“Actually, I’m only here until the next transport. I’m on my way to Nanning. The US has some Martlets there that need lookin’ at. I’m your basic, over‑qualified instructor, pilot and mechanic. But this time, I really get to put my hands on ’em!” Sam’s face crinkled in unabashed delight.

Rodger led Sam into the newly erected wooden barracks and showed him a bunk next to his own.

“Sam, are we beefing up our forces over here?”

“Can’t say too much about it, son. Classified.”

“Let’s go in the mess hall before we leave. I want you to meet one hell of a mechanic.”

LinChing came into the room from the kitchen carrying two plates laden with rice and scrambled eggs, the silverware rattling against the underside of the plates. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee followed him.

“You shouldn’t be doing that!” Rodger scolded. LinChing set the food down before Rodger and shrugged.

“I help Mary Elizabeth, too.”

“The planes, LinChing?” Rodger sipped carefully from a chipped mug, staring back into the dark eyes.

LinChing nodded. “Good, very good. I very good mechanic.”

“How many are airworthy?”

LinChing held up two hands, fingers splayed.

“Ten?!” Rodger sat straight up in his chair.

Sam stopped eating to stare wide‑eyed. The Chinaman was smiling widely, his head bobbing up and down.

“Great! And parts came in today, too!” Rodger clapped his hands, yodeling.

LinChing offered him a cigarette, which Rodger could not refuse. Sam fumbled for matches, dropping them on the floor. As he came up from retrieving them, Mary Elizabeth stood in front of him. Rodger watched silently while the two assessed one another. With the look of a man bewitched, Sam, speechless, stared into the black, almond-shaped eyes set in a dirty, round face of an eleven-year-old girl.

Rodger laughed, breaking the spell. “Mary Elizabeth! Come here and meet Sam!” Rodger unfolded his arm to encircle her. Mary Elizabeth bowed slightly at Sam.

In a delicate voice, yet commanding of all their attention, she asked LinChing, “Father, are there to be any more to eat?”

“No,” he replied, “but make more coffee.”

“Yes, Father.” Mary Elizabeth eased from Rodger’s embrace and went back to the kitchen. Her brown, bare legs were layered in streaks of fine silt, patterned by water drops.

“She takes care of us,” Rodger answered Sam’s quizzical look. “Can you imagine this worthless bunch of die-hards having to say good-bye to that little urchin before take-offs?” Rodger jabbed his index finger at Mary Elizabeth’s back. “Believe me, no one dares not to.”

“Humph! And why the hell not?”

“She says they don’t come back.”

Sam sneered, shook his head in disgust and pushed away his plate. “This is no place for the likes of a snot-nosed kid.”

Rodger amused by Sam’s discomfort, leaned toward him. “We even have her one and only doll in the debriefing hangar that we must touch as we come home. Blessed twice, you might say.”

“And I thought I was superstitious!” Sam mumbled, flicking his ash on the floor.

Mary Elizabeth turned from the sink, her eyes narrowed fiercely. But before she could speak, there were sounds of incoming planes. All heads cocked to attention.

Mary Elizabeth looked heavenward, whispering, “Buck and Jimmy come home.” She sighed contentedly.

LinChing left to help with the tie-down and examination of the planes. Shortly, the two pilots sauntered inside. At the threshold, before any acknowledgments, both men bent down on one knee to enfold Mary Elizabeth in gentle embraces, whispering in each ear something that made her eyes twinkle. Then, sweat-drenched and ragged looking, Buck and Jimmy stood before Rodger without any formalities.

Mary Elizabeth offered each one a steaming mug of coffee before she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Jimmy called out, then inhaled the steam. “Ahh!”

Buck, a medium, olive-complexioned man with a scar across his face abruptly began, “We’ve got troubles comin’ in across the border. They’re gearin’ up. Them Japs is crawlin’ all over Pingxiang.”

All of the men followed Rodger to the debriefing room. He brought out maps, tracing the enemy route across the border of French-Indochina into China. As he and the crew pored over the maps, Sam wandered outside.

“Here and here.” Rodger tapped locations. “McGree and Steve are on line tonight. You’ll patrol between Burma and Jongnan. Any questions? ”

Rodger pushed aside the charts, the men dispersed, and Rodger walked to the opened door. The last of the midday sun blazed in the sky as he watched Sam cautiously approach LinChing in the hangar. Neither man spoke, but Sam picked up a part and examined it while LinChing continued to work. In a silly way, Rodger wanted them to be friends and share the plane. He returned to his bunk, but before packing gear for their trip, Rodger posted a letter home to Ada, telling her about Sam’s arrival. As he left, Mary Elizabeth stood at the threshold of the door, making the sign of the cross.

“I will pray for both your safe return.”

Rodger smiled at her, momentarily stayed by his love for this child, so sweet and open, much like his eleven- and nine-year old sisters, Rachel and Heather. Yet, he felt closer to Mary Elizabeth. Almost as if their conversations never quite ended, as if their last words were never spoken. With a half wave of his hand to her, Rodger climbed in the jeep.

As Rodger started the engine Sam jumped into the jeep. They bumped along the landmine-studded road. Rodger bellowed to be heard above the din.

“Tell me about Big Red and that night. It’s one of my unresolved mysteries of youth.”

Sam chuckled and took a cigarette from his pocket. “You meant more to him than anything—or anyone. It’s a shame about his being a nigger and all.”

Rodger flinched, but Sam took no notice. It seemed odd that he should have such two different friends that meant so much to him in his youth. He could remember sneaking into the hangar and watching Sam with his plane, Lucy. Huddled in the cold corner, Rodger had spied on them. In the moment of confrontation, Rodger had steeled himself against Sam’s curses and kept repeating over and over, “I wanna fly. I got to,” until Sam, reluctantly, had given in.

Sam was a lot like Big Red, only Big Red yelled less at him, but they both had made him go that extra, painful mile. Even when Rodger reached six feet, he always seemed to look up at Big Red. It was comforting when the man clapped him on the shoulder and said nothing, just nodded his head. He could still see Big Red kneeling on the floor of the ring in front of him, his large hands cradling Rodger’s bloodied and cut face, whispering harshly, “What are you backing up for? To admire your work? Get in there and keep your hands up.”

He’d always known something was different about Big Red, something not quite white. The sheer size of the man set him above the others; his laughter rumbled like summer thunder and his pink tongue against his yellow teeth made him seem a man of another race. A race of giants.

Rodger glanced over, looking down at the top of Sam’s head. Sam spat, hunched further down into his seat.

“Ya know, he almost made it in Wilmington. But no matter how far ya go, son, the past is always behind ya. It gets ya sooner or later.”

Rodger had to steer hard, tracking the ruts in the road. He remembered that awful day! He had only wanted to go to the hangar and see Lucy, just to run his hand along her contours, to be connected to such a magnificent plane. Rodger could be overwhelmed by his feelings for Lucy. And Sam. Rodger quickly looked at Sam, then back to the road. Sam wasn’t exactly a lovable guy, too moody, but he and Rodger were probably the closest either could get to another without being related, as long as Rodger let Sam call all the shots.

He had known before he stepped into the cavernous, emptied shed that the good part of his life was over. Gone. The tool chest. The stepladder. Sam’s overalls. Nothing. Nothing but a crumpled Camel cigarette pack ruffled by the wind.

He had backed out and started running towards the Simmons’ house. His school books weighed down his arm painfully, but he pushed against the wind and kept on until he came to the house. It had that feeling of having been stripped and left without a kind word or good‑bye. Rodger spied a trowel lying in the rose bush. He picked it up and put it on the doorstep beside the welcome mat. Katie was always looking around the yard for it. He went around back and peered through Dee’s bedroom window. The closet door gaped open, empty of clothes, with wire and wooden hangers strewn all about the room. The bureau drawers had not all been closed, and the vanity stool lay overturned.

He had gone home and holed up in his room waiting for his father. But his father had not come home for supper.

Rachel had scribbled a picture, and jamming it into his pocket, Rodger had walked down to the Longhorn Bank.

The street had been dark, eerie where the gaslight collected in orange pools. The windows reflected only shadowy images of desks, chairs, and teller bars. Where the hell could his father be? Walking rapidly, he had gone over to the gym, thinking that he would work out for a while, straighten out his hook. He began to jog, boxing at his shadow. He came to the steps and took them two at a time, and gaining the door, twisted the knob, then threw himself against it. Stunned, he had bounced back and landed on the ground. The club was closed up. When he had passed Ada’s house, it had had that same empty look with a single light on in the living room.

He needed someone to talk to, and the need became so great that he risked his mother’s anger and went to find Big Red.

Big Red’s house sat by itself atop Stormy Mountain, overlooking the Kankakee River. The worn roads of town curved into the country and became rocky and unevenly surfaced. Rodger moved to the center of the road so as not to fall into a ditch or trip on a boulder. A smell, like freshly cut timber burning, wafted faintly on the breeze. The moon was the brightest spot of light anywhere around for miles, casting ghostly shadows on the road. Rodger had kept his eyes trained on the road, marking the rocks and pitfalls. He felt something wispy land on his cheek and brushed it away. It felt grainy. The air was filling with blackened crispy shavings. Then Rodger saw a blazing bonfire on the distant hill.

‘Everyone must be there!’ Rodger strained forward, focusing his eyes sharper on the fire. He hurried, in sudden urgency to get there. Fear, like a tiny bird inside his chest, wakened. As he drew nearer, the fire took on the shape of a house.

The tiny bird grew wings that spread across his body, and grew, choking his breath off. Sweat ran down his face, arms, sides, dripping from his fingertips. His steps quickened, and he cursed the leather soles of his shoes. In desperation, he forced his feet to go faster, digging into the dusty, soft road. As he came up the sloping path toward the house, he tightened his shoulders, lowered his head and pushed off on his toes, swaying from side to side, taking short leaps. The acrid tinge of smoke filled his mouth as the great beast rose inside of his throat. He gasped. Still he ran on. He ran until he could run no longer.

Disembodied voices lingered in the air, but Rodger couldn’t see through the haze. As he reached the top of the knoll, he stopped. Like dervishes, images whirled inside his head. A towering oak tree seemed to sway. Rodger focused his eyes.

In slow pendulum movements, a body clothed in white swung from a branch. Behind him, the flaming timbers crashed into one another, setting free sparks like thousands of shooting stars into the black still night air. Rodger screamed. And screamed again, the mighty creature of anguish and pain released from inside of him.

The frame of the house collapsed into itself, and a rush of sound and heat jarred Rodger, sending him stumbling over to the tree. He reached up to grab a handful of sheet, to stay the bobbing figure that wasn’t a man. The effigy looked like a battered punching bag with a charcoal‑smeared face and pieces of straw poking out of the seams. Rodger jerked, tearing the sheet, but he could not bring it down. He let it go and leaned against the rough and scratchy bark. The tattered sheet flapped, snapping over his head, brushing against his cheeks. The smoldering wood radiated an intense heat that seared his flesh. Revolving round and round inside his head was one word: Father. Around and around it went, never settling, stinging him. Had he heard his father’s voice? Could he be a part of this? Rodger crumbled against the tree and began vomiting.

Drained, but curious, he drew closer to the smoldering house, at once eerie and fascinating; the colors blended and separated at one and the same time, ending in the gray‑black smoke that curled in lazy strings upward to heaven. He took the wadded picture from his pocket that Rachel had given to him and threw it into the ashes.

Sam coughed. Rodger yelled against the wind. “But how the hell did anyone find out about Big Red?”

“Ya know, it probably was him being so good at poker and all. Your daddy and him cleaned up one game after another. Made people suspicious, and all, where he came from. Rumors follow a body.”

“Big Red was the one who taught me how to play my aces. Never knew my dad to gamble, and I thought I knew him pretty well!”

“Kids never know their folks all that well, son. Big Red and your daddy bet heavily on the fights, too. Your mother didn’t take too kindly to that. Or Big Red. Or Katie Simmons.”

“Jesus, don’t I know that! She had fits about me and Dee. I wanted to marry that girl.”

“A boy don’t know the difference between love and ruttin’.”

“Maybe I was less of a boy than even you thought, Sam.”

“Humph! You were just a hot‑shot kid in them days.” Sam lit another cigarette. “Got to admit, you had the magic touch.” Sam looked to Rodger. “Did me some pretty fancy flyin’ the night we got ol’ Red outta town. Yeah, Miss Ada and your daddy did some fast maneuvering to hide that bear of man in the back of her old Chevy and get him to the field.”

Rodger listened intently, a strange mixture of emotions welling up. He had gone to Ada’s house that night, hiding in the bushes until she had come home. He had frightened her, and she had recoiled from him. “Thank God,” she had whispered, pinching his arm and propelling him into the room. Tears, uncontrolled and shameless, had streamed down his face. Ada had reached out to him and hugged him.

“This lousy, god‑forsaken town of bastards!” Rodger sobbed as Ada held him.

They had all known long before he did about all of this. Ada had so many secrets. They all had.

“It’s not like it seems.” Her voice had come through, parting the floods of anger and pain inside of him. “Big Red is alive. Sam and your father got them all out of here. All of them. Katie and Dee joined them.” She had held him until the wildness in him had subsided.

He had sat on her couch, and she had brought him hot tea in his favorite mug. She had sat in the overstuffed, worn chair. Rodger had listened to Ada’s breathing and begun to time his own to hers. Ada had watched him from her chair.

“‘I need a ride to Chicago. If nothing else, I want to show everyone what kind of trainer Big Red was—is. I’ll get me some clothes together and hitchhike up there. I’m gonna win. That’ll show ’em.”

She had stood when he’d gotten up. “You’d better collect your wits tonight and leave Thursday.” Her voice had had the hardness of reality. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Rodger had not understood. Not until he overheard her speaking with Vern Strater did he realize she was setting it up for him to leave on the pretext of taking her car to Chicago for repairs.

Once he had longed for a return to his former self, that time of certainty and purpose that he had had under Big Red’s wing. Yet, those times of fire and loss, those nights of longing and regrets, had all been swept into his days of flying and command. He had no more desire to return to the ring. As Sam droned on about the night of Big Red’s rescue, Rodger was relieved that it was over and done.

“Hey, Sam! I’d cut my eyeteeth out to fly that new Martlet with you!”

Sam stuttered, “I…I don’t know. I can’t authorize it.”

Rodger shot him a quick glance. “Hell, I’ve never been one to ask for permission!”

“Hey, boy! It’d be like old times, us flying together!” Sam peeked over the windshield. “Rodger, what happened to you in Chicago, after the Golden Gloves? You kinda disappeared there for a couple of days. What in the hell were you doing?”

“Sam, I’ll tell you all about that, over a beer or two.”

Rodger drove into town honking his horn continuously to clear a path through the people and beggars milling about the streets. Never having seen a car, few paid any attention to the strange contraption making loud noises. Sam, impatient as always, leaned sideways and shouted, “Get outta the way, you idiots!”

Rodger skidded to a stop, causing a flurry of dust to rise about them. The sun poured mercilessly over them. “Well, here we are. Downtown Dooma‑Dooma.”

“Ugh. Get me to a bar.”

“In a few.” Rodger walked over to the center of town, where stalls of the open market crowded one another like nestlings. Sam trailed behind him, careful not to lose himself among the hundreds of browsing men in fatigues and scurrying Chinese women in colorful pants and brocade jackets. Flies swarmed over the displayed food and emaciated dogs lay around the stalls. Though sordid and destitute, the market had a carnival atmosphere. Rodger roamed up and down and through the sideways, poking his head into a stall to look closely at each item.

He spotted a doll in the corner of BenTang’s stall. With an ugly, ever‑present grin that exposed the blackening teeth, the known black-market racketeer bowed quickly, bobbing his head up to eye‑level with Rodger.

“Very nice. See more?”

“How much for the doll?”

“Very nice doll. American-made. See. Label say Seers.”

“It’s misspelled, BenTang. How much?”

BenTang shrugged. “Fifty dollars.”

Rodger held up two fingers. The crafty merchant puckered his thin lips and shook his head.

“No, no. Four.”

“Go to hell.” Rodger pulled away.

“Three!”

Rodger extracted a wad of thousand Chinese bills from his pocket. He peeled off two bills and tossed BenTang the money. Picking up the doll, he walked briskly away to where Sam waited.

He threw his arm around Sam. “Now old buddy, let’s you and me get serious.”

“Ya ain’t too smart about that kid, Rodger. She doesn’t belong here.”

Rodger gave him a playful shove. “None of us do.”

They drank and ate and drank some more, swapping war stories. Sam, crusty and hardened by his own experiences, still listened with real concern to Rodger as he told him of his time in the Citizen’s Military training in the cavalry; of his promotions and flight training; and coming to lead the volunteer Tigers. But in the telling, he left out the story of his stay in Chicago, promising Sam that one night, sober, he would fill in all of the glorious facts.

On the morning of the third day, Rodger left Sam sleeping at the make‑shift barracks and strolled around Dooma-Dooma. No one spoke or made eye contact. Irritated, Rodger mulled over his thoughts. ‘You take our money, we take your women. You give us war, we give you our lives.’ But deep inside the layers of thoughts, he admitted to another truth: the world did not hear the death cries of thousands, but politics listened to self-interest. Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek had convinced Washington, D.C. that it would be in the best self-interest of America if China remained independent of Japanese domination. And that had been the reason for the Americans involvement here. So much right for the wrong reasons. The humid air pressed against his skin, and even his sweat caused him to ache all over. A rosy haze lay over the horizon. Rodger went back and woke Sam. The little man looked shriveled and miserable.

“What a great pair of drinking men we are!” Rodger roared.

Sam, running his hand through his thinning hair, grimaced. “Can we get some decent food around here?”

“Sure, I’ll take you to a French restaurant.”

Sam winced, then slowly stood up. “All right, let’s go.”

They ate without any conversation. With mechanical motions, they gathered gear and miserably set about returning to base. As they sighted the scorched, pocked-marked wasteland, encircled with brush that camouflaged the base, Sam glanced over to Rodger, and moaned, “I’ve missed the outgoing transport, haven’t I?”

Rodger shrugged, amused by Sam’s expectations. “Sometimes they show; sometimes they don’t. The boys over here are notorious for breaking dates.”

Rodger walked into the mess with Sam lagging behind. Mary Elizabeth waited for Rodger to hug her. Sam would not, although she had stepped directly into his path.

“I don’t like kids,” Sam snarled.

Mary Elizabeth frowned, staring at Sam. Rodger stroked her head, looking about the room for a distraction. “Hey, Bright Eyes, what are you doing?”

She walked back over to the table and sorted through the mail, making a bundle of the letters for each pilot who had mail, a space for those who didn’t. With a wary look from the corner of her eyes, she continued her task and replied, “I am doing my job.”

Rodger picked up his bundle, tapping it lightly on her head. “Hey! Got something for you Bright Eyes!”

She stopped and turned. Excitement made the light dance in her eyes. Sam slammed the door shut, stomping outside, muttering to himself on the way to the hangar. Buck and Jimmy, lounging in the bunks, chuckled. Rodger cocked his head to one side.

“What would you say to a new dish towel?”

Waving her hand toward the kitchen she replied, “All yours, GI.”

McGree roared with laughter, as Buck and Jimmy applauded.

In the lull, Rodger heard rumbling in the air. That would be the transport coming in. He gently nudged Mary Elizabeth aside and went to the door. Heat waves snaked up from the ground around him. Westward, the horizon glimmered red and black. Then he knew.

“Japs! Comin in!” He grabbed Mary Elizabeth and threw her into her room, yelling as he slammed the door, “Keep down!”

The men, on the run, yanked on their flight suits, shoving pistols inside holsters while pulling on gloves, helmets dangling from an arm. They scrambled for their planes. Rodger ran to the nearest P‑38 and tore away the blocks beneath the wheels, giving McGree a hand up to the cockpit.

Sam and LinChing came running, separating into a V to reach the other planes. Rodger quickly scanned the revetments. Then, looking back at the hangar, he saw his P‑40 with its gaping cowling and parts strewn beside it.

“God damn it!” he yelled.

Two planes taxied into position as the Japanese Nates came into sight. Rodger waved frantically to McGree. As the plane screeched off, Rodger bolted for the protection of the hangar. Two of the five Zeroes swooped low, spraying the ground with lead. Rodger zigzagged. Sam was beside him, wheezing.

Rodger looked over his shoulder and reached out to Sam. Bullet holes crisscrossed his chest. He halted mid-stride, bowing forward. Rodger thrust his arms out and caught him, pressing Sam’s frail, bloody body against his own. With an anguished groan, Sam crumbled into Rodger. Dragging him along, Rodger ceased to think or feel.

He laid Sam alongside the hangar and knelt by his head, smoothing shut his eyes, and then sat heavily on the ground, leaning against the splintering wooden building. The planes were off in the distance, like kites dancing in the evening breeze. Rodger fought the memories, the keen flashes of the times he had been the happiest, the times he had flown Lucy, and only Miss Ada and Sam knew.

Then he shivered. The only other person in the world that Sam had cared about was Ada. He’d have to ship the body back to her. He’d have to write her a letter and hope it got there before the casket.

“Oh, God,” he begged, “Oh, God!” as the tears flowed for his dead friend.

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Words will take us back
To that night I looked into your eyes
And fell in love with you

The refrain to Adele’s newly penned song played over and over in Ada’s mind, obliterating any of her own thoughts. She wrapped damp newspaper around a bouquet of lilacs and secured it with twine, then swept a loose tendril of hair away from her face and secured it with a bobby pin before slipping her arms into her cardigan, leaving it unbuttoned. The screen door whispered shut as she stepped outside. Today the new morning sun shone warmly on her, and she inhaled the sweet smells of spring as she began the two-mile trek along the familiar route to Wilmington cemetery. She unhooked the latch on the gate and proceeded along the well-tended path to the grave site of her son and husband.

She knelt in front of the grave markers, sinking into the warm grass. Plucking the twine loose, she unwrapped the soggy newspaper and separated the lilacs into two bunches, placing the larger one in the vase beside the headstone marked “Daniel Steven Carson, Jr. April 20, 1915-May 21, 1924.” She rested her hand on top of her little boy’s grave, oddly at peace for the first time in eighteen years.

She heard a car off in the distance, a bird chirp and rustle through the pine trees, and the skirring of a squirrel. Sunlight poured through the boughs and patterned the graves. Tears trickled down her cheeks, but the pain subsided quickly and she sighed, pushing herself to her feet, brushing her hands along her hem. She leaned down and picked up the newspaper, wringing it out as best she could before stuffing it along with the twine into her bag.

Scooping up the smaller bundle of lilacs, she bent and placed it in the vase next to her husband’s marked gravestone that read “Dr. Daniel Steven Carson.” Beneath the date, at his sister’s insistence, had been added “beloved husband, father, son and brother.”

Which was a lie. The love she had felt for Dan the first year dissipated with every sarcastic comment he made, implying with a small sneer that, whatever she did, it was never enough. On their first wedding anniversary party, in the midst of friends and relatives, his friend David had toasted her with “To the nurse who got her doctor,” and Dan had smiled in acknowledgement. As if she had pursued him! She had tried, Lord knows, to discuss issues with him, but he would dismiss her concerns with a comment about “monthly hormonal surges.” He would have nothing to do with family outings with her relatives—“They bore me”—only holidays with his sister, Stella, her husband and children.

What difficult times those were! Ada had tried to please, to make herself fit into the Carson structure, but she seemed always one step out off. But when Stella was diagnosed with brain cancer the year after she lost Stevie and Dan, it was Ada that had gone and tended to her those last months of illness. Out of sorrow though comes blessings; she had gotten to know and love her niece and nephew in those years before their father remarried and moved to Salina, California, with his new wife. Ada had been happy for Nick, but she missed Wyona and Gregory terribly. They still wrote to her, although less often now that both had their careers and family.

“Enough!” Ada reprimanded herself aloud. She had quite a nice life now, and why tango with those ghosts?

She lingered, shielding her eyes from the glare with a hand as she glanced from one side to the other, deciding which route to take back home. Again drifting along with the words to Adele’s song, Ada retraced her way home. Once inside her house, she threw away the sodden newspaper and rewound the twine onto its ball before she began the busy work of mending clothing to be given to the poor. The grandfather clock tolled noon when Adele tapped on the door.

“Come in!” Ada pulled the door wider for Adele and her five-string guitar. “I hope you have a melody for me today, Miss Songbird!”

“Oh, Ada,” Adele grumped, dropping into her favorite plump, green chair opposite Ada at the sewing machine. “It’s easier to think about how wonderful to have written this song as to have actually done it!”

Ada chuckled. “Like all my projects! Let me hear what you’ve got.” She flipped a shirt inside out and began to re-stitch the seam.

Adele’s mellifluous voice crooned the refrain,

When I look into your eyes,
I see my world anew,
When I look into your eyes
I fall in love with you.

Strumming the last notes on her guitar, she smiled shyly as Ada clapped.

“Oh, that is nice, Adele! It’s coming along perfectly. What did you title it?” She picked up a needle and threaded it.

“ ‘Baby Blues,’ ” she quipped, setting aside her guitar. “Heather and Rachel make me sing it to them every night at bedtime. I let them think it is about this one,” she patted her belly, “not Rodger.”

“Which reminds me, here’s the latest letter from him.” She took the three pages from the top sewing drawer and walked over to hand them to Adele.

“Rodger describes so well the paradox! On one hand he talks about how much he admires the Chinese people for their industry and courage, then how so many of the workers are hooked on opium and are starving to death.”

Adele slipped off her sensible pumps and wiggled her toes. “From his last letter he told me a lot about the country and customs of the Chinese people. I cannot image how awful it would be to hobble about on four inch feet like those poor Chinese women! I may never wear shoes that hurt my feet again.”

Adele took the letter. Ada returned to sit again at the machine and worked the material beneath the presser foot. Adele’s song played in her thoughts as the machine hummed along.

Ada felt Adele’s penetrating gaze. From the corner of her eye she saw Adele refold the blue airmail letter and set it atop her guitar.

“So, who the hell is this Dee?”

Ada, chafed by Adele’s questions, pushed aside the half‑sewn tweed jacket, turned off the machine’s light, and faced the pretty, very pregnant young woman. “She was Rodger’s first love.”

“And? Is there a tragic ending to this lover’s tale?”

“Has Rodger ever mentioned Big Red?”

Adele shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “The man who taught Rodger how to fight?”

“Box. He taught Rodger to box well enough to win the 1938 Golden Gloves in Chicago.” Ada held Adele’s probing gaze. “Katie Simmons, Dee’s mother, married Big Red and wanted to settle here—until someone in town found out he was a quarter black.”

“What happened?”

“Rodger’s father, and Sam, the man who taught Rodger to fly, got Big Red out of town the night the KKK burned his house down. Katie and Dee had already left that morning.”

Adele tapped her front teeth with her index finger. “That explains some of the nightmares Rodger has. Voices…and fire.”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t think any one of us ever took the time to explain it all to him.” Ada looked away from Adele, pulling down her eyeglasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, not enough to make it clear who did what to whom.”

“But Big Red got away safely? And Rodger still went on fighting.” Adele pursed her lips, sighing. “It just seems odd that Rodger ever started fighting.”

“He boxed.” Ada emphasized the word, knowing that only a whole explanation would satisfy Adele. “He was badly beaten by the two town bullies, so his father took him to see Big Red.”

“What in the world would have possessed him to take on two men?”

“He was only eleven and they were twelve. His mother had made him wear a diaper and play outside the day before.”

“Madeline wouldn’t have done that!” Adele sat straight up, her bulging stomach stretching taut the fabric of maternity dress. Her honey‑brown, bobbed hair swayed back and forth punctuating her disbelief. “The way she dotes on Heather and Rachel, you’d think she was the perfect mother.”

“Perhaps she understands them better than she did Rodger.” Ada stood up, tugging her housedress at the belt, as she stepped into the kitchen. “Want some tea?”

“Yes, please. With milk, no sugar. English habit I got from flying so long with the Women’s Transport Auxiliary. I can’t drink it black anymore.”

“Do you miss it the excitement of being in action?”

Ada’s question hung in the silence between them. She listened with all of her senses, relaxing only a little as Adele’s soft, modulated voice filled the space.

”I guess I miss the intensity of it all.” Adele entwined a strand of hair around a finger. “But being an American woman, I was so different from the English. Now,” her voice caught on a choked‑down sob as she crushed the letter tighter in her hand, “being pregnant is so different from anything else. A month’s honeymoon with Rodger was…was….” Her hand dangled, then dropped in her lap. She began to smooth out the crinkles in the envelope.

They had fallen into the habit of being without Rodger so easily that it embarrassed Ada to hear Adele speak of her longing. She brought her tea.

“It’s so unfair to have only lived together for a month. Didn’t you know each other for a year? But it’s not the same is it?”

She put the cup in Adele’s outstretched hands.

“This crazy war we’re not supposed to be fighting, well, it’s like time got all stirred up in a big pot and you just don’t know how the stew’s going to turn out.”

“Oh, yes, Ada. Waiting—it’s like a hundred razor nicks, just painful enough not to let you forget.”

Ada nodded and patted her on the knee as she spoke.

Adele slowly inhaled the fragrance of the mint tea. “Loving, too, has an edge to it.”

“Are you getting along all right with your in‑laws? It isn’t an easy situation for you, I imagine.”

“Oh, yes, we get along quite well. But thank God you’re next door!” Adele smiled at her confidentially. “John is so sweet, so mild‑tempered. I can’t figure out who Rodger takes after the most—Madeline or John.”

Ada smiled quickly. “Maybe he’s the blend of their hidden sides.”

“You don’t like Madeline very much, do you?”

“Maddie and I go way back to high school. We were never friends, so to speak, just speaking acquaintances.”

“And John? Did you know him in school?”

“No. Maddie met him while she was away in college. John was an engineer for Burlington, taking a few night courses in accounting. Madeline persuaded him to go on for a degree, instead of staying in college herself. She took a part‑time job as a secretary, and John gave up the railroad. It so upset her father that she didn’t go on for a teaching degree—even her brother Kyle thought she should have gone on for a degree, then married John.”

Adele brightened. “I fell in love with Uncle Kyle! But I’ll tell you this: I wouldn’t want to be married to him. Unugh.” Adele brushed away her bangs, smiling. “He’s a charmer, though. When I was in London with Rodger, Uncle Kyle spent hours with me. He even tried to talk Rodger out of going back to the Flying Tigers.”

Ada smiled back, though not too deeply. She searched vainly in her mind for a way to ask more questions about Rodger’s uncle Kyle whom she had never met, suddenly jealous of this snip of a girl who had so much more intimate knowledge of Rodger and his family than she.

“I should warn you that Kyle is a sore subject to broach with Madeline. She and her brother don’t get along.”

“Really?” Adele’s voice rose in surprised agitation. “John always speaks so highly of him.”

“Kyle and John are very good friends.”

Ada could see that family politics confounded Adele, and she was a woman who had to know. And know she would by constantly digging into a statement. But then she would give openly of herself, as if to barter a personal insight for an answer. The past few months had been filled with Adele and the baby. Grudgingly Ada began to love Adele, although the constant nagging for information wearied her.

“Ada, tell me what Rodger was like as a little boy.”

Ada looked into her hands. Kaleidoscopic images of Rodger as a small boy, with his electric blue‑green eyes, flitted through her thoughts. She longed to see him again, too. An ache of loving throbbed in her heart. He had been such a part of her life these last nine years, and his absence left a deep void within her.

“Rodger was quiet, yet watchful. I never knew him to run with the gang. He always held back or directed everyone to do what he wanted. He was a sweet kid, always looking after his two little sisters.” Ada shrugged, pained by the memories so real, so elusive. “He was good at whatever he wanted to do.”

Adele gave a little breathless laugh. “I believe that.” She shifted her knees to one side, leaning against the chair’s arm. “He’s so sure of himself in an odd way. So commanding. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t ever seem to blink.”

Ada looked away from Adele, noting the smudged front window pane. “I would be so exasperated with him when he gave me all the neighborhood gossip.” She flipped her hand in the air. “So‑and‑so did this. Saw him with her, her with him. Argued with this one. His big ears took it all in and he spat it all out.”

Shocked by her vehement statement, Ada jumped up from the footstool and scurried into the kitchen. She didn’t know who she was annoyed with: Adele or Rodger. Or herself. She had to admit finally that she felt displaced by Adele.

“I think sometimes I know him so well. But I really don’t know him at all,” she called out loudly from the sink as she dipped the tea ball several more times.

Adele got up from the chair and padded into the kitchen. “God, I hope this kid’s a boy. All the energy that went into making him ought to have a masculine form.”

Ada giggled. “You’ll rue the day you first thought that.”

The phone rang. Ada reached over Adele’s shoulder to answer it.

“Hello?” A second passed. “What can I do for you, Maddie?”

Ada smiled to see Adele waggle an eyebrow as Maddie’s words pealed out of the telephone receiver she held away from her ear.

“John just got a big promotion and there’s a dinner Saturday night at the lodge in his honor. I have a navy coat and dress ensemble, but a few spots need to be taken in.”

“Why don’t you bring it over? I could mark it right now.”

“Oh, Ada! That would work out perfectly. John’s going to be late for supper, and the girls are busy with homework.”

“Fine, Madeline.” Before she could say anything more, the other end went dead. Slowly, Ada replaced the receiver and shook her hands free of imaginary strings.

Adele watched her from the doorway with an amused smile. “We three women, the ‘Sweet Graces.’”

Ada looked at her quizzically. Adele had one hand across her belly, the other, resting against the doorjamb as she recited, “Around the child bend all the three Sweet Graces; Faith, Hope, Charity.”

Ada, intrigued, searched her memory. “I seem to recall that the other part of Landor’s poem was about men.”

“Yes. Let’s see if I remember it.” Adele sucked on a finger. “Ah! ‘Around the man bend other faces: Pride, Envy, Malice, are his Graces.’ ”

Ada and Adele stood in one another’s quietude until jarred back to the moment by a firm knock on the front door. Ada rushed past Adele, whipping open the door.

“Come in, Maddie. Come into the sewing room.”

As Madeline passed a large, foul‑smelling pile of strewn rags by the sewing basket, she involuntarily wrinkled her nose in disgust. Softening her face, she asked sweetly, “Are you still involved with that charity project in colored town?”

“Yes, I take care of the family I always have.”

With a brisk sigh, Madeline dismissed the pile. “They don’t change much, do they Ada?”

“Things change and stay the same, like all people and times, Maddie.”

Madeline shook the dress and matching coat on the hanger. “Just a simple matter of hemming, isn’t it? With a few alterations here and there.” Shoving the material into Ada’s hands, Madeline took a step back. “I’ve marked it all for you.”

“Why don’t you try it on again so I see for myself? I’ll put on a pot of tea for us.” Ada flung the dress and coat back into Madeline’s unprepared hands. The two garments separated, draping awkwardly over Madeline’s arms.

Speechless, Madeline turned and marched to the back of the house. Ada and Adele avoided one another’s eyes, waiting for Madeline to return in a few minutes in the ill-fitting clothes.

As Madeline stood in front of her, Ada readjusted the markings. With pins between her teeth, she could only mumble as Madeline chattered about the townspeople. Adele padded softly by them and reseated herself in the green brocade armchair in the living room.

“And Hettie— you remember her, Ada, a junior at Garland High? Well, she ran off with the minister of Rossville. Why, Vern and Abbie are heartsick about it! They always talked about sending her on to college.”

Ada removed the pins from her mouth in a bunch. “Maddie, Hettie did nothing but talk about eloping with that man. How could it be a surprise to anyone?”

“Why, I suspect she had to, that’s the heartbreak. If these young girls only knew there is more to life than all this nonsense of babies and housekeeping.” She looked to Adele. “You had the good sense to get a college education and my, goodness,” she exclaimed with pinched smile, “fly transports! Won’t that be something to tell your children? What kind of security will Hettie have if that man runs off again without her?”

“I suppose she grabbed her chance at the perfect home and family, the very thing she didn’t have in her own life. We may be only capable of repeating our mothers’ and fathers’ lives.”

“Oh, heavens! Ada, no! I’m in no way implying that! If that were the case, then we’d never evolve and humankind would be the same as it was in biblical times.”

“Turn.”

“I’d say we differ greatly from our folks, each and every generation. We get more tolerant and compassionate. We—”

“Turn.”

“Ada, I declare, are you redoing all my handiwork?”

“Turn.” Ada punched in the last of the pins. “No, just evening up the sides. When you make any adjustments in the bodice, you have to readjust the hemline.” She stood up, her ankle bones cracking. “Let’s have some tea.”

“I’ll change and have a quick cup.” Madeline whirled around to face the living room. “You’re as quiet as a mouse in there, Adele. I hardly know you’re around! I do hope that you’ll join me tonight with the ladies. We’re going to discuss the Romantic poets and how they predicted all this world upheaval.” She paused. “And the reverend’s wife will there. Jane so wants to meet you and perhaps,” Madeline cajoled, “persuade you to join the choir. It’s a shame not to share that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Hmm,” Adele murmured as she continued reading Ladies’ Home Journal.

As the steam wafted gently from the teapot, Ada inhaled the sweet, fragrant jasmine. Madeline sat at the kitchen table, ironing the edge of the tablecloth with her long fingertips, smiling too brightly, her voice edged with a trace of shrillness.

“Have you heard from Rodger?”

Ada dipped her head in quick assent. She had shared parts of her letter with Adele; and Adele had shown her two pages of her three-page letter. She prepared herself mentally for an angry onslaught from Madeline. She could understand how slighted Madeline must feel.

There was a long pause, a frozen pond in the conversation.

“Well, I suppose we’ll get a letter, too, this week. John gets dreadfully worried if he doesn’t hear from Rodger for a while. I just tell him that the boy is too busy to keep up his correspondence with everyone at home.”

Adele straightened up, speaking in a loud, yet oddly soft voice, “He’s flying two missions a day now.”

“He’ll certainly have some interesting stories to tell us then, won’t he?” Madeline finished her tea. “Ada, I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me on such short notice. I suppose I take you for granted, like all the rest of my family.”

Surprised, Ada shot back, “Oh, no! I don’t think that!”

“Oh, sweet Ada, always doing things for us! Why, just the time you spent with Rodger!” Madeline turned to look squarely at Ada. “And encouraging him in everything he wanted to do. Why, John just thinks the world of you, too!”

Adele, guitar in one hand and looking rather comical, had come to stand beside Madeline. “Perhaps there’s a medal for good people, like the Victoria Cross for bravery.” Ada saw her wink. “Madeline, we best be getting ourselves home if there’s to be entertaining tonight.”

“Oh, yes, dear! You’re so right!” Before she stepped into the living room, she called back, “Ada, do join us if you like. The ladies love to have you. You always say the most thought‑provoking things!”

Ada just nodded. As Madeline and Adele left through the front door, she remained seated, stirring her tea with the small, silver spoon, listening to the click‑tap, click‑tap of her anger.

Then, as the quiet of her house enveloped her, she reached inside her dress pocket and took out Rodger’s letter. Replacing her glasses, she reread the part where he talked about Sam’s arrival as the new mechanic.

Want to read more? Read online for free>> Or buy your own copy of Forcing the Hand of God: paperback or hardcover on Amazon.com or ebook (multiple formats available) on Smashwords.com.

Please join me as I celebrate the 6-year anniversary of the publication of Forcing the Hand of God, my historical novel about WWII fighter pilot Major Rodger Brown.

A World War II Pilot wagers love, family and honor – Forcing the Hand of God
It is the late ’30s and fighter pilot Major Rodger Brown of the Flying Tigers is deep in the thick of World War II. Back home, his pregnant wife , long time friend, parents and younger sisters anxiously await his return. Torn between his obligations to his country and family, Roger is a man tormented by the realization that he prefers battle in the air than the drudgery or everyday life on the ground.

Forcing The Hand of God evokes a time (World War II) when men and women found the courage to do the necessary, the objectionable and even the unthinkable to defend their lives and preserve the essential fabric of this country. It is also a timeless story of self realization and the internal and external conflicts that are part of life for a military professional and the family and friends who love him/her.

Intrigued? My gift to you: the first chapter of Forcing the Hand of God.

Chapter 1

Resting his hand on the prop of the P40 Warhawk, Major J. Rodger Brown paused in his preflight and looked skyward. Haloed by early morning sunlight, Eastern grey-legged geese spread into formation, their haunting cries echoing in the blue skies over Kunming, China, the “City of Eternal Spring”. Another flock took wing and another, heading for the distant pass between Golden Horse and Green Rooster Hills that towered either shore of Lake Dianchi, where a rosy mist dissipated over the water. Masses of white-winged ducks blossomed into flight from the lake, clouding his view of the gate to the Kwan-yen Temple covered in lush vegetation. Thousands of bleached-white grave markers peeked through the camellia, magnolia, giant azalea and primrose blooms.

He sighed, thinking to himself how much like a once-beautiful aged woman this place was: beneath the make-up you could see the ravages of time and war.

And those damn snow-covered mountains on three sides made for some tricky air currents: he’d lost a good pilot and one plane downed in Lake Dianchi. Already the fishermen would be scavenging the plane, mainly for the rubber from the tires for shoes.

He studied the white, tufted cirrus clouds, reminded of his home town, Wilmington, Illinois. He tugged on a glove. He had left home without regrets. There is no one, nothing, more important to him now than winning at this small game of war. He and his few remaining Flying Tigers, knighted the “Aces Up”, mercenaries of the sky.

The humidity and buzzing bugs irritated him more than the paperwork after each sortie. He waved away the sixty or so coolies clad in filthy unbleached cotton blouses and pantaloons, clearing the airfield. Shouldering eight-foot long bamboo poles with attached brown fiber baskets filled with debris, the men, women and children scurried about like a swarm of winged worker bees. Rodger wondered, as he leaned against the fuselage of the P-40, which of them had radios given out as part of Chennault’s warning system throughout this war-torn land. Rodger had trained pilots in the Chinese Air Force Task and had agreed with another pilot who had called them “fighting rascals.”

He had a deep respect for the poor Chinese peasants who had little to eat, diseases of every imaginable kind, from colds to leprosy, and maybe one in ten had a water buffalo to work the rice paddies. On top of that, many of the women hobbled about on four inch feet bound from birth.

The wind had died down to a hundred knot headwinds. Rodger felt a familiar rush of excitement, hoping for a little action in the air as he began his preflight. Maybe the rest of the airmen from the American Volunteer Group who dubbed this place “Shangri-La” relished their leave at the Wensham Hot Springs, but his playground is here, in the air. He wanted neither R&R, nor reassignment stateside.

He inspected his P-40, noting its every detail. With its fierce painted shark’s scowl and soulful eyes, it was more than a machine, more than metal and parts. It was a part of him. He ran his hand along her belly, completing his walk-around preflight. Before climbing into the cockpit, he checked his sidearm.

He settled into the seat, making final adjustments to his parachute straps, yanking the seatbelt across his lap, snapping it quickly. He smoothed his leather pilot’s helmet; the goggles fit snug and secure but the frayed chin strap chafed. He scanned the instruments, resetting the altimeter and positioning switches and fuel controls. Stretching, turning his head from side to side, he watched for clearance hand signals from the ground crew. He pulled forward slightly out of the revetment, nodded, and began the “start engine” procedures.

As the engine settled into its friendly, throbbing roar, Rodger checked for the engine instruments lights in the green. He reached over and adjusted the directional gyro.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the other three Warhawk and Tomahawks ready to go, their props churning. Rodger switched on his mike. “Red Flight to tower. Ready to roll.”

“Red Flight cleared to runway. Remain clear. Call when ready for take‑off.”
The others checked in. “Red Two.”

“Red Three.”

“Red Four.”

He did his run-up. The high-pitched, pulsating engines galvanized Rodger’s every cell. As he sucked deeper, filling his lungs with the vibrations and the smell of the fumes, his breath seared the inside of his mouth. He searched through his pockets for a piece of spearmint gum. The juice flowed down his throat, relieving the ache. The snap‑snap became the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He looked over his left shoulder, then his right. McGree, Barnes and Freeman flipped their thumbs up.

His hands tingled as he gripped the controls, his feet pushing hard on the rudder. He leaned side to side, holding his breath against the burnt exhaust fumes as the P-40 snaked along the runway. Rodger rammed the canopy shut and called the tower again. “Ready for take-off.”

As he rotated the stick and became airborne, he concentrated on the job before him. Just a bandit or two for them, he prayed. At least one for me. Like squaring off in the boxing ring with a formidable opponent, he felt his senses sharpened to a painful degree. His next round would be in the sky.

That same moment he looked over his shoulder, visually checking his formation. McGree flew beside him as Element Lead, dogging his every move like a bloodhound after his prey. McGree would be right there if Rodger made a mistake, right there.

The two new pilots, Freeman and Barnes, eased into their positions. Freeman lined up on his wing and Barnes was number four to McGree. Excellent positions. Both men were fair-haired and light-eyed, almost indistinguishable from one another, except for their voices. Freeman’s softly slurred, “yes siree” amused Rodger. It could be put on.

With the casual indifference of experienced flyers, they hadn’t bothered to acknowledge one another before, during or after the briefing, although their very lives depended on one another’s skill.

No sane man would do what they volunteered to do, thought Rodger. It’s the ultimate game of high stakes, and God held all the Aces.

The clouds rolled behind them. The engines hummed in unison, and each silent man listened, watching the sky for any sign of action. The sun shimmered through a layer of clouds. Rodger squinted, looking again at the yellow-orange orb. From the right, directly at them, came bombers. With Rising Sun insignias.

They crossed the border into French- Indochina. As Rodger banked on a new heading and gained altitude, the blood ran savagely up his neck. He climbed to a position up-sun from the bombers. He must not be too quick, too fast, or he’d lose the element of surprise. He readied for battle, adjusting his gun sight and test-firing the six fifty-caliber machine guns. He knew his men did exactly the same as he.

Rodger eased into a half‑roll, leading the flight through a split-s. They swooped down onto the unsuspecting fleet. The sky lit up with tracers streaking air with trails of orange. A Mitsubishi KI-21 bomber fell from the sky, black smoke billowing from an engine. The formation broke apart, then reformed.

McGree cried out, “Rear flight for me!”

Rodger aligned himself with the enemy lead bomber. Enemy escorts appeared, coming straight in for an attack. Rodger had to break hard into the Zeroes. As he out turned the lead escort, the Zeroes dropped off and climbed up-sun for altitude. With a quick glance, Rodger saw that his men were in combat spread, line abreast. He focused on the sky in front of him, looking for the Japanese lead bomber. He snaked back and forth, never holding a heading for more than a second or two, continuously “checking six,” all of the time, clearing his own tail and his men’s.

He sighted the bomber.

It crossed from his right to left, slightly high. Max RPM prop. Full throttle. Readjust trim. He climbed left in a curve of pursuit turn.

He was exposed. Vulnerable. But he concentrated on the target, holding the gun sight pipper on the compartment of the pilot. He waited. The Zero came into view, looming larger. Timing would be critical. Just as Rodger squeezed the trigger, the strident voice of his wingman blasted into his headset.

“Red Lead! Bandits, six o’clock! Break right!”

Rodger steadied his hand upon the trigger, maintaining his position. He released the red button. Strikes appeared on the fuselage and left engine. The Japanese bomber shuddered, plunged nose down, and turned wing over wing.

There was a pause, as if an honorable breath had been drawn. Rodger could see into the cockpit as the plane spiraled downward. The pilot lay a little sideways, slumped forward on the stick, a ghastly, twisted smile on his face.

Rodger broke into a hard right turn. He had a Zero on his tail. McGree and his wingman closed in on the enemy. Rodger’s heart skipped a painful beat. No sign of his Number Two. Freeman hadn’t been able to hang on during that last hard break. Rodger knew Freeman would furiously seek them out like a snow goose cut off from the flock.

“Red Leader! What’s your position?” Freeman’s voice exploded into his headset.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, but kept silent. The enemy jock closed in on him.

On the edge of a high-speed stall, his blood sucking away from his face and neck, Rodger forced himself through the pain of high G forces to look over his right shoulder. He bit his tongue smiling and sucked the familiar taste of his own blood mixed with the gum. McGree had reached the deflection angle, assured of a strike.

A sudden burst of flaming metal rained through the sky around him. The hunter was felled, and he was free once again.

“Good shot!” Rodger shouted. Relaxing against the back of the seat, he spoke low to them. “Skies all clear. Let’s round ’em up and head for home.”

An electric feeling passed from man to man, plane to plane. They all knew it, felt it, welcomed it.

They landed, screeching tires heralding the return of all the warriors. Mechanics and ground crew waved and shouted at them as they quickened their pace for a hurried debriefing at headquarters. Rodger walked up front, absorbed in his own thoughts, yet tuned into the conversation behind him.

“Jesus, good shooting, cowboy! Gonna get you some hot spurs!”

“Well, I thought I’d been railroaded outta the sky that one time!”

“Lucky. We’re real lucky, yes siree.”

“We have our mechanics to thank.”

Rodger smiled. But the image of the Japanese pilot with his grotesque smile intruded on his thoughts. Some were lucky, some were not. They were too damned lucky. And Rodger felt unjustly cursed by this luck.

As he came into the debriefing room, he stopped to stroke the cheek of a ragged doll nailed to the doorjamb. McGree also brushed hurried fingertips across the face of it, setting the strings of hair moving back and forth.

This was a ritual for Mary Elizabeth, the Chinese‑English eleven-year-old who cooked and cleaned for them, and scolded them every time for the dust they brought in, the daughter of their best mechanic. If they didn’t need LinChing for his mechanical skills and translations, Rodger would ship that girl and her father stateside.

“Well, gentlemen,” Rodger turned to the room of men. They all quieted immediately. “If McGree is through with his critique of this day’s events,” Rodger lowered his palm when McGree responded with a curt nod, “and there are no further questions, you are dismissed.” The shuffling of feet whipped up dust balls.

“I would like to add a few words.” Wary faces turned to him. “A job well done.”

After he showered, he walked over to the club for a round of drinks. He stood against the bar, sipping scotch neat, listening to the animated voices rising and falling.

“And there, up front, all ammo blasting at one time was this—-”

“Look, you jelly-kneed bastard, if it wasn’t for the rear cover, you’d be smokin’ still!”

“Hey, who you callin’ jelly-kneed?”

Every man here is a hero of one sort or another, mused Rodger, assessing the men around him. Escaping death once, twice, the game of it; it wasn’t, and never would be enough—not for them, not for him.

As he turned to leave, several of the men stopped talking to yell, “Good night, sir!”

“Sir! Want to go duck hunting with us tomorrow?”

Rodger shook his head, “No thanks!”

Going out the door, he raised his arm in a half wave, half salute to them. Warmed by the scotch, he whistled softly into the stagnant night air.

Abed in his quarters, he thought of his wife Adele. He had been deployed to London for more flight training and met her, wooed her away from an RAF pilot and proposed to her. How pretty she had been in her white wedding dress, her quirky half-smile, the twinkle in her green eyes, and her silky brown hair with golden highlights. The image of her became almost real and he ached for her.

But as he searched her dream image, a chill swept over him. He recalled her face at their last weekend together in London—a serious, pinched look about her, none of the bantering or the mocking smile that so intrigued him. And there beside her stood his Uncle Kyle, with his hand on her elbow. The irony of it, his uncle, a colonel, there for the wedding of an airman to an American woman who flew transports for the English Women’s Transport Auxiliary; the two people in the world who should have understood his need to be here, united against his re-enlistment.

But he had Ada, his longtime confidante and neighbor. She understood.

Sitting up, Rodger lit a cigarette, flicking the match on the ground beside his cot. He guessed it wasn’t easy for Adele, pregnant now, to be living in the same house with his mother, Madeline.

Hell, it’s a wonder anyone could live in the same house with his mother. But his father, John, and Ada would ease things for Adele, make life interesting and bearable. Until he came home. When he came home. He knew the war would not last forever.

He leaned against the splintering wooden wall, stretching his cramped legs. It would be a long and sleepless night for him, filled with visions—those faces, both beautiful and monstrous.

And he would be obligated to listen to every one of them. Every damned one of them.

Want to read more? Read online for free>> Or buy your own copy of Forcing the Hand of God: paperback or hardcover on Amazon.com or ebook (multiple formats available) on Smashwords.com.