the way back over the wing’s edge. She closed her eyes.
“Hang on!” he yelled. “I’m going to slow us up!”
Helen nodded, but stayed frozen in position.
John decelerated to thirty-five miles an hour, minimum flight speed. As the plane passed over the bulk of the crowd, Helen tossed her head back, letting her hair stream out from beneath her pilot’s helmet. Even through the engine noise, John could hear the cheers. Faces, frightened and amazed, rushed by in a blur. Hands whizzed past, straining open, reaching for her. John tried to imagine the scene from the ground, tried to picture himself suddenly looking up and seeing a pretty girl soar past on the wing of a plane. He’d admit it: she did make a sight out there. Posing like a woman standing on a cresting swing. Her hair billowing out, the satin dress trembling against her body. He put pressure on the rudder, dipping to starboard slightly so that the last of the audience might get a better view of Helen.
The entire population of Mooney appeared to be rushing after the plane as it crossed out of town—a crowd of at least four hundred people. John could see an actual dust cloud rising behind the throng.
“I want to live my whole life out here!” Helen yelled from the wing’s tip. She had one arm wrapped around the post; the other she held out in the open air.
“Well, you can’t!” John said. “I’m landing. Get in!”
Reluctantly, Helen began making her way back toward the cockpit, slipping between the bracing wires, hopping from strut to strut. Again John was impressed with how smoothly she moved. When she reached the fuselage, she grabbed hold of the rim and pulled herself up.
“Hey! Look at the crowd!” she said, pausing with one leg in the cockpit.
John banked hard, spilling Helen into her seat.
Mr. and Mrs. John Barron were Mooney’s guests of honor that night. The mayor treated them to a private dinner at Bungay’s, the town’s nicest steakhouse. Then they were handed free passes to the new movie theater, where, along with a packed audience, they watched the new Fatty Arbuckle tickler. Afterward, the crowd led them to a pub off Main Street, a warm, charming establishment with cherry-wood floors and a long zinc bar. The pub’s owner sat John and Helen at his best booth, located beneath a small stained glass window depicting his family’s coat of arms. He was a gregarious man, and as the three of them drank, he peppered John and Helen with questions about their travels. How many states had they visited so far? Had they ever crashed?
Helen glowed in his company: every answer she gave became a story; every story a performance. Again and again she tried to involve John in the conversation, deferring to him, asking him to confirm details, but John couldn’t muster the energy. He knew he should be enjoying himself—here he was, the toast of the town—but instead he found the whole scene strangely irritating. Everything Helen said made the pub owner double over with laughter, slapping the table, wiping his eyes. The conversation kept lurching forward without John noticing. Whenever he looked down, a new round of drinks sat foaming on the table.
“I think it’s because I studied dance for so long,” Helen was saying. “I was part of a troupe back in Missouri.”
“A ballet troupe?” the pub owner said.
“No. Modern style. We went around teaching people how to do all the newest fads. The turkey trot, the grizzly bear. The Charleston. At first we just performed in Missouri, but soon people started hearing about us and we ended up going all over the country. There were twelve of us. We drove around in a bus. Once we even made it to New York. We got to perform in front of the Statue of Liberty. This wasn’t just us, though. It was a big showcase. There were troupes of girls everywhere from all over.”
“Let me guess,” the pub owner said. “That’s how you met John? Dancing?”
Helen laughed. “Us? No.” She turned to John. “Do you want to tell him? How we met?”
John took a sip of his beer. “I crashed into her wedding,” he said. “She was about to marry another man.”
“You what?” said the pub owner, waiting to burst into hysterics.
Helen opened her mouth, but said nothing.
“I’m just kidding,” John said. “We grew up together. We’ve known each other forever.”
A small jug band set up beside the bar began to play a rendition of J.P. Brakeman’s “Hillbilly Delight.”
“These guys are magical,” the owner said, excusing himself to dance with his wife. “Please. Enjoy. I’ll be back.”
Once he was gone, John and Helen fell silent. For a long time they sat watching couples dance. The music was lively, and the wood floor shook with the stomp and tap of boots.
“So, Mr. Barron,” Helen said, “will you at least treat me to a dance?”
“Too tired.” He took a sip from his glass. “Go ahead. There are ladies dancing together in the back.”
Helen put her hand over his. “John, I didn’t mean to upset—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
Helen waited for him to say more.
“I’m fine, Helen. Really. Go dance.” He moved her hand off his.
She sighed and got up from the booth.
The day had been busy; all morning and afternoon John had given rides and taken photographs beside the plane. He’d had no chance to speak to Helen privately about what had happened in the air that morning. By now, though, he was sick to death of thinking about it. He’d replayed the incident in his mind hundreds of times already, in the plane, at dinner, during the movie; he couldn’t help conjuring it up: even now he could see the scene, see Helen pulling herself up out of the front cockpit, arms shaking, see himself reaching for her, grabbing nothing. He finished the last of his beer. The notion of discussing things at this point only made him angry.
Besides, he thought, there was nothing to discuss. She’d gone out on the wing. The crowd had loved it. Story over. Yes, he wished that she’d talked the idea over with him beforehand; because no, he didn’t like surprises thrown at him in the middle of a performance—who would? But what purpose would squabbling with Helen serve? Why should he care that she’d gone for a stroll on the wing? What did it matter to him? In the end, Helen’s wing- walking had given him the best day in his barnstorming career. They’d made over sixty dollars together. In less than seven hours. Enough money to take a whole week off, fly around the South, do some sight-seeing. In fact, he realized, he should be thanking Helen. He should be marching up to her and scooping her off the dance floor.
And yet he didn’t feel like thanking Helen at all. Watching her dance, twirling from hand to hand at the other end of the room, he felt like ditching her for good.
He laid a quarter on the table for the beer and got up. As he crossed the room, he realized that he wasn’t entirely sober, and he ran a hand along the wall to steady himself.
At the door, the barmaid approached him. “Your money, Mr. Barron,” she said, handing him back his quarter.
The night was cool for summer, and the breeze felt good on John’s skin as he made his way through the dirt streets. The house he and Helen had been invited to stay at for the night was located on a farm at Mooney’s western edge. The owners were two identical brothers, pecan farmers and amateur aviation enthusiasts who’d each taken three rides with John that afternoon. As he neared the end of Main Street, John spotted the property; the brothers had left a lantern hanging above the door of their barn so that he and Helen might find the house in the thick darkness beyond the town’s commercial district.
John unlatched the wooden fence and crossed into the brothers’ orchard. The pecan trees stood in tight rows; the tips of their branches crossed in places, knitting together a loose maze of arch-ways and tunnels that stretched toward the house. Stumbling, John made his way across the orchard. The ground was soft and damp and fallen pods lay scattered in clumps. He fell twice before reaching the house, dirtying the knees of his pants.
Inside, John headed to the kitchen to wash up. On the counter he found a freshly baked pecan pie with a note beside it. He picked up the paper, squinting through the darkness.
John opened a drawer and removed a fork. He scooped a ragged chunk from the pie and stuffed it into his
