of her mouth.
She broke from him. “Stop!”
“I was so scared today, Helen,” he said. “I was terrified.”
“Don’t, John,” she said.
He kissed her again. She struggled against him, trying to tear free, but he held on to her, and then, suddenly, she was kissing him back, her body pressing into his, her hands fastening behind his neck. He wanted her so badly; he couldn’t touch enough of her at once. He moved her back toward the plane, then got his blanket from storage and laid it beneath the wing. Her eyes wet, she took his hand and pulled him down with her.
Afterward, they lay curled together beneath the starboard wing. John lit the lantern, and the two of them watched it burn, the flame sending a thin stream of vapor up toward the rafters.
Helen stuck one foot out from under the blanket and warmed her toes by the lantern glass. “So, where are we off to next?”
“Wherever we want.” He kissed the top of her head. “We could head west. Take a vacation together.”
“Could we go to California?” Helen said, yawning.
A bat darted down from the loft, then disappeared again.
“Why not? We could both use tans,” John said.
Helen pulled his arms tighter around her. “You know, I’ve never seen an ocean,” she said. “Not in my whole life.”
Moments later she was asleep. John felt her ribs slowly expanding and contracting beneath his hands, and the sensation warmed him. He decided that early in the morning, before Helen woke, he’d sneak out to the main house and borrow some paint from the brothers. Then he’d creep back into the barn and—with Helen still asleep— he’d lie down beneath the port wing and paint her name across the linen surface. He imagined the lettering, bold but elegant, black against the cream-white wing: HELEN BARRON! THE FLYING BRIDE!!! He pictured himself a bystander to his own show, a man on the ground, shading his eyes, watching the approach of the Jenny. He felt the thrill of first reading those words printed on the bottom of the wing, then of seeing Helen standing above them, the main attraction, a pretty girl in a blue dress, head thrown back, the wind in her hair as she passed overhead.
In the morning, though, she was gone, along with her valise and John’s map of the 1919 United States. He searched the house, questioning the Calbraith brothers; he combed the town of Mooney, the stores and restaurants, the hotels. She was really gone. But that night, he could pull Helen close to him, cupping his body to hers. She let out a little moan, and he kissed her bare shoulder.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people who helped in the creation of
I’ve been very lucky with teachers over the years, but I owe a singular debt of gratitude to Binnie Kirshenbaum for her wisdom, encouragement, and friendship. Thanks, too, to Alan Ziegler and the great faculty of the Columbia University Graduate Writing Department; Leslie Woodard for giving me the chance to teach writing; Dorla MacIntosh for taking me under her wing; and to my students, for the constant inspiration and ridicule.
To the editors who’ve helped make the stories what they are: Michael Ray of
In appreciation of my champions: Jennifer Lyons, my wonderful and tireless agent; Susan Kamil, my brilliant editor, whose dedication to the craft of writing is continually humbling; and Noah Eaker, the best editorial assistant this side of the Mississippi.
A special thank you to my family: my folks, Jon and Wendy Snyder, for being almost embarrassingly supportive; to my sister and best friend, Susie Snyder; to Dana, Ed and Jessica Luck; and to my grandparents, Claire and Milton Zaret for first sparking my imagination.
My deepest love and gratitude to my wife, Jeanie Ripton, who has always believed in these stories, even when I’ve had trouble. And who makes it all worth it.
And a final thanks for guidance and inspiration to the wily spirit of Mr. Elvis Presley.
