“Come on, you two,” Arthur said, getting to his feet. “Let’s see if they’re ready for us in the restaurant.”
Colonel Endeavours was right: even though Prohibition had been repealed two years earlier, there wasn’t a drop of alcohol on the menu. Aubrey knew the family that owned the hotel; they were strict Quakers. She didn’t mind. Alcohol weakened her flying skills; she had to keep them sharp. She could drink with the best of them, but abstained most of the time.
After their lovely meal of lamb with cranberry and asparagus, the two Endeavours said goodbye to Arthur Colins. He had an early train out of Sacred, bound for Detroit. He didn’t mention his ultimate destination, and Aubrey had learned not to pry. Her father certainly didn’t pry. It gave Arthur Colins an aura of mystery she found alluring. She thought again about the funny coincidence earlier: she and her father thinking the same thing about Arthur Colins and a marriage proposal.
They arrived back home at sundown and she saw to Ferguson one last time, kissing him on his mane and then retiring for the night. Her father stayed up listening to the radio and undoubtedly draining some of his stash of scotch. She bid him goodnight and climbed the stairs to her room.
The scream broke into her dreams, turning it nightmarish. She thrashed in bed and launched herself bolt upright. Her forehead was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and she clutched at her pounding heart. Had the scream come from her while she slept? The bedroom window was open; a moist breeze engulfed the room. Had it been thunder? Her heart was pounding; she had no recollection of the crashing dream. She was just about to lie back down when she heard it again.
“No!” the shout from her father’s room thundered down the hall. “No, Allan, don’t! Get down!”
She was out of bed like a shot, running down the hall to his room. She forced herself to pause at the bedroom door and cracked it open. Her father was kneeling in the middle of the bed, the sheets scrunched up under his chin, spreading out like a tent.
“No, Allan, you promised. I don’t want you to. Get down, everyone. Down!”
Aubrey’s heart sank, seeing her father so distressed. She walked softly into the bedroom and approached him cautiously. Then she saw the gun in his hand. Edmundson Endeavours whirled, pointed it in her direction and fired. The shot from the .45 splintered the wood panelling a foot from Aubrey’s head.
“Who’s there? Hun bastards!” Colonel Endeavours pulled the hammer back, ready to fire again.
“Father its me—Aubrey.” She ducked down, but he followed her with the business end of the .45. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear her.
“Daddy, don’t! It’s me.”
“Celine?” He called out. Aubrey’s mother.
“No, Father, it’s Aubrey. Your daughter.”
“Aubrey?” The colonel sank back on the bed. He let the sheets fall down from his face. The hand holding the .45 went slack and fell limply onto the mattress. Aubrey leapt up and grabbed the revolver from him. She tossed it into the corner and went to her weeping father.
“Oh, Aubrey, Aubrey,” the colonel moaned. “I’m so glad to see you. Where have you been?”
“Here, Father. I’ve been here all along.”
He stroked her hair and hugged her tight. She felt his tears soaking into her nightdress and cried along with him.
Afterwards, when he was fully awake and breathing normally, Aubrey turned on the lights and he saw the bullet hole. His face turned pale with horror. Then he saw the gun in the corner and he clamped a hand over his mouth as though he were going to be sick. Aubrey went to it.
“Careful with that,” he said automatically, then looked away from her, stricken. “Who am I to talk, eh? What kind of father almost shoots his own daughter?”
“Do you remember the dream?”
He nodded. “Same one every night. A Kraut air raid on our forward camp. Caught us on the ground, chewed up four of our planes.” He wiped away a tear and his lips trembled.
She sat on the edge of the bed again, but put the gun behind her. She would deal with that later.
“Who is Allan?”
“A replacement pilot. I never got to know him. You didn’t want to—you understand? He didn’t last a week. Never had the chance to learn. I never had the chance to teach him.” He looked past her at the gun. “Damn it, I almost killed you.”
“I’m taking this gun out of here.” She got to her feet.
“A good idea. I need a drink.”
“I think that’s part of the problem. You should quit it, Father. What would Mother say?”
“She’d call me un vieil imbécile, an old fool.”
His imitation of his wife was spot on, and Aubrey laughed. He grinned, despite himself. She flicked off the light.
“Try and get some sleep.”
“The sheet is soaking wet.”
“I’ll open the window. It’ll dry.” She left him with his nightmares, the .45 firmly in her hand. She unloaded it and made it safe before putting it away in her nightstand. Her father had taught her how to shoot and handle guns since an early age; she had a healthy respect for them.
She also knew that he could not be near that firearm anymore. That was the gun he’d carried to war and back, but it must be taken away now, she decided; sold or buried in the field. They had no need for firearms out here. There was an old shotgun above the fireplace, but the shells were long gone. Her father had given up hunting when he came back from the war. He told her he’d killed enough and he was ashamed. He’d kept
