The Way Home (39 page)

There was a long moment of silence. Meg saw Ty glance at Jack over her and Millie’s heads and wondered which part of the speech had been the biggest shock — hearing Millie refer to their friend as “Joey,” the idea that they were doing “tricks” in their “cute little” airplanes, or her final sage comment that wishers can’t ride horses.

“We’re flying a little later,” Jack said finally, making the safest choice by simply answering the initial question.

“Jack and Ty are the climax of the show,” Meg said, proud even though she wished they were the highlight of something a little less terrifying.

“There’s Max,” Ty said. Meg turned her attention to the orange and black plane soaring past the bleachers. “He’s been working on some new stunts.”

“Is he a good pilot?” she asked, thinking of Max’s admiration for Ty’s skill.

“Pretty good. He hasn’t been flying as long as most of us and he sometimes pushes too hard, takes chances he shouldn’t to prove himself. But he’s got a good feel for it, and he’ll get less anxious as he gets older.”

Afterward Meg was ashamed to admit that she paid only minimal attention to Max’s performance. It felt so nice to be sitting next to Ty, with the warm sunshine bathing over her, that she let her attention wander to other things, even as her eyes followed the rolls and dives of the little plane.

But her attention sharpened when the plane turned its nose toward the ground and began to spiral down. She hated the dives. It didn’t matter that she’d seen them several times now and nothing ever went wrong, she still hated them. She felt the attention of the crowd sharpen and abruptly remembered Max’s words about people half hoping for a crash. Meg pushed the thought away, telling herself that there was nothing to worry about.

“He’s coming in too fast.” Jack’s taut comment shattered the layer of security she was trying to build.

Her hand was resting on Ty’s arm and the muscles in it were suddenly as hard as steel. She glanced at Ty’s face. His attention was riveted to the orange and black plane spinning toward the earth. Meg read the truth in the rigid line of his jaw, and the last thing she wanted to do was to look back at the plane. But it was like a magnet, drawing her eyes.

“Pull out,” Ty muttered. His hands were clenched into fists on his thighs. “Pull out, goddammit.”

Time seemed to move in slow motion, seconds taking hours. Meg was unaware of the rising murmur from the crowd as the plane spun closer and closer to disaster. She didn’t feel Millie’s scarlet-painted fingernails digging into her arm. All she could see was the plane, spinning downward, the engine screaming in protest, the velocity so great it seemed impossible that the wings were still clinging to the fuselage.

Someone screamed but the sound was immediately swallowed by the stunning impact of the plane hitting the ground at full speed. There was a split second of near silence and then the air was shattered by noise — screams from the crowd, the shriek of the fire trucks kept waiting at the edge of the field for just such an event, the wail of an ambulance as it rushed toward the burning plane.

Despite all logic, Meg was reassured by the sound of those sirens. The firemen would pull Max from the plane and the ambulance would take him to the hospital and he’d be all right. They’d all tease him about the crash and —

The explosion as the fire reached the gas tanks was deafening. A wall of flame engulfed the plane, obliterating the twisted wreckage. The fire truck and ambulance stopped a little distance away, the men on them unable to do anything more than watch the fire bum.

Max’s family asked that his body be shipped home to Vermont for burial. On the day the train carrying his casket left Los Angeles, the balmy weather disappeared. The temperatures lowered and the skies turned gray. A light, drizzling rain began to fall. The rain continued into the next day and the next, rarely strong enough to be called a shower, more an omnipresent dampness that wore at the spirits.

The weather chilled Meg all the way to her bones. There was a meanness about the rain, a pervading kind of cold that had little to do with the temperature. She found herself longing for the crisp iciness of an Iowa winter. It seemed a cleaner cold, the kind that could be chased away by a hot cup of coffee and a warm fire. But there didn’t seem to be anything that could drive out this cold.

Rationally, she knew the chill she felt was more emotional than physical. Max had been a friend and it was difficult to accept that she’d never see his crooked smile or hear him laugh again. Though he’d been older than she, he’d seemed younger, hardly more than a boy. And now he was gone forever, his sweetness lost in one split second of error.

For a week she relived the crash in her dreams. Every night she woke, trembling and frightened, her cheeks wet with tears, her mind seared with vivid images of flames. Only in her dreams, it wasn’t Max who piloted the doomed plane, it was Ty.

She didn’t know if she cried out her denial and woke him or if Ty wasn’t sleeping any better than she was, but he always seemed to be awake, pulling her into his arms and holding her close. Feeling the strong beat of Ty’s heart beneath her cheek, his strong arms around her, and hearing him tell her there was nothing to be afraid of, Meg was able to shove the nightmare away, tucking it out of sight, afraid to look at it too closely, for fear that might make it real, somehow.

But the fear was not that easily dismissed. She’d always known that flying was dangerous, but knowing it and actually seeing the horrible reality were two different things. She was haunted by the image of Max’s death, haunted by the knowledge that it could easily have been Ty in that plane. A tiny error in judgment, a reflex that came a little too slow, a mechanical failure, and it would be Ty’s body being shipped home.

During the day she managed to put her fears aside, filling her time with housework and sewing, trips to the library and shopping. But each time Ty left to go the airfield, she fought the urge to cling to him and beg him not to go. She knew her fears were exaggerated. Ty had been flying for years. He was a good pilot, one who didn’t take foolish chances. But she couldn’t shake the thought that accidents happened, even to good pilots.

Perhaps if she hadn’t been plagued with a nagging physical weakness, Meg would have been better able to keep her fears at bay. But it seemed as if she was not one of the lucky women with whom pregnancy agreed. She was tired and half sick most of the time. The persistent weakness made it harder to keep the fears in check.

Like her fear about his safety, she did her best to hide her illness from Ty, not wanting him to worry about her. When he commented on her pallor, she laughed and said it was just that she’d been spending too much time indoors. And when he asked if she’d lost weight, she lied and said it was just that the dress she was wearing made her look slimmer. She was sure the sickness was just a symptom of early pregnancy. If she could endure a little while longer, she’d develop some of that glow that pregnant women were supposed to have. In the meantime, there was no reason to worry Ty.

Unfortunately, the decision was taken out of Meg’s hands near the end of January. She’d gone to a fabric sale at The May Company. When they’d moved into the bungalow, Ty had given her money to fill in any gaps in the furnishings or housewares. One of the things she’d purchased had been a sewing machine. Though it had seemed a bit of an extravagance, she knew it would pay for itself many times over. She’d already made new curtains for the kitchen, dresses for herself, and shirts for Ty.

Though she hadn’t felt much like going out, the sale was simply too good to pass up. The store was crowded with women looking for bargains, but Meg was well pleased with her purchases and she was smiling as she paid for them. The smile had faded by the time she reached the car. She sank into the seat, feeling weak and a little sick. Her stomach had been upset that morning, and all she’d managed to choke down was a cracker and some weak tea. It was just hunger, she told herself though her stomach churned sluggishly at the thought of food. Still, she had to eat, for the baby’s sake, if not her own. As soon as she got home, she’d heat up some soup.

She sat in the car for a little while, waiting for the dizziness to fade before she started the engine. Taking extra care, she drove home slowly. Meg parked the little Ford in front of the bungalow court and slid out of the car. Immediately a wave of dizziness washed over her, so powerful that she had to brace one hand on the edge of the car door to keep from falling. When it passed, she decided that the fabric could stay in the car until she felt a little better. Clutching her purse in a white-knuckled grip, she made her way around the car and stepped up onto the curb.

By the time she reached the walkway, beads of cold sweat were breaking out across her forehead. Though the day was cool, she felt hot. The rayon fabric of her dress was sticking to her back and the skirt seemed to cling to her legs, making it hard to walk. Just a few more yards, she told herself. And then she could lie down. Ahead of her, the bungalows seemed to dip and roll as if the ground under them were rolling.

One of the famous earthquakes?she wondered vaguely, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. She thought she heard someone say her name. Millie, perhaps? But she couldn’t turn her head. A few more steps and she’d be in the blessed privacy of her own home. It would be cool and dark inside and she could lie down until she felt better. Just a few more steps.

She was a few yards away from the door when Meg felt her knees start to buckle and the sky tilted wildly. There was a roaring in her ears that she’d heard once before. And her last thought was that Max wasn’t there to catch her this time.

“She’s exhausted.” The doctor summed up Meg’s condition in one succinct sentence.

“Is she going to be all right?” Ty asked, glancing past the doctor at the closed bedroom door.

“I’d say so.” Dr. Winston was on the wrong side of fifty, a thin gray-haired man with a piercing gaze and a no-nonsense way of speaking. “I gave her a sedative and I’ll leave a bottle with you. She needs plenty of rest and a bit of feeding up. Is there someone who can keep an eye on her during the day?”

“I don’t know.” Ty ran his fingers through his hair, trying to push aside his fear long enough to think. There was Millie. She was the one who’d gotten another tenant to carry Meg inside when she fainted. And then she’d called the airfield and asked someone to find him. She’d also called the doctor, who’d been here when Ty arrived. Meg liked her, but somehow Ty couldn’t picture Millie as a nurse, not even in the loosest sense of the word.

“Well, it’s not vital that she have someone with her,” Dr. Winston said reassuringly. “Your wife seems a sensible girl and she wants this baby so I’d guess she’ll do as she’s told and rest. And it’s very important that she not worry about anything. Right now she needs to concentrate on taking care of herself and that baby.”

“But she is going to be all right?” Ty asked as the doctor picked up his bag and started toward the door. “Her and the baby?”

“As long as she gets some rest and eats three solid meals a day. Make sure she eats plenty of good red meat to build up her blood, and she should drink plenty of milk. It’s important for a young woman in her condition. And you do your best to make sure she doesn’t have anything to worry about.” Seeing the worry still in Ty’s face, Dr. Winston set his hand on Ty’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “With rest and proper care, I think Mrs. McKendrick should be just fine.”

Ty saw the doctor out and then quietly entered the bedroom. Meg was sleeping. It was midaftemoon but the drawn curtains blocked most of the light, leaving the room pleasantly dim. He approached the bed quietly and stood beside it, looking down at his sleeping wife.

She was lying on her back, her breathing light and even. Her face was nearly as pale as the pillowcase. The only touch of color came from the soft rose of her mouth. The covers were pushed back to her waist and her nightgown was twisted beneath her, the neckline tugged aside just enough to bare the upper curves of her breasts. They were fuller now and fine blue veins showed beneath the milky skin. And though she hadn’t said anything, he’d noticed that her breasts had grown more tender, so that he took care to use only the gentlest of touches when he held her at night.

She looked so fragile lying there. And so young. He still couldn’t quite shed the thought that she was too young to be a wife, let alone a mother. No matter how many times he told himself that other girls married and had children at an even younger age, he just couldn’t silence the nagging voice that whispered that he should have given her more time. At the very least, time before she faced motherhood.

But he hadn’t. Now he had to make sure she got the care she needed.

Ty reached down to pull the covers up to her shoulders but stopped when he saw the grease on his hands. He’d been working on the Curtiss when Millie called and said that Meg was ill. He hadn’t taken time to clean up, only rubbing the worst of the grease from his hands on the way to the car.

Grimacing, he straightened away from the bed. Since his face was probably almost as greasy as his hands, maybe he’d better clean up before Meg woke and thought there was a stranger in the bedroom. He’d change into fresh clothes and then heat some soup for supper. Maybe when Meg woke up, he could coax her to eat a little.

It was almost ten o’clock before Meg stirred. Ty had brought one of the kitchen chairs into the bedroom and set it next to the bed where he could keep an eye on her. He had a book open in his lap, but he hadn’t turned more than half a dozen pages in two hours. For the most part, he’d sat and stared at nothing in particular, listening to the rhythm of Meg’s soft breathing and thinking. Sitting in the dim room, with nothing to do but think, Ty found himself taking a hard look at himself and not liking some of what he saw.