Yankee Determinism, Page 3

  9 – Wyoming or Texas?

  When Roof arrived she could only imagine one explanation for the open hanger doors: Poppa. This was where he’d disappeared to after supper.

  It was especially odd that the place smelled of fuel – with it being open, so she immediately checked the two planes. “Her” tanks were still full, while those on the plane she’d assumed her grandfather was going to use to escape had been partially emptied. Why?

  The answer came to her as she stowed her pack and helped Dudley up and into the small cabin. Aviation fuel would explain the color and intensity of the house fire. But why did he do that?

  She had no time to wonder. She needed to hurry if she was going to get away while everybody was focused on the fire and…Poppa. Her eyes started to burn with tears.

  She bit her lip purposefully. It gave her a different reason to cry. She broke into the wax-sealed envelope marked “West of…” rather than “New England.” It held three bound sets of maps, the first of which laid out a route to the Mississippi. It contained a hopscotch pattern of “refuel here” marks. Marginal notes revealed names and small ID type photos, mostly middle-aged and older men.

  “Careful who you trust,” Poppa had said over and over, “especially nowadays.”

  That first route – like the paths around Hilltop House – contained a ‘Y,’ one side was for the set that would guide her northwest to Free-State Wyoming, the more southerly set, ended in the Republic of Texas.

  The choice between the New England Free-State of New Hampshire and going west was easy: her siblings would be up in the former. That set of maps’ wax seal would remain unbroken.

  For a few years, anyway.

  Nervously she whispered, “Ready to make a run for it, Dudley?” she rubbed the top of his head then grabbed a bag of treats and gave him some before latching her belts.

  Finally everything was set, but Poppa hadn’t shown up yet. She said a silent prayer: for him and for her.

  He’d told her a year ago, Night flying’s not for beginners…or sissies. She’d begged until he started teaching her. She was scared of course, and he knew it. It’ll be a Freedom-flyer’s best bet, though, he’d say at the end of each lesson. Also told her it was O.K. to be scared sometimes. That going on anyways was the important thing.

  Like now.

  Her engine lit on the first try and the low lights of the cockpit now glowed dimly yet clearly. “We’re Freedom-fliers now, Dudley,” she said as she clipped the first map in place, and began flipping switches and adjusting controls.

  She began her taxi out of the barn towards the runway; said another quick prayer. Soon the sad glow of Hilltop would be left behind.

  Airborne after hitting more than a few impossible to see runway divots, she circled the field knowing full well just how foolish the maneuver was.

  Hope springs eternal, Poppa often said. Of course that was his comment when anyone went on and on about “being patient” and hoping the “next election would surely fix everything.”

  Now Roof’s hope was that she’d see the gleam of the other plane, or its wing lights, as Poppa, too, taxied out for his takeoff. Hoped he’d be in such a hurry he’d risk catching some of her wake.

  But she saw no such things.

  Leveling off, she looked towards the smoldering house, along the footpath she’d walked a mere fifteen minutes earlier. Her heart leapt. She thought she saw someone, or something, unmistakably different than the surrounding brush. A “crimson trace” Morse code signal flashed towards her.

  Poppa! He’s O.K. She figured he’d be going to New Hampshire, so dipped her wing in a salute - like he always did when he’d fly off after her lesson, leaving her back on earth to watch his sky tricks.

  Thank-you, Poppa. Thank-you for everything. She bit down harder on her lip.

  THE END

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