WHODUNNIT?

WHODUNNIT?(Michael D. Warner) WHODUNNIT

By Michael D. Warner
Copyright 2005 by Michael D. Warner


Bussell Field was in bloom. The sun shone through stands of elm and sycamore surrounding the south side of the field, backlighting tiny new buds with soft haloes of light. Dew was wet on the rich green grass in front of the building. I stretched, yawned mightily in the fresh morning air and turned to lock my office door. I looked down the gradual slope toward the old hangar situated at the East end of the airport to see that the itenerant crop-duster had not yet returned from his morning run.

A light northeast breeze wafted the smell of frying bacon and ham from the restaurant across the circular drive serving my airport complex. I jammed my ‘Back in Twenty Minutes’ note into the office door handle then walked hungrily across the two laned drive, strode through the restaurant parking lot, entered and sat down in my usual seat by the window.

‘Shorty’ took my order and brought me a steaming cup of coffee and yesterday’s copy of the Montgomery Advertiser. I studied it while awaiting my hot cakes and bacon.

Birds were busily building and filling nests in the nearby trees and bushes. Insects crawled over the ground, flew, hopped and whizzed through the flower fragranced air. Girls seemed to look prettier and the boys more apt to notice them.

Shorty arrived with my breakfast and I set my paper aside. It seems every small town has one, a ‘Shorty’ I mean. Standing about five feet tall, he greeted the world with a face that could have been anywhere from fifteen to thirty years in age. He could recite fact and fiction alike about any of the town’s denizens. I treated him like the man he was, and was rewarded with his friendship.

Zeke Ames, Shorty’s boss-man and owner of the restaurant, slipped into the empty seat across the table. I watched Shorty melt into the shadows at the far end of the room, strategically locating himself behind Zeke’s back.

“Mornin’,” Zeke said, thoughtfully stirring a spoonful of sugar into his cup of coffee.

“How’re ya doin’, Zeke?” I replied, continuing to wolf down the hotcakes.

Zeke stared glumly at his cup. Something was on his mind. Four years out of high school, he had acquired the ‘Airport Restaurant.’ A year later, it had shown its first real profit, testimony to his hard work and long hours.

Zeke and I had a deal: Thirty-percent discount on all my meals in exchange for my business. For this he knew he could count on a sure sixty cents a day, and I knew I could afford a hot breakfast. Our friendship had grown from the handshake used to bind that agreement.

Zeke had recently wedded a local preacher’s daughter. His bride was a newly graduated registered nurse. He always appologized for the fact that his wife worked, quickly adding, “...but she’s a nurse, you know.” Back then, a working wife was not exactly considered a status-symbol. Wives cooked the meals, cleaned the house and changed the diapers. That’s the way things were in Central Alabama in 1960. Zeke was no more sensitive about it than any other husband would have been.

I pushed my plate toward the center of the table and leaned back in my seat. “It’s real, real nice out this morning, Zeke,” I began, eyeing him narrowly. “Are you feeling okay?”

Zeke sighed. “It’s Sally,” he said. “I’ve tried everything.” Then he looked as if he were counting up things, taking inventory sort of. “We’ve tried everything,” he corrected. “Everything we know about anyway,” he added mysteriously.

I knew Sally worked at a hospital in Montgomery, some fifty miles distant, and that she stayed in the nurses’ quarters during the week to save money by not driving all that way every day. Zeke worked day and night in his restaurant, admirably surviving the recession. I had wondered how the couple managed to see very much of each other. That may have been the problem: They didn’t.

I nodded sympathetically and waited. Zeke evidently was deciding if it were wise to confide some personal matter to an unmarried man, but the need to share his burden must have outweighed caution. I guess he knew that whatever it was I wouldn’t laugh at him.

I didn’t.

Leaning toward me, he spoke in a low voice, “I can’t get her pregnant.” He shook his head. “Man, I have, I mean we have, tried everything and nothing seems to work.”

At the word ‘everything’ my mind filled with ...what? What was ‘everything’? My own experience in such matters was sorely limited, always having had just the opposite objective during amorous encounters. Just how did one get one’s wife pregnant, anyway?

I shook my head. “I don’t know much about that, Zeke. Uh, just keep trying, I guess.” Coming to my feet, I squeezed his shoulder. “Good luck, my Friend!”

I paid my bill and walked outside into magnificent sunshine. I turned to look back. Zeke was staring glumly through the window. He returned my wave and I swung across the road to begin my day’s work. Thoughts of Zeke and his problem gave way to more pressing matters: Checking my fuel tank levels and reordering various items for the airport. I had two airplanes to wash and a few runway light bulbs to replace.

**************************************

The crop-duster had returned and I saw that he was sound asleep in the hammock slung under the right wing of his parked Piper Super Cruiser duster.

Blue waters of the large lake near Bussellville lapped tiny wavelets against the surrounding beaches and dirt banks. The Alabama Power Company owned the land circling one-half of the lake. Mosquito larvae thrive in wet mud and grasses. Every year, the giant utility hired a Georgia company to send a crop-duster over to spray their half of the lake with poison.

I had met Jake Jordan two days before, when he had dropped from the sky in his duster and taxied familiarly down to the gas pumps. Gray-headed crop-dusters were a rarity in those days, but Jake looked healthy enough. He was in his middle fifties and had sprayed the lake for the past five years. Shortly after his arrival, a truck had pulled in loaded with several fifty-five gallon drums of mosquito killer.

Each day, Jake took off at dawn and again at sunset. In about a week his contract for the year would be completed. He would then roll up his hammock, fold his aluminum chair and stow the rest of his belongings into the rear compartment of the Super Cruiser. The empty barrels remaining behind along with the acrid odor of the poison, bore odious testimony to the giant utility’s concern for only one-half of the lake’s shore.

Some of those persons sampling my free coffee in the pilot lounge had remarked about its amazing resemblance to the bug-killer. I can truthfully avow I was never bitten by a mosquito while pumping gas.

I don’t know about the bug repellent qualities of my coffee, but there are those who will testify to its superlative diuretic and laxative properties. Few returned for a second cup.

Days passed. White and pink dogwood blossoms adorned the land. Warm days followed by fragrant nights carried us through the month. My Saturday night charter customer had been as regular as rain, hiring me to deliver him and his cargo of filled mason jars to little-used airstrips across the state. Flying his product was more expensive than driving it, but like he said: “There ain’t no one up there to interfere wid’ ya, no traffic signals neither.”

His patronage made those hot breakfasts at Zeke’s possible although it did leave me with ragged eyes on Sunday mornings.

***************************************

Pleasant weather boosted the Sunday passenger ride business. One Sunday, a teenage couple came out for a ride. He, in the standard three-piece black suit. She, in a white dress fit for a bride. While the young man contracted with me at the counter, his girl hung back, shyly watching us from her place of safety by the door. Her head lowered a bit as I paused for them to precede me through the doorway. Mentally, I crossed my fingers against fear of making her airsick. As we got into the Cessna 172, a new airplane, I nonchalantly checked the seat pocket for burp-bags.

Checking that all seat belts were secured, I started the engine. Minutes later, we were high over the town, droning peacefully through the warm Spring air. Below, houses were all but hidden by budding and blooming trees. The boyfriend sat in the right rear seat because his girl had asked to sit up front. I noticed that her hands were folded demurely in her lap and that she seemed interested in the superb view of Bussellville.

After we made a gentle turn back toward the airport, she suddenly raised her hands from her lap and made a swooping motion with them. She shouted over the engine noise: “Can you do some zooms and things?”

I rolled the ship into a right-hand forty-five degree bank making a tight turn which made the Earth appear to be rotating counter-clockwise. I hauled back on the stick to hold level altitude. She liked that, but wanted more. Rolling level, I shoved the wheel forward, sending us down a couple hundred feet like a rapid descent in a fast elevator. By the time our stomachs had caught up with us she was ready to “do it again”. So, we did it again, a couple more times. She still hadn’t had enough, so I dove to pick up speed then pulled up in a tight chandelle to the right, obtaining maximum climb during the one-hundred-eighty degree reversal in direction.

To perform that manuever properly one should arrive at completion just before the ship slows to stall speed. I didn’t want to risk a stall so I cut it short just as the stall warning horn began its wail.

The fifteen-minutes passed quickly. Returning to the field, I managed a half-decent landing despite a slight queasy feeling. I taxied to the ramp. Deplaning, the boyfriend and I looked at each other. He glared at me sickly, and I wanted to tell him I was sorry ...for both of us. The girl was up and down on her toes as they walked away and I heard her extract a promise that they would come back out the following Sunday. Then, they passed from view.

Strange, I hadn’t noticed before that it always seemed to be the female who wanted me to perform stunts in the plane. Usually, I found the male rider’s lips pressed into a thin dry line, sitting with fists clenched, knuckles blanched white and hips squeezed by the over-tightened seat belt. I decided the female was the braver of our species, food for thought for a twenty-one year old Air Force veteran who had little if any previous understanding of the female and of her ways.

***********************************

Spring had set the mood and I was not unaware of occasional glances cast my way by some of the girls while their escorts were looking elsewhere. One day a lass slipped me a note upon which her name and phone number were penned in delicate script.

I called the following Friday afternoon and was invited to dinner. It seems she had a one-year old child and because her Momma “wasn’t feeling too well,” would I mind spending the evening there instead of at the movie? Yes, I thought, I do mind because I had plans which included a moonlight flight and some star-gazing from the old tower cupola above the administration building afterwards. Still, Spring had worked her magic on me. I was aware of birds travelling in pairs, insects buzzing and the heady aroma of blossoms everywhere. “Yes,” I said. “Seven-thirty. I’ll be there.”

Just at dark, I locked the office and drove some distance out into the country. The frame house was old and sat up on brick pillars. As I swung into the driveway, my lights shone on the reddish bare clay of its front yard. I heard a strange sound coming from the house. The hair on my neck prickled as the wailing rose and fell. The sky had begun to lighten as the moon peeped over the long needled pines. A dog howled in the distance. Standing there, I felt very much alone.

The moaning grew louder as I neared the front porch. It became very loud when the girl pulled open the heavy door after my timid knock.

Inside, a fire blazed in the hearth, its roar drowned out by a loudly chanting man who hovered over the body of a middle aged woman lying prone on an old couch. The girl whispered to me: “He’ll be a’laying on the hands soon.”

I stared into the scene, red lit by sudden flares from the crackling fire and by the ruddy glow of kerosene lamps placed on various tables scattered around the large room. A cat slinked past, rubbing against my legs and stirring an unsettling notion that made me wonder where they kept the snakes. When the girl introduced me to “Daddy”, the man gave me a strong, warm grip and apologized that he had no time to talk, because he had a lot of “work” to do.

A low moan from the couch interrupted and he turned back to his “work”. The girl and I walked away to enter the kitchen. I saw that they had running water and wondered about the kerosene lamps. Maybe they hadn’t paid their bill? Maybe it was part of the intense ritual going on in the other room?

The low moan became a sudden shriek, startling me even though I had steeled myself somewhat after first entering. I had noticed the hot wet face and the racking tremble of her breath. I stirred my peas without interest and tried to listen while the girl said: “Momma has been like this for three days now.”

The woman moaned real loud. “That’s the Demon,” she informed me. “Daddy’s gonna get him though,” she added.

I knew better than to suggest a doctor for her momma. The family would likely take it as an insult and wouldn’t have a doctor, anyway. I kept silent.

After eating enough to be polite, I implied that I had an early morning flight and took my leave. Making my way back to the car, bare roots of the big oak trees dimly lit by the moon seemed to wiggle like snakes and I watched carefully where I stepped.

Driving back to the airfield, I thought sadly about the girl’s “Momma”. Still, her daughter had a really nice pair of legs. I never called her again. Nice enough looking, but we would certainly misunderstand each other on a lot of things. On top of that she had a child to raise. Besides, her regular boyfriend was a hefty millworker, about twice my size!

*********************************

It rained the following three days. The weather turned a bit ugly Saturday night and it pushed me to land at Eufaula. My home field had no published instrument approach procedure. I chased the oscilating VOR needle mounted on my navigational radio panel until I saw the runway lights of Weedon Field appear through the rain streaked windshield. Seconds later, I taxied to the ramp, shut down the lights and engine, then curled up in the cockpit for a few hours nap. The new wad of bills in my hip pocket made a pleasant bulge. I squirmed for a few minutes seeking a comfortable position. Drifting off to sleep, I wondered how the girl’s Momma had fared.

I awoke to rainless skies at six-o’clock, cranked my ship and departed. An hour later, I coasted over the end of runway three-five, floated for a hundred feet or so in ground effect, then dropped a few inches to touch-down. The grass in the parking area was still wet and a big round fire rising on the Eastern horizon promised a sunny day.

Once in the office, I dumped last week’s coffee grounds into the pot-bellied stove. Hauling the thirty-cup steamer outside, I laid it over and hosed it out with a half-inch garden hose, the one with which I washed airplanes. Inspecting the inside of the pot, I tilted it upright and filled it with rubber-flavored water. Forty minutes or so afterward, fresh coffee was available in the pilot lounge.

There are those who would argue that rubber-hose water destroyed the flavor of the coffee furnished free each Sunday, and for as many days after that as it would last. I had tried tap water a couple times but because of the amazing strength of my brew, could tell little difference. Besides, brewing it my way, a cup often lasted a customer over an hour before being dumped out.

A motion outside caught my attention and I moved quickly to the window. I watched a figure dressed in white clothes duck into the pine thicket bordering the far side of the runway. I eased back from the casement and watched for a few minutes. The figure emerged, looked carefully in each direction, then walked unsteadily across the runway toward the building.

Big Johnny came almost to the door, then paused, swaying back and forth. Finally, he mounted the two steps and knocked. I opened the door to behold him dressed in his cook’s outfit. He worked for Zeke: Cook, dish washer, roustabout. He was very big, very black, and this morning, very drunk.

“Mawnin’, Mist’ Gentleman,” he slurred. “I’s in trouble fo’ sho’ today,” he said. “I jes’ need ter hide over yere’ fo’ awhile.” He was pleading and his eyes were full of red.

I led him down the hall to hide him in the storeroom. He fell asleep instantly on a pile of floor rags. Just before he passed out, he said: “Please don’ mention dis’ to Mist Zeke. You is good man. I sho ‘member you well fo’ dis.”

It was still early so I wandered across the runway and poked around in the woods for a few minutes before finding the jug. The five-gallon open-mouthed container reeked of apples decaying alcoholically in a thick soup upon which floated a layer of ugly yellow curds. So that’s it, I told myself. That’s why Big Johnny hangs around the airport so much. I promised myself to get the recipe and I did:

(Home Brew Recipe:
Mix five gallons of water with five pounds of sugar, one quart of malt, and three yeast cakes. Let it stand for seventy-two hours. When it stops bubbling, it’s ready!)

*********************************

Business picked up. The girl, whose momma I had seen suffering so, came to the airport one Sunday for another airplane ride. The hefty mill-hand stood beside her. She told me “Momma” had fully recovered, and I said: ”That’s good,” and I meant it. The mill-hand shot me a curious look at the familiar exchange, and I hoped she would drop the subject.

She did.

Invigorating days of Spring slowly gave way to Summer as the sun climbed daily higher and higher to its noon zenith. One hot morning, I sat down to breakfast inside Zeke’s restaurant still groggy from a night spent tossing and turning on my cot. Shorty padded to the table, handing me the newspaper and setting my cup of coffee in front of me.

I did a fast double-take when I saw the Montgomery Advertiser’s headline.

My thoughts reeled. Exciting news. Frightening news. A spy plane. And, the Russians had captured an American pilot! I was immersed in the story when Zeke dropped into the opposite seat.

“Man, have I got something to tell you!” he exclaimed.

I pointed to the front page. “Yeah. I was just reading about it.”

Zeke looked bewildered. “It’s not in the paper,” he said craftily, as if he thought I was pulling his leg. “It’s Sally!”

My mind shifted gears, still retaining a picture of the captured American pilot. It took a moment to dawn on me what Zeke was talking about. “Sally?” I repeated.

Then I nodded my head. Francis Gary Powers’ image faded. In its place appeared Zeke’s wife in her nurse’s uniform, looking pure-faced and pretty. I recalled that Zeke had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get her pregnant.

My interest stirred. “What about...” I began.

“She’s gonna have a baby!” he exclaimed joyously.

His happiness was infective. My mood lifted. “How, ..uh..?”

Bubbling with excitement, Zeke looked me squarely in the eyes. “Man,” he blurted. “It warn’t nothin’. I just took her over to Kellyton to Doc Walters and he got her pregnant.”

I held back the smile, saying to myself, “I wondered whodunnit?”


THE END