“Sorry,” Wally said.
Nate shined his light on the beetles: red heads, black backs, yellow tails.
“You’re going too slow,” he said. “You gotta flash faster. Average male firefly sends 3.3 per second. Run the bulb at 4 per second, and the females go absolutely wild. Less than 2.8 per second, and they ignore you.”
That was Wally’s problem, entirely. His whole life, he had flashed too slowly.
As a boy, he wrote her name in crop circles in the wheat fields. Made a fool of himself, misspelling her name. The next year, he hired Ace Klinker’s spray plane to tow a banner over the homecoming game. It said I LOVE YOU! But Willa didn’t guess it was for her, and he was too scared to tell. A few years later, and maybe a bit more desperate, he even pierced his shoulder with a hunting arrow, went to the emergency room, and said Cupid shot him. Again, no notice. Just crazy old Wally.
“Go on,” Nate was saying. “Faster!” He scurried around with his net, swinging forehands and backhands, swooping up fireflies.
Flash faster.
Wally squeezed the button on the fishing rod, the light blinked, and the air around him lit up with answers. To lure her, he knew he had to go for the world record. There was no greater flash, no finer way to signal his love.
Jughead’s was crowded with farmers in from the fields, shirts stained with sweat, dirt under their nails. They came in groups, crews of workers, stopping off for a quick one before heading home for a shower and supper. The men huddled over small tables, drinking red beer and chowing down wedges of pizza smothered with sauerkraut. The TV overhead was a blur of football players in training.
J.J. sat at the long empty counter, alone. The glamorous life of the Keeper of the Records. He had his rules. First and foremost, no excessive fraternizing with the locals. It made it easier to move on. It kept life simple and straightforward.
Another town, another bar, another night on his own. On the bright side, at least there was someplace left on the planet where you could buy beer for fifty cents. It came in a frosted mug. It was remarkable, almost worth living in the middle of Nebraska.
“Get you another one?” the bartender asked. She had an unusually long face, heavy mascara, and curly brown hair.
“Sure, one more.” Any more than that and he’d forget why he was here. He put another dollar on the counter and turned around. Loud guffaws were coming from the farmers playing keno in the next room.
Then something caught his eye. Willa came through the door. She had changed into a pair of snug jeans, a white tank top, and cowboy boots. Unruly blond hair fanned out from her head like some kind of riotous halo. She wasn’t a classic beauty. Her nose was a fraction of a degree off to one side, her lips were a bit full, and her hips were a touch wide. Still, it all added up to a stunning combination, the kind that made him wobble on his barstool.
He was all set for another brush-off, but, instead, she walked right up to him.
“Folks at the motel told me you’d be here,” she said.
“Glad to see you.” Why was he so clumsy around attractive women? Just once he’d like to be suave. He tried again: “Can I buy you a beer?”
“Sure. Never turn down a free beer.” She slid onto the stool beside him. “Dacy, a frosty, please.”
She turned her honey eyes toward him. “Listen,” she said, “I was a little rough on you before.”
“That’s okay.”
“No. I—Let’s just say, I didn’t give you a fair chance. I apologize.”
She turned straight ahead and sipped her beer. The light caught her eyelashes, the longest he had ever seen. A world record, maybe? Shoot, what did she just say?
“Apology accepted,” he said.
“You find what you want today?” she asked.
“Not really. I spoke with Wally. He’s ready to go for the world record.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“He’ll do it. He just doesn’t want you to disapprove. You know, I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve. I mean it. Getting into The Book would be the greatest thing ever to happen to Superior.”
She spun toward him, banging knees. “We don’t need your brand of greatness. We’re just fine the way we are.”
Who was she trying to fool? She knew perfectly well the town was dying. He tried again.
“What Superior makes of this is your business. All I want to do is verify the record, and I’ll be gone.” He was surprised at how detached his voice sounded. Did he mean it? Could he simply verify and vanish?
“It’s not my decision,” she said. “If Wally wants to go for the record, it’s up to him. I won’t approve or disapprove. But I’m telling you, don’t promise what you can’t deliver.”
“Trust me, I’ve been doing this for—”
“Trust you?” She laughed. “Not as far as I can throw you.”
“Sounds fun,” he said. “We don’t have a record for flinging humans yet.” She didn’t even blink. Not a crinkle of a smile. Nothing was working. Nothing at all. In just one day he had converted the whole town, except the one person who mattered.
She took a drink of her beer, closed her eyes, and threw her long neck back to finish it off. It was mesmerizing. Her throat, the muscles in her shoulders, the hair tumbling everywhere. Then she set the empty glass down hard.
“Just remember,” she said. “I’m watching you. Don’t you dare go hurting this town.”
J.J. clutched the telephone receiver with both hands, trying to contain his glee. All systems go. He had landed the 747.
“So, we’re on?” he said to Wally. “That’s excellent. Excellent, indeed. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll meet you first thing in the morning at the farm.”
J.J. hung up the phone before Wally could change his mind, then fell back against the mushy pillows on the motel bed. He felt elated, powerful, as if he could bend steel. He looked around. The porch swing hanging in one corner of the room was charming. Even the tea-rose wallpaper pleased him. The bed was adequate, if a bit spongy. He even liked the clumsy oil painting of a cottage garden above the TV set.
He snatched up the telephone again, checked his Palm Pilot, and dialed a number he had never called before.
“Sir?” he said when his boss picked up the phone, “I wanted you to know right away. I’ve got a big one. A really big one.”
“It’s midnight,” Peasley said, his clipped accent almost hissing. “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“Man eats plane,” J.J. said.
“Man-eating what?!”
“I’ve got just what you want. It’s unbelievable.”
“What is it then? Speak clearly.”
“A man is eating a 747 because he loves a woman.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Bloody hell.” Peasley’s voice almost squealed. “A 747?”
“Trust me,” J.J. said.
“I don’t know about this. It’s not an existing category and you know we banned gluttony records.”
“This isn’t gluttony. It’s passion. The world has never seen anything like it.”
“If it can be done, it would be extraordinary.”
“It’s a cinch,” J.J. said. He was panting. His heart was thudding. Peasley had to say yes. “The man is eating his way through this airliner like it’s chocolate pudding. He’s obsessed and unstoppable.”
“Good show,” Peasley said. “I’ll raise it with headquarters in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll stay in touch.”
J.J. put down the phone and exhaled. He could hear the pogo sticks bouncing in the parking lot. The kids were back, but that was fine. Let them boing all night long. It was celebration time.
He wanted room service. Shrimp cocktail, filet mignon, red wine. Damn his puny per diem. He earned jumbo shrimp today. He went to the desk beside the window, opened the Welcome Book.
Alas, no luck. No room service, so he called the front desk.
“Where’s the best
restaurant in town?” he asked.
“It’s eleven o’clock!” Mrs. Nutting said. “Everything’s closed. But the Gas ’N Shop is open all night.”
“Perfect.” He hung up. It would have to do. Cherry Coke, Cheez Whiz, Funyuns, and a giant bag of Nutter Butters. A balanced meal. Yes indeed, it was celebration time.
But first, one urgent task. He checked his Palm Pilot again and found the number. It would take only one call to an old friend on the national assignment desk at the Associated Press. The story would move overnight on the news wires, and within 12 hours Superior would become the center of the universe.
Wally watched the moonbeams caress his fields. The corn poked through the soil like the stubble of a beard, casting thousands of little slanted shadows against the furrows. He loved the first sight of new corn. His family had stirred dirt on this land for one hundred years. His great-grandfather had settled the homestead, put up the farm, planted the trees, and broke in the ground. God had given the Chubbs everything they prayed for, and then some. Once, when a frost killed all the crops, his father swore that so long as they didn’t take his family or his faith, he would get through just fine.
Wally rocked in the glider, alone on the porch where he grew up, where everyone came when his parents passed on. He had lost his family, and if they took his crops, what would he have left? Just his faith.
Arf padded over and pushed his muzzle in Wally’s lap. Well, he’d have his dog, too. The mutt had followed him home from town one day. When Wally asked, “What’s your name?” the dog said, “Arf.” And that’s exactly what he called him.
“Want your chow?” he asked. “Come on, little buddy.”
The kitchen was a mess. Remains of last night’s dinner—some macaroni and a few cargo door hinges—lay congealed in a pot on the stove. The garbage waiting to be burned sent up a mean smell. He scooped Alpo into a bowl and set it out with fresh water. He picked through the pile of fliers on the kitchen counter and put the newspaper on top.
He flipped open The Express and saw her byline. Willa Wyatt. His Willa. Why wouldn’t she pay any attention? God knows he had tried everything, and now, even with his eating a 747, she still hadn’t called to say boo. He did this every week. Looked at the paper, saw her name, hoped she would give him a sign that she noticed his giant tribute, the greatest thing he could do to prove the size and scale of his love.
It was crazy, sure, but it was love. He made no secret of why he was doing this. Everybody else knew. Why wouldn’t Willa just say a little something?
He fell for her on his tenth birthday. His parents threw a party for him in City Park right in the center of town. It was a pretty place, with a row of American elm and locust trees, a Civil War memorial, a little bandshell for summer concerts, two big seesaws, and a swimming pool with a good slide. He invited all 12 of his classmates, and his mom made a chocolate fudge cake and Rice Krispies treats. They had root beer by the bottle, and Otto Hornbussel, a retired circus clown, showed up in a red wig and baggy pants, with a stash of skinny balloons for twisting. The four of them spread out the paper cups and plates at the picnic table under the great pin oak with its fiery fall leaves. The celebration was supposed to start at four.
Wally watched as the cars drove by on Bloom. Davey Beenblossom was in the far back of a red station wagon and stuck his tongue out as he rode past. Missy Kringle didn’t even look up from the front seat of her father’s black Buick. By four thirty, his great and deepening fear was true.
No one was coming to his birthday party.
These days, folks in town liked to ask if eating engines and ailerons hurt his innards. All he knew was that nothing could hurt as much as his tenth birthday and the proof that besides his family, no one in the world liked him. He knew he was different—bigger than the other kids, clumsier, louder, and slower in school. His parents told him to pay no never mind if he didn’t fit in. “It’s great to be great,” his father liked to say, quoting Will Rogers. “But it’s greater to be human.”
Still, being human hurt every day.
That afternoon in City Park was the last time he cried. It was a hell of a cry. He buried his head in his mother’s lap and sobbed for half an hour. Over the sound of his wailing, he could hear his dad cussing and stomping Otto’s balloons out of pure fury.
Then he heard his mother say, “Wally, someone’s here to see you.”
He picked his head up, saw a green Ford truck stop in one of the parking spots. A little girl hopped out in a blue dress with a big bow in back and a matching bow in her hair. It was Willa Wyatt, a sandy blond ten-year-old who looked like a princess.
“Happy birthday, Wally,” she said. “Sorry I’m so late. Dad had to deliver the papers.” She gave him a present in flowery wrapping paper. It was a brand-new book called The Wonders of the World. He read it until the covers fell off. He saved all the pieces. They were in a shoe box under the night table next to the bed, right now.
Wally pulled the Cheerios from the cupboard. He poked the contents with a big forefinger to see if there were any weevils inside, then he poured himself a bowl. He just didn’t feel like cooking tonight. He added sludgy gray milk from the fridge and brought the bowl to the kitchen table. He sprinkled some stabilizer jackscrew on his cereal, stirred it all up with his wooden spoon. He took a bite and chewed.
As he ate, Wally ran his finger tenderly over newsprint and Willa’s byline. Even her name was a sign they were meant to be together. Willa and Wally. Just two letters different. How many times in school had he carved both names into the desk?
Now maybe things were turning around and soon everyone in town would be pulling for him. He was going for a world record! Willa would come. She would write about him. Maybe then she would put him on the front page. Maybe then she would realize how much he loved her. Maybe then she would love him, too.
Wally got up and let Arf go outside. He stood in the doorway staring out at the remains of the airplane, twinkling in the moonlight.
That plane was part of him now. It was going to give him wings.
SEVEN
The invasion took less than 12 hours. Shrimp watched the cavalry rolling into town. So far he had counted a dozen television trucks and 22 out-of-state license plates. It was only 10 in the morning and Superior had never been so busy, even compared to the Lady Vestey Memorial Day parade when hundreds of visitors showed up from neighboring counties.
This was different. These people were outsiders. They didn’t belong here. The civic peace could easily get out of control. It was his sworn duty to make sure it didn’t.
The first call had come from Edna Nippert at 7 A.M. She had seen three Asian men at the Country Store. They stocked up on canned goods and Gatorade. What in tarnation was going on? Edna demanded to know. Then a half hour later, more strangers were spotted at the Napa auto parts store. They spoke no English and, using a phrase book, asked if there was a hotel in town. Someone thought they were probably Italian.
Shrimp had declared it an official 1089—an emergency traffic situation—and ordered the entire police department, all three officers, to get out on the roads. By 9 A.M., the Victorian Inn was all booked up. The Git-A-Bite Café had run out of Wonder Bread for toast. There wasn’t a copy of The Express to be found in town.
Shrimp guessed that since its founding in 1875, no one had ever paid this much attention to Superior, even when a very young Lawrence Welk played at the City Auditorium. A few years back, Hard Copy had come to town for a story about Crazy Tad Wockenfuss. Drunker than $700, he had tried to kill his mother by firing two shotgun blasts from his downstairs living room chair, right through the ceiling, at her bed upstairs. He missed. Mrs. Wockenfuss couldn’t bring herself to press charges against her only son, so she bought him a trailer on the far side of town. Shrimp had made a brief TV appearance, describing the hole in the ceiling and the shredded mattress.
As a lawman, Shrimp knew Superior’s only other modest claim to notoriety was the fact that outlaw Jesse James and
his brother, Frank, had a sister who lived in town. According to legend, the two spent a night once and left behind a $20 gold piece.
Now the world appeared to be on its way to Superior, and judging from the traffic, it was heading straight for Wally’s field. Shrimp reached into his lunch pail and pulled out his Thermos. With all this pressure, he knew he better not forget to eat. On doctor’s orders, at least three high-calorie, high-protein shakes a day, if he wanted to make it over the 120-pound minimum by the weigh-in.
On the crest of the hill, a half-mile away, he saw two helicopters flying low, fast and right toward him. Clutching the Thermos, he got out of the car and stood in the road watching the choppers come closer. He shook a fist at them. They weren’t allowed to fly so low. There were community noise standards. The citizens wouldn’t stand for it.
As the helicopters thumped, he felt the first pang of panic. The rotor blast posed a serious threat. Twice before he’d been knocked flat by the hospital chopper from Lincoln. It was a peril of weighing 114 pounds.
He braced himself and blew his whistle frantically. They buzzed right over him. The gust from the rotors hit him hard and he staggered to stay upright. His hat went flying off his head, down the road and into the ditch. Shrimp reached into the car for his radio.
“All units, I don’t know what the code is for this, but I’ve got two helicopters speeding on Main Street. Stop them, boys. Stop them right now.”
Then he stomped his boots in the dirt and skidded down the embankment to fetch his hat. The slope was steep and wet from the morning dew. His hat, brand-new all the way from Wahoo, was covered with mud. He wiped it off on his sleeve and started to climb. Halfway up the slope, he saw the convoy of six big satellite trucks thundering toward him. He froze.
As they roared by, the blast of wind hit him like a twister and he felt himself sailing—arms and legs akimbo—through the air and right back into that muddy ditch.
From his bedroom window, Wally looked down on his field where several hundred reporters and photographers milled around waiting for the official kickoff of the world record attempt. The Bargen sisters from down the road were selling lemonade and cookies to the strangers. Darting through the mob, young Blake was raking in coins with his very own “Official 747 Program,” created and photocopied at the public library.