A RIP IN THE SKY

#Part 2#

“Anyways, I was born and raised on a farm out in the middle of all that sky, Chuck, where the ground was as flat as flat can be — and the only thing between me and the sky was corn and oats and wheat. When we were between crops there was nothing but that big old sky from horizon to horizon in every direction. Nothing got in its way.

“It was on just such a day, when there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, that I saw it. The corn stalks had all been cut down and plowed under and the new planting was still a few weeks away, when along came Mr. Dietrich. Now, before I tell you this, I want to you to know that there’s something very strange in my story, but every word of it’s true, I swear.” Abe crosses his heart.

“Something strange? You gonna tell me what it is?”

“Nope, I’m not going to tell you what it is. I want you to think about it and look into it and next year, when I come back to this same spot, you can tell me what you found out and what you think it means, okay?”

“That ain’t fair.”

“What? Sure it’s fair. Can’t have everybody do everything for you — can’t learn much that way, can you?

“Anyways, on that day, my folks went into town — a long way from home — early that morning for a meeting of some kind and my dad told me to open a few of the gates in the canal about noon to wet the ground a little for the second plowing. So, there I was, out there in the middle of all that sky and just about at the irrigation canal, which put me almost two miles from the house, when I heard this horrible grinding sound. Wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard — sounded almost like someone tearing a tablecloth in half, only a lot louder.

“Out there in the field there was nothing to make echoes, so I knew where the sound was coming from and I turned to look in that direction. Up there in all that blue there was what looked like a rip in the sky. The edges of it were all raggedy and wobbling ‘round like a sheet of real thin plastic — you know, like the kind you wrap sandwiches in these days. Inside the tear it was blacker than night and out of it came something that I couldn’t see very well because it was still too far away. Then the hole in the sky snapped shut and for a second the sky around where that tear had been rippled like water in a pond, sort of like when you drop a rock in it. Then there came a sound like thunder and the sky went back to the way it was before all that happened, except for a little, shiny dot that flashed really bright once in a while.”

“Were you scared?”

“Well, sure I was scared, Chuck. Wouldn’t you have been scared if you’d seen and heard what I did?”

“Nah — not me.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I guess you’re just a lot braver than I was. Anyways, I wanted to run — run as fast as my legs would carry me back to the house and close it all up so’s I’d be safe, but I couldn’t run. A powerful fascination glued me to the ground right where I stood and I didn’t want to lose sight of that dot.”

“Was that tearing in the sky the weird thing, Mr. Peterson? All that noise an’ stuff?”

“No, Chuck, that rip in the sky was strange, all right, but that’s not what’s really weird in my story. Now, are you going to let me finish?”

Chuck nods and pulls another soda out from under the fast-melting ice.

“All right, then. This dot kept growing bigger and bigger until I could see it was two horizontal lines with a blob in the middle, but I still didn’t know for sure what it was. Remember, now, I had never seen an airplane before. Once, in the newspaper, I saw a picture of what they called a flying machine, but it wasn’t a very good one — the picture, that is. Wasn’t long, though, before that dot had grown big enough for me to put the picture in the paper and it together and I knew I was about to see my first flying machine. I got excited and I think I started jumping up and down and waving my arms like some kind of fool — right then.

“Inside a few minutes, I could hear the roar of the engine and make out some detail. It was a flying machine, all right, but very different from what they had printed in the newspaper. The fuselage was all covered over and streamlined, not an open framework like the one in the picture. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and that got me to jumping and shouting even more. I guess I must have made quite a sight of myself, but no one was around to see or hear me, so I didn’t care.

“When it went over my head, it couldn’t have been more than five hundred feet up and its wings rocked from side to side. It was all bright silver with black markings — gorgeous it was. It went into a big, descending circle and I got so fired up I wet my pants.”

“You’re kidding.” the boy says, giggling loudly.

“No, Chuck, I’m not kidding, and it’s not funny, so you can stop laughing.”

“Is, too.”

“To you, maybe. Wasn’t to me. Anyways, it touched down a couple hundred yards away on the roadway alongside the canal and dust was flying everywhere. The noise of the engine was so loud it almost hurt. I could feel it in my chest, I could. It came to a stop right there in front of me and a man wearing a brown leather helmet with dark goggles over his eyes and a leather jacket with a wide, wool-lined collar, waved at me, then shut off the engine. His long, white scarf that had been streaming along the top of the fuselage went limp and draped over the side like an old, tired hound’s tongue in the summer heat. He lifted the goggles off his face, pushed them up on his leather helmet and smiled down at me.

“‘Hey, kid,’ he said. ‘Could you tell me the date?’

“‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘It’s the tenth of August.’”

“‘Could you also tell me the year, kid?’ he asked.”

“‘Sure. It’s nineteen nineteen.’ I told him.”

“‘Thanks,’ he said.”

“He frowned and looked a little disgusted. Then he laughed and said, ‘Well, it doesn’t matter that much. I have plenty of time.’ He threw his head back and laughed a loud, long laugh, then looked down at me again. ‘Hey, kid, you ever been up in one of these?’

“Well, I’ll tell you, Chuck, I was tongue-tied. I tried a couple of times to say something, but nothing would come out of my mouth. Finally, I got hold of myself and told him I had never even seen one, let alone been in one.
“He smiled a great big smile at me and said, ‘Well, kid, we can sure fix that. But before we do, is that water in the ditch fit for drinking?’

“‘Sure it is,’ I told him. ‘We all use it for drinking, cooking, bathing and everything. It comes straight from the river.’ My curiosity was burning a hole in my stomach, Chuck. I had to know more, so I just blurted out, ‘What kind of flying machine is that? It doesn’t look anything at all like the picture I saw in the paper. Is it something new?’

“He laughed that long laugh of his again and looked down at me with a bigger grin. He stood up and climbed down from his machine with a canteen dangling from one hand. He walked over to me and mussed my hair with his free hand and laughed again.

“‘You bet it is. Can’t get any newer, kid. That,’ he said, pointing at the sleek silver and black machine, ‘is the latest thing in aeroplanes, my boy, and they’re built right over there in Wichita — how ‘bout that? What you’re looking at there is a Stearman 4e Jr. Speedmail with a Pratt and Whitney, Wasp Junior, R985 engine of 300, yep, you heard me right, three hundred horsepower. I can guarantee you it’ll fly rings around anything else in the air right now,’ he said, all braggy like, and laughed that laugh again. ‘Name’s Dietrich — Andy, the Eagle, Dietrich. What’s yours, young fella?’

“‘Abram, Sir. Abram, uh, Peterson,’ I said.

“‘Well, young Abe, you get yourself up there in the front cockpit — don’t put your feet anywhere except where it’s marked…and don’t touch anything — I’ll be right along, after I get me some water. Then we’ll do some aviating. What do you think about that?’ He didn’t wait for my answer. Tell you the truth, Chuck, I think he knew all along what I’d say.

“That was the day I went flying for the first time. Mr. Dietrich taught me a lot in just the hour I knew him, and I didn’t forget any of it. The most important was about the three Ms. He said I needed the three Rs, for sure, but the three Ms were just as important.”

“The…what? The three Ms?” the boy says, his face all screwed up in question.

“What? What are the three Ms, you ask? Well, Chuck, to get anywhere in this world you’ve got to have them and use them. They’re: Make a decision. Make a plan. Make it happen. So, Chuck, there you have it. That’s when…uh-oh, there’s somebody over there waving at you. Are they your parents?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says in a despondent tone. “You’re really not gonna tell me what’s weird in your story — ‘bout Mr. Dietrich an’ all that stuff?”

“Nope. You make a trip to the library — ask around — and you’ll find out. Most important thing is, you’ll find out for yourself. If I’m still around, you can come back next year and tell me what you learned, okay? All right, son — Chuck — nice to have met you. Don’t forget…think about what I told you — and don’t you forget those three Ms. Get along now, your parents are waiting.”

The boy runs over and joins a couple by the entrance. They disappear through the gate with Chuck tagging along, scratching his head in wonder. Abe is struggling to get out of his chair when a man wearing a brown leather helmet, dark goggles shoved up on his forehead, appears at the wingtip. He steps over and helps Abe up. The two of them, smiling at one another, launch into animated conversation and walk off, arm in arm, toward the unused tarmac behind the Warbirds Museum where a black and silver Stearman 4e Jr. Speedmail awaits — chocks set, engine idling. The man’s long, white scarf nearly drags on the ground.

Chuck, walking by an old F-4E Phantom, hears a ripping sound off to his right. He turns and sees what looks like a black slit in the sky. A small dot disappears into it and it snaps shut. The air ripples. Minutes later there is the sound of far off thunder.

Chuck thinks to himself, Wow! That’s just like he said about Mr. Dietrich. I wonder what’s weird about that old man’s story?