“Stop right there.”
Nick Wilder did as he was told. He gripped the end of the loose control cable and inspected the instrument panel of the big C – 54 Skymaster cargo plane as he waited for the next instruction.
“You got it?” he wondered aloud.
Fred grunted as he always did. But the sixty-something man got away with all kinds of rude noises as they worked on the old airplane.
“Keep your shirt on,” Fred mumbled.
So Nick waited while Fred fumbled a little more. Who knew getting caught a year ago in the belly of the old C – 54 would lead to this unlikely friendship?
And who knew Nick would get to help resurrect one of the ancient warplanes parked on the edge of the Bighorn County Airport in the Middle of Nowhere, Wyoming? Someday, when they got the proud old bird off the ground again, they would look back at all the grunt work and know it was worth it. But for now . . .
“There!” Fred finally announced his success. “Now pull me out of here. I mean all of me, not just the legs.” Fred had two artificial legs, a war injury, Nick thought.
Nick grinned and gently grabbed the man’s plastic ankles to help him inchworm out from beneath the panel. In a car, this would be the dashboard. A moment later, they both leaned against the wall and surveyed their day’s work.
“Too bad we can’t recruit your dad to help with this.” Fred wiped his brow with a pink rag. “Would go a lot quicker.”
Sure, but the airport’s chief mechanic didn’t have time to mess with the old museum airplanes — not with all the smoke-jumper planes and small jets he had to work on. But that was okay with Nick and his older friend.
“Not that I don’t appreciate your help, you understand,” Fred said.
Nick nodded. Fred didn’t need to explain. But what help was he really, showing up after school and weekends, in restoring a fifty-year-old transport plane?
Oh, well.
“How much longer do you think it will take, Fred?” Nick looked at the impressive panel of dials and gauges in front of them. Thanks to their hours of effort, some worked — though many still did not. Fred just ran his greasy hands through his bristle of gray hair and shrugged the way he always did. He gave Trouble, Nick’s mutt, a scratch behind the ears.
“Like I said, kid, I’m not too good with the future. That’s why I stick to the old stuff. Like these planes.”
Not that Nick expected an answer. But still it was his job to ask — like a kid in the backseat who had to whine, “Are we there, yet?”
As far as he could tell, they might not be there for a long time. But in a strange way he felt okay with that.
“Anybody home?”
Nick recognized his father’s voice coming up through the plane’s belly hatch.
“Hey, stranger,” Fred greeted him, wiping a hand on his shirt before offering it to Nick’s dad. “Decided to join us, after all?”
“Well, I am joining,” Mark Wilder grinned as he pumped the older man’s hand, “but not the museum staff. Sorry.”
Nick sized up his dad from the worn leather pilot’s seat, his favorite spot in the airplane. His father didn’t usually act all smiley and weird like this.
“Dad?”
“Here, read this.” Nick’s dad pulled an envelope from the pocket of his coveralls and held it out. Nick noticed the return address — Department of the Air Force.
“I don’t get it.” But his stomach knotted as he pulled out the letter and began to read.
Pleased to inform you . . .
Reinstated to your former rank . . .
Assigned immediately to . . .
Nick didn’t need to read it all the way to the end. He handed back the letter, feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut.
“I thought you were done with the Air Force, Dad. Just weekends and that summer thing you do.”
“Your mom and I have talked about this for a long time.” For a moment Mr. Wilder’s forehead furrowed. “It’s a chance we can’t pass up.”
“We?” Nick didn’t mean it to sound as snotty as it came out.
“Of course we. You read the letter. They’re assigning me to the Rhein-Main Air Base, which is near Frankfurt, West Germany.”
Nick said nothing, just let his father go on. The guy seemed so excited, after all.
“And besides, how many kids your age get a chance for an experience like this? Don’t you think it could be a good move for us?”
“Join the Air Force, see the world,” Nick said. But by this time he felt totally numb. And instead of backing him up, Fred only chuckled. This was funny?
“Good for you, Mark. Backwoods Wyoming, here, probably wasn’t a great step on your career ladder.”
“Right. I mean, no. It’s not that.” Mark Wilder stumbled over his words. “This place has been great for our family. It’s just that — ”
“Hey, don’t apologize on my account.” Fred held up his hands. “Believe me, I understand.” Both men gave Nick a curious look.
You expected me to jump up and down? But Nick couldn’t say it out loud, not here in front of Fred. Instead, he pretended to adjust one of the loose throttle handles while the two men chatted. Trouble snoozed behind the co-pilot’s seat.
“He’ll get used to the idea,” Fred said. How did he know what Nick would get used to? “Course, I’ll miss his help here on the plane. Sure you won’t let him stay?”
Really? Nick looked over at his dad, hoping for an instant that it might be so. But both men were smiling at Fred’s joke. Oh.
“I report in four weeks.” Mr. Wilder turned serious. “With my wife and kid. Nobody’s staying behind.”
So that was it. Just like that, no questions asked. Not even a “What would you think if we . . .” No nothing. Just “We’re leaving in a month whether you like it or not.” Nick would have punched his dad in the nose, if he could have. Instead, he turned the wheel until it jammed to the side. What would it take to get this bird flying, right here, right now — in the opposite direction of this Main Rhyme or whatever that silly air base was called?
Fred snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered something.
“Wait right here.” He started for the rear of the plane, hobbling slightly as he always did. “I’ve got something I think you should have, considering where you’re going.”
Whatever. Nick didn’t answer. He just sat in his pilot’s chair staring out at the runway, saying nothing, scratching Trouble’s ears and trying not to cry. His dad studied the instructions on the side of a half-assembled radio set as if his life depended on it. And Nick let himself wonder how this Wyoming airfield had looked when filled with wave after wave of military planes, filled with crew after crew of military men like his dad. Now it only welcomed the firefighters in the summer (who strutted around the tarmac like soldiers), crop dusters in the spring, and the little private planes when the weather allowed. No matter who they were, though, they always seemed to be passing through on the way to somewhere else. And, as it turned out, so was Nick.
The story of his life, right? Passing through on the way to someplace else. Funny thing was, Nick really should have been jumping up and down. And maybe he would have been a few months earlier. Now? He stared at the Bighorn Mountains shimmering in the distance and gripped the steering wheel. Now Fred would have to finish this job alone. Truth was, the older man would probably die before that ever happened.
Fred emerged a minute later from the back of the plane and held out a small, newspaper-wrapped bundle.
“What’s this?” Nick took the package and held it up to the light.
“Okay, so it’s more of a favor, actually.” Fred scratched his head, as if he were still thinking it through. “It’s not a present, if that’s what you’re thinking. Take a look at it.”
Nick unwrapped the yellowed newspaper to find a tarnished old cup with a stem — like a small, old-fashioned wine goblet. Very fancy. The side was engraved with a delicate swirly pattern and some funny writing. Nick couldn’t make out the words; all the letters looked doubled over with too many elbows. Not a present, though? Fred would have to explain this.
“I got it a long time ago,” Fred told them. It was his turn to stare out the window, and his eyes seemed to go misty. “It’s a communion cup out of a German church.”
“So how did you get it?” asked Mr. Wilder.
“Long story. I won’t bore you with all the details.” His shoulders sagged as he sighed. “But I didn’t steal it, nothing like that. It’s just that I can’t keep it anymore.”
How odd. But Fred had a little more explaining to do.
“See, I could have sent it there myself, only I wasn’t sure exactly where to send it, or who to send it to. I’d feel a lot better if . . .”
Fred’s voice trailed off as he seemed to dip into some old emotional well.
“What do you want us to do with it?” Nick wondered.
Fred still stared outside. “Give it to a church over there if you can, would you? Or just give it to somebody over there. I don’t care. Maybe they’ll appreciate it.”
Nick turned the communion cup over in his hands, afraid to ask anything else. But he couldn’t help feeling curious about how this piece of silver had come all the way to the Bighorn County Airport in Greybull, Wyoming.
And he figured he’d probably never find out.