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the railroad, wondering where the plant would be built. I’ve got to give Odus credit — he held back.
    “I’ll make sure the boys keep their mouths shut,” Odus finally said. “I’ll put out the word it was European farm machinery.”
    Floyd clapped him on the shoulder. “Odus, we’ll all be famous someday, because of the wisdom of men like you.”
    If I had half Floyd’s gift of gab, I’d be a wealthy man. Somehow on the way out the door, he convinced me to keep the tractor and drive it back to the farm the next day.

    Early that morning — it was a Friday — I drove my Hudson the thirty mile round trip into Wichita and borrowed some tools from work, including a magnifying glass and a set of measuring calipers. I was extremely curious about the manufacturing history of the airplane we had hidden in Floyd’s barn. When I got back to Augusta, I parked down by the railroad depot and got on the Farm-All. My knees would be sore by the time I got to the Bellamy place, but Floyd could darn well give me a ride home in his dad’s pickup.
    When I came sputtering up their drive into the yard of the farmhouse, Floyd and Mrs. Bellamy were sitting on the front porch in the deep shade of the giant wisteria that grew on the front of their house. From the parlor, you couldn’t even see outside, just a dark jumble of sticks and leaves. I killed the Farm-All out by the oak tree and walked up to join them. I was covered with mud and sweat.
    “Vernon, you really should take more care of yourself,” Floyd’s mother said.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Bellamy.”
    “I’ll fetch you some apple cider.” She swished inside, under way with the same slow determination as a Mississippi barge.
    Floyd stretched his arms upward, rolling his neck to clear a crick. “Have a nice night?”
    “Went home, listened to the radio.”
    “I really appreciate you taking care of the tractor. I had to catch up with Mary Ann.”
    “Without your mattress in the truck?”
    “Vern,” Floyd hissed. “Mama’s right in the house.” He grinned. “Besides, there’s other places and ways.”
    And women , I thought, remembering the waitress laying that big old kiss on Floyd in the State Street Lounge. I’d never know, at least not until I was married. If.
    Mrs. Bellamy came back on to the porch, rescuing me from my thoughts. “Floyd tells me you boys have a special project going in the barn.”
    I glanced at Floyd. “I was wondering when he was going to let you in on our little efforts.”
    She handed me an apple cider, then sat on the glider. It hung on rusted chains from the wasp-blue porch ceiling, which was why I had taken one of the shell-back metal chairs. I was too much the engineer to trust those old chains and their hidden mounting.
    “I don’t hold with airplanes, Vernon Dunham,” she said. “I know its what you do for a living and all, but they are the work of Satan.”
    “I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.” I’d gotten this lecture when she found out what I was studying in college, and gotten it again when I went to work at Boeing. I’d never had the heart to tell Mrs. Bellamy that I was a licensed pilot.
    “If God had meant man to fly,” she went on, “he’d have given us brains like the birds.”
    “Uh, yes, ma’am.” I couldn’t work out if that meant only the stupid should fly, or the fearless, or the natural aviators. It didn’t matter — the general tone of her opinions was quite clear.
    She shook a finger at me. “Rest assured, Vernon Dunham, Daddy and I will stay out of that barn. But you know what that means?”
    I shook my head, eyes wide. I glanced at Floyd for a signal. He just covered his mouth and laughed with his eyes. “No, ma’am, what does that mean?”
    “You have to help Floyd with his chores.”
    Of course.

    In the barn, we set about stripping the rest of the crate off the aircraft. That took some doing to accomplish safely — Floyd had to rig a block and tackle in the rafters so we