Aviator Girl

by Terry Groves

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

Rounding the last corner, I could see the storefront but not in the window. She was gone, I knew she was. My pace slowed as I drew closer. One, two, three of the small porcelain busts came into view, but none of them was my aviator girl. Tears stung my eyes. She’s there. Light radiated from her. I realised I had stopped, was holding my breath, just like the first time I saw her. She’s there! She’s there!

I shouldered my way through the door. A tall man in a fine suit looked up from something he was studying on the counter. His wide smile dimmed, but he caught himself as he eyed my fine coat. “Yes, sir?” He set down the pen he was holding and came toward me. “How may I help you?”

He had called me “sir.” It must have been my hat or the coat or the air they lent me. “You certainly can,” I said with my best bravado, for brave I was feeling. “You can tell me how much the aviator girl in the window costs.”

“You do have an eye for craftsmanship.” The man rubbed his palms together with slow motions as he spoke, turning to the window. “This set was handcrafted in England” — as he spoke, he reached into the display and picked up one of the busts — “but, alas, when the squadron disbanded, each pilot was given one. It took forty years to gather them all together again.”

“That’s not the one I want.” Perhaps I had been wrong, and this guy wasn’t so smart. Couldn’t he see the best one was still in the window? Perhaps he thought my eye was less than perfect, and he was trying to pawn a lesser lady off on me. “I want the bright one there.” I pointed at my aviator girl.

“But sir, this is a set. They are all the same.”

“Better get your eyes checked then. How much is the one I want?”

He told me the price of the set, and it was a lot more than I had.

“I don’t want the set.” My heart pounded hard, painful. “I only want my girl.”

“Just one? But sir, the value is in the set.”

“The value is in the girl. My girl. How much.”

“Well, I had hoped to sell the whole set.” He glared at me while reaching back into the window display and managed to find the right one, despite his failing eyesight.

“How much?”

He spoke an amount that I did have. It would leave a couple of dollars for a clear glass friend to boot.

“Sold,” I said before he could change the deal.

“Are you certain...?” He shut up when I pulled out my money clip and began counting bills.

“Very well, sir. Let me wrap it for you.” He bustled about behind the counter with tissue paper and a blue cardboard box.

“Just a matter of the receipt,” he intoned after fastening the top of the box with a piece of clear tape. “Your name, sir?”

I pushed the pile of bills across the counter, grabbed the box, and headed toward the door. I had to get her home.

“Sir, your receipt.” The closing door shut up Mr. Fancy Suit with the bad eyes. Cradling my aviator girl in my arms, I retraced my earlier panicked steps. Double-checking at each street crossing, I made sure no one bumped my valuable bundle. It seemed forever before I was safe at home.

Savouring the moment, I undid the box and peeled back the tissue paper. I was a groom unpacking his bride on their wedding night. She smiled into the side of the box. I reached in, gentle, and turned her face up. That first caress sent a tingle up my arm. She continued to smile, although now it was at something on the ceiling.

Rushing to the sink counter, I cleared a space for her, where I could set her so she could see me. Setting her down, I pulled my hands back, exposing myself to her for the first time. With a child’s anxiety, I waited for her reaction. She continued to smile, but something changed. She did not seem to smile as much. Doesn’t she like me? Her radiant light faded a little. Is she not as pleased with me as I am with her? I smiled wider so she would know how much I loved her. Even that did not help.

Walking backward, I crossed the room and sat on my bed. My head sank into my hands. Perhaps I was just tired. Perhaps she was tired from the journey. I hoped she would be her old self in the morning. Yes, she just needs a good night’s sleep. All will be better in a new day’s light.

I needed a glass friend, but I could not bring myself to leave my aviator girl alone in our room. Someone might steal her. I couldn’t take her with me, so I just lay back and fell into a fitful sleep. My aviator girl was flying away, leaving me behind on a high mountain top. She was smiling, but not at me, at something behind me. I turned to look, and there was a man wearing a mohair coat reaching for me. Under his fuzzy hat, I could see he had no eyes.

I screamed and woke up. Sweat, cold as dew on a headstone, beaded my skin. Sitting up, my fear dripped away with the receding tendrils of the dream. What time is it? Still dark. The streetlight lit the sink and furniture in soft fire. I crossed the room to check my aviator girl. My chest grew heavy and hot when I saw her face. Her smile had faded even more. My fancy clothes didn’t fool her. She could see the real me.

My shoulders sagged. She hates me. Blood pounded in my ears. She’s ashamed of me. How could I have thought someone so fine could be happy with me? I was just a bum, living in a bum’s dump. My dirty little hovel was no place for this princess. I might own her, but I did not possess her. I would have to take her back. She did not belong here. Tears poured down my cheeks and I could not stop them.

I left to find a friend. Who cares if someone steals her now? She was still there when I returned. I sat in the only chair I had and opened my friend. The burn in my throat was good. The warmth in my belly was good. As my conversation with my friend progressed, I felt my sadness leak away. In no time, I was laughing and singing. At some point, my carcass climbed out of the chair and began dancing around the room. I whirled and twirled and sang.

Then, with a swift movement, I snatched up my aviator girl for one turn around the floor. I spun her and swung her and showed her what a fine fellow I could be. I saw her smile widen, just a little, her glow brighten. She could learn to love me. Then I bumped into the table and fell to the floor. My aviator girl flew out of my hands and crashed to the dirty, torn linoleum. She hit hard and smashed.

My euphoria departed. The song in my head died. I couldn’t move. My aviator girl, broken, froze my gaze. Pieces of porcelain were strewn about. Her beautiful face was cracked in two. Again, my tears flowed. I crawled to her, picked up the shards. I placed them into the nest of tissue paper in the blue box, then sat and stared at them as I finished the conversation with my friend. It was a subdued conversation, like in a funeral parlour.

Morning found me with my head resting on the table. One arm curled around the blue box, the other still clutched my friend, empty of voice now. I looked in the box and would rather have faced a walking corpse with gouged-out eyes. I set the bottle down and began to fit my aviator girl back together. There were too many pieces, and soon my shaky hands couldn’t hold them all. I went to the store and spent the last of my money on a small bottle of glue.

In an hour, I had my aviator girl back together. I brushed at some dirt and lint that stuck in some cracks until it didn’t look too bad. I set her on the table to dry. When I checked on her after a few hours, she seemed all right. Her smile was not quite the same because there was a crack right through it, and I had missed some of the smaller chips that had broken off, but she seemed happy. I sat and stared at her for a long time. Now she stared straight ahead, so it was easy for her to see me. She seemed happier, as though she liked me, was a little more like me, saw me as enough of a man for her now. Her glow was returning.

It looks like we are going to be happy together, after all.