The Simple Wild: A Novel(58)

We watch quietly as the wheels of my dad’s plane touch down on the gravel runway, bouncing twice before sticking. I traipse after Agnes as she strolls forward to where my dad coasts in, guided by the same short, stocky guy with the glow sticks from the night I arrived.

My dad slides out of the plane with surprising ease for a fifty-three-year-old man. We reach him as his boots hit the ground.

“How’d it go up there?” Agnes calls out.

“Rain’s still leaking in the back corner and the guys seem more interested in taking their lunch break than figuring it out. I’ll need to send Jonah up there to bark at them in a few days.” His soft gray eyes flicker to me. “You been up a while?”

“Since sunrise,” I admit. Though there’s no sun.

“It’ll take a few more days to adjust.”

“Just in time for me to head back home.”

“That’s how it usually goes,” he murmurs, frowning up at the sky as rain begins to spit. “Hopefully we’ll have some good weather for you before then.”

“She came to check out Alaska Wild and see her dad fly a plane,” Agnes says, winking at me. “Maybe we should get her up in the air, so she can see more than Bangor.”

“Today?” My stomach instantly tightens with nerves. It’s one thing to watch a plane land. It’s another to hop in and fly off with no mental preparation, after my last horrendous experience.

My dad seems to sense my panic. He chuckles. “I think Jonah may have scarred the poor girl.”

“She’ll be fine. You and Jonah can take her out in Betty,” she urges.

I frown. Betty?

“Can’t,” the grounds worker pipes up from behind us, unloading my dad’s plane. “Betty’s in the hangar.”

His gaze wanders to the big warehouse, where a banana-yellow plane sits. Two men stand next to it, talking. One is tall, with gray hair and a potbelly; the other a small man in denim-blue coveralls, holding a tool. A mechanic, I’m guessing.

“Sonny!” a deep voice booms, pulling my attention to the left, to the looming figure that marches toward us. “Did you remember the supplies from the fridge?”

“Shit,” the grounds guy—Sonny, I assume—whispers. He steals a glance at me and then scurries off, the panicked look on his face saying that he indeed forgot whatever Jonah is referring to.

“There’s a strong downwind and rain north of us. Better get going,” my dad warns by way of greeting.

“I’ll be in the air in five.” Jonah comes to a halt beside me. “I called River Co. and shook their tree. They said they’ll pay the bill by the end of the week.”

My dad nods. “Good. That’ll help. I know they’re busy as hell, but that’s no reason not to pay.”

“Yeah, busy pushing all their clients to use Jerry,” Jonah grumbles. “If they’re not gonna pay on time, we need to cut ties.”

“Can’t afford to lose them,” Agnes adds in gentle warning.

“We already pretty much have,” Jonah throws back.

Dad sighs wearily, as if they’ve had this conversation too many times already. His gaze heads back toward the hangar. “What’s going on with her?”

“George said she felt funny up there today.”

“Funny? Like how, funny?”

“Couldn’t say exactly. Just didn’t like it.”

“Twenty-seven years flying planes and all he has is ‘it felt funny’?”

“You know how George gets with his ‘feelings.’ ” Jonah gives my dad a look. “Who knows. Maybe he didn’t rub his lucky rabbit foot three times before takeoff. Anyway, she was due for her maintenance check soon, so I’ve got Bart doing a full look-over.”

Something familiar finally jogs in my mind. “You name all your planes,” I say slowly. He used to talk about them like they were actual people—family members.

They turn to look at me and a wistful smile slowly stretches across my dad’s face.

“Wasn’t there a . . . Beckett?” I struggle to recall the exact name as memories flood back to me now. I flew so-and-so up to the North Pole today. He even made me ask my mom to show me where the North Pole was on the map. Apparently, it’s in Alaska.

“Becker. After George Becker, the geologist. That’s one of the Beavers.” My dad is full-out beaming now. “Your grandfather named the planes after Alaskan explorers. We have an Otter called Moser. And a Stockton, and Turner. Those are Pipers. We had to retire Cook a few years ago after one of our pilots hit a moose in a white-out landing. He was fine.” My dad waves off my cringe. He’s suddenly alive with names and facts. “Bering, after Vitus Bering, is getting an engine overhaul. Huh . . .” My dad scratches the thin layer of stubble on his chin. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Neither can I.” I’d also forgotten how easy it is to talk to my dad when it has anything to do with planes. “So Betty was an explorer, too?”

All three of them chuckle.

“I may have strayed a little off course,” my dad admits with a sheepish grin. “We now have Betty, who’s in the hangar. And this is Veronica. She’s a Cessna. She’s my special girl.” He raps his knuckles against the plane he just flew in, then points to the larger -orange-and-white plane not far away. “That one’s Archie.” He pauses, looking expectantly at me.