Next Chapter ~ Return to Contents ~ Writer’s Den

Chapter Ten

The Final Hop

My fear of disclosure returned as we waited in front of the terminal. It was difficult for me to follow Bernie’s changing moods. That moment, as we waited for Ralph to appear, he seemed distracted. He began whistling, which was even more annoying than humming. Was he merely nervous, I wondered, or was he simply trying to block me out. With a tinge of irritation, I asked him what he was whistling. He explained that it was Tchaikowski’s Swan Lake. I had heard that one in my house too. During his mid-life crisis, my father had switched from Jazz to classical music. Bernie however appeared to be tone deaf. What I heard from his puckered lips sounded like the same note over and over again, nothing like Swan Lake.

Glancing at my watch, I noted the time; it was 1:10. Where was Ralph? There were sailors in dungarees and tee shirts on the tarmac and in the closest hangar inspecting airfoils and working on airplane engines. A few crewmen in jump suits stood by a strange plane with a nose cone I had never seen before, and yet I saw no other passengers waiting for a flight. Abstractedly, as I tried not worry, my mind wandered to other matters. I would be glad to be home, no matter how my relationship with my parents had worsened. I worried about my perfect attendance again. Weighed against going to prison, this should have been insignificant. I was only eighteen. There were many girls I would miss if I went to jail. For some reason, I thought about Bernie’s sister then. As I had before when I found out about her, I tried to picture what this blond and blue-eyed vixen looked might look like, but this time it wasn’t the same. I had a hunch that she was a pampered and spoiled teen. After what he told me about her not liking him, I was reminded that my sister, who was also pampered and spoiled, didn’t like me either. For Bernie, however, it appeared as if no one, except his mother, liked him; at least this is what he believed. Though he said he didn’t want to talk about it, I knew he was a sad and lonely human being. Because of his personality, I could understand why he had no friends. Try as I may, I found it difficult to like him, myself.

Lulled by the ambience of my own thoughts, I stood there alongside of my colleague in crime, my mind locked on the past, almost forgetting the predicament we were in until a voice brought me crashing down to earth: “Noel Bridger! Are you Noel Bridger?” I looked around both ways—left and right, and then saw a bald-headed, overweight fellow in a sporty Hawaiian shirt and shorts, ambling toward me. When he removed his shades, I immediately saw a likeness.

“Ralph Zapinsky!” I cried. “I’m Noel.” “This is your nephew Bernie.” I slapped

Bernie’s back.

Except for Ralph’s baldhead, it was like looking at Bernie twenty years in the future. Bernie muttered, “Hello,” and nodded faintly. Ralph was visibly shaken as he studied his son. He kept swallowing and rubbing his stubbly chin.

“Thank you Ralph for helping us.” I said, shaking his hand.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered. Looking up at me, he shook his head, whispering, “No… Thank you Noel. I’m glad I can help.” “We don’t have much time,” he added, looking at his watch, “I just talked to Happy, a crewman on a P2V. I served with him during the war. There’s two spots on his plane. They take off within the hour. Standby in front of hangar one. They’ll have you sign the manifest at that time.”

“Where’s hangar one?” I asked, slinging my sea bag over my arm. “Do we have to show ID?”

“That’s hangar one.” He pointed. “It’s right next door. You’re all set; just show up and sign the manifest.”

In a belated reaction, Bernie embraced his father. “So you’re my Uncle Ralph,” he exclaimed. “Why did my mom wait so long to tell me?”

“Your mom told you about me?” his voice constricted. “Why did she do that?”

“When I told her about my plans, she suddenly remembered. She knew I was determined to go, so she told me to look you up. I’m sorry we don’t have more time to get to know each other. Maybe you can come and visit us some time.”

He looked over his son’s shoulder at me and smiled ruefully. “I don’t know Bernie… I just might. You turned into a fine young man!”

Bernie now had two people who liked him: his mother and his Uncle Ralph. Time was running out, however. Pulling away now, Ralph made scooting motions with his hands. “Off with you now. You don’t want to miss your hop.”

“Thanks again Ralph,” I called over my shoulder.

Bernie kept looking back at the receding figure of his father. It was a wonder to me that he hadn’t make the connection as Ralph had. In many ways Bernie was quite dense, which was fortunate. I’m still thankful he didn’t find out who Ralph was. When we arrived in front of hangar one, there were workers checking out our plane, with a flight crew looking on. I knew at once that the strange looking aircraft, I noticed before, was our ride back to the mainland. It was the only one being prepared for takeoff. Bernie took one look at it and began muttering excitedly to himself, “What is that? It looks like a World War Two plane? I thought we were riding in a transport? There must be some kind of mistake.”

“There’s no mistake, Bernie,” I snapped at him. “Get a hold of yourself. Ralph wouldn’t steer us wrong.”

“But it’s strange-looking,” he protested. “How do we board? Where do we sit?”

“Bernie!” I jerked his sleeve. “Do you have any Dramamines left?”

“A few.” He nodded.

“When we’re inside,” I instructed him, “take them all. You can sleep on the way back.”

When we were only a short distance from the crewman, one of them, a weather beaten man, with graying hair and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, motioned to us. In his hand was a clipboard, which I assumed was the flight manifest. With wide fearful eyes, Bernie stared at the aircraft, more afraid of boarding than signing the manifest. It was just the opposite for me. I was thrilled with the prospect of flying in this plane, and yet worried that we would finally be caught.

“I’m Noel Bridger,” I forced a grin and stuck out my hand.

“Dave Forrester,” he said, his cigarette dancing on his lip. “Call me Happy.” He shook my hand. “You must be Ralph’s nephew.” He looked past me at Bernie. “I can see the resemblance: brown eyes, dark hair, olive skin. Old Ralph claims his parents were Russian, but he looks like a Mexican to me. That right sonny?”

“My mother’s French.” Bernie bristled. “Ralph was my Aunt’s husband. She was French too.” What he said made no sense at all. It must have been what his mom told him to cover up the truth. I understood that he was insulted, but when it was his turn to sign the list, I was shocked when he didn’t follow it up by shaking Happy’s hand. Eager to get it over with, Bernie was guided by another crewmen up the ladder into the plane.

“I’m deeply sorry,” I whispered to him. “He’s not himself. You’re very kind to give us a hop!”

“I know more than you think I do,” he murmured cagily. “…I know that kid’s Ralph’s son. He told me today. I knew his mom too. Whoa, she was a wild thing! I was luckier than ol’ Ralph, though. Ho-ho, I could’ve he could’ve been my son!”

Guiding me up the ladder, he added with a snicker, “Mums the word!”

“Request permission to come aboard?” I beamed at him.

“There’s the spirit!” he saluted. “I’ll show you were to sit.”

Perhaps it was because of my spirit that Happy gave me the best seat on the plane: the nose cone—a window of latex used for observation. As I sat on a small, cushioned seat, the soles of my shoes rested on a bar, and I felt like I was suspended in space. Bernie, whose whereabouts on the plane I didn’t know, would have freaked if he were here. Hopefully, his Dramamine would take effect, and he would soon be asleep. I felt exhilarated in the nose cone and couldn’t wait to tell my friends at home about this experience. It was like a fantastic amusement ride. For hours, with but one restroom break, I sat in the seat of honor, as Happy called it. Though I never even had a chance to talk to the pilot and co-pilot or go on a tour of the rest of the plane, it was a singular event in my life.

When I exited the aircraft I was helped down the ladder by Happy. This time there wasn’t a trace of a smile on his chiseled face. His watery gray eyes locked on mine. His gravelly voice was stern. “Something ain’t right kid,” he said, guiding me by my elbow away from the plane. Already disembarked, standing forlornly between two men in suites wearing shades, was Bernie, weeping softly to himself. I knew that our moment of truth had come. I never saw Happy and the other crewmen again. From that point, after hearing one of the men grunt “Come with us!”, the nightmare Bernie and I dreaded began.

Next Chapter ~ Return to Contents~ Writer’s Den