Airplanes

On Richard's eighth birthday, his father gave him four model airplanes. Richard knew right away that the planes were special.

The first was a glider, with a wingspan as long as Richard's arm, and a sleek, streamlined body. It was feather-light, made to fly far. The second was a monster with swept-back wings spanning Richard's whole reach. This, Richard decided, was a bomber. The third plane was a fighter with delta wings and a spiked nose. Richard knew it would be great in dogfights. The fourth plane had a rubber band that powered a propeller. It had a landing gear that was always down. Richard called this his old-fashioned passenger plane.

Richard arranged the planes on his bed in takeoff formation. The glider was on the left, then the bomber, then the fighter, and finally, on the far right, was the old-fashioned passenger plane.

The wind blew through the open window, a summer breeze filled with sunshine and the chirping of birds and the sound of a distant lawn mower. But the window was no place for the first flights of airplanes like these! Richard took his planes and hiked up to the top of the hill behind his house.

He flew the glider first. Richard flung it out over the hillside, into the wind, toward the houses far below, and right at a flock of ducks. The ducks ignored the plane, and then it banked and went into a dive. It disappeared around the side of the hill. Richard was sure it was lost.

He got the bomber ready. He flung it along the glider's path. It flew toward a second flock of ducks. This time the birds scattered, and Richard clapped and cheered. But then the bomber, too, banked down around the hill behind the oaks whose leaves were turned silver-side-out as the wind brushed them, whispering rumors of rain.

The fighter plane was next. It shot into the southerly breeze with blinding speed. Then it banked and swooped and, just as if it were a kamikaze plane, zoomed to its unseen target.

Richard had lost three of his planes, and the old-fashioned passenger airliner was the only one left. For a moment he wanted to keep it, never fly it, and set it on his dresser where it would be safe. But he knew what his father would say: "Planes were meant for flying." So Richard wound up the propeller, twisting the rubber band until it was knotted twice over. He set the fat plane on the ground and aimed it into the wind. Then he let it go.

It took off like a big plane. It trundled along the ground and then rose smoothly into the air, sunlight sparkling on its wings. It flew out over the hillside and high above the city. Then it turned back and circled over Richard's head, dipping a wing in salute. It turned again and headed over the valley, over the town, until it was so far away that it was a speck against the clouds. It looked like a real airplane out there, miles away. But finally its power ran out as the rubber band unwound. The old-fashioned passenger plane banked, and then it, too, was lost in the trees on the side of the hill.

Tears came to Richard's eyes, but he was too old to cry.

"Well," he thought to the planes, imagining that they were telepathic, "you were meant for flying. But how can I fly you again if you're lost? Maybe somebody'll find you."

Richard hiked down the old horse path and looked at the darkening sky, hoping that his planes would come swooping down. But there were only towering, glowering clouds. He looked at the trees, hoping to see one of the planes stuck in a branch, but there were only leaves, with their silvery sides out, awaiting the storm.

When Richard came near his house, he saw his best friend Kurt.

"See any model airplanes around here?" asked Richard.

"Nope," said Kurt.

"I just lost four."

"Four?"

"Yeah. Dad bought them for me. It's my birthday."

"My dad bought me one, a really hu-u-uge one," Kurt said, spreading his arms, "for me last year. Lost it the first time I flew it. Right on this hill. I found it the next day."

"Where?" asked Richard.

"In my room."

"Well," said Richard, "See ya around."

"Yeah. See ya," said Kurt.

Richard jumped off the stone retaining wall in the back yard, down which rainwater would soon rush. Thunder boomed like a kettledrum. Maybe the wind would blow the planes into the yard. Richard walked around to the front of the house. His dad was sweeping the driveway.

"Hi, Dad," said Richard.

"Hi, Son. What's up?"

"I lost my planes."

"Oh?"

"All four of them. On the first flight!" said Richard.

"They'll turn up," said Richard's dad.

"I doubt it."

"Well, Son, planes were meant for flying. Were they fun?"

"Oh, yes! You should've seen how they swooped and circled and banked."

"Then you enjoyed them?"

"Yes," said Richard.

"Airplanes always have a place to go," said Richard's dad, with a smile.

"I was just flying them any old place," said Richard.

"But these are special planes. They have pilots. Pilots know where to land."

"I'm too old for fairy tales, Dad."

"No one is too old for faith," said Richard's father.

Richard walked into the garage, where the cars were parked, smelling of oil and rubber. He saw the deep freeze and opened it for a moment, and a little bit of winter came out. Then he went into the house which was filled with the aroma of beef stew, up the stairs, and down the hall to his room.

A gust of wind blew in the open window. The air smelled green and wet and electric. Spinachy tree limbs tossed, a last-minute rehearsal for the wild dance they were about to perform for the goddess of summer. Richard turned to his bed.

There, in takeoff formation, were the four airplanes, in perfect working order, pilots and copilots ready to ride the hurricane.

Copyright 1998, 1999 by Francisco Carrera.