Free On Wings Of The Morning by Marie Bostwick Page B

sorry, Mama. Maybe I should have talked to you first, but I guess I didn’t want to risk you trying to talk me out of it. All my friends joined up, too. Almost everybody I know. Probably half the guys from my dorm are catching hell from their mothers right this second for joining up without asking permission,” I smiled, trying to move past the moment by making a joke of it, but Mama wasn’t buying.
    â€œWatch your language,” she responded automatically.
    â€œSorry.” I waited for her to say it was all right, but she just stood there, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read.
    â€œMama, I’m a good pilot. Mr. Wicker, my instructor, said I fly like I was born to it. I’m going to be all right. I promise.”
    Mama bit her lower lip and nodded. She blinked a couple of times, and I told myself it was just the cold prairie wind that was making her eyes tear up, but I reached out and wrapped my arms around her anyway and hugged her tight as I could. When I let go she sniffed and gave me a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes.
    â€œLet’s go home. There’s a good fire in the stove, and Ruby baked you a pie. Grandma can’t wait to see you. Is the plane tied down?” I nodded. “Good.”
    She reached down as if to pick up my grip, but I grabbed it. “I’ll carry my own bag, thanks. Do you want me to drive?”
    â€œAre you sure? Aren’t you tired after such a long trip?”
    â€œNaw. Besides, I’m starving. You drive so slow, Mama, it’ll be morning before I get a piece of Ruby’s pie,” I teased. “Give me the wheel and I’ll have you home in no time. I am a highly motivated individual.” Mama smiled, but just a little.
    â€œNot too fast,” she cautioned as she handed me the car keys. “I finally had Mr. Cheevers hammer out that dent you put in the bumper two summers ago. No point in putting another one in its place.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Mama. I told you, I’m a good pilot. Make that a great one!” I threw my bag in the trunk and then ran around the car to open Mama’s door. She got in, and I was about to shut the door when she reached out, closing her hand over mine.
    â€œMorgan,” she said softly. “You’re doing the right thing. I’m proud of you.”
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    We didn’t talk about my leaving again. Everyone seemed determined to enjoy the holiday and refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room, my imminent departure. But every now and then when I would look up quickly, I’d catch a glimpse of Mama’s face before she had a chance to replace her mask of composure, and I’d read worry in her eyes. Just a few days before, I’d felt invincible, heroic, and absolutely certain of my victorious and rapid return from the field of battle, but the look in Mama’s eyes started to rub against my bravado, making it just a little thinner and more brittle. I started to worry a little, too, not about myself so much, but about what would happen to Mama, Grandma, and Ruby if something happened to me. Since Papaw had died, I’d always considered myself the man of the family, responsible for the well-being of these three women who had raised me and cared for me since before I could remember. The weight of responsibility hung on me, and the look on Mama’s face in unguarded moments drove me to activity.
    I worked as fast as I could to make sure everything on the farm was in perfect repair. I tuned up the tractor, then mucked out the barn, replaced the rotted floorboards on the front porch, put a new blade on the windmill in place of the old one that had split, cleaned out the root cellar, put a new door on the storm cellar and made sure the latches were secure, and split a mountain of logs. Late on Christmas afternoon, the day before I was to leave, I went up on the roof to replace a bunch of shingles that had been pulled loose by the