“No,” Irene said. “He drank before. But after Mama died, he couldn’t stop.”

Sam nodded. “So everything was up to you.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Well,” Sam said, stroking the cat on his shoulder, staring gravely at Irene, “I guess I don’t have to ask why you go out surfing in the morning.”

Then they were back in the hangar, readying the Jenny for her flight. Already people were arriving for the exhibition, people in their dozens, men and also women in their shingled hair and dark lipstick, small hats nearly worthless against the sun, but that was fashion for you. Sam explained about the engine and the controls, ailerons and elevators, throttle and rudder. “It’s an old plane now,” he said. “I’m saving up to buy something newer. Faster. Rofrano’s designed this bird with aluminum skin and a pair of six-hundred-horsepower engines. If I had that ship I could fly anywhere.”

“How much does it cost?”

“She, Irene. An airplane’s not an it.”

“But why female?”

“Aw, now. I’m not walking into that one, believe me. Let’s just say it’s because a pilot falls a little in love with his airplane, after a while.”

They had stopped working and stood facing each other. Sam propped one elbow on the edge of the cockpit. Sandy was inside, wandering dangerously near the rudder pedal.

“What if the pilot’s a she?” asked Irene.

“Now that’s a good question. I’ll have to ask around.”

“Do you get any around here? Women pilots?”

“Course we do. I’ve taught a dozen women how to fly.”

“Any good ones?”

“A few. If they stick with it. Just like anybody, man or woman. You have to keep flying. The only thing that keeps you alive up there is experience. At all cost, you have to fly.”

Irene turned to lean her elbows on the fuselage so she could stare into the cockpit, the simple controls, the wood that Sam kept spotlessly varnished. Sandy leapt into the seat and stretched her paws against the side.

“When did you learn to fly?” she asked.

“Ten years ago. No, eleven.”

“You mean the war?”

“Joined the Army Air Service in the summer of 1917. Then—well, I guess you know the rest.”

By now, Irene had turned on her elbow to face him. Their arms were inches apart on the edge of the cockpit. Irene thought he didn’t look at all like the press photographs, the newsreels, where he grinned at the camera like the handsome daredevil he was supposed to be. Now he looked serious. He looked grim, like he was looking back on this career of his, as an inspiration to American manhood, and didn’t like what he found there.

“I’m glad you survived, anyway,” Irene said.

“Yes.” He turned away and lifted Sandy from the pilot’s seat. “I’m damned lucky to be alive.”