Fiction for a Midsummer’s Day

by Donna Poole

I had the strangest dream.

In my dream I was sitting in the front passenger seat of a 1948 red and white Stinson plane.

Maybe I dreamt that because Dad once had a 1948 Stinson. The plane would start only when someone spun the propellor. Dad took us up in it once, and my husband John felt a bit uneasy. He asked Dad what would happen if the plane stalled in the air; how would Dad start it again?

“That’s what a son-in-law is for,” Dad said. “You’ll get out and spin the prop.”

Then Dad laughed his crazy laugh I remember so well. Heh heh heh.

Dad loved flying his plane, but early one spring he discovered a robin had built a nest in the propellor. He didn’t fly until she had laid all her eggs and the babies had grown big enough to fly away on their own.

Dad wasn’t the pilot in my dream. A strange man was steering the plane.

“Who are you and where are you taking me?” I asked.

And then I woke up.

When I woke up, I was still in the plane. The strange man was still flying. I felt like I’d stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone, and I wanted out.

I glanced down; the airport was directly below us, and my panic started to subside a bit. Until the pilot banked, circled, and kept flying.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you land? That’s my life down there, and I’d like to get back to it. Now. If you don’t mind.”

The pilot smiled at me. He didn’t look threatening; he looked kind, even, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve seen kidnappers on the news who looked like altar boys.

“I asked what you’re doing!”

“Holding pattern.”

Two brief words; they made me uneasy, but not nearly as disturbed as what he said next.

“Don’t worry; you’re in good hands. Your dad thought I was the best pilot he ever knew. And he says to tell you hello.”

I’m trapped in a plane with a deranged pilot.

I tried not to upset him. “Umm, I don’t think my dad knew you when you were a pilot. He’s been in heaven for nineteen years, and you look barely thirty, so unless you got your license before you were even a teenager….”

He didn’t argue, just smiled. “That was just like your dad, wasn’t it, not flying his plane because he didn’t want to hurt the baby robins? He and I have that in common. I care about baby birds too.”

My mind froze. I couldn’t deal with this. I didn’t know how he knew that about my dad. Had it been in the newspapers? I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Right now mattered! Why was he keeping me captive in this plane?

“Look, if you’re trying to kidnap me, I should warn you most people in my family make barely enough money to stay above the national poverty level, and I don’t have any rich friends!”

The pilot threw back his head and shouted with laughter. “I’m not sure ‘kidnap’ is the correct term for someone who turned seventy-four years old yesterday. And you do have a rich friend. You have me.”

How does he know so much? He knows about Dad not flying until the baby robins grew up. He knows my birthday! Not only is he crazy; he must be some kind of psychic. I’ve got to somehow get out of this plane!

“I don’t know if you’re rich, but you aren’t my friend! I’ve never seen you before in my life!”

He looked at me with a peculiar expression. “Haven’t you now?”

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. Something about him did look familiar. But his vague answers both scared and irritated me.

“Do you always talk in riddles?”

“Sometimes.”

“Look!” My voice sounded loud in the tiny cockpit. “I want a real answer from you.  How long have we been in this holding pattern?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Two years, three months, eight days.”

“That’s not even funny!”

This time he looked at me with compassion. “I’m not joking.”

“That’s impossible! If I’ve been in this holding pattern that long, then I’ve missed….”

“Weddings and funerals of people you love. Church. Birthday parties, Your granddaughter’s college graduation. Visits with friends. Many sporting events and school programs, even seeing three grandchildren baptized. You’ve missed….”

I quit listening and tried to unfasten my harness, but it wouldn’t budge. I squirmed in desperation.

“You have to take me back! My family must be frantic with worry, wondering where I am!”

“They know exactly where you are.” His words were soft but so certain I almost believed him.

“Well, I don’t know where I am! Where am I?”

“I told you. In a holding pattern.”

“By whose orders?”

He tipped his head back and nodded up at the clouds.

You know how people talk about feeling an icy finger of fear crawl up their spines? I felt it. This man was delusional. I doubted I could talk him down, but I had to try.

“Surely you don’t think God told you to keep me in this holding pattern.”

He nodded. “God the Father. Yes. We’re keeping you safe up here. And here you’ll stay until you get better or worse.”

I tried a voice that had worked in the past on an out-of-control grandchild having a temper tantrum. Soft. But firm. Reasonable. But slightly patronizing.

“Sir. Please try to think straight and be sensible. We couldn’t possibly have been in a holding pattern for…how long did you say…two years? We would have run out of fuel.”

Again, he laughed. “Two years, three months, eight days. And yes, you have run out of fuel more than once, but this plane never has. Never will.”

I ran out of words. I sat there, tears running down my face, wanting to get back to my normal life but fearing I never would. Once again, I could see the airport just below me, right outside my window, but worlds away.

The pilot put a hand on my shoulder. “You could use this time to get to know me better. You’ve said for years you wanted to do that.”

I could barely speak through sobs. “I never said that. I don’t even know who you are.”

He took his hand from my shoulder, and turned it palm up. “I think you know me better than you think. This holding pattern can be beautiful if you’ll just ride along with me.”

I stared at the nail print in His hand. He nodded and showed me His other hand. It had a matching nail print.

“Am I still dreaming?” I asked.

A faint laugh, sounding farther and farther away. “Maybe. Will you just ride along with me?”

Just ride along with me. John knows I hate that sentence. He’s used it for years, whenever he thinks I’m questioning his driving decisions.

Just Ride along with me…ride along with me…ride along with me…

I shook John’s shoulder and interrupted his snoring.

“Honey, wake up. How long has it been since the doctors suspected I had cancer? How long have they restricted me from attending public events?”

“You want to know right now at two o’clock in the morning?”

“It’s important!”

Well, you found out near the end of May in 2020, and now it’s August 6, 2022, so I guess maybe it’s been…

He yawned.

I asked, “Could it be two years, three months, eight days?”

But he was snoring again.