The Fancy Dancer

could see a few things you don’t know yet.”
    I felt irritated. “You don’t want to show me any bar life,” I said. “You’re just itching to go to bars alone.”
    Vidal looked me in the eye. “Maybe,” he said.
    The next afternoon, between a house call and a hospital visit, I drove out to the little county airport.
    It was a single concrete strip, just long enough for a small plane to land on. It was sandwiched in between two alfalfa fields, with its magnetic compass heading 37 painted on the concrete at each end in huge white letters. The single small hangar, where a through plane could get repairs, was painted with the name mubchison flying service. The little office was prefab, with a counter, a desk, maps on the walls, a radio and a couple of sun-faded philodendron plants in the window. Dust and tumbleweeds blew across the strip, and the two planes tied down by the hangar moved their wings a little in the wind.
    “Sure, Father,” said Murchison. He was a husky rosy-cheeked man in his late twenties, with ragged brown hair down to his collar. “I’m flying to Missoula that week to have the annual checkup on the 170. From there you could pick up a flight to Denver with Bill Flavey. He’s a businessman, flies there two or three times a week. I’ve got Bill’s number, I’ll give him a call to make sure he’s got the seat free.”
    As I worked my way through the last few days before the conference, my stomach did tailspins every time I thought about Denver. Vidal was making some quiet arrangements of his own. The garage owed him some vacation, because he had worked some Sundays on police cars. He told them he wanted it to go visit his sister, and they said okay. He overhauled his bike for the long trip.
    On the last evening, Saturday, Murchison called me at the rectory. He said to be at the airport by nine in the morning.
    The next morning, I put on my social clothes, packed my little bag and said good-bye to Father Vance.
    “Where are you going to be staying?” he said.
    “I’ve got a couple of priest friends there. They’re putting me up.”
    For once, Father Vance didn’t demand the address and the telephone number. “Good,” he said. “Cheaper than a hotel. Are you sure you have enough for meals?”
    Father Vance stood at the rectory door as I climbed on the back of Vidal’s bike. Vidal was taking me to the airport.
    “Good-bye,” the old priest said. “God bless you.”
    A lump rose in my throat. I was saying good-bye to everything I had known as a priest so far—perhaps to everything I had known as a person.
    It was a hot, still August day. At the airport, Murchison already had the 170 untied. His skinny young wife leaned in the office doorway, wearing khaki pants.
    “You get airsick?” he asked me.
    “Not that I know of,” I said. “But I’ve got Drama-mine just in case.”
    The 170 was a four-seater, painted beige and pale green. Murchison threw my bag into the back seat, plus his own knapsack. As I climbed up into the front seat, Vidal was sitting on his bike over by the office. He just grinned and waved. When we had taken off, Vidal would drive back to his own house, tie his own knapsack on the bike, and hit the Interstate south for Denver. He would contact me there by calling that same phone number. I felt like I was going on some kind of undercover mission. James Bond would shoot me between the eyes and dump me out of the plane.
    I slammed the little door and fastened the seat belt. As casually as if he was starting a car, Murchison turned the ignition key, and the propeller coughed around.
    Murchison flicked on his radio, took his mike and called regional control in Missoula. “This is Zebra two-eight-three-nine-five at Cottonwood . . .” he said in that blah voice that pilots use.
    He waved at his wife. I waved at Vidal.
    The plane trundled lightly toward the end of the runway. That lump was sticking in my throat like a hunk of dry bread.
    As we roared over the giant white letters 37 and then lifted off, I could still see Vidal sitting on his bike down there.
    We went up dizzily over the alfalfa field, then the treetops of the Cottonwood cemetery. You could even make out the bare spot in the new lawns that was Missy Oldenberg’s grave. We climbed higher, passing a circling hawk. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw Cottonwood falling away behind us. On the little hill far back and below, the toy spires of St. Mary’s poked up through the toy trees.
    The