A Happy Landing by Sharon Frayne

Hank drove his pickup and trailer into the hot-air balloon launching area on the outskirts of Santa Fe and cursed at an unseen stranger. “Damn tourist. Right where I want to set up. Same stupid thing every day. Can’t that idiot read?”

He yanked his steering wheel to avoid a grey sedan with foreign license plates parked beside the NO PARKING sign. The truck tires spat pellets of gravel when he slammed on the brakes and halted behind the offending vehicle. A cigarette butt dropped on the dirt as his lanky frame eased out of the cab. He stubbed it with the tip of his cowboy boot. Hidden by his open door, he knelt down, grabbed a handful of stones and slipped them into his pants’ pocket.

“Maybe this’ll be the day. If things work out . . . I’ll quit. Live my own dream.” When he straightened up, a woman with bright auburn hair, dressed in black, stepped out of the sedan.

He jumped in his cab, honked the horn and hollered, “Lady, move your vehicle!”

The red-head put her hands on her hips. “I paid good money and can park wherever I want. This so-called parking lot’s a minefield. You need more gravel to fill those potholes.”

Hank closed his eyes and counted to ten like his therapist had recommended. When he looked up, she was still there, chin up and defiant.

“Okay, fine…”

Spinning the wheel, he drove his rig down the grassy field away from the other ballooners setting up for the float over the Rio Grande River. He hated starting the day with an argument and tried to forget the incident. She was a feisty one, though. That red hair.

When he reached an open space, the ground crew waved him over to park. He lifted his three-person wicker basket out of the trailer, set up the tanks, and stretched his balloon to its full 100 ft. length.

Most tour baskets could hold a dozen passengers, but his was small. The cozy version, he told his riders. Usually, they were folks crossing off a dream on their bucket list. Often, they were honeymooners. When the love-struck idiots cooed and gushed, he kept his eyes on the equipment. Who wanted to feel like the third person in the bed?

Perhaps the smell of burning propane gas affected his riders’ libido. Last week one couple asked if he’d take them a mile high.

“Nope,” he’d said in a slow drawl. “We go up about 1000 feet, depending on wind, and follow currents along the river. In an hour we’ll put down in a field close to my old homestead.” He didn’t add that his ex had kicked him out of the house a year back. He liked to keep things private. No sense sharing personal business with day trippers who disappeared after the ride.

At the setup area, the ground crew used fans to blow hot air into his egg-shaped nylon balloon. Hank climbed inside the wicker basket, and lit the propane burner to finish the filling process. After inflation, his airship stood tall, swaying in the breeze. It was checkered yellow and blue, with red lettering that said - Grand Slam Ballooning.

While waiting for his customers to arrive, he checked his voice mail. Someone with a foreign accent had left a garbled message.

He was expecting passengers Frank and G. Delta. Likely another doe-eyed couple. He spat on the ground. Where the hell were they? His website instructions told people to check in thirty minutes early. Only ten minutes remained for perfect take-off conditions. He buttoned his jean jacket, donned leather gloves, and inspected the ropes and tanks.

“Mr. Norun?” Behind him, a familiar voice called. His stomach twisted. It was the obnoxious red-haired woman from the parking lot. Clutched under her arm, she carried a metal cage containing something bright red and orange.

“Are you G. Delta? Where’s Frank? Is he ready?”

She lifted up the cage. “It’s Gina. And Franca’s right here.”

Hank shook his head. “That’s a chicken.” He closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Ma’am, this ride’s licensed for people. You can’t bring that along.”

“I’m entitled to my rights. Look here!”

Gina turned the cage. The chicken wore a knitted red sweater with white capital letters. Emotional Support.

Hank shuddered. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Okay, Ma’am. Pass it to me and I’ll put it inside. Step up the stairs into the basket.” He held out a hand for the birdcage and offered his other to her.

Gina waved him away. “I don’t need any help.” The chicken cocked its head and gave Hank the evil eye.

“Okay, fine . . .” He spat on the ground and let her climb in.

Around them, Hank watched the other balloon operators lift from the launch zone. They were the colours of the rainbow, dotted with bright advertising slogans. Like magical soap bubbles, they filled the clean morning sky. It was almost holy. He’d seen it many times, and it always made him weak in the knees.

The ground crew released their ropes, and the Grand Slam started to rise. Gina gasped and grabbed the padded edge of the basket. Hank ignored her and concentrated on the burners while orally reviewing his standard safety lecture.

When he finished, she rolled her eyes. “That’s all perfectly obvious. I’m not a child.”

“Ma’am, I respect your rights and want you to enjoy the trip. But I’m the pilot. In here, you follow my rules.”

Gina turned and stared down at the water on the meandering river below. At takeoff, they were close enough to see the ripples, then everything shrank and details disappeared. As they rose higher and higher, Franca shuffled and clucked. She squatted, clucked five times, then laid an egg.

It was the size of a golf ball.

“Good girl.” Gina groped inside the birdcage. Franca didn’t move. “Damn, her clothes have snagged on a wire.” With gentle fingers, Gina removed the hen’s sweater. Franca hopped out the cage door, then spread her wings.

The egg rolled free.

Gina grabbed it, then turned to Hank. “Hold this!”

Hank removed his gloves. Gina’s hands trembled as she passed the egg over, and their fingertips touched. He cradled the pearly white orb in his palm.

It felt smooth and warm.

Franca flopped around the basket, and Gina stumbled behind her.

“Lady, don’t run! Let the bird be.”

Franca pooped on Hank’s boot, then fluttered up and perched on the basket edge.

Gina flapped her arms. “Get back in your cage!” Franca ruffled her feathers and edged away.

Hank raised his voice. “Lady, chickens don’t like to be yelled at.”

Gina stopped. He was right. Nothing she could do. She took a deep breath and gazed at the world unfolding outside the balloon. In the distance, the snow-capped dusty blue mountain peaks; overhead, white clouds collected; below, sunlight sparkled like diamonds on the river. Her tensions eased.

Hank gazed over her shoulder. As the outside expanded, the space inside the balloon shrank.

Fifty minutes later, the Grand Slam’s shadow crossed over Hank’s former homestead. With one hand, he held the egg; and with the other, he held the lines. The balloon paused, then slowly lowered. Ground details sharpened. A barn, a house, a motorcycle, a pile of discarded clothes. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed, jaw tensed. Directly below them, floating in his old swimming pool, his near-naked ex and her new honey cuddled on an air mattress.

Hank raised his arm and hurled Franca’s egg. It arched high, curved, and then made a bee-line for the lovebirds. Like a tiny bomb, the egg exploded against their pillow. Shell and slimy goo splattered over the hapless couple. They screamed and dumped into the water.

With a burst of flame and a whoosh, the Grand Slam flew away.

Hank bent double with laughter. “Finally!” Then he turned to Gina. “The egg! Dammit, I’m sorry…” He took a step backwards and held his hands up. “I was grandstanding. . . but she cheated. Broke my heart. Wrecked my life. The divorce took every damn thing I owned—except my business.”

Gina’s mouth dropped. Her eyes were wide and shining. “That throw was incredible! I’ve never seen anything like that.”

He blushed, then patted the pocket where the stones were hidden. “I’ve pitched that target many times. That’s the first time I ever hit it.” He took a breath. “I used to play semi-pro ball.”

“Seriously?” Her eyes widened. “Wow. I love baseball.”

“Got scouted for the Jays. Spent time in Dunedin. Gave it up looking after my sick mother. Never got the chance again.” He shuffled closer. “What’s your story, Gina?”

“I’m a teacher. From a little place in Canada called Welland. Heard of it?”

Hank looked blank. “Nope.”

“There’s a famous canal…”

“Ahh.” He stroked his moustache. “Of course. It’s on my bucket list. Maybe I’ll come see it—soon.”

“This trip was my dream.” Tears filled her eyes. “But I caught my husband in bed—,” her voice broke, “with someone else. Today’s our anniversary.”

Hank leaned closer to hear her soft words.

“After the divorce, I fell apart. Then I found Franca. She’s good company. At night, I make her a cozy nest in bed beside me.”

He covered his laughter with a cough.

“She’s got a cute little peep. There’s no rooster, yet every day she lays an egg on the pillow!”

“They’re not fertilized, though.” Hank winked. “Peep!”

There was sudden turbulence, and the basket tilted. Gina stumbled, and Hank caught her in his arms. Franca hopped onto the basket edge and stretched her wings. A breeze ruffled her feathers, and she stretched her neck.

Gina gasped. “Franca… don’t jump!”

Franca hesitated, then launched into the air. For a moment, she looked like a child’s balloon, rising and floating away. Gina broke free of Hank wailing, “Franca… come back!”

Franca didn’t look back.

The only noise inside the Grand Slam was the whoosh-whoosh of the flaming propane and Gina’s sobs. Hank concentrated on the gauges while Gina watched the hen soar away.

Farmland stretched below. Their shadow drifted over fields of hay and long-horned cattle.

“Chickens can’t fly far.” Gina grabbed Hank’s hand and pointed. “Look . . . she’s landed.”

Together, they watched Franca settle on the upper branches of a pine tree. Hank patted Gina’s hand. “She’s happier now, outta that cage. Living the dream.”

Lower lip trembling, Gina nodded. “But . . . I loved her.”

He put an arm around her waist. “She’ll be okay. You will be, too.”

She leaned against his chest.

He gave her a shoulder a quick squeeze and whispered, “We’re almost at our landing spot. It’s all prepared. Hold the side of the basket and lean out.”

The Grand Slam hovered above a white canvas tent in a meadow three hundred feet below. The balloon gushed and exhaled heat, then they dropped like a stone.

Gina screamed while Hank yanked on the lines.

The bottom of the basket brushed the upper leaves of a tree. As branches bent and snapped, the basket shuddered and spun. The gas smell made their heads whirl.

Gina’s knees buckled. “I’m scared! What’s gonna happen?”

“You’ll help us land safe.” Hank pulled the parachute valve. As hot air escaped out the vents, the Grand Slam slowed its descent.

She braced against a wicker side. The basket tipped, bumped into sage bushes, dragged along the grass, and skidded to a bumpy stop.

Grinning, Gina threw her arms around him. “Hallelujah! Hank, we did it!”

They scrambled onto the field. Hank dumped the gravel from his pocket, then stepped into the tent. He returned with two glasses and an iced bottle of champagne. There was a fizzing sound as he poured. Tiny, silvery bubbles spiraled upwards and danced on the surface. He grinned and clinked her glass.

“Happy landing, Gina.”

“You bet.” She smiled and kissed his cheek.