Hopes and Schemes
part 1

TaleSpinand its characters are property of Disney. All other characters are mine and cannot be used without permission.

Riversidle, Californea
October 1936
Twilight

In the living room of a modest, white, two-story house located in the middle of a modest residential area in the growing metropolis of Riversidle, five-year-old Molly Cunningham was perched on the arm of the couch, turning the radio knob in an attempt to find her favorite program.

The little yellow bearess paused when she heard an announcer say, “...brought to you by Gloss-O-Matic. When your floor has lost that showroom sheen, buy...”

“...a new romantic, dramatic, comedic, action-packed cinematic epic starring Kitten Kaboodle as...”

“...Broadcast Sally,” said a velvety voiced woman, “playing all your favorites on this beautifulWednesday evening. Next up is Rosebeary Clooney singing...”

“...bottom of the 7th of the Series,” a deep voice said. “Sox leading the Pirates 3-1. Two men out. Grover Bearenson at bat. There’s the windup, the pitch and...” Crack! “It’s...”

“...Faster than a speeding airship. More powerful than a turbine. Able to leap city blocks in a single bound. It’s Danger Woman!”

“Yay!” Molly shouted. With an excited bounce that caused her red blanket ‘cape’ to flap, she settled herself on the couch, rescued her colander ‘helmet’ from sliding off her head, and picked up Lucy, her favorite doll.

“In this week’s episode,” the announcer continued, “Danger Woman encounters the evil Dr. Nematoda whose dirty schemes bury the city in grime. Can our heroine worm her way out of this one? But first, these messages...”

“Molly, turn it down!” Rebecca Cunningham shouted from the next room. “Mommy can’t hear herself think.”

“Aw...” Molly grumbled, but complied. Since a commercial was still playing, she said to Lucy, “I’m counting on you to tell me when Danger Womancomes back on, trusty sidekick.” She saluted her doll, hopped off the couch, and skipped into the den where her mother was sitting at her desk. “Nowcan you hear yourself think?” she asked with childish candor.

“Yes, Pumpkin.” Rebecca’s smile dissolved into a sigh as she swivelled in her chair, turning her attention back to the bank statement in her hand. “Almost $20,000 saved, and if we sell the house...”

Tears threatened to veil her large brown eyes at the thought of parting with the home she had come to as a bride. For a while, her gaze lingered on a framed photograph of her deceased husband that was sitting on the corner of her desk. Then, she swivelled in her chair to look around the comfortable den. Opposite her was her husband’s desk, which was identical to hers. There once was a time when his cluttered desktop had driven her to distraction, but now it was empty, devoid of even a single piece of paper. One by one, she looked at all of the pictures that she and her husband had hung together, at their framed MBA diplomas, at all of the mementos that they had accrued over the years. Even the smallest thing held a special memory. Finally, she turned back to her desk and looked past the lacy curtains to the trailing trumpet vine clinging to the trellis beside the window. The hummingbirds that were sipping from the delicate pink flowers were so close that if she opened the window, she could have touched them. Beyond that was the radiant sunset flooding the world in its yellow and orange beauty.

“Is everything okay, Mom?” Molly whispered, perceptive beyond her tender age.

“Yes, honey,” the petite brown bearess said, rousing herself from her bittersweet reverie. She scooped up her daughter, gave her a warm hug, and set her on her lap. “Where was I? Oh, yes. If we sell the house, we’ll have...” she punched the keys on the adding machine, “over $50,000.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?” Molly cried, twisting around to look up at her mother’s face. “We could buy lots of Frosty Pep with that.”

“Or a business, which is what we’re going to do. Won’t that be fun, having our own business?”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Rebecca’s eyes fell on the neat mountain of books, maps, and magazines on her desk. On the topmost magazine, a tiger’s visage - handsome, strong, with a hint of arrogant complacency - was framed with the caption: Shere Khan Named Fortune 5000's Wealthiest Man for the Ninth Consecutive Year.She had looked through them countless times, but nothing had appealed to her. The ideas in them all seemed so mundane. She wanted to have a business that was new, exciting, and would make a big profit in a small amount of time.

“I know!” Molly exclaimed. “How about an ice cream stand?”

Rebecca chuckled. “I was thinking of something a little bigger than an ice cream stand.” She returned to examining the bank statements.

“Okay. Then how about an ice cream factory?”

“No, and you’re not getting any more ice cream today, young lady.”

Molly was disappointed, but she knew not to press her luck when her mother spoke in that stern tone. She crawled on top of the desk and started to rifle through the books and magazines haphazardly. Suddenly, she said, “Can we buy an airplane?”

“An airplane?” Rebecca exclaimed, her hand suspended in mid-air over the adding machine.

“Yeah! It’d be fun to have an airplane and fly wherever we wanted to,” Molly said, holding up a Fortune 5000with a sleek silver airplane streaking across the front.

“Speaking of going places, you need to get your bath and get ready for bed, young lady.”

“Aw, Mom, but Danger Woman’sstill on.”

“Okay. After Danger Woman,” she said, kissing her daughter on the cheek.

After Molly had scrambled down from the desk and had skipped into the living room, Rebecca picked up the magazine that the little girl had dropped on the floor. The caption on the front read: Air Cargo - Fab or Fad? She had never considered the air cargo business before...

Meanwhile..
Baloo’s Air Service
Cape Suzette

Fifty miles southwest of Riversidle, on the outskirts of the coastal city of Cape Suzette, a houseboat constructed of mismatched airplane parts was moored to the dock near a rundown lighthouse-like structure that served as both the office and living quarters of the proprietor of Baloo’s Air Service.

Inside the small houseboat, a wiry lion wearing grease-spattered overalls and an orange visor was fiddling with a radio that had seen better days. The tip of his tongue protruded from his mouth in concentration as he turned the radio’s knobs. However, he couldn’t get it to make a sound.

“What’s wrong with you, Gladys?” the lion wondered, wiggling a wire gently. “Cat got your transistor?”

After checking every wire and connection, the mechanic got the biggest hammer out of his toolbox. He considered the radio for a while, then gave it a good whack on the top of its worn wooden cabinet. With a snap, crackle and loud pop, an announcer said, “...top of the 8th in the Series. Sox still leading the Pirates 4-1...”

“Wildcat! Hey, Wildcat, where are ya?”

The lion mechanic put his ear to the radio’s speaker. “I didn’t know Baloo was on the radio. You never tell me anything, Gladys.”

A big grey bear in a faded yellow button-down shirt and red pilot’s cap bellowed, “Wildcat!” as he poked his head in the doorway. Seeing the very person he was searching for, he lowered his voice. “Oh, there ya are.”

“How’d you get out of the radio and all the way across the room without me seeing you, Baloo?” the mechanic wondered.

“Huh?” Baloo scratched his head. “Aw, never mind.” Deciphering Wildcat’s convoluted thought processes would take too much time and energy. “I’m headin’ to Louie’s to grab some grub, an’ wanted to know if...” Hearing someone else speaking besides him, he turned towards the radio. “Whatcha listenin’ to?”

“The Series. The Sox are beating the pants off of the Pirates. At least that’s what Gladys tells...”

Baloo interrupted impatiently. “So, are you gonna come with me or not?”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay here, listen to the game, and make jellybean omelets. They’re my favoritebrain food.”

“Then you’d better eat lots of ‘em. You need all the help you can get,” Baloo said derisively.

“Oh, hey, Baloo, I just remembered. I, like, don’t have any jellybeans or eggs, ‘cause I, like, don’t have any money.”

“When’s the last time I paid ya?” the pilot asked, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully.

“Um...four weeks ago or last month. I can’t remember which.”

Baloo tossed Wildcat a couple of dollars and some coins. “There ya go, pal. That’s all I got on me. I’ll give ya some more when I fly my next job.”

“When will that be?”

“I dunno,” Baloo said with an unconcerned shrug as he turned to head to his seaplane, which was moored at the far end of the dock, beside the arching sign that said ‘Baloo’s Air Service’ in faded lettering. “Whenever Louie starts makin’ me pay dough every time I go.”

“Hey, Baloo!” Wildcat said, rushing to the door. “Before I almost forget again, the man from the bank called. Said he wanted to talk to you about something real important.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bankers always got somethin’ they think is real important to jaw about, but the Big Guy is tellin’ me that right now findin’ some food is more important.” The big bear patted his large stomach.

“All right, Baloo,” Wildcat said quietly with a shrug of his thin shoulders. Who was he to argue with his boss? After all, the Sea Duck wasn’t his plane. He just fixed it when it was ‘sick’. The mechanic stood in the doorway, watching the overweight pilot hurry down the dock and climb into the seaplane. As he listened to the twin Superflight 100 engines start up, a smile of satisfaction crossed his lean leonine features. “Fit as a banjo.” After the Sea Duck had vanished between the cliff opening, he