What initially catches the crowd’s attention is its altitude. It seems to be flying unusually low. But what really gets them buzzing is the flight path. Although the plane is still at least a mile away, it is starting to look like the damn thing is going to fly directly over Remington Field. Then it banks to the west (to your left if you are sitting in the stands).
“There’s a banner!” someone shouts.
And sure enough, there is a banner. When the biplane first appeared on the horizon, flying head-on toward the stands, the banner was hidden from view. But now you can see its red letters on a gold background. Too far away to read, though, and getting farther by the second. A wave of disappointment passes through the crowd. Probably some car dealer hired it to fly an advertisement around western Massachusetts, like the one last Sunday:
MACKLIND FORD—BEST DEAL AROUND!
Just as the crowd starts to lose interest, just as several generations of sons and daughters of Barrett begin to shift their attention to the next speaker at the podium, the biplane veers sharply around.
Whoa!
It’s now heading due south, directly toward the field. All eyes in the stands—and all cameras and videocams on the cinder track—lift toward the left to follow the plane.
The banner becomes legible.
“Oh my God!” someone shouts.
Others join in. And then everyone—in the stands, on the field, on the dais—is standing. Down on the cinder track, the cameras are clicking away and the videocam crews are tracking the plane’s flight.
The plane comes in low, passing over the goalposts and down the middle of the football field in front of the stands, barely a hundred feet above the grass, its engine whining. The bold red words on the bright gold banner are visible to all:
WELCOME HOME, SIRENA!
Good Lord!
Holy shit!
People cheer and clap and stomp and whistle and shout as the biplane zooms past. It banks east as it passes over the goalposts and climbs into the sky in a wide arc, heading back north for another flyby.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” a voice booms over the loudspeakers—a new voice. “LOYAL SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF BARRETT!”
All eyes shift from the biplane to the dais.
The speaker stands at the podium. He is a tall man with brown hair. Next to him is a shorter, stockier fellow. Both are wearing bright-colored sports jackets—the speaker’s is kelly green, his sidekick’s a canary yellow.
The speaker removes the microphone from its holder and walks toward the front of the dais.
“My name is Frank Burke,” he says. “This is Reggie Pelham. We are loyal members of the Class of Seventy-four.”
A proud roar goes up from a section of the crowd behind the Class of ’74 banner.
“Reggie!” someone shouts.
“Yo, Frank!”
On the cinder track in front of the dais, the photographers snap away and the videocam operators jostle for position.
Frank gestures toward the approaching biplane.
“On behalf of the distinguished members of the great Class of Nineteen Seventy-four, please join us in a special salute to…THE LONG LOST GODDESS OF BARRETT!”
The crowd shouts and cheers as the plane does another flyby, this time just fifty feet above the football field, its engine roaring.
Microphone in hand, Frank strolls across the dais, the cameras and videocams tracking his movements.
“Thirty-five years ago she vanished,” he says, clearly relishing this moment in the spotlight. “For thirty-five years we’ve wondered if she’d left us for good. For thirty-five years we’ve wondered if we’d ever see her again. But during all those lonely years, during those decades of separation, we knew in our hearts that she was still our goddess. Ours and no one else’s. Well, my friends”—he pauses with a big grin, allowing the shouts and whistles and cheers to build again—“Reggie and I are pleased to announce that thirty-five years of separation IS ABOUT TO COME TO AN END!”
The crowd roars.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, loyal sons and daughters of Barrett”—he turns toward the field as the biplane approaches—“Today marks a special birthday. Our beautiful Sirena turns one hundred today. And guess what? SHE’S COME HOME TO PARTY!”
The crowd explodes with cheers and whistles.
Frank replaces the microphone in its holder and jumps down from the dais to join Reggie on the grass. He gestures toward three men in overalls who had stepped out on the cinder track while he was addressing the crowd. One of the men is rolling a dolly.
Frank and Reggie stride onto the football field, followed by the photographers and videocam operators and reporters.
What happens next will play as one long tracking shot that night on CNN, Fox News, and NBC Nightly News:
The plane comes in low over the north goalposts. It touches down at the fifteen-yard line and taxies to a stop at mid-field, the engine still running, the propeller a blur.
Frank steps forward and, with a flourish, yanks open the cargo door. He moves aside to give everyone in the stands—and every photographer and cameraman on the field—an unobstructed view of the tall metal container inside.
The three men in overalls move through the crowd of journalists to the plane, slide the container out of the cargo hold, and lower it onto the dolly. Frank and Reggie lead the way back to the dais as the workers roll the dolly across the field, the press trailing behind. The cheering of the crowd grows louder as they approach.
Meanwhile, the biplane turns and taxies back to the north end zone. Then it turns around to face the field, its engine revving high, and starts rolling forward, bouncing along the grass as it picks up speed. Just as the three men in overalls lift the container onto the dais, the biplane takes off and banks west, ignored by the crowd.
All eyes are now on the dais. No one notices the beige cargo van that has pulled to the edge of the end zone on the north side of the football field.
Frank and Reggie climb onto the dais. They stand on either side of the strongbox, waving at the cheering spectators, posing for pictures. As the applause continues, Reggie removes the key from his pocket and opens the lock on the large container. Then he slips the lock off and, with a dramatic flair, tosses it to the ground. The crowd roars.
Frank has the microphone again.
“It’s Sirena’s 100th birthday, people. Join us in a stirring round of Happy Birthday.”
Frank pauses, raises his hand like a conductor, and starts them off:
“Happy birthday to you—”
Reggie opens the latch as the crowd joins in the song—
“—HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU—”
Reggie looks up at Frank, who winks and gives him the thumbs-up sign.
“—HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR SIRENA—”
Reggie yanks open the door with a flamboyant pirouette that ends with him stepping back to allow the workmen to slide her out—
“—HAPPY birth—”
The chorus dwindles into silence, except for a few children’s voices that continue on for another measure or so before stopping.
It is a stunned silence.
An eerie, incredulous silence, the hush broken only by the whirs and snaps of the cameras.
From somewhere in the crowd comes the cry, “You sick bastards!”
Frank turns toward the open container.
At least a dozen photographers catch that moment, including both of the ones on assignment from People. The best of those shots will be featured in the cover story with the following tag line: “Unveiling the Groucho Madonna.”
For there, inside the container, sits not the legendary Sirena but a concrete Madonna. Not the singer but the mother of Jesus. Yes, one of those tacky lawn-ornament Madonnas. And no ordinary tacky lawn ornament, either. Oh, no. This concrete Madonna is wearing a Groucho Marx mask
—that plastic eyeglass-nose-mustache contraption. She is also wearing a rigid cone-shaped black brassiere straight out of a 1950s porno flick. The center of each brassiere cup is cut out, exposing concrete nipples painted cherry red.
As the writer for Vanity Fair would later observe, “All that was missing from the bizarre tableau was a lawn jockey in a leather jockstrap and matching whip.”
Chapter Forty-nine
“Now,” Ray said.
Lou shifted into Drive and eased the cargo van forward onto the end zone and then the playing field. Boos and catcalls were still pouring down from the stands. No one had yet noticed the van.
As they passed the twenty-yard line, Gordie reached over to honk the horn. He kept his hand on the horn as Lou drove toward midfield.
“Who’s that?” someone in the stands called out.
“Who are those guys?”
“Oh, Jesus, now what?”
“Are they drunk?”
When the van reached the midfield stripe, Lou turned it toward the stands and drove slowly down the center aisle between the rows of seated dignitaries, past the dais, and out onto the cinder track as the reporters and photographers moved aside. He swung the van all the way around and pulled it up, stopping with the front bumper almost touching the dais, just to the left of the Groucho Madonna. The rear of the van faced the crowd, which by now was murmuring and buzzing with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion.
Just what in the hell is going on now?
Lou put the transmission in Park, turned off the engine, and got out on the driver’s side. Gordie got out on the front passenger side. Billy slid open the side door, stepped down, turned back to lift out the wheelchair, set it on the grass, and unfolded it. Then the three of them carried Ray out of the van and onto the wheelchair.
The crowd in the stands watched in puzzled, expectant silence.
Lou wheeled Ray over toward the dais. Gordie and Billy walked around to the rear of the van and took up positions side by side facing the stands. Lou climbed onto the dais, walked over to Frank Burke, and yanked the microphone out of his hand. Frank glared at him. Lou turned, went back to the edge of the platform, climbed down, and held the microphone toward Ray.
Ray shook his head. “You do it.”
“Take it,” Lou said. “This one is yours.”
Ray considered him for a moment and then smiled. He took the microphone and squinted at the crowd in the stands.
“Hi, folks,” he said. “Ray Gorman here. Class of ’74. These are my freshman roommates. This is Lou Solomon. That’s Gordie Cohen over there. And Billy McCormick. We call him Bronco.”
Lou scanned the crowd. He spotted Katie and Kenny. They were standing next to Brandi and waving. He grinned and nodded at them.
“Frank and Reggie put on quite a show, eh?” Ray said. He turned slightly to give them a wink.
Hisses and boos from the crowd.
Frank and Reggie were still up on the stage. Frank stared at Ray. Reggie’s eyes were down, as if he were looking for a trap door.
“Great bit, fellows.” The acid in Ray’s voice was detectible all the way to the top row of the stands.
Ray turned back to the crowd. “We don’t have an air show, folks but we’re still awfully glad to be here. You see—” he paused “—we found someone special on our trip to Barrett, and we decided to bring her home.”
Lou could feel the surge of excitement through the stands.
“Believe it or not,” Ray said, “we found her hanging out inside the scoreboard at Wrigley Field.” He shook his head. “Thirty-five years of Cubs games, poor thing. So we rescued her.”
Lou nodded at Gordie and Billy. Gordie unlatched one door and Billy unlatched the other. As the photographers and videocams moved into position, the two men flung open the doors, reached in to slide the statue to the edge of the open back, and turned toward the crowd.
It was a wonderful scene—so wonderful, in fact, that it made the front page of the next morning’s Boston Globe: Gordie and Billy flanking the famous statue, Lou and Ray to the side, all four men grinning, Sirena gazing into the distance.
As the applause and cheers continued and the cameras clicked and whirred, people started coming down out of the stands. First in singles, then in pairs, then in whole groups. They came down and walked over to the van to stare at Sirena. One of the first ones, an elderly man with a Class of ’27 ribbon attached to his straw boater, put out a hand and touched her. Behind him a line began to form, and within minutes it stretched past the end zone—young and old, men and women, patiently waiting for their chance to touch the Siren of Barrett.
Lou moved off to the side and watched the reporters and photographers surge toward Ray, shouting questions at him.
It’s Ray’s moment, he said to himself, and he was glad.
He searched the crowd for his children. Just as he spotted them coming down the stairs with Brandi, someone grabbed him roughly by the arm. He turned to find himself eye to eye with Frank Burke.
“You fucking bastard.”
Lou glanced down at his arm. “You want to take that hand off me?”
Frank’s face was flushed red with anger, the vein in his right temple throbbing. “Enjoy it while you can.”
Lou gazed at him calmly. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“You better believe it, asshole. You stole her.”
“No, Frank. You stole her. We just took her back.”
“You set us up, you cheating bastard.”
“Cheating? Remember what you told me yesterday, Frank? There’s no crying in baseball. Same with Sirena. Suck it up. Those are your words, Frank, not mine. Live by ’em, die by ’em.”
Frank shook his head. “You and your pals are going to pay big-time for this cheap trick. I’m going to find a lawyer and—”
“—Find one? You’re looking at one, Frank.”
Lou moved closer, their faces now less than a foot apart. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “If I were you, Frank, I’d say a prayer every night until the statute of limitations runs out on Gordie’s claims for assault and intentional infliction of emotional distress for what you had that hooker do to him. Trust me, Frank, if he ever gets you in front of a Cook County jury, they’ll shove your head so far up your ass that every time you fart your lips’ll quiver. Now get out of my sight.”
Lou turned to find his children.
“Hey, fuckhead!”
Lou turned just in time to see Frank’s punch coming. It was a big roundhouse swing, thrown with the sluggish windup of a man who’d never been in a fistfight in his life. Lou easily ducked the punch and came straight up with his right fist. The uppercut smashed into Frank’s chin, snapping back his head. His legs wobbled as he stared wide-eyed at Lou, trying to keep his head steady, his body listing to the right. Then his eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the grass.
There was a smattering of applause.
Some guy hollered “Way to go, dude!”
Lou looked down at his right hand. The knuckles were throbbing.
“Daddy!” Kenny shouted as he ran up. He hugged Lou around the stomach.
Katie was grinning as she approached. “Awesome, Dad.”
Chapter Fifty
Ray popped the tab on another beer. “All things considered, Reggie was cool about it.”
“Oh?” Lou said.
“After the TV guys cleared out, he came over and shook my hand. Told me it was a great bit.”
Gordie said “Even told me he was sorry about the motel scene.”
Ray took a sip of beer. “Maybe there’s hope for that preppy douche bag.”
“Don’t get mushy in your old age,” Lou said.
None of them wanted this moment to end. It was, at last, an isle of tranquility at the end of one of the wildest days of their lives. Following the Remington Fie
ld craziness was a seemingly endless round of interviews, and then it was off to Braxton Hall for Sirena’s official homecoming, where she would bide her time, surrounded by armed guards, until a state-of-the-art security system could be installed. After that, the four of them, along with Lou’s kids, Billy’s family, and Brandi Wine, had been guests of honor at a luncheon at the president’s mansion. Then a press conference, more interviews, and a late afternoon private meeting with Rocky the pilot and her boyfriend. From there it was off to the Class of ’74 reunion banquet under the tent. Throughout the dinner, classmates came over to pump their hands and slap them on the back. Neither Frank nor Reggie showed up. Then it was back to Remington Field for the sesquicentennial fireworks extravaganza.
An hour after the final rocket exploded, the four of them met in the lobby of the Barrett Inn. The original plan had been to have a few farewell rounds of beer in the bar, but a noisy function in the ballroom made conversation impossible, so they bought a bucket of iced Rolling Rocks from the bartender, went outside, grabbed three chairs off the back veranda, and carried them onto the lawn behind the inn. They arranged the chairs and Ray’s wheelchair in a semicircle facing the veranda, put the bucket of beer and two bowls of pretzels on the grass in the middle, and settled in.
That was an hour ago. It was now nearly eleven-thirty, and what had started as a raucous gathering of four former roommates had grown subdued. And a little melancholy. They knew that this was their last night together for a long, long time. Billy and family were flying back to Chicago in the morning, Gordie following at noon, and Ray and Brandi later that afternoon to San Diego. Although they promised to do it again real soon, they all knew that “soon” could mean twenty more years. Each had his own life, his own gravitational field.
They also knew that these had been ten days together that could never be duplicated. There wouldn’t be—couldn’t ever be—a sequel. Charles Lindbergh might dream of a second Atlantic crossing, Neil Armstrong a return to the moon—but you could never recapture the magic of that first time. If and when they came together again—maybe for their fortieth in 2014, assuming they were all still above ground by then—it would never be more than a reunion.
The Sirena Quest Page 24