by Edward Es
The flight crew, Eddie as Captain, Craig as copilot, sit dutifully in their positions, level at 39,000 feet, when a paper airplane flies through the open cockpit door, noses up and stalls out, landing on the throttle quadrant. Craig and Eddie look at it, then toward the door.
Angela, a curly-haired girl of four, dressed in a rainbow tutu with red tights, stands innocently at the cockpit door with her hands clenched before her. Behind her, the cabin is a madhouse, pillows flying and hysterical kids everywhere. The pilots look at each other, then Craig picks up the paper airplane and darts it over her head into the cabin. She bursts out a giggle and runs. One more look at each other and they resume their positions forward.
The town of Springdale rests peacefully at the entrance to Zion National Park, seeming smaller than it is by virtue of the grandeur looming on all sides. It’s an odd concoction of 50’s motels, tasteful cedar lodges, flickering neon, and carved stone facades. A grandfather rocks in front of the Bumbleberry Inn, patiently watching as his grandson, sporting an Indian feather headband and carrying a toy tomahawk, circles around his chair, tethering him to it with kite string. Tom crosses in front of them, jogging, wearing earphones and a cassette player clipped to his running shorts. He’s not wearing a shirt, his upper body glistening with perspiration. It’s a brisk morning, so he’s been at it for a while.
Moments later Sam appears, riding a bicycle. Because of his size, he looks like a circus bear in a sweat suit riding a unicycle. Zion sits in the wicker handlebar basket looking about as happy as Sam, who peddles under great strain. The sight of this stops the grandfather’s rocking as they watch Sam labor by and the boy throws his tomahawk, bouncing it off Sam’s back, something Sam doesn’t notice in light of his great hardship.
Tom sails effortlessly by the Park Ranger’s booth and the Ranger, wearing a jacket with a fur collar, calls out with a smile, “Morning, Thomas!” Tom doesn’t hear but raises a hand in salutation. Sam follows shortly after, grinding away, looking like he’s ready to give out.
“Morning, Sam!” Sam looks back, glaring at the smiling Ranger.
Farther down Highway 9, looking straight on, Tom gives the illusion of pulling Sam behind him. At this point Sam is wobbling side-to-side just trying to stay up, like a gyro about ready to tumble. As the two approach the curve in the highway that begins the steep climb up the switchbacks to the tunnel, Sam quits and nearly falls off his bike. Zion leaps out and turns back to look. “No way,” Sam coughs as he gulps for air.
Tom doesn’t hear and keeps right on going as Sam gives him a good riddance wave off, lets the bike drop to the ground and plops down next to it. He unsnaps a water bottle from the bike frame and squirts it in his face, looking up into the Sun and squinting. Zion sits a few feet away watching with catlike caution until Sam squirts the bottle at him, sending him trotting off behind his master.
Sam lays in the dirt, snoring, when Tom and Zion zoom by running downhill, rousting him into consciousness. It’s the second time in one day he’s been wakened against his will and when he realizes where he is, grabs a handful of dirt and throws it at them. “Tarnation! Out of one bad dream into another.” Still not quite all there, he picks up the bike and tries to get going, almost falling off the other side. Finally he’s back on and slowly builds speed, unaware or uninterested that shifting a couple of gears would help.
As Tom approaches the junction to the Narrows, Sam roars by with the momentum of a freight train and passes the junction, heading toward Springdale like a barn horse. This was wishful thinking, however, as Tom takes the turn. Sam cranes around and, seeing this, comes to a skidding halt. He lowers his head in frustration.
Angel’s Landing, a towering wedge of rock 1,500 feet high, is in the branch of Zion Canyon where cliffs come closer and closer, leading to the Narrows where they eventually merge. From the top of Angel’s Landing, the three are barely recognizable down on the road that follows the Virgin River in a tight loop around the Landing. Tom is well ahead with Zion a distant second and Sam far behind, reduced to walking the bike beside him.
A small park decorates the trailhead to the Narrows. Tom jogs through and continues down a paved path into the converging gorge, the canyon at this point a crack in the Earth. Vegetation is thick and every sound echoes off the wet, sheer faces on both sides. Zion appears, but is uncomfortable with continuing and jumps on a picnic table, licking and stretching his neck to see where Tom went. Finally Sam appears again, once more riding, gets off, and rests the bike against the table. He picks up the cat and scratches his neck as he looks over at the Pulpit, a pillar of rock that seems to have grown out of the ground, framed in the distance by a monumental cliff and its thin, misting waterfall.
Tom ducks under lowering tree limbs and zigzags along an ever-decreasing trail, occasionally climbing over a small mound or hopping across rocks to the other side of the river. He pulls a bush aside, slips into a clearing, and walks up a slope into a hollow in the rock wall. He sits on a flat spot and rests his forehead on his knees, catching his breath.
The sound of the Virgin River is loud compared to its size, amplified by the towering walls and omnidirectional. He looks straight up and contemplates the irregular cliff, angles and pockets where every few hundred years a wedge dislodges and crashes down in an explosion of shattering sandstone, an insignificant splinter in the evolution of the Narrows. Suddenly a red monarch flaps past his face and the sound of a small boy’s voice sends a chill up his spine.
“Father? Where are you?” cries the lost voice.
Through the bushes, he sees the flickering image of a blond boy from behind. Tom stands slowly.
Just then the figure of a man appears and takes the boy’s hand. “I’m right here, son.” As the father leads the child away, Tom lets out his breath. He sits back down, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. As he opens them, he sees the converging rims high above, an apex jutting from the bottom of a chasm. Perfectly placed in a slice of pale blue sky is a full, daytime Moon.
The commotion of frenzied travelers underneath acres of metal canopy that cover the cruise ship embarking area takes on the atmosphere of an open-air market. Moveable dividers organize stages of processing, each guiding a group of anxious cruisers through a checkpoint. Framed by the canopy at the pier’s edge is a portion of a ship, visible only as a wall of stark-white riveted iron, dotted with portholes.
At the far end of this embarking area a crowd has gathered, posturing to see over a five-foot barrier, further guarded by a line of security officers. A wide banner flaps in the breeze behind and over them, attached to the edge of the canopy near the ship. It displays in bright colors, “FIRST ANNUAL HOLMES LINE MYSTERY CRUISE- BON VOYAGE!” Next to it hangs a vertical banner, a reproduction of Isabel’s poster, titled: Special Appearances by Isabel Flore, Marcy Marxer, and Cathy Fink.
A stretch limo arrives and Isabel steps out, bathed in a flurry of reporters’ strobes. A burst of applause greets her, returned by as gracious a smile as her mood allows.
Nonna sits in her wheelchair at the edge of the pier smoking, drinking coffee from a paper cup, and looking down at the water. She sees Isabel, waves, and Isabel breaks the conversation she was having with a ship’s officer, walking toward her as if she were an oasis. She hugs Nonna tightly, then holds her at arm’s length.
“Oh, Nonna, I’m so glad to see you.” The look of joyous relief turns to loving disapproval when she sees the cigarette. “Shame on you!” Isabel takes it from her and throws it over the pier’s edge. Nonna watches it all the way down to the water, reaches into her purse, and pulls out the pack.
“Litterbug.” She removes another for herself and offers one to Isabel, who sighs and accepts. Nonna lights both, then they each drag and exhale at the same time. Nonna picks a stray piece of tobacco from her lip. “Have you figured any of this out yet?”
Isabel tries not to lie. “I stopped trying a lifetime ago.”
> These two have taken shelter in each other since they met. Both share a deep love for Tom, as well as the disappointment at its meager effect upon his plight. Besides that, however, they are two grand women who, despite their age difference, share a commonality in spirit. The loneliness that accompanies a life of bittersweet memories forms a bond between them they find in no one else. Nonna knows Isabel is hiding something and silently accepts her reason for doing so, remarking, “I‘ve felt something like this coming.” She looks up at the ship. “Must he always be so... dramatic?”
“He’s just using mirrors. I suppose Tom thinks all this will distract us.”
“What, so he can... ‘steal away’ unnoticed?” She looks away. “He needn’t bother trying to spare us. I almost wish he’d just get it over with, bless his heart.”
Isabel’s voice trembles. “How can you say that?”
“He’s no good at suffering. Does it all wrong. Once when he was a little boy, about five or so, his Daddy came home drunk, like always. Belted the poor kid for leaving his trike in the driveway. Actually broke his nose. You know what Tommy did? He opened his piggy bank, took every cent he had, and ran out and bought the bastard a bottle of Chivas. The old man’d never seen liquor that good.”
“How could a little boy buy liquor like that?”
“Oh, he always had Tommy run out to get his booze. Didn’t matter in a small town like that.” Nonna puts her barely smoked cigarette out in her paper cup. “Like I said, he’s no good at it. Better off leaving it to those of us that are.”
Isabel looks at her cigarette, then also puts it in the cup. A commotion near the boarding ramp turns them around. Eddie is showing the security guards his ID, to no avail. “It’s OK, officer, he’s with us,” Isabel shouts.
The officer lifts up a chain, letting Eddie through. He walks up, disheveled, his hair flying in various directions, one side of his collar sticking up. Eddie points out his army of misfits already fraying the nerves of the children’s cruise director. “Mr. Holmes said you’d keep an eye on them. Good luck.”
President Stamp sits alone, contentedly eating a Happy Meal, napkin stuffed in his collar. He pulls out this week’s toy, a plastic order of French fries which, after some deliberation, transforms into a car. He places it with certain contentment next to the rest of the collection on his desk near the photo of his wife and little daughters. This simple recess in the day of a world leader is interrupted by the buzz of the intercom. He pushes the button. “This better be important.”
“It’s General Whitley’s aide. He says the General wants you to take a look at something.”
Stamp pulls the napkin from his collar. “Send him in.”
Enter a decorated young Marine, Sergeant White, who salutes smartly. “Mr. President. Sir.”
Jonathan motions him forward with a wave of the napkin, wiping his mouth. “At ease, Mark. What have you got?”
The Sergeant marches up to the desk and carefully lays a short stack of photos next to the Happy Meal box, eyeing it with calculated curiosity. He spots the five figures of McDonald’s food, wrestles off a barely perceptible smile, then assumes the angular at ease position, staring straight ahead.
Jonathan watches the drill and grins as he resumes chewing. “You have children, Sergeant White?”
“Sir, yes Sir. Two, Sir.”
“Do they collect these figures?”
“Sir, yes Sir.”
Jonathan fixes on this chiseled figure of a Marine, always amazed by the display. “Well, are they missing any?”
White pauses. “Sir... Yes. Sir.”
“Darn it, Mark, will you look at me when you talk? Which ones? What are they missing?”
The Sergeant, with great effort, adjusts his gaze downward to meet his President’s. “The McNugget... character, Sir. We seem unable to get the Nugget character.” He can look at the President only so long, then returns to form, focusing one hundred meters out the Oval Office window.
“I hate it when they try to pawn off their oversupply on you, then you miss the next one. Don’t you?”
Sergeant White almost smiles again. “Sir. I know what you mean. It seems, unfair. Sir.”
Jonathan opens a desk drawer, rustles around, and comes up with a Nugget character, placing it directly in front of them. “Here, you can have this. I ‘procured’ a few extra during the shortage. I love how I can do things like that.”
Sergeant White shifts his gaze four times from his focal point outside to the figure before him, finally locking on it. He picks it up, returning to position.
“Sir. Thank you, Sir. Very much.”
Jonathan shakes his head. “Very well, Mark. That’ll be all.”
Sergeant White clicks to attention, pirouettes toward the door, and exits. Jonathan looks down at the photos, then pushes the intercom button. “Margaret, get Herlihy on the phone.”
Margaret watches the Sergeant come through the door. He sticks the gift in his pocket and smiles as he looks at her. She points to a shelf near her desk where he sees her own Presidentially mandated collection.
Taco Bell is Springdale’s only fast food restaurant, designed slightly off the franchise blueprint to blend in with the canyon. Next to it sits a deserted gas station and looking markedly out of place stands Cirrus, tied to a drinking fountain. He eyes a suspicious looking car parked across the street, then noses down and manages to get a drink from the fountain. Tom appears from around the corner on the last yards of his run and slows to a fast walk with his hands on his hips.
Sam follows shortly looking as if he’s about to collapse, or if he doesn’t, the bike will, and gets off in one fluid motion, letting it crash to the ground. Drenched in sweat, he stops only long enough to glare at Tom, then walks tight circles, catching some breath of his own.
Tom enters the Taco Bell, followed by Sam, and walks up to the counter. There to greet him is Joseph, a young Moqui boy. “Hello, Mr. Holmes. What can I get for you?”
“Joseph. Water for me, hold the ice.”
Joseph looks at Sam, gasping and looking a wreck. Sam, not able to speak, gestures large anything and grabs a handful of napkins to wipe his face. Tom turns and leans against the counter, arms folded, looking toward the street where he notices a figure walking toward the entrance, a person who draws his attention. This person opens the glass door as if it would break, closing it carefully behind him, and walks to the counter while looking up at the menu.
Here is a person displaced in time, as if he just arrived from a prolonged absence. Elderly but fit, he wears a wide-striped zoot suit that appears to have been with him since it was in fashion. His face is gaunt, nearly concave, this aspect increased by a thick mustache, accented by a tattered but proudly worn felt hat with a brown feather tucked into the red satin band. Though at first glance he would seem pathetic, bordering on derelict, his mannerisms reveal him to carry the dignity of a man in harmony with his circumstance.
Tom is spellbound and Sam stops gulping the drink Joseph gave him, turning to look. This man looks at Joseph and, speaking in what resembles a Dutch accent, says, “Good morning, Joseph. I would like one taco, and one bean burrito. And give me a good portion, please. I am very hungry today.”
Joseph rings up the order. “Of course, Mr. Linden. That’ll be a dollar eighty-six.”
As Joseph prepares the food, Mr. Linden pulls a needlepoint coin purse from his vest pocket and opens it, removing, one by one, the exact amount in coins, then closes the purse and replaces it. Joseph takes the change and offers the order, which Linden accepts with a slight bow and a tug on the brim of his hat. He extends the courtesy to Tom and Sam, and departs in the same meticulous manner he arrived. Once he’s gone, Tom turns to Joseph.
“Who in the world was that?”
“He calls himself Robert Linden. He’s been living behind the Inn over there in a cardboard box for a couple of mon
ths.”
“You mean he’s... homeless?”
“Well, not if you ask him. I’ve offered to let him stay in my garage, but he refuses. At first I thought it was pride, but I don’t think that’s it anymore. I can’t figure him out, to tell you the truth. He said he likes it here.”
Tom watches Mr. Linden cross the street as if he’d never done it before. He turns to Sam. “How much have we got with us?”
“What?”
“How much cash have we got?”
Sam reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a wad of hundreds. “Well, I’ve got five hundred of my own, and your usual—”
Tom gestures to hand it over. “How much?”
Sam does so reluctantly. “About two grand, I suppose.”
Tom grabs the money and, without counting it, places it in Joseph’s hand. “Take this and use it every time he comes in for food. If it runs out, contact Sam.”
Joseph looks at Sam, who shrugs his shoulders. “That’s an awful lot of tacos and burritos, Mr. Holmes. What makes you think he’ll take it?”
“Just tell him... the owner died and left no will, and you have to give the food away. Tell him it’s the law. He’ll take it.”
Skeptical, Joseph agrees. “I’ll try.”
Tom takes his drink and walks out. Sam and Joseph look at each other, then Sam follows.
He nearly runs over Tom, standing just outside the door. In the gas station sit six FBI vehicles, parked with doors open and agents standing, forming a Chevrolet fort. Cirrus jigs as an agent awkwardly attempts to stroke his mane, and seated on the hood of the center car is Bud. Sid, a novice hunter seeing his prey for the first time, gets out of the car slowly, eyes fixed on Tom. Bud slides off the hood and walks toward Tom. Sam drops his cup and starts to posture himself in front, but Tom stops him. Two agents circle in behind Bud, but he likewise signals them to hold back, then approaches and stops six feet away, badge held out.