SKYEYES

by Edward Es

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Well, let’s try to...” Bud is starting to fade. “Let’s just go inside. I got word Stamp is on his way, and we need to have things in hand.” Doesn’t make much sense to either of them.

  The Town Hall consists only of a City Manager’s office, the “administrative” section, really a few file cabinets and a computer, and the meeting hall for the Town Council, the size of a large living room. Sue Bently, a portly woman in her thirties, runs the town, though her official title is Assistant to the Manager. When Bud and Sid walk into the narrow waiting area in front of the counter that separates her desk from the door, they run right into the back of an agent, one of five, all standing in the already crowded area. They shuffle around to make room for Bud, and when he’s finally in far enough to see around them, encounters Sue, glaring at him while bouncing her ten-month-old in her arms. It’s obvious this commandeering of her domain has not set well at all.

  “Are you this ‘Meyerkamp’ they’ve been whining about?” Suddenly there’s silence from the troops. Bud bites his lip. “This may be a one horse town to you, Mister, but even one horse can leave a pretty good pile, and you’re steppin’ in it big time. Now, I’ve got a town to run, small as it is, and I can’t do it with all your ‘Men in Black’ marching in and out of here. Good Lord, man, you’d think the Martians had landed.”

  Sue’s astute and perfectly delivered observation leaves an arid silence, interrupted only by a wet sneeze from her daughter, which sprays a fine mist onto Bud’s battle-worn suit. He gestures for all but Sid to go outside. “I apologize, ma’am, but this is all happening pretty fast and we’re doing the best we can. I do appreciate your cooperation in letting us use your facility. We’ll be out of here as soon as we set up a proper command post.”

  Sue pats her baby’s back, with success as she offers up a belch even Bud would be proud to own up to. Sid and Bud look at each other. “Oh! Sweetie sweets! What a nice burper for Mommy!” Her pride quickly reverts to the awaiting scowl. “Who said I ever cooperated? Let me see... how’d they put it? ‘We’re taking over your building.’”

  “I’m very sorry. I’ll have a talk with my men about that.” Didn’t help. “I need to see the prisoners now. Can you show me where the cells are?”

  Sue, raising an eyebrow, looks at Sid, who grimaces. He hadn’t gotten around to telling Bud yet. “Oh, sure.” She points toward the hall. “In there.” At that moment a child’s squeal of laughter comes from the other room. Bud cranes his neck that way, then advances toward the “jail”.

  Bud walks into the empty hall and looks around as if he’d gone into the wrong room, noticing an open door at the far end from which yellow light and long moving shadows spill across the empty floor. He looks at Sid, who looks away. Bud walks toward the light.

  As Bud approaches the door, he hears the voice of a little boy, Anthony, and every step reveals more and more of what’s going on inside. “All right you! Stop that right now or I’ll shoot you, you filthy animal!”

  The crack of a cap gun startles Bud and he puts his hand on his holster, coming into full view of the scene. Anthony, three years old, wearing a police badge loaned by one of Bud’s own agents and a cowboy sheriff’s hat, holds his prisoners, Sam and Tall Tree, at bay in the end of a deep closet piled high with everything from mops to city records. The “cell” is secured by a two-foot-high infant gate wedged in the doorway. Anthony turns around and sees Bud, and then Sid’s head, which peers around the doorjamb.

  Anthony frowns. “Hold it right there!”

  He shoots the cap gun at Bud, who flinches even though he tried not to. Sid sticks his tongue out at Anthony and withdraws as Anthony squints, then gives Bud the evil eye. “You’re a bad man! You’re a very bad man! I’m sending you to the cornfield.”

  Bud looks at Sam, who nods in full agreement with Anthony’s plan. Tall Tree, his hands tied with yarn, shoots at Anthony with a toy bow and rubber tipped arrow, knocking the sheriff’s hat forward on his head. Anthony spins around and pumps another round into Tall Tree, slumping him over dead once more.

  Bud groans. “Oh, my God. I really have lost control.”

  Anthony turns back around. “You shut up, you! These are my prisoners and you’re not takin’ ‘em!” After one more glance at Sam and his broad smile, Bud turns toward Sid and starts to get in his face, but before he can say anything, notices movement in the office area and hears the screen door slam. He run-walks in that direction.

  Bud sees President Stamp standing there and drops his head in defeat. Sue holds her baby, speechless, her mouth hanging open. Secret Service slither in and secure the Town Hall as the President smiles at Sue. “Hello, I’m Jonathan. And you are?”

  As Sue is trying to squeeze out some form of reply, Stamp takes her baby and holds her. “I’m, I’m,… Susan Bently. I’m the Assistant Town Manager.”

  “And this is?”

  Sue tries to remember her baby’s name. “This is... oh. This is Kiki. I mean, actually, it’s Kirsten. My little boy, Anthony, can’t say Kirsten, so he calls her Kiki.”

  Stamp scratches Kiki’s chin. She giggles. “Hi, Kiki! I’m Johnny.”

  “Shawny!” Kiki gurgles proudly.

  “That’s right!” He turns to Sue. “Nice to meet you, Sue. I’m looking for Bud Meyerkamp. Is he around here?” Sue, unable to take her eyes off the President, motions toward the hall with her head. Stamp turns in that direction to see Bud standing in the doorway, an odd shade of pale. “Ah. There you are.” Stamp walks right by him into the hall before Bud can stop him. The President looks around and starts toward the closet, curiously, as he speaks. “Well, I guess Springdale’s on the map now. It’ll be a household name by tomorrow.” Secret Service have taken positions in each corner of the hall. Bud makes a futile attempt to head him off.

  “Uh, Sir…” He looks at the Secret Service. “Perhaps we should find a more secure location for a briefing.”

  The President suddenly appears in the closet doorway. A Secret Service agent is in there as well, standing still as Anthony repeatedly kicks his leg. The agent flinches not, having endured similar torture training at the academy. Anthony looks up and Sam bolts to his feet, declaring, “Anthony! This is the President!”

  “No he’s not! I’m the President!” Anthony insists as he throws a rubber arrow at the President. The agent imperceptibly watches its flight, having already checked out the weapon.

  Kiki points at Anthony. “Buzzer!”

  “She calls me buzzer ‘cause she can’t say brother. She’s just a baby,” Anthony explains.

  “You must be Anthony. I’d like you to meet somebody.” Stamp motions for Bud to come over, who does so reluctantly. “This is Bud. We call him that ‘cause nobody can say ‘Norbert’. He’s a policeman, too.”

  “Norbert? He’s a bad man! He’s a very bad man!”

  Anthony tries to shoot Bud again, but there’s no ammo, the agent having secured the caps, turning them over in his hand. Stamp removes the gate. “You did a real good job with these prisoners, Anthony, a real good job. And now these other policemen and I are going to talk to them. OK?”

  “OK,” Anthony agrees sadly. The President leads his party into the hall and shakes Sam’s hand after turning Kiki around so she’s facing over his shoulder.

  “Mr. President,” Sam says.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you since the ceremony at the White House, after you won the Super Bowl.”

  Sam is surprised he remembered. “That’s right, Sir. One of the best days of my life. The ceremony, I mean.”

  “One of mine too, actually. The Super Bowl, I mean. I won a bundle.” Several eyebrows rise. “From my wife. That’s legal, isn’t it, counselor?”

  “Depends what you won, I guess.” This gets a laugh from Stamp. Bud scowls at Sam. Joking with a President while a prisoner is patently unacceptable. Sam igno
res him. “Oh, and I’d like you to meet Tall Tree. His family goes back several hundred years around here. Tall Tree, this is your President.”

  “Last Chief here was Sunman Whitewater. Your soldiers took our land, scattered our herds,” says Tall Tree.

  Everybody cringes except the President. “Tall Tree, it’s an honor to meet you. Actually it wasn’t my soldiers who took your land, but I’ll take responsibility. We did a great dishonor to your people, and I’ve been trying to help take away that dishonor.”

  Sam turns to Tall Tree. “President Stamp’s program helped your sister, Steps in Streams, make that rug factory you like so much, Tall Tree.”

  Tall Tree ponders, then reaches his hand out to the President. “Steps in Streams is very happy, and not so mad at the human beings now. You and I, we will sit and smoke the pipe under the full Moon.”

  Stamp accepts a firm handshake. “I’d like that.”

  Bud can’t resist. “Seems to me, smokin’ some kind of pipe about lost you the election there, Mr. President.” Sid throws his arms up in disbelief, walking away.

  “I just won’t INHALE!” Stamp snaps back. He’d been patting Kiki, and she responds by barfing her milk down his back. Though the agents rally quickly, as if they could do anything, Sue wedges between them and reaches out as Stamp, having experienced this many times as a father, hands Kiki over and removes his coat.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. President.”

  “Nonsense. I was getting hot in this anyway. She can tell her grandkids about this one!” He hands the coat to the Secret Service, who converge on it, pulling out handkerchiefs as if a national tragedy occurred. He points to Sam and Tall Tree and turns to Bud. “Let these men go.”

  “With all due respect, Sir, I’ve arrested them under a valid federal warrant. I don’t think—”

  The President loses his patience. “Would you rather I pardoned them, Norbert? I can do that, you know. It says so in the Constitution. What is it you think they’re guilty of?”

  “Well, I... conspiracy to commit...”

  “What, Bud? What? Conspiracy to help some poor ‘sonofabitch’ almost blow himself up? For heaven’s sake, let them go. We’ve got bigger issues to deal with right now. And I seriously doubt they’ll skip town. Don’t you?” Bud nods to them and they both respectfully depart. As Sam walks by Bud, he hands him another “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

  Stamp points at Bud. “Briefing at the bakery. One hour,” he says, then walks away. Bud stands conquered, looking at Sid, who stares him down.

  “What?”

  Dusk is a magical time when the air flows out of the canyon, bringing with it the close to another day of daunting stillness, another contribution to eons of dependable, gradual, imperceptible change. Intricate sandstones and streaks of colors so vivid during the day, ever changing and reshadowing with each inching movement of the Earth, blend into shades of reds and rusts as the glow from the setting Sun bathes the canyon walls. Branches rustle and leaves whirl in the wind, and the gentle roar of the Virgin fills the background of majestic silence that is Zion Canyon.

  The Driftwood Lodge sits at the outskirts of Springdale and consists of three buildings. Two are older motel types, one with a second story facing down the heart of the canyon, the other, perpendicular, flanks the Virgin River. Across the swimming pool is a newer building, more modern, yet still detailed with verandahs and natural cedar. That building has been cordoned off for the Presidential party, and the Secret Service stand guard.

  The parking lot of the Driftwood never looked like this. Dozens of vehicles are parked askew, half of them broadcast vans with satellite dishes pointing in unison toward their orbiting targets. Camera crews mill around in groups, laughing and carrying on like a tailgate party.

  Room 211 is on the second story of the building facing the canyon. The room is small, barely fitting a bed, desk and TV. A picture window views the canyon through the verandah, separated from neighboring verandahs by wooden trellises. Noelle Crane has checked into 211, unpacked, and is into her jeans and a sweatshirt that displays the ornate emblem of a university: Screw U. She sits in a chair on the verandah, feet propped up on the redwood railing, sipping a long overdue glass of wine, further mellowed by the mooing of a cow that grazes in a pasture below. The TV mumbles in the background and there’s a knock at the door.

  “It’s open!”

  In comes her cameraman, Scott Johnson, always in a good mood, carrying a cold beer and a bag of chips. He walks out to the verandah and plops down in the chair next to her. They sit parallel, facing the canyon as Scott crunches chips, offering the bag to Noelle. “Man, oh, man. What a place. Un friggin’ believable.”

  Noelle waves off the bag. “I am such a pea brain. I’ve been working in Salt Lake for ten years, and not once have I ever been here.”

  “Well , we’re two pea brains in a pod then, ‘cause I grew up in Vegas, only two and a half hours from here, and I didn’t even know it existed. Un friggin’ believable.” They stare quietly, then he reaches out his hand and she takes it. After a few moments she stands and leans against the railing, savoring breaths of canyon air while closing her eyes.

  “I don’t know, Scotty. I came here to cover a story. An unbelievable story.” She looks up at the first twinkling star. “But there’s something happening inside me I don’t understand.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That little girl, Melody. At first I felt such pity for her. Until I realized she’s twice the person I am. What is it about children? Where do they get that kind of strength?”

  “They’re born with it. They’re born with hope, faith. Belief that anything’s possible.”

  “Then they grow into... us. What a joke. We get more and more scared, more and more hateful.”

  “No kidding. We don’t just grow older and die. We grow old inside. Look at what ‘adults’ have done to this world. Too bad we can’t be born grown up and get younger every year, and end up as babies. Then just... fade away.”

  “Curious Case of Benjamin Button.”

  “What?”

  “You just told the story of Benjamin Button. It’s a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I always knew there was something magical about it, but I didn’t really understand until now.”

  Scott takes the last slug from his beer and sets the empty on the railing. “I find it hard to believe someone as fine as you isn’t married with children. You seem like you’d be a natural.”

  At this, Noelle eclipses, glancing off some hard memory. Scott stills, sensing her mood shift. “I bought that idiotic theory that I ‘didn’t want to bring children into this screwed up world.’ How dare I? Children are the hope of this screwed up world. If only I could be born again, and start all over.”

  Scott stands and embraces her, cradling her head on his shoulder. “That’s quite enough Crane-bashing for one day. For better or worse, we’ve got the story of the century to cover here, and I tell ya, I’m really jazzed about it. I don’t know what this Holmes character is up to, but there’s more to it than just some poor wretch who lost his kid, trying to kill himself.”

  “He took part of all of us up there.”

  He pulls her face up and ruffles her hair. “Uh-huh. Now let’s enjoy the ride.”

  She manages a wry little smile, resting her forehead on his chest. “I hate you.”

  “I hate you more. Now, I say we go pork out on some Mexican at that Bit ‘n’ Spur down the road.”

  She nods, and after an awkward stillness, they regroup and head into the room. As they glance at the TV they see Bobby Battista fumbling through her broadcast, cross-eyes and all. She’s on a split screen, the right half a view of the Earth from the Noah 1. Across the top is captioned: Live from the Holmes capsule, Courtesy of the Earth Channel. Although she doesn’t notice, and neither do Noelle and Scott as they snicker at her, typed words are appearing ac
ross the bottom.

  “Oh, wow, it’s the ‘real’ news. We better watch,” Scott snips.

  Battista stumbles on. “As we follow this incredible story of the first civil.... rather, civilian space launch by a private… person, we all wonder why, why would a private.. person risk his life, and possibly lives of others, on such a dangerous act?”

  Noelle and Scott both cross their eyes and look at each other, in unison mocking, “I don’t know, Bobby, WHY?” They break into laughter, then bump hips.

  “Oooo! Good one!” Noelle boasts.

  Scott punches the TV off.

  Tom is typing, transcribing from a coffee table book suspended in front of him, The Home Planet, a collection of Earth photographs from space, each page captioned with a quote from an astronaut. He looks out at the Earth passing beneath him, Zion lying on his lap, though every time Tom takes his hand away, the cat rises and Tom gently pushes him back down.

  The Holmes living room, an expansive sea of red terra cotta tile with islands of comfortable furniture, occupies the entire point of the home, rendering a 270-degree view in glass of the canyon narrowing in the distance. Rosalee sits on one of those islands across from a TV and watches as the last words appear. She reads, barely aloud, “In space one has the inescapable impression that here is a virgin area of the universe in which civilized man, for the first time, has the opportunity to learn and grow without the influence of ancient pressures. Like the mind of a child, it is yet untainted with acquired fears, hate, greed, or prejudice. John Glenn Jr.”

  The empty warehouse floor has been transformed into a briefing venue furnished with a podium, a projection screen, and folding chairs facing them. Some fifty people are seated or milling about as Kirshner stands by the podium, talking vigorously to a few others. Washington County Sheriffs are stationed strategically, along with FBI and other authorities; Bud and Sid stand by themselves at the side, Sid intrigued by it all while Bud is bending under the growing chip on his shoulder. “Good God. Have you ever seen a dog and pony show like this?”