SKYEYES

by Edward Es

  The ABN news van pulls up in front of Noah House and Noelle and Scott get out. Scott opens the rear doors, lifts out a broadcast video camera, and starts for the building. Noelle stops him. “I want to talk to her first. I’m not sure if we’re going to shoot her.”

  “Are you serious? Nauman’s going to flip if we don’t come back with something.”

  “Well, Jeff doesn’t understand that reporting isn’t all production. This is about people. Sometimes what you don’t report is more important than what you do.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go get some... establishing shots. Whatever. I don’t care right now. Let’s just put some heart into this.”

  The huh lingers on his face as Noelle enters the House. He walks over to a playground, populated with pieces of rockets and other space program leftovers. There’s a first stage Atlas booster laying on its side that children can run through, and a Gemini capsule propped up with its hatches open and a slide coming out the back. He aims the camera in that direction.

  Noelle enters into the stillness of the empty House and continues down the hall looking for Melody. As she approaches the double doors to the Starbridge, she looks through the window and stops. Inside, Melody sits in the center holding a dustpan, watching through her sideways world as Roberta sweeps the floor, the view of the Earth keeping them company on a TV in the corner. Noelle pushes the door open.

  As she enters, Roberta stops her work and looks up. Melody, seeing Roberta’s reaction, turns her wheelchair as Roberta walks quickly toward Noelle.

  “Can I help you?” she asks defensively.

  “I was hoping I could talk with Melody for a few minutes.”

  “No reporters. No more interviews for Melody. You already got your story.”

  Roberta opens one of the doors and gestures for her to leave, but Melody intervenes. “It’s OK, Roberta, I want to talk to her. I like Miss Crane.”

  Roberta looks at both of them with a frown in her eyes. “All right. But keep it short.”

  She walks out, taking one last look through the window as the door closes. This leaves a gentle silence. Noelle draws a guarded breath and walks over to Melody, unsure how to position herself. Finally, she grabs a chair and pulls it over, sitting down and leaning forward where she can see Melody’s face. “So, Melody, how are you holding up under all this? You look fine.”

  “Oh, I’m OK. It’s kind of lonely here without the other kids. But I have Roberta, and sometimes other people come by to visit me.”

  “Honey, I’m not here to interview you or anything like that. I was hoping maybe we could be friends.”

  “I’d really like that. All my other friends are gone. The kids, I mean.”

  “I guess you know Mr. Holmes is going to the Moon now.”

  Melody strikes a thoughtful pause. “I know. It sort of bothers me because I’m afraid for him. But I’m... I don’t know, I’m excited for him. I know it’s what he wants.”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he wants to stop hurting.”

  “Do you think he’s trying to run away?”

  “I don’t think so. I think he’s trying to run to something. I know how he feels. I hurt a lot, too, but I don’t want to run away from anything. That would be too lonely.”

  Melody moves her wheelchair over to a picture window that looks out toward the canyon, framed by a weeping willow waving in the breeze. Noelle stays where she is, needing the distance. “You know, Melody, I didn’t come here to talk about Mr. Holmes. When we met the other day, afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Noelle’s heart doubles over. She wipes a tear, trying to catch her breath. “I just think you’re the bravest little girl, the bravest person I’ve ever met. You were so cheerful, and positive. It made me feel very ashamed about some things. I wanted to know more about you. I wanted to know you.”

  “I’m not so special, Miss Crane. Sometimes I get mad because I’m not like other kids. But then I feel bad about it.”

  Noelle is struck a chisel blow. Such pure creations, children. They wear raiments of humility and candor with a simple grace which calls down those who would label such qualities as “grown up”. She bolsters in this revelation. “What about your family, Melody? Do your Mom and Dad visit you? Do they help you?”

  “My parents had me when they were older. When I was little, they called me their ‘lucky accident’. Then when I got sick it was real hard on them. Daddy died right after that, and Mommy got sick too. She’s in the hospital in St. George, and sometimes they bring her up to see me. Once, when I felt real strong on her birthday, Roberta and Dr. Bitner brought me to see her there. We had a party in her room with cake and everything. I haven’t seen her in a while, though. I miss her.”

  Noelle walks to the window and sits on a bookshelf. She strokes Melody’s hair. “I’m sorry about your daddy. It sounds like your mommy has helped you a lot. She must be a wonderful lady. I can see her peace in you. And her strength; the way you’re so good about... your challenges.”

  “Mommy made me understand about being sick. When I was little I would ask her why God made me hurt so much. It’s like I was resentful toward Him. I thought He didn’t care about me. But Mommy said He was full of mercy. She told me a famous writer said that mercy fell like a gentle rain from heaven, and I just ended up between the drops. But sooner or later it will rain all over me, and I’ll be all brand new, because God loves me.”

  Noelle grabs a tissue from a box nearby, dabbing her eyes. “Oh, Melody. God bless you. He does love you, and He has blessed me to know you.”

  Melody strains to look up at her. “Don’t feel bad, Miss Crane. I’m very proud to know you. I’ve seen you on TV and I feel important since I met you.”

  Noelle bends down and kisses her on the head with more love than she’s ever felt for another human being. “No, Melody, it’s me that’s important now, because I know you.” She stands. “I’ll be back very soon to see you. Please take care, sweetheart.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Crane.”

  Noelle gathers herself and walks out of the room with fire burning her heart. She encounters Roberta waiting outside the Starbridge. Roberta is moved by what she sees, aware of a transformation. In this realization, she lays a healing hand on Noelle’s shoulder.

  Noelle bursts into tears. “Roberta, my heart is breaking. How can something so precious, so innocent, be afflicted like that?”

  Roberta embraces her. “Remember, Miss Crane, our Lord said Melody is blessed, and that she will inherit the Earth.”

  “But must she suffer so?” she angers.

  “The doctors say she hasn’t much time left. Her heart is enlarged and she has very serious kidney trouble. I pray she will meet Him soon, and her suffering will end.” This is too much for Noelle. She runs out.

  Noelle opens the van door and jumps in, startling Scott who was staring out the window. “What’s wrong?”

  She cries hard for a moment. “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Where?”

  “Never mind that,” gesturing with her hand. “Just go.”

  Scott complies, pulling out onto the highway. They’re no more than a few seconds down the road when she spots something. “Pull in there.” He has to hit the brakes to make it into the driveway.

  Emmanuel Church looks like it was transplanted from 18th century Boston. Its white exterior contrasts sharply with the colors of the canyon, a steepled, one room sanctuary nestled among pepper trees that grew around it like gentle green angels. Noelle gets out of the van, looks it over, and firmly walks in. Scott steps out as well and scratches his head. He walks toward the church, up the wooden steps, and quietly opens the tall white doors.

  Scott enters, moved by the simplicity. It looks bigger inside than he thought from the exterior. Simple wooden pews face an altar spanning the width of the chapel, so
ftly lit in canyon light cast through a glass wall at the rear that frames the majestic sheer cliff of Mt. Kinesava. Three stained-glass windows on each side of the church bathe the walls in fragile colored figures. Noelle sits in the front pew, her head bowed in prayer. Scott sits in the back pew.

  From the departure end of Runway 15 at Baltimore International, looking toward the approach through a snow shower, the landing lights of National 711 grow to two glowing white beams. The 757 takes form like a metallic ghost, flares, and lands, blowing snow flurries upward as the engines spool to full reverse thrust.

  Bud’s home is small, furnished in early divorced workingman. It is functional, plain, and tired. The clicks of a lock turning are followed by the creaking open of the front door and a bitter blast of wind. Bud enters, throwing his bag on the floor, shivering through the shock from desert to blizzard. He kicks the door shut behind him, brushes snow from his coat, and hangs it on a coat tree near the entrance. Bud looks at his surroundings as if he’d walked into someone else’s house. He moves over to the fireplace, lights a Duraflame log on the gas burner, and squats in front of it, rubbing his hands. He stands and stares at himself in the mirror over the mantle, fixing his thinning hair. There he encounters the portrait of his son and picks it up.

  Rusty smiles the guarded smile of a Marine boot camp graduate in full dress. Tucked in the lower right corner of the frame is a smaller picture. There, Rusty stands in front of a burned-out hut, his face smoke-stained, holding a Vietnamese baby in one arm, his rifle in the other. This moment of silence is broken when Igloo, a blinding white Husky, scurries in, nails clicking frantically on the hardwood floor. As Huskies tend to do, he’s so excited with anticipation at the impending hug he has to run circles around the room to keep from exploding. Bud replaces the picture and finally gets hold of him and scoops him up, kicking, whining, and licking. He puts Igloo down and watches as the dog darts in and out of every room of the house. A voice comes from the hallway.

  “Buddy? Is that you?”

  Harriet Meyerkamp is Bud’s mother, a frail but healthy eighty-five-year-old wearing a fluorescent red, green, and blue muu muu, covered above the waist by a gray pullover, further accented with bright-pink fuzzy slippers. She peers around the corner, and when she sees her son, extends her arms. “You’re home! I’m so glad to see you!”

  Bud walks over and hugs her warmly. “Hi, Ma. It’s been a long trip.” He walks over to his coat and pulls out a wrinkled brown bag, and as he hands it to her, his face twists at the sight of her outfit. “Here. I picked up some rolls from Charlie’s. But just one tonight. You know what Doctor Rummel said.”

  “Oh, bless you, son. You are a thoughtful boy.” She kisses him on the cheek after pulling him down toward her. Bud is always uncomfortable with affection. “I saw you on TV! You looked so... intense. Isn’t it all so exciting, what’s going on? Did you get to meet Mr. Holmes?”

  Bud bristles. “Meet him? I came this close to locking him up before he pulled this... stunt of his. It’s a damn foolish thing he did. He put a lot of people in danger, and got a lot of people in trouble.” Bud has an out of attitude experience, hearing himself bark out a point of view that sounds distant, from a part of him fading away.

  “Oh, phooey. You sound like the old farts down at the Center. I swear, if I hear the word ‘irresponsible’ one more time, I’m going to whack somebody.” She whacks him on the arm, smartly. “Get the point, buckaroo?”

  Bud rubs his arm. “Geez, Ma. What’s your malfunction?”

  “Oh, I think it’s just grand what that boy did. For heaven’s sake, you’d think he killed somebody the way people are carrying on. He just did what men have been doing for thousands of years. He went exploring. People should just leave him in peace. By golly, there’ve been enough times in my life I wished I could shoot myself into orbit, or else a few other people I don’t care to mention.” Bud looks her over, then snickers. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Nice outfit, ma. You look like a barker at a Hawaiian circus.”

  She hits him again, causing him to rub his arm again in earnest. “Well, somebody needs to bring some color into this... mausoleum. Sometimes I think you’re colorblind, or else I was struck colorblind when I moved in here. Now, go sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “No, I’ll get something. You sit down.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been going batty around here. I need to do something useful.”

  Bud gives in, kicking his shoes off and settling in front of the TV. He picks up the remote and shoots it at the wide screen. The set glows on to CNN where there’s a full screen of Tom’s picture, dissolving to a shot of the seared launch site. Bud punches at the remote, finally stopping on “Home Improvement”, feeling momentarily at home as Tim grunts triumphantly over his hot rod. This is only fleeting, however, as he drifts away and recalls Watchman Lookout, the Moon, a running Indian, and the canyon. The uneasy daydream snaps him back to the present, and he doesn’t really feel so much at home. Igloo sits at his feet, looking up at him with his head cocked. Bud gives him the same look back.

  “What’re you lookin’ at?”

  The news van pulls into the parking lot of St. George’s Mountain Vista Convalescent Home. Noelle gets out and hurries toward the front doors, Scott trying to keep up. He grabs her arm, bringing her to an annoyed halt. She won’t look at him.

  “Whoa, Noellie. Help me out here. We’ve been running around all day. You won’t talk to me. What’s going on? What does this have to do with our story?”

  “Scotty, I’m not really sure. Probably nothing. But I’m not reporting right now. I’m just... following my instincts, my heart.” She looks into his eyes. “Somewhere along the line, I learned that’s where journalism lives. The story finds you. You don’t find it.” He pushes her toward the door.

  Noelle walks up to the receptionist. “Excuse me,” showing her ID, “I’m Noelle Crane, ABN news. I was wondering if I could have a few words with Mrs. Esther Baxter. If she’s up to it, that is. I’m not here to interview her.”

  The receptionist stares at her. “Just a moment.” She picks up the phone, dials an extension, whispers, then hangs up slowly. “Someone will be right with you.” Noelle looks around at the reception area, unkept, stark, colorless. A few beat-up folding chairs angle at each other, one with a torn magazine on its seat.

  From down the corridor, an elderly man with a kind face appears and recognizes her. “Hello, I’m Dr. Holly.” He shakes their hands. “You were inquiring about Esther Baxter?”

  “Yes. I don’t mean to disturb her, but I’ve gotten to know her daughter, Melody, and I was so touched by some of the things she said about her mother, I felt like I wanted to speak with her.”

  Dr. Holly looks at the receptionist, then back at Noelle. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  Noelle looks at Scott. “Sure. Of course.” Doctor Holly walks her down the white hallway. As they pass a rec room, Noelle stops and peers in. It’s empty but for a woman sitting at a table alone in front of a checkerboard. She’s dressed in a hospital gown, her white hair tossed across her left shoulder. She makes a move, then turns and looks at Noelle.

  “Miss Crane?” says Dr. Holly. Noelle sees he’s down the hall, standing in front of his office. She looks back into the room and the woman is no longer there. Noelle walks toward him, then looks back. “Please,” he says, pointing to the open door.

  He ushers her into his small, chaotic office, closes the door quietly behind them, moves a stack of files from a chair and offers it to her as he sits behind his cluttered desk. “Please, sit down.” She sits on the edge, as if bracing herself. “Can I trust your confidence?” he asks.

  “Of course. I’m sincerely not here to interview her.”

  Dr. Holly hesitates. “Mrs. Baxter passed away a month ago.”

  Noelle stares at him as her eyes well up once again. “But I—�
� Her heart clenches, taking her breath. “I don’t understand. I just spoke with Melody an hour ago.”

  “I consulted with Dr. Bitner when this happened, and frankly, he felt it best not to tell her. I’m not sure if you know how ill Melody is, but she isn’t expected to last much longer, and Dr. Bitner saw no point in burdening that little girl with any more sorrow, at least for now.”

  Noelle stands and walks toward the door, stopping several feet from it. She stares at the frosted glass and at Dr. Holly’s backward name. Half angry, half devastated for Melody, she turns around. “You people underestimate the strength of that girl. I know I did.”

  Dr. Holly sees the tears threatening in her eyes. “You’re right. Melody is a survivor. None of us ever thought she would live this long, but that was her doctor’s opinion and since there’s no more family, he has presumed to take that position. And I assure you he loves Melody, and has her best interests at heart. In any event, it’s his decision, and—”

  Noelle motions stop with her hand. “I told you I would keep your confidence, and I will, but I disagree with both of you. A person’s pain is their pain. No one has a right to take it away or dole it out at their discretion.”

  “I respect your opinion, Miss Crane.”

  “Doctor, let’s just all pray for that little girl. I’ve never felt more like taking on someone else’s burden than since I met her. I’m not sure who I am anymore, but I know I’m a better person because of her.”

  “Melody does that to people.”

  She extends her hand. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

  “Goodbye,” he says with a caring handshake, covering her hand with his other. Noelle walks out, leaving him with a sting of concern.

  Soft shades of sunset filter down upon the minibutte of the Cantina as Kirshner and Sam savor an aperitif, each in quiet solitude. The door opens and Rosalee enters. “Doctor Kirshner, there’s a call for you on line two. Do you want to take it?”