Captain Quad

by Sean Costello

  Captain Quad

  Sean Costello

  This one's for my mom,

  Mary Elizabeth

  Acknowledgments

  I'd like to thank a few patient listeners: Carole, who endures the worst of it—and whose unerring eye makes it almost impossible for me to fib. My friends Jake Abourbih and Lita McDonald, who secretly believe I'm crazed. Candace, my littlest treasure, who wrinkles her nose at the mere mention of writing and says, "Let's go to Burger King instead." Ely Kish, a gifted artist who reminds me time and again that the fires of the imagination burn brightest. Uncle Dave and Uncle Ike, for providing me with precious time. And Steve Mydonyk, my paper-punchin' pal, who sat with me in the dead of winter in a frozen, snow-blown shack in the Garson outback. . . and listened.

  But I'd also like to thank a host of gracious individuals who contributed their expertise in fields as varied as ice fishing, neurosurgery, and teaching high school. Robin "Robby Naish" Laking, who filled me in on the not-so-gentle art of ice hockey. Robin is a man to be reckoned with, believe me. He's got a heart of gold and a quality of spirit that touches everyone he meets. . . but stay out of his way on the rink. You're the best, Robby. Cathy "Smitty" Smith, a longtime friend who reminded me about high school from both points of view. José Blanco and his son Max for reasons they know. Ron, Guy, and Yvon, the "Castologists" at Laurentian. I've never been ice fishing, lads, and now I never want to go. Terry Proulx, the most courageous man I've ever met, who gave me insights into a condition the rest of us can only imagine; I admire you, old horse. Dr. Jacques Carrière, for his thoughts on the hurting mind. Dr. Brian Sherman, for his advice.

  And finally, as always, Richard Curtis, Paul McCarthy, Eric Tobias, and Charles and MaryAnn de Lint.

  If I've forgotten anyone. . . well, I'm getting old.

  That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

  —NIETZSCHE

  ONE

  THE LAST SONATA

  ONE

  There was a moment in the dark of the wing, a startling moment that was part optical illusion and part raw nerves—but for the space of an eyeblink, it appeared to Kelly Wheeler as if Peter Gardner was headless. His body stood erect beside her, caught in an oblong of stage light, and there was nothing above the neat line of his collar but air, black air. It was absurd. She knew it was only a trick of the light. . . but for that eerie, spun-out first second she was convinced that someone had lopped off his head.

  Then he shifted a half step toward her, and that same oblong of light found his face, and he was grinning at her nervously, fingering the tight loop of his collar, looking like the groom at a shotgun wedding.

  Chuckling at her bizarre misperception—one that had carried with it an alarming force—Kelly drew him back into the dark and hugged him. He was rigid with apprehension, and she tried to reassure him.

  "Don't panic," she coached him. "You're going to play just like you always do—flawlessly." She kissed him lightly on the chin, her hand on the back of his neck feeling his tension.

  Peter's eyes, the color of sandstone, settled over the top of Kelly's head on the gleaming baby grand that stood waiting for him at center stage.

  "Yeah," he mumbled. "Flawlessly. If only I could find my fingers." He poked his hands into the light with the fingers bent at the middle knuckles, creating the illusion that the distal segments had been neatly amputated.

  Kelly, who was almost as nervous as Peter, jabbed him playfully in the ribs. Though eager to show him off, she felt guilty about putting him through all of this. He'd never played in public before—his music, he'd told her, was for himself and the people he loved—and it had taken all of her wiles to persuade him to appear at this final assembly. But he was good, maybe even great, and she wanted people to know it. She was proud of him.

  Taking Peter's hand, Kelly returned her attention to the stage, where the principal, Mr. Laughren, stood reciting his annual address. It was the last day of school, June 28, 1983.

  "As your principal," Laughren boomed, his round face the color of brick, "I consider it my duty to prepare each and every Laurentian High graduate for the fickle and often treacherous road ahead. . .”

  "Aw, gimme a break," Peter grumbled. "Same old bullshit only deeper."

  Kelly kissed him again, letting her hand slip to the sculpted small of his back. "Relax, will you?"

  "Relax," Peter mimicked. "Uh-huh. Right. Relax." He shifted the curtain a few inches, enough to allow Kelly a glimpse of all those impatient faces out there. "Just look at those animals. The minute Laughren steps down they're going to eat me. They're going to eat me alive. They'll wolf down the tender bits, then take turns gnawing on my skull." He noticed his mother and kid brother seated near the front, eyes expectant and bright, then let the curtain fall closed again.

  Kelly giggled, only now beginning to appreciate how petrified Peter was. "This has really got you going, hasn't it?"

  "Look," Peter said in his most reasonable tone. "Why don't we just skip this whole dopey deal? Hop on the bike and zip down to the DQ for a Dilly bar? I mean, no one's going to care—"

  "I'm going to care," Kelly objected, cutting him off with her words and the wounded look in her eyes. "And your mother's going to care. And Sam."

  "But—"

  Both fell mute as Laughren's amplified voice swung toward them. "It gives me pleasure to introduce to you now a graduating student whom most of you know from his prowess on the football field."

  "Oh, shit."

  "Knock 'em dead," Kelly said, squeezing his hand. Then she was gone, down the steps and out through the stage-left exit.

  "What most of you don't know about Peter Gardner," Laughren said, "is that academically he ranks among the finest students to have passed through Laurentian's hallowed halls."

  In the decidedly unhallowed womb of the wing, Peter felt his face flush with blood.

  "On top of all that, a certain Kelly Wheeler informs me that his musical talent approaches the level of genius."

  "I'll kill her," Peter muttered harmlessly. "I'll—" Laughren glanced toward the wing, and Peter shrank into the shadows again. "Somehow, Mr. Gardner has managed to escape us until now—but now we've got him! So before we at this final assembly bid him luck and adieu, let us welcome him, and lend him our keenest attention as he performs one of my own personal favorites, Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata.'"

  A scattering of unenthusiastic applause tinkled through the hall's big belly, and that made Peter even more nervous. It was hot, it was late, and it was the last day of school. Summer waited outside like an acres-big carnival where all the rides are free. And in the face of all that, he was supposed to capture and hold the keenest attention of some twelve hundred hyped-up teenagers?

  No small feat.

  Grinning like a used-car salesman, Laughren waved him onstage. Reluctantly, Peter stepped into view, almost overcome by the urge to look down and see if his fly was done up. . . or if his pants were on at all.

  The lights went down. A dramatically muted spot picked him up and followed him toward the piano. A fresh flourish of applause, punctuated by high hoots and happy hollers, swept against him from the orchestra seats, where the entire football team slouched in grinning disarray. Risking a sideward glance, Peter spotted his three best buddies, Rhett Kiley, Mike Gore, and Jerry Jeter, frenziedly clapping their hands. Kiley's dark eyes were bloodshot, and Jerry's long, horsey face gleamed with a telltale beery flush.

  "'Stairway to Heaven'!" Rhett bellowed, then shrank in his seat as Laughren's predatory gaze settled directly upon him.

  Peter's knees turned to Silly Putty. Maddeningly, the piano seemed to glide away as he approached it. His tie—he almost never wore a tie—felt like a gradually tightening noose around his neck.

 
Somehow he reached the stool. He sat. His fingers brushed the keys and he felt better, more confident. He waited for silence, his soft brown eyes fixed on the alternating pattern of keys.

  From her seat near the front Kelly looked on, her excitement contaminated now by a new emotion. Tiptoeing down from the wing a half-minute earlier, she had met eyes with Peter's mother and had been struck by a glare of resentment; brief but shockingly potent, it had rocked her like a savage backhand. And it had occurred to her then that she had seen that look before—glancing idly around while Peter played for her and finding those slate-colored eyes fixed on her back from the adjacent kitchen, lingering an instant too long before shifting away; turning on the moonlit front porch in time to see the living room curtain snap shut behind them while she and Peter sat chatting on the steps. And yet, when she spoke to Kelly, Mrs. Gardner was always pleasant, gracious, and kind. Before today, Kelly had always managed to explain that look away, putting it down to her imagination or to some innocent quirk in a decidedly quirky lady. But on this occasion there had been no mistaking its authenticity—Kelly had felt something go slack inside of her in its force. She had dropped her gaze immediately, feeling sweaty, guilty, and afraid, but angry, too. She knew what that look meant, and its very senselessness infuriated her. Jealousy was for other girls, not for mothers. The woman just wouldn't give her a chance.

  Kelly cast these thoughts aside, deciding to deal with them later. She refused to let a single nasty glance spoil her enjoyment of Peter's first public recital. Besides, by this time tomorrow they'd be free of all their accustomed restraints, parental and academic alike. By this time tomorrow they'd be rolling west on Highway 17, embarking on the adventure of their lives.

  Kelly settled back in her seat. Onstage, Peter sat hunched over the keys, eyes closed, a small muscle in his jaw working rhythmically. Waiting for silence.

  Come on, everyone, Kelly thought, her excitement returning. Shut up and let him play.

  As if privy to her thoughts, Laughren strafed the assembly with his most menacing glare. A reluctant, blemished hush wound its way through the aisles.

  And Peter began to play.

  And suddenly, as if compelled by some unseen force, the hush grew solemn and profound, becoming so total that within minutes the unlit hall seemed empty of any living soul. No seat creaked, no page was riffled, no whispered phrase was uttered.

  For a while there was only the music, untarnished and sweet, as at the best of times seeming to flow through him, as if apart from his own volition. It evoked within him a state akin to magic, and he allowed it to fetch him away.

  In the audience, Kelly felt her heart swell with pride. She'd chosen her seat carefully, so she could see Peter's face, and when his mouth widened into that funny, lopsided grin he got when he played, she knew she'd done the right thing. In the years to come this day would be a cherished memory for them both.

  When it was done, when the last audible vibration perished on the air, Peter wondered for a moment if everyone hadn't just up and left, so perfect was the silence. Then a single pair of hands rang out (My mother, Peter thought ruefully, I bet that was my mother), and were immediately joined by another, and another, until soon, the crisp, clean roar of applause filled the hall.

  The lights came up then, giving Peter that naked feeling again, and he stood, bowing modestly. For as far back as he could see, the eyes of his audience looked misty and dazed. Even the jocks he called his friends wore expressions of mingled wonder, admiration, and surprise. He scanned the crowd for his girl. Where was she, anyway?

  Now they were giving him a standing ovation. With the house lights up, Peter could see his mother out there, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. And his kid brother, Sam, hoisting the family reel-to-reel aloft like a trophy, an admiring grin splitting his zit-ravaged face. Spilling into the aisles, his teammates waved their arms like overgrown two-year-olds.

  But where was Kelly?

  "Pssst!"

  Peter heard the sound but was unable to trace it. Now Laughren was back at the lectern, clapping along with the rest of them.

  "Pssst! Hey, Peter!"

  And then he saw her, standing in the shadows of the wing. He gave another quick bow, then stepped offstage to join her. She hugged him mightily. Even in the scant light of the wing he could see the silvery tracks of her tears.

  "Oh, Peter, that was wonderful!"

  Smiling like a sultan, Peter agreed with her.

  Kelly composed herself. "Wanna get lucky?" she teased, bumping her hips against his.

  "Here?" Peter said, hamming it. "Now?"

  "Cute. My place, dummy. My folks won't be back until ten, maybe even later."

  Peter ran a hand through his thick sandy hair, which the sun had already begun to lighten. "What about Nell Tait's party? Aren't you the gal who said she would die before she would miss Nell Tait's cottage party?"

  "It'll keep." She cupped his crotch in her hand. "Whaddya say?"

  "Five minutes," Peter promised. "Just gonna say bye to my mom."

  Sometimes Peter had a tendency to rush things a bit.

  But today, in the curtained cool of Kelly's bedroom, he began almost painfully slowly, building her by degrees to a pitch before he entered her that scared her a little. Even once he was inside her and she was moving rhythmically beneath him, he remained in complete control. And soon, there was a heat building deep in Kelly's works, a tiny dime-size glow that was the warm orange color of a new spring sun and spreading concentrically outward. Something happened to her mind as the sensation rippled out from her belly and found her legs, a sort of unintentional yet irresistible disconnection, nothing like it had ever happened to her before, not ever, and before she realized it was finally, actually happening, she was caught in the tightening, gushing heightening glory of it, murmuring rapturously to Peter and clutching him closer, trying to absorb him into herself.

  The feeling lingered for a time, ebbing and flowing, and they lay awash in it, more in love than either could even begin to comprehend.

  Then, dreamily, they drowsed.

  A half hour later Peter jerked awake with a scream boiling up from his guts. He managed to contain it, dissipating its force in a hot rush of air, but the terror remained lodged like a fishhook in his throat.

  He'd been dreaming about flying; nothing unusual for Peter Gardner. Hardly a day had gone by since his eighth birthday—when his father, in one of the few loving gestures he'd shown the boy, brought home an Aurora model of a Lockheed F-104 and the two of them stayed up until midnight assembling it—that he hadn't dreamed about piloting his own aircraft, carving the edge of the atmosphere, man and machine joined in perfect harmony.

  But in this dark dream, things had gone suddenly, irreversibly awry. He had been alone, high up, where the stars wink even in daylight, and to the earthbound observer an aircraft seems little more than a pinpoint of light trailing vapor. His oxygen supply had failed, and in the delirium that quickly followed, he lost control. Then man and machine were plummeting, dragged toward the globe like a thumbtack caught in the resistless pull of an electromagnet. Alarms flashed, dials spun helter-skelter, the whole instrument panel seemed to sneer like a savage face, the face of a machine come to malign and murderous life, shedding its charade of smooth obedience and replacing it with a furious, suicidal mutiny. Die with me, fool, it seemed to whisper in the vacuum of the cockpit. Taste the flames of hell. And when he opened his eyes he thought he was still in the cockpit, and the scream was hammering at the backs of his teeth.

  Breathless, Peter pushed up to his elbows. That spiraling sensation of free-fall was still on him, and it took several swooning seconds to still the spin of the room. Gradually his breathing settled, the images dispersing like wind-torn smoke.

  Kelly lay with her back to him, her respirations shallow with sleep. As gently as he was able, Peter tucked an arm around her waist. Nuzzling closer, he kissed the back of her neck, high up on the nape. Kelly moaned, stirring slightly, then awoke.<
br />
  "Hi, doll," she said drowsily. Her hand found Peter's beneath the covers and pressed it to her tummy.

  Peter felt the beginnings of another erection and automatically drew back his hips. Though they'd been going together for nine months (and sleeping together for five of those), Peter hadn't fully overcome his shyness with her yet. But Kelly pressed her backside against him, closing the gap. Not sharing Peter's shyness, his penis grew almost painfully stiff.

  "What's that in your pocket?" Kelly asked playfully.

  "Banana," Peter said, his shyness forgotten. He kissed her again on the nape of the neck, high up, in the downy hair that grew there. "Wanna play bury the banana?"

  Kelly Wheeler, whose mouth was wide and whose large brown eyes seemed always to betray a flicker of sadness, turned to face her man. "That's what I like about you, Gardner," she quipped. "Always the romantic."

  "We're keeping Nell Tait waiting."

  The plan was to motor out to his uncle Jim's charter field on Highway 144, pick up the pontooned Twin Otter Peter had trained in, then fly to Nell Tait's cottage on Halfway Lake. Peter had earned his solo license the summer before, and both he and Kelly were looking forward to the grand entrance they would make at the party. His uncle, who had trained him, trusted Peter implicitly. To accommodate his favorite nephew, he had kept the Twin Otter free for this one special day.

  "What time is it?" Kelly asked.

  Peter glanced at the bedside digital. "Almost four."

  Kelly's fingers found the taut muscles of Peter's shoulders and idly began to knead them. "You're still pretty tense," she said, and Peter detected a trace of injury in her voice.

  "It's never been so good," he said.

  "No," Kelly agreed. "It's been good, but never that good."

  "Did it happen?"

  She smiled, "Uh-huh."

  Suddenly pensive, Peter lay back on the pillow, resting his head in the hammock of his hands. Kelly lay with her head on his chest, one hand stroking his abdomen. His erection had subsided.