Flights

by Jim Shepard

  “Does everybody make fun of him?”

  “It isn’t easy for him. You should feel sorry for him.”

  Kristi collected her cards into a pile. She’d gotten a little sun at the game and her nose and cheeks were pink.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him playing with you guys. Or with all of us.”

  The house was becoming simply a shape in the gloom. Biddy sat staring into the darkness beyond it, trying to imagine what it would be like to be Louis.

  “He’s a good kid,” his father repeated, getting up to go. “That Mickey’s harder to take than he is. I don’t want you kids bothering him.”

  Biddy shook his head to agree not to, his eyes still focused out into the distance, but in the gloom all but the most emphatic gestures were lost.

  The next few days were spent in preparation for school as much as for the Air Show. Biddy was fitting into a new uniform, Kristi had outgrown her shoes, and they both needed school supplies and enough other shit to choke a horse, as his father put it. So the announcement that they were flying to the Hamptons for the weekend, getting a free ride with a friend who commuted to Sikorsky by Cessna, surprised everyone, and excited only Biddy.

  “What’re we going to do in the Hamptons,” his mother said, spooning out peas.

  “Nothing. Hold our hand on our ass,” his father said. “The vacation spot of the East, and she wants to know what we’re going to do there.”

  “Where’re we going to stay?”

  “We’ll stay with the Carvers. Look, if you don’t want to go—”

  “I’d love to go. I have my heart set on going. Your friends are my friends,” his mother said.

  His father took the spoon from her hand and piled more peas onto his plate. “You bring a lot to the party, you know it?” he said.

  “I know it,” his mother said. “Sometimes I’m not all I’m supposed to be. I know that, too.”

  Late that Friday afternoon they drove around Lordship to Bridgeport Airport. It took, he thought as they drove through the main gate, longer than it would have had they just walked to the end of their street and gone under the hurricane fence.

  Mr. Carver pulled up in a little Datsun and hurried over, a short heavy man in a white shirt with a dirty collar. He switched hands with his briefcase and gave Biddy’s hand a firm single shake. He did not look like Biddy’s idea of a pilot, but the very idea of that much spatial freedom—the ability to go, almost literally, in any direction one wanted, to be free of the confining limits of even roads or tracks—excited Biddy so that he could not keep back his desire to want to admire this man, peering at his physical exterior as if searching for evidence of the marvelous skill underneath. Carver was introduced to everyone and seemed polite and noticeably impatient. He was visibly unhappy about Kristi, and Biddy wondered guiltily if his father had even mentioned her. She’d sit in her mother’s lap, next to Biddy in the back.

  The Cessna seemed a tiny car with wings. The cockpit was cramped. Biddy pressed his face to the glass, unable to completely believe this machine and that man would take them off the face of the earth.

  From the back seat he asked a series of questions. Because of the weather they’d be flying VFR, navigating visually, Mr. Carver related. What he was doing at this point was the preflight checklist. It was no more difficult than it seemed, he said. Biddy sat back, bewildered by the simplicity of the process. Carver went on explaining, but his words were lost in the roar as the engine kicked over.

  They took off slowly, banking sharply around to the left toward the Sound, Biddy feeling a shock and excitement as the wheels left the ground and his neighborhood and street swept away and below. Everyone looked out windows, and he waited for the plane to sideslip abruptly and smash into the ground after a fluttering spin. The reeds of the salt marsh flashed by below and then the thin stretch of beach, and then they were over the ocean, blue and choppy. No one spoke. Mr. Carver said something to his father now and then.

  Biddy watched the man’s hands on the controls. It seemed inexpressibly marvelous that a human being could do this. Carver seemed to be paying no more attention than his father did when he drove. Like the car, the Cessna seemed to need only an occasional gentle correction.

  The diminutive East Hampton Airport was in the middle of nowhere, a flat tan strip surrounded by the dark green of a pine forest. As they banked around to their approach pattern he could make out a path through the pines leading away from the runway they’d be coming in on. He could see children on bicycles riding along it toward a connecting road before the gray of the runway abruptly swung up to meet them and he had a sense of hurtling onto a paved strip with only Mr. Carver to deliver them. The gray swept past them and they touched down, Carver steady and unperturbed at the controls, the pavement reeling past the wing hypnotically as he watched.

  They drove to a house off the road and hidden by bushes and trees, a big yellow irregular box that looked as if they could work on it for weeks, painting, fixing screen doors, and refastening gutters, and still have much to do. The Carvers had no children, so Biddy and Kristi would sleep on cots in the spare room upstairs. From the window he could see the farmland bordering the backyard, neatly arranged in huge mosaics almost all the way down to the water, a half mile away.

  Everything went well. They drove up to Sag Harbor Saturday morning, following the black two-lane road to the end of the North Haven peninsula and taking the short ferry ride to Shelter Island. They played golf at Gardiners Bay, Biddy and Kristi trooping along behind the adults over the beautiful misty fairways, hacking away at their golf balls, delighting in the springy feel of the greens beneath their feet. Afterward, they drove along Ram Island Drive with the windows open, the sea smell filling the car and the bay quiet and wide and huge to the west. They stopped along docks at the water’s edge, nosing around dingy small boats tied nearby. Mr. Carver talked of the islands to the east, Plum Island and Great Gull Island and others, and of their beauty and solitude. The quality of the light conferred a special clarity on the land and sea in the distance, making the water fresh and blue. Gulls’ cries echoed over the surface and the boats quietly thumped one another with the arrival of an occasional wave from a far-off speedboat. They bought dinner in a seafood restaurant with nets hanging over the tables. On Sunday they lay in the hot sun and crested and splashed in tumbling breakers at the beach when it got too hot. That evening they showered and sat in lounge chairs in the back, cool and relaxed in the breezy darkness, unbothered by mosquitoes. He slept luxuriously on the cot, a hand or foot draped over the sharp-cornered edges.

  They flew back early Monday morning. Carver pumped Biddy’s hand goodbye and Biddy found it difficult finally to lift his other hand from the smooth metal of the fuselage. His parents saw their host off in his Datsun, thanking him repeatedly and insisting they get together soon, and then exploded into argument once he’d left. Something his father had done or not done or gotten or not gotten was the cause of it all. His mother had said nothing until safely in Stratford. She was, his father said as they crossed behind the Sikorsky hangar to their car, an Italian land mine.

  Later in the week, Biddy and Louis were picked up by the yellow security jeep at the airport for playing too close to the runway. Biddy had been drawn back to the Cessnas and they’d strayed too far from the edge of the salt marsh, daring each other onto the tarmac. Louis had been staying over for the day and his father had expressed the hope that they’d find something sedate to do.

  They were kept out in the driveway after being dropped off with a warning, his father pacing in front of them.

  “It’s not your fault, Louis,” he said. “This bonzo should’ve known better.”

  “We were only on the runway for a second,” Biddy said. “The rest of the time we were in the reeds.”

  “What, that’s better? There’re rats and all sorts of shit in there. You were asked to stay around, do something a little sedate, but no. It’s like talking to a wall. You can’t find your ass w
ith both hands and you’re wandering around those paths back there. And dragging this poor soul with you.” Louis looked up, embarrassed. “What has to happen? What does it take to get through? Does one of those planes have to take your head off? Does a rat have to bite you on the ass?”

  Six and three: Singleton lines out; runners hold. Six and one: Murray reaches on an error. Two and four: Roenicke pops up. One and one: Dauer strikes out. No runs, three left on base.

  Preparations for the Air Show: his father stood in the sunny area of the driveway, washing chaise longues and lawn chairs with a hose. His mother and Kristi edged around the bushes bordering the yard, trimming and cleaning out odd piles of debris, his mother snipping and pulling efficiently, Kristi raking with the three-pronged hand rake listlessly, uselessly. He sat at the redwood table, rolling dice.

  “Get a rake,” his father said, splashing water. “Give your mother a hand.”

  With Randolph and Mumphrey on base in the ninth, Winfield homered. He rolled a few more times and then carefully wrote, “Balt. 5, N.Y. 6.”

  “Biddy, are you deaf?”

  “No sense getting excited,” his mother said from across the yard without turning. “He doesn’t listen to me, either.”

  “Keep playing with those dice.” His father returned his attention to a chair. “That’s a good thing to do with your time. Useful.”

  Biddy looked at the dice in his hand.

  “You could be reading, it’s a beautiful day, you could’ve gone to the beach. … Who was that kid from school? Teddy? Why doesn’t he come around anymore? You could’ve done a lot today, instead of sitting around bored. But sit around,” he said. “Improve your mind.”

  He could’ve done a lot of things. He could do a lot of things. Lying in bed that night, he realized that: like sliding belly up onto the roof with Teddy’s BB gun, edging off the ladder just before dawn. The spaniel next door would bark when the shingles crunched and popped as he put his full weight on them, swinging his legs up. He’d creep to the peak of the roof, rest the barrel lightly between the top of the basketball backboard and its two-by-four support, and wait.

  He liked this one, he mused, turning in bed. He pumped up the gun, increasing the tension on the firing mechanism until he felt it would explode in his hands if he handled it roughly.

  And the sun came out red and weak, and Lady was let out. She ran around the yard sniffing and urinating and went back in without seeing him.

  And his mother and sister set up for the Air Show.

  And when Dom arrived and edged from the car with two trays of rolled prosciutto and ham and a bottle of cherry peppers held lightly by his chin against his chest, he sighted down the barrel and fired quickly, thonk thonk thonk, at the hunched figure, and the jar made a musical plish and dropped away magically from beneath the cap, peppers and juice streaming and tumbling down his dark blue chest. And he swung his rifle, thonk, and Lady yelped, splaying out a hind leg, and swung it back, thonk, and Dom yelped and sent two trays of meats cascading up and over, the meats fluttering pink and the trays spinning silver. And down along the TV trays in a crooked line: pling plang plung, the sound to mix with Dom’s silver trays coming down on the driveway.

  And they all rushed him at once, Lady, Dom, his father, his mother, with scaling ladders and needle-sharp bayonets, with bright blue tunics and long white sabers, or dark blue police suits and long brown clubs, or sweaty red bodies and painted, feathered faces, and he stood and fired from the hip, levered Teddy’s Winchester up and down, kicked away tomahawks and sabers, nightsticks and savage hands.

  The sun seemed bright and cold the morning of the Air Show. Biddy had been awake and outside with his mother before seven, while it was still clear and chilly. He lay on his belly on the warming pavement of the driveway, gazing vacantly down the street at Simon’s yard. Kristi was playing with Simon, Simon in the wagon, the wagon at the top of the driveway, the driveway a long coast to the street. Simon rattled the handle. Cindy’s car turned onto the street and with a shove Kristi sent him out and down the incline, the red wagon gaining speed all the way down the driveway and it occurred to Biddy that it wasn’t going to stop. It bounced once, jiggling Simon and making him puppetlike, and swept out in front of Cindy’s car, which jerked and bucked and turned aside. The wagon continued across the street and onto the lawn opposite, pitching over and tumbling Simon out. Cindy got out of her car and stood surveying the scene, looking tiny and ineffectual in the distance. She said something to both Simon and Kristi, and got back in and continued to Biddy’s driveway. The car grew as it cruised up the pavement toward him. He didn’t move and the bumper stopped above him.

  Later, in the chaise longue, Cindy said, “Biddy, you’re going to have to watch that kid. His mother obviously isn’t going to.”

  “Can I taste that?” he asked, pointing to her drink.

  “It’s too early in the morning for you to be drinking.” She had on a white bathing suit with light brown straps. One leg tapered along the length of the chaise longue; the other had slipped off and lay on a diagonal between grass and chair.

  “Why isn’t it too early for you?”

  “I’m engaged,” she said, turning on the chaise longue without opening her eyes.

  “Where’s Ronnie?”

  “He’s coming. He’s getting some stuff at the bakery.” Her arm dangled vaguely at a plastic bottle in the grass. “Put some lotion on me?”

  “What’s he getting?”

  She took a sip of her drink, her glass intricately beaded with condensation. “Don’t you want to put some lotion on me? Want me to fry?”

  He knelt in the grass near her, the plastic bottle hot and soft in his hands, and she said, “Get my legs first. I’m beginning to feel it on my legs.” He dabbed lotion on the top of her thigh.

  The screen door slammed and his father went by. “When you’re finished there help me with the grill,” he said.

  Her skin was hot under the sun and dry, wrinkling to his touch. She was peeling and he eased a flake away from the surface of her leg with his fingernail. The lotion glazed as it spread, moistening it and deepening the brown color. He did both legs and his hands were sticky.

  “Put some more up by the suit,” she said, eyes still closed. “I always get burned there.” He put some dabs farther up and heard Ronnie’s car pull in behind hers down the driveway. “Rub it in, Biddy,” she said. “Want it to dry on me?” His middle finger touched the dab, broke the bubble, pressed further to the skin underneath.

  “Isn’t this nice,” Ronnie said. “The Queen of Sheba.” Biddy turned, lotion on his fingers. “She’ll have you out here with a fan next.”

  She didn’t open her eyes. “Finish up, Biddy,” she said.

  “Aren’t you helping Judy?” Ronnie asked.

  “I’ve been here for a while,” she said. “Everything’s ready. You’re in the sun.” Ronnie went into the house. “Grab a chair and come on out,” she called. She opened her eyes, hand cupped over them. “That’s enough, Biddy,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He washed his hands twice, the stickiness elusive between his fingers. “What time is Uncle Dom coming?” he asked Ronnie, stacking plates in the kitchen.

  “Few hours,” he said. “He’s getting some provolone and prosciutto and that place is a nuthouse today.” He handed a full glass to Biddy. “You going back out? Take this out to her. It might as well be you as me.”

  “I’m thinking about cutting my hair, Biddy,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “Don’t,” he said. She opened her eyes. “I mean—it’s beautiful.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  He fumbled with a sneaker. “Who wants you to change it? Ronnie?” She continued to gaze at him. “For the wedding?”

  “No. I don’t know, just for something different. But you like it, huh?”

  He nodded, glad the embarrassment was over.

  “Then I’ll keep it. C’mere.”

  He reddened as he leaned for
ward and she kissed him, half on the mouth, half on the cheek.

  “Go help your father with the grill,” she said softly.

  An hour later they were starting to arrive, the Lirianos, the Pierces, the Sheas, the Terentieffs, the Cartenellis, and more.

  The Air Show was about to begin.

  The yard included a patio, a redwood table and some benches beside the clusters of lawn chairs and lounges, a large maple tree, a small maple tree, a gray cellar door adjacent to the house, a vegetable garden, and a fair number of bare spots. It was a small residential tract just barely suitable for a cramped game of Wiffle ball, bordered by the Frasers’ garage on one side and their own on the other. The garden was small and weedy, and the dog’s urine had browned the grass near the knee-high fence bordering it. A red tomato showed here and there, unpicked.

  The backyard, with the garages and trees allowing some privacy, was where the Sieberts entertained. The front yard was a bare, flawless expanse boasting two dogwoods flanking a sidewalk leading to the front door, and that was all. On those rare occasions he played there Biddy felt as though he were onstage.

  The backyard as well had an unencumbered upward view of the north, over the airport, perfect for the Air Show.

  The Air Show included the U.S. Navy Blue Angels, an R.A.F. Harrier VSTOL (vertical takeoff and landing) jet, a World War II P-51 Mustang, a Bell Huey helicopter, a Sikorsky HH-52 helicopter, some skywriters, a U.S. Army parachute team, and a smallish orange plane that stood on its tail and cut its engine and flew acrobatically. Biddy’s job was to keep the soda moving, run for beers, and change empty cheese and meat platters for full ones. Everything wavered on TV trays on uneven ground, under the shadows of the leaves. People began to fill the backyard. The meat and cheese platters, as his father had predicted, began to take a beating.

  The party was not a gathering for children, and Mickey Liriano was the only child present besides Biddy, hustling back and forth with empty or full trays, and Kristi, jealously guarding a chair in a prime viewing location. Mickey dealt with his isolation principally by throwing a rubber ball off the side of the garage with a relentless energy and fielding it, pausing only to retrieve a bad hop from the garden or let someone with drink in hand pass by.