Flights

by Jim Shepard

  Most of the time, the task of flying a light aeroplane is easier than driving a car, less strenuous than riding a horse, and requires less skill than fishing for trout.

  And a final sentence, next to which he soberly drew a thick, double line:

  It does, however, require constant alertness, and any lapses of concentration can be serious.

  He sat alone watching Louis and some other members of the team horse around in the wide, empty practice field. He’d come to watch the practice and had stayed despite learning it had been canceled, unhappy with the idea of returning so soon after arriving. He had come on the bus, and had sat next to a black couple who had argued all the way out. The woman had been holding the man’s cassette deck while he tucked in his shirt, and he’d said, “Shit, you ain’t nothing but a nickel-diving bitch anyway,” and she’d hit him so hard with the cassette deck that the batteries had fallen out. The image and sudden violence had stayed in his head and he considered it from his perch on the dark green bleachers.

  While most of the team had left, some had stayed around, waiting for rides and making fun of each other’s girlfriends. They started a pickup game of touch out of boredom and moved away from where he was sitting, but he didn’t follow, content to watch from where he was. An odd boy about his age, his hair sticking out at spiky angles, came up and sat near him.

  In the game across the field, Louis tumbled backward over a pileup with his legs spread, someone else landing on top of him. When he got up, something shook between his legs and Biddy leaned forward.

  “That kid’s pecker is hangin’ out,” the boy next to him said.

  Louis had split his pants up the leg and was wearing nothing underneath.

  No one he was playing with told him. The game continued. Whenever he ran it hung out, jiggling around. Tacklers made an elaborate display of getting out of the way.

  Finally, with everyone stricken with laughter, someone pointed it out to Louis, who looked down and clapped both hands over his crotch, causing the laughter to intensify. They followed him to the bleachers and sat below Biddy.

  “Nice secret weapon, Louis,” one of them said.

  “Here I’m tackling the guy and I’m face to face with his nine-inch worm.”

  Biddy reddened, Cindy’s phrase defining itself. Louis was smiling sheepishly.

  “He’s tryin’ to distract you out there, Moretti.”

  “He’s gotta do better than that.”

  “Why? Not your size?”

  “It’s your mother’s size.”

  They kept after each other, everyone pitching in except Louis, who grinned and kept both hands on his crotch. The talk turned to girlfriends.

  “Nice chick, Moretti. What an operator. He gets her drunk and she throws up in the back of his car.”

  “Your mother threw up in the back of my car.”

  “And then he gets so pissed he leaves her there and comes back to the party. Class act.”

  “Maybe you oughta give up girls.”

  “Or find somebody younger.”

  “What was this one, junior high?”

  “Maybe you should give up girls,” Louis said, rocking forward into the conversation.

  “Shut up, Louis,” Moretti said. “You can’t even keep your dick in your pants.”

  Louis sat back and his grin disappeared. When they left, he stayed and Biddy went down and sat next to him.

  The field was deserted now except for the boy with the spiky hair, running patterns for an imaginary pass. Biddy put his hand on Louis’s back. “He wasn’t that mad,” he said. “He was just ranking you.”

  Louis looked at his hands on his crotch.

  “I don’t think he expected you to make fun of him.”

  “I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” Louis said. The spiky kid loped into the end zone, hands cradling an invisible ball. “I make everybody do that.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “C’mon.” Louis got up. “Let’s go home.”

  All the way home Biddy tried to cheer him up, talking about odd, unrelated subjects in bursts and giving up and surrendering to the silence for ten to fifteen minutes at a time before trying again.

  When they reached his house, Louis turned and said he’d see him later and disappeared, leaving Biddy to walk the last few blocks alone and unhappy with everything.

  Up in his room he opened all the drawers of his desk for no reason and stood before them, gazing at the mess.

  His father came softly up the stairs and stood behind him. “What’re you doing?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Biddy said.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “To watch Louis practice.”

  His father crossed to the window and shut it. “That’s nice. It’s November and you got the windows open. When your mother sees the oil bill she’ll scream.”

  Biddy stood in front of the open desk, unenthusiastic about doing anything else.

  “Why’s Mickey mad at you? Dom says he pretty much threw you out of the house the other day.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t let it bother you. He’s a little off the wall for extra bases, that kid.”

  Biddy took his jacket off.

  “What’s on the agenda now? A little dice baseball?”

  He shrugged and his father came over to the desk alongside him. “Get a load of this.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a sheaf of box scores. “How many games do you play? Baltimore-Oakland, Baltimore-Oakland, Baltimore-New York … What is this, a whole season?”

  “A whole season,” Biddy said.

  “Jesus Christ. If you’d been reading all this time, you’d be a Ph.D.” He sat on the bed, leafing through the pile. “What are these K’s? Strikeouts?” Biddy nodded. “And what does this mean?”

  He looked over. “Out stealing third.”

  “Well, I gotta hand it to you, guy. Biddy Siebert and his magic violin. Some imagination. Look at this: batting averages, half-year statistical leaders—is there anything you don’t have in here? When you want to, you can make things up with the best of them. But listen: think maybe we can cut back the number of games eventually, Commissioner?”

  “I’m not playing now.”

  “No, I mean when the season starts.”

  “It doesn’t bother anybody.”

  “It bothers me. Jesus Christ, there’s a thousand things you could be doing in the summer and you’re up here throwing Doug DeCinces out at second base.”

  Biddy looked down.

  “C’mon. This next year let’s give it a rest, okay? I bought you the book about airplanes. Learn about airplanes. Or find another interest. At least cut back on this stuff. Otherwise I’ll flush every pair of dice in the house.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, the reason I came up here was to tell you I got a surprise for you. So keep tomorrow after supper free.”

  “Okay.”

  His father made a face and sat farther back on the bed, dissatisfied.

  Biddy sat at the desk and put the box scores away. He sharpened a pencil.

  “How do you like that book?” his father said.

  “I like it a lot.”

  “You sound like it.” He lay back with a noisy intake of breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Gettin’ old.” He remained in that position for some few minutes, annoying Biddy for some reason, and finally said, “You seen Ronnie lately?”

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason. He’s just never around. Poor Cindy’s always looking for him.” He stretched, Biddy watching. “He’s always going somewhere. Probably got something going on the side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.” He got up, rubbing his eye, and stopped by the door. “Listen, forget I said that.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He started down the stairs only to lean back into view. “Your mother’s making hot dogs again for supper. C’mon down.” He straig
htened up out of sight and continued down the stairs. “Don’t start any trouble. All your mother needs to hear is more of this ‘I’m not hungry’ stuff.”

  He waited until his father reached the bottom and then pulled the heavy Flight book over, intending to open it but losing interest and settling, finally, on resting his chin on top of it, and staring out the window at the Frasers’ house next door.

  He called Teddy Bell and told him to come over that night and bring his gun. Teddy owned a Winchester Special Edition BB gun and snuck out of the house periodically late at night to shoot out streetlamps or torment cats.

  One o’clock, Biddy said. Wait for him in the driveway at one o’clock.

  He went to bed at ten—he had school the next day—and crept down the stairs at one, easing out the front door. Teddy was wandering nervously back and forth beneath the kitchen window.

  “Where’s the gun?” Biddy whispered.

  “It’s in the bush,” Teddy said. “What do you want to do?”

  “C’mon.” Biddy crossed to the garage, reaching down for the door handle and pausing before edging it up a foot and a half.

  “What’re you doin’?” Teddy whispered.

  “It’s too loud. It’ll wake everyone up.” Biddy crouched at the black opening and gestured through it. “Get in.”

  Teddy slithered under and Biddy followed.

  “Grab that end,” he said in the darkness, holding part of the ladder. The moonlight flooded through the garage-door windows. “Set it by the door. I’ll slide out and you hand it to me.” Teddy nodded, impressed by the amount of planning, and together they edged the long aluminum ladder under the door and straightened up.

  “Get the gun,” Biddy said, and carried the ladder, swaying back and forth with the danger of a huge noise if it struck anything, around to the back of the garage, and set it gently against the roof.

  Teddy returned with the gun. “What’re we doin’?”

  “Shh,” Biddy said, climbing.

  From the roof much of the surrounding area opened up, became visible. The big maple blocked the view in one direction, its branches reaching to touch the shingles, but they could see clearly in all other directions, and between the Frasers’ house and another they had an unencumbered shot at Prospect Drive.

  “How’s your wrist?” Biddy said.

  “All right,” Teddy said. “This is cool.”

  “Let me see.” Biddy took the gun. “Is it pumped up?”

  Teddy shook his head. Biddy pumped it up. He leveled it toward Prospect Drive and sighted along the barrel. A car went by, flashing over the gunsight in the distance.

  “Whaddaya gonna do?” Teddy said.

  Another went by and he squeezed firmly, the sound an echoing burst of air. There was a sharp metallic pang in the distance.

  “Oh, God.” Teddy flattened against the rooftop. “Did they stop? You’re nuts.” He giggled.

  Biddy pumped it again.

  “Don’t pump it up too much,” Teddy said. “You’ll bust it.”

  He leveled at the sound of another approaching car and fired when it crossed the barrel. The sound of the impact on the door rang off the houses in the darkness and the car pulled over immediately.

  “Oh, God,” Teddy said. “Get down.”

  They waited, chilly against the rough surface, but the car remained silent. Finally, Biddy poked his head over the edge. The driver had come all the way down the Frasers’ driveway. He ducked back and put his finger hard to his lips.

  “Goddamn kids,” they heard, and Teddy’s eyes widened at the proximity of the voice.

  Biddy edged the barrel up again. The driver was walking back to the car. He leveled the barrel, sighting along the spur of the gunsight into the man’s black back, and whispered, “Pow.” The man turned off the driveway, got into the car, and drove away.

  “What were you going to do if he came after us?” Teddy said. “You’re a maniac.”

  “Someone’s coming out,” Biddy said. Teddy rolled closer and peered over the roof beside him. Mr. Fraser appeared on his back porch, in a bright yellow fisherman’s raincoat and hat, with a garbage can in his hands.

  “What’s he doin’?” Teddy whispered.

  “Taking out the garbage.”

  “At one in the morning?”

  They watched him cross the lawn.

  “He had the can in the house?” Teddy whispered.

  “Looks like it.”

  Mr. Fraser stopped to rest halfway down the driveway. The can was apparently heavy.

  “What’s he doing in a raincoat?” Teddy said.

  Biddy looked up at the sky. It was absolutely clear.

  Teddy shook his head. “This whole neighborhood is nuts.”

  “Get down,” Biddy said. He lifted the barrel over the top of the roof and squeezed off a shot at the garbage can.

  Mr. Fraser shrieked and dropped it on the pavement.

  They both shook in their efforts to prevent the laughter from bursting out, making little nasal noises. Mr. Fraser circled the can in his raincoat and gingerly picked it up by the handles again.

  Biddy aimed swiftly and squeezed off another shot and again the can rang supernaturally and again Mr. Fraser dropped it with a cry. He backed away as if something dangerous were inside about to get out. He stood eyeing it for a few moments and then looked around, wiped his mouth, and swept the can up, hustling it over to the garage, his hat lofting off in the exertion. The hat lay like a piece of litter on the lawn in the moonlight.

  Biddy sighted on Mr. Fraser’s rear end as he walked back to retrieve the hat. “Pow,” he whispered.

  Fraser went into the house. Biddy lifted the rifle barrel away.

  “God,” Teddy breathed, relieved, turning over on the roof to face the stars. “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him.”

  “Can I borrow this again sometime?” Biddy whispered, still facing the Frasers’ house.

  “Sure,” Teddy said. “Keep it over here.” He looked at the wrist he’d reinjured playing football. “I can’t use it anyhow.”

  Biddy remained in the car with his mother, and his father slammed the door and climbed the slight rise to the adjoining parking lot.

  “You guys stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned with a little black puppy, furry and curling awkwardly in his arms.

  “Well, come on out,” he said. “Look at him.”

  Biddy scrambled out, surprised and excited by how pleased this puppy, squirming and twisting to get at him, made him feel.

  “He’s great.”

  His father grinned. “Were you surprised?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Here, take him. I’m gonna go thank Al.”

  He took the dog from his father’s arms like a baby, feeling enormously grateful. It arched its back and tried to twist around, licking in all directions.

  His mother got out of the car. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.

  “He’s so tiny.”

  “Oh, he’ll get big, don’t worry. Besides, we can’t have a horse with our yard.”

  Across the street his father and Al waved. He felt uncomfortable, his happiness diluted by being on display.

  “There’s a box in the trunk,” his mother said. “Let’s put him in that.”

  His father returned and they put the box on the floor of the front seat, where Biddy could watch it.

  “What’re you going to name him?” his mother asked from the back on the way home. It was a very bright day and the grass still showed green in patches beneath the fallen leaves as they passed the park.

  “I don’t know,” he said. The dog made tiny cries and scraped around the bottom of the box. “Thanks,” he added, turning around so his mother was included.

  “Don’t thank us,” his father said. “Thank Al Greaves.”

  “I’ll thank you,” he said. “And you can thank Al Greaves.”

  Upon their return Kristi, playing on the back porch, stood up,
saw the box, heard the scrapings, and pushed over a potted palm. It tumbled heavily to the carpet, spilling dirt.

  Her mother grabbed her arm and shook her, but she pulled away and bolted out the door, fighting past her father and running up the driveway. They followed her at a run into the garage, where she turned, trapped and furious at having trapped herself.

  Biddy stood rooted next to the car, still holding the box, the dog yelping with excitement inside.

  They cornered her in the garage, and she ran along the rows of shelves on the left wall, sweeping the coffee cans and baby-food jars of screws and flanges and hinges off with a cascading crash of metal and glass before they could reach her.

  They shouted for her to stop and she shouted she hated them, the words echoing in the garage.

  He put the box down, the dog’s legs making hollow noises against the cardboard, and ran over, unable to do anything to help, and unable to watch as well.

  He sat in the grass next to a low pail of water, with his father standing over him, watching the puppy blunder around. Kristi had calmed down and shut herself in her room. The puppy ran aimlessly back and forth, barking and yipping, feinting at Biddy’s hand and making harmless snapping noises with its jaws. It ran weak-legged in a wide circle, looking around wildly. On its second circuit of the yard it ran into the larger maple tree, coming to something of a halt, and toppling over.

  It scrambled back up, and they laughed, relieved.

  “November,” his father said, his jacket open. “Nice for November, isn’t it?” He crouched and grabbed the puppy’s rear, swinging it around so it sprawled lightly on the grass. “It’s a he, you know. What are you gonna call him?”

  “Stupid,” Biddy said.

  “Stupid?”

  He dangled his hand out, and the puppy leaped for it and missed.

  “You can’t name the dog Stupid.”

  “I don’t mean it mean. It’s a good name for him.”