Flights

by Jim Shepard

  He nodded, still trying to climb out. The chair seemed to be holding him down, trapping him in its folding mechanism like a mousetrap or a crab’s claw.

  “Now we need lessons on how to sit in a chair,” his father said. “Mr. Abbott, meet Mr. Costello.”

  His father held the phone in his direction as though it were for him. “Mr. Rotondo wants to know why you’re not going out for Little League this year,” he said.

  “Tell him because I don’t want to,” Biddy said.

  His father returned the phone to his ear. “Paulie?” he said. “He’s not showing much interest this year.” He listened for a moment. “I’ll tell him.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “He says they really need good people this year and all the positions are wide open.”

  Biddy shook his head.

  “Still can’t sell him on it, Paulie. I know, I know. He was getting better and better.” He covered the phone again. “He says you’re a little Doug DeCinces at third.”

  Biddy left the room.

  “He may come around later,” he heard his father say. “Thanks for calling.”

  They sat in the den watching Jason and the Argonauts. He had seen it before and liked the harpies.

  “If that isn’t a bite in the ass,” his father said. “All last summer you wanted to be on the team, wanted me to work with you. All those hours Dom and I took you guys over to the dump and worked out. And here I am telling Paulie Rotondo all year you can’t wait.”

  He refused to feel guilty.

  “You’re losing interest in everything. What’re you going to do, hang around the house the rest of your life? Maybe your mother’s been right all along. Maybe we should be worried.”

  “Maybe I’m depressed,” Biddy said.

  “Yeah, you’re depressed. Twelve years old. You’re depressed.”

  “Thirteen.”

  His father didn’t respond. He answered a knock at the back door and returned to the den and stood by the television, ready to turn it off. “Your friend’s here,” he said. “Go out and do something.”

  “Where we goin’?” Teddy asked.

  “The airport,” Biddy said.

  “The airport? Why the airport? You want to build a fort?”

  Biddy said no, and denied he was intending to play guns or look for rats, either. They reached the hurricane fence at the end of Birch Street and knelt at the hole underneath it. Weeds surged up through the metal links. He held the fence up but Teddy refused to budge until he knew why they were going.

  “I want to look at some stuff,” Biddy said, still holding the fence, considerable tension on his arm. “We can look at airplanes.”

  “Look at airplanes?”

  “Are you coming or not?” His tone surprised him.

  “No, I’m not coming,” Teddy said. “Why do we always gotta do what you want to do?”

  Biddy crouched low and slipped under the fence. Teddy followed.

  They cantered down the slope to the basin of the airport, moving quickly and efficiently along paths they knew well. At the base they followed the perimeter west, skirting hillocks and standing marsh water. They worked their way through a thin path in the cattails, the reeds underfoot cracking crisply with each step. At points brown water oozed over the reed mat of the path, touching their sneakers. It filled the air with a musty smell.

  “Where we goin’?” Teddy said. “There’s nothing over here but the runway.”

  “I told you. The airport,” Biddy said.

  “The real airport?” Usually when they spoke of “the airport” they meant the marshes and flatlands surrounding it, not the actual installation. “We’ll get in trouble.”

  “No, we won’t.” The last thing he wanted was trouble. The reeds parted and the runway lay before him, the tarmac gray, smooth, and wide.

  “We have to cross it,” he said.

  “Cross it?”

  He was already away from the cattails, checking the sky for incoming planes. Satisfied, he started to run, low to the ground, the heat off the paved surface dry and intense. On the other side he ducked into the weeds, crashing through the fragile yellow stalks. Teddy was right behind him.

  “If you wanted to come over here, why didn’t you have your father drive you around?” he said, panting. Biddy ignored the question and struck out for the access road to the terminal.

  The Bridgeport terminal was small and resembled a longish restaurant with a two-story tower. It was not very impressive on the best of days, and was even less so from their angle, surrounded by dark pavement and swimming in the heat waves of the afternoon. With the tower in sight Teddy grew appreciably more restive and lagged behind. By the time Biddy had reached the tower, Teddy had been lured off by a side attraction and was no longer visible. Biddy tested the door leading to the tower, but it was locked. A moment later, a man in white shirtsleeves opened it from the inside and asked what he could do for him.

  “Could I go up in the tower for just a second?” Biddy said.

  The man said no, and then changed his mind and said yes, what the heck, and led him up the stairs. At the top a man at a console, also in shirtsleeves, smiled at him. A fan whirred behind them. The man indicated to his friend that they’d better get him out. Biddy looked north to the hangars where he’d been with his mother and confirmed the blind spot. He pointed. “What’s over there?” he said. Just beyond the hangar he could make out the very tip of Mr. Carver’s Cessna, a sliver of white and blue.

  “What, the hangars?” the man asked.

  Biddy shook his head. “Behind them.”

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “Can’t see behind them. A parking area.” He put his hand on Biddy’s back and led him down the stairs.

  Teddy was waiting for him when he emerged into the glare. “God, why didn’t you wait for me?” he said. “You got to go up there! You knew I was out here!”

  It wasn’t so great, Biddy assured him, the Cessna tail still vivid and hidden.

  He gazed at Biddy in helpless amazement. “Why didn’t you wait?”

  “I had something to do up there,” Biddy said. “You didn’t.”

  Teddy swung and Biddy avoided the blow and held his ground. They stood facing each other before Teddy relaxed, too disgusted to fight. “I came all this way,” he said, and turned his back on Biddy and left the way they had come. Biddy didn’t follow. Halfway across the runway the yellow security jeep, on the alert because of their earlier crossing, emerged from hiding like a lazy four-wheeled spider. Teddy was piled into it and it circled back toward the terminal. Biddy watched it grow as it drew nearer before he trotted across the parking lot to the southern exit of the Burma Road and turned toward home.

  Teddy wasn’t speaking to him any longer. Laura told him in class, two days later.

  “Can you come out today?” he whispered. They were communicating in short bursts while Sister wrote on the board.

  “I have to go somewhere,” she said. “But tonight I’m sleeping out with Sarah Alice.”

  That night he crept from the house at five after one. His father hadn’t gone to sleep until late. He trailed down the empty streets barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt. The Ranseys had a screened-in patio set away from the house near the edge of their property. The property adjoined a vacant lot that was overgrown and unlighted, visually impenetrable at night. He felt his way through, remembering paths, and climbed the low wooden fence bordering their yard. He paused at the screened wall of the porch.

  They were both asleep, twisted in light sleeping bags. He scratched the metal surface with his nail, the screen sounding like an emery board. “Laura,” he whispered. “Laura.”

  She lifted her head abruptly and looked at him. Then she looked at Sarah Alice, still asleep. She got up, groggy, her covers falling away in a whisper, and came outside. She was wearing a white nightshirt with tiny green figures on it.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “What time is it?”

  “It’s not too late. Let’s
go to the beach.”

  “No.” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s late.”

  “C’mon.” He took her wrist. “You wanted me to come over.”

  She pulled toward the screen. “I should tell Sarah Alice.”

  “Let her sleep.”

  “She’ll wake up and find me gone.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  She hesitated. “Let me get my flip-flops.” When she returned, she sat in the grass to put them on. Then she stood, clearing the hair from her face, and took his hand and they ran to the fence and climbed over.

  She was frightened in the vacant lot, the darkness alive with rustlings and insect noises, but he moved them swiftly through and they came out on the far side under a streetlight. He waited while she scratched the side of her calf thoroughly, and then they headed down the street, her flip-flops making rubbery, popping sounds.

  He heard a car and saw a flash of headlights and pulled her quickly behind a hedge, crouching low. It edged closer.

  “What are we hiding for?” she whispered but half understood, appreciating the heightened sense of imagined danger and suspense. Her palm was moist and warm in his hand. His shoulder brushed the hedge, picking up cool dew. The car’s engine idled past on the other side.

  “He’s going so slow,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened. “What do you think he’s doing?”

  He shook his head. In her crouch her chin was nearly between her knees. The car crept away.

  After a short wait he raised his eyes above the hedge. The car was at a stop sign at the end of the street. It was a station wagon, with an odd license plate: LEMM. It turned left down the beach road.

  “It’s gone,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “I want to go back,” Laura said. “I’m scared.”

  “Come on.” He held his hand out. “He’s gone.”

  They walked a bit faster, the beach dark ahead of them. Laura looked fearfully behind them every so often. He was happy to be with her and swung her arm as they reached the stop sign, the breeze cool off the sea. He had all sorts of things he wanted to talk to her about.

  She said, “What’s that?” Her tone stopped him as though he were on the edge of a cliff. The station wagon was parked along the beach road to their left. The LEMM shone in the plate lights. He stood still for the briefest moment, stunned, before pulling her under a rhododendron in the nearest yard. They peered out at the car.

  “What’s he doing?” she whispered. She was terrified.

  “I don’t see anyone,” he said. His eyes covered every inch of the car. The interior was dark and he couldn’t discern any movement.

  “Look,” Laura said. It was a choked whisper, a horrible sound. She was pointing to the right, at some bushes across the street black with their own shadows even under the streetlight. He couldn’t see anything.

  He was going to speak but she continued to point. He looked again, and there was a man’s face in the bush, white, disembodied in the shadow, the eyes black dots. His forehead went instantly cool and he felt as though he’d lost his wind.

  “What’s he doing, what’s he doing, what’s he doing?” Laura whispered. He took her arm, afraid she would bolt.

  “We got to get out of here.” God, he realized, he’s looking at us.

  He glanced behind them. There was nothing but fifty feet of lawn, with a white house to silhouette them. He looked around desperately.

  “He’s moving,” Laura whispered, her voice rising.

  There was nothing to do but run. “Laura,” he whispered, imagining he sounded calm. “Laura, listen. We’ve got to run. Take your flip-flops off.” He waited while she slipped her feet out of them. “Turn around and when I say run, run and don’t stop until you’re home. We’re going to run together, but if he catches us I’m going to let you go and you’re going to keep running, okay?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Ready?”

  She edged around. He took a last look back. The face was gone.

  “Go!” he said, and burst from under the bush with her hand in his, pulling it as hard as he dared, both of them flying down the pavement, Laura grabbing at her nightshirt in a frantic attempt to hitch it up. They heard the car start behind them with a roar and Laura shrieked and he immediately pulled her between two houses, cutting through yards, leaping a sandbox and a garden. They flattened along the wall of another house, panting. She sobbed quietly and he poked his head around the corner a few inches. The station wagon cruised past in the distance, still moving very slowly.

  He put his head back against the wall. “We’re okay,” he said. “He won’t find us.”

  “I want to go back,” Laura wailed quietly. “I told you I didn’t want to come.”

  He took her hand and led her down the driveway to the next street, easing a tricycle away with a gentle push. A dog barked nearby and the wind made a soft, sweeping sound through the leaves of the trees. He heard the engine just in time and clapped a hand to her mouth, pulling her back; it was the station wagon, driving without headlights. They sprinted back the way they’d come, not speaking, not slowing down, staying in backyards, clawing their way over dividing fences and hedges, cutting their feet, scraping their knees, their running as headlong as it could be without total loss of control. Laura raced ahead of him, her hair alive in the wind. They swept through the vacant lot, crashing through vines and creepers, and near her yard Laura missed a turn and sprawled headlong over a bush with a great crash of wood and vegetation, her heel lashing the air in front of him.

  He rushed to her, asking if she was all right, and she was crying harder, more from the shock than anything else, and she stood and knocked his hand away and continued down the path. As they approached the fence, she pushed him away again and he ducked back, sure she’d be safe at that point, with lights and anxious voices of people filling her yard, for Sarah Alice, tangled in her nightshirt and buried under the sleeping bag, had woken up to find her missing.

  The Sieberts were in the Lirianos’ living room, pants pressed, hair washed, dresses ironed, and bearing presents, when Louis came downstairs and announced he wasn’t going to the wedding.

  “You’re not going to the what?” Dom said, and Louis went back upstairs.

  “He’s not going to the what?” he repeated to Ginnie, his tie half tied.

  Ginnie shrugged. It was news to her.

  They sat around the coffee table in a semicircle, slightly embarrassed, while Dom went up to talk with him. They heard Dom’s voice rise and fall. He came downstairs.

  “He says he’s not going. He won’t tell me why.” He went into the bathroom and resumed tying his tie. “Christ,” he said finally. “Is the whole world going nuts? Is that it?”

  Ginnie went up to talk with Louis.

  “If he’s not going, then I’m not either,” Mickey said.

  “Don’t start,” Dom said from the bathroom. “Just don’t start. Because if you’re staying home you’re staying home in traction.”

  Ginnie came downstairs grim. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “He just says he’s not going.”

  “Doesn’t that frost your ass?” Dom said. He was having trouble with his jacket sleeve. “These kids’re gonna drive us all off cliffs. If they haven’t already.”

  Louis appeared at the top of the stairs. “Sorry I can’t go, Mr. and Mrs. Siebert,” he said. “I can’t, though.”

  “Louis, what in the Christ is the matter?” Dom said.

  “I can’t, Dad. Sorry.” He went back upstairs.

  Dom remained where he was, staring after him. “Aw, let’s get out of here,” he said, shaking his head, “before I lose any more of them.”

  The wedding itself was at Our Lady of Peace and the reception at the Red Coach Inn. It was Biddy’s third wedding and the ceremony was becoming familiar. Sheona, the bride, glanced around as if wondering if all of this were not some sort of elaborate hoax.

  Father Rubino handled the Mass with dispatch,
labeling the occasion joyous and celebratory as though he were narrating a travelogue. Biddy stood next to his mother, with Cindy and Mickey in the pew ahead of them. Cindy was wearing dark blue, like her father, with a deep red sash. Her hair was up and the thin gold chains were missing from her neck. They had been gifts from Ronnie, he remembered.

  The sun came through the windows. Irises on the altar moved slightly in the breeze from the open doors, heavy on their stems. “If he gets any skinnier, they might as well leave the hangers in the shirts,” he heard Dom say about the groom.

  Biddy rode to the reception in the same car as Cindy. She hadn’t said a word the entire day that he had been aware of. His father drove in silence, respecting her feelings, awkward.

  At the Red Coach Inn they signed the guest register, his name following Cindy’s and hers reading Cynthia Amanda Liriano—for her, oddly formal. They piled silver-and-white presents on one table and searched for name cards with table assignments on the other. Biddy and Cindy would be at table 8, his father at table 9. They threaded their way past circular tables arranged with place settings and fruit cups waiting. Kristi and Mickey were already at table 8, with two teenaged cousins; Dom, Ginnie, and his mother were already at 9. They were early. Uncomfortable where he was and spotting empty chairs at 9, Biddy moved and sat next to Dom.

  “This guy’s given up on Little League,” his father said.

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”