Spilled Coffee

by J. B. Chicoine

  We continued to swim in circles, exchanging ideas on how we might finagle permission for a history-making television broadcast at Whispering Narrows. Doc made it halfway up the landing before turning. “By the way, Ben—Lenny mentioned something about bringing his friend by this afternoon. You still interested in taking them fishing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man,” he said and continued toward the garage.

  As far as going up for another flight with Doc, well, permission granted once—albeit roundabout—was as good as a season pass. I would worry about the details later, though ever since Penny had pointed out how Mom consistently went to the market on Friday mornings, I felt optimistic that Mom would follow through. I had also checked the top shelf of the cabinet beside the refrigerator. The bottle’s level did drop, day-to-day, the way Penny had said. If I needed to, I could empty some into the sink—that way, Mom would have to go.

  As soon as Penny and I returned to camp, I gathered up my tackle and readied the boat for Christopher and me. Mom had already gone inside for lunch with Frankie and Penny. I chomped down the last of my peanut butter and Fluff while paddling around the cove. A couple times, Amelia stepped out of the sliding-glass door, but then went back inside, probably because she spotted me and figured I was just waiting to gawk at her. If she liked me the way Sunshine had said she did, she sure had a weird way of showing it.

  The next time the kitchen door opened, Lenny stepped out, pushing Christopher in a wheelchair. Our cottage remained quiet so I rowed over to Amelia’s beach.

  Sporting a life jacket and a flesh-colored, plastic-looking leg, Christopher hoisted himself out of the chair. Lenny tossed a lifejacket at me as he assisted Christopher aboard. I never wore a lifejacket. Those were for sissies.

  “You coming with us, Lenny?” I asked.

  “Nah. You two will be fine. Just stay in sight of the dock so I can keep an eye on you. I’ll be in some deep doo-doo if the two of you go overboard, so take it easy.”

  I gave the lifejacket a second thought. If Christopher did go over, would I be able to rescue him? I strapped the vest around my chest.

  Christopher clutched one side of his lifejacket and laughed. “My boobs’re bigger than yours.”

  “You wish,” I said, puffing my vested chest as I rowed. “So do you even know how to swim?”

  “Sure I do, I’m just not as fast as I used to be,” he said, bending his good leg and positioning the fake to balance his weight. No matter which way he shifted, his plastic leg wouldn’t cooperate, but that didn’t stop him from juggling his fishing rod and a shiner.

  I rowed to halfway between the floatplane and the island, wishing we could head out to the middle of the lake where the water was deep and cold.

  “Nothing ever bites this close to shore,” I said.

  Christopher’s fake leg buckled at an awkward angle as he cast his line. “We’ll see about that. You just gotta know how to wiggle your bait.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  I let my line out a few unenthusiastic yards and nudged his prosthesis. “What’s that thing made of, anyway?”

  “Resin or something.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  I thumped it a couple times. It didn’t sound quite hollow, but not real solid either. “It looks kind of like one of my sister’s doll legs.”

  “Your sister’s got a GI Joe?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, but GI Joe is what I meant.”

  “Right,” he chuckled. “Well, regardless of how it looks, it’s better than no leg at all.”

  “Seems like someone ought to invent one that doesn’t buckle at the knee and with a foot that moves better.”

  “Yeah, well, this isn’t the top of the line. The really nice ones cost a fortune and insurance companies don’t like to pay for frills. Besides, I spend more and more of my time in the chair anyway. The leg is mostly for looks these days—my parents want me to feel more whole.”

  I stared at it long enough to be rude, but I was as much distracted with the idea of feeling ‘whole’ as I was with the prosthesis. “Does it help? I mean, do you sometimes forget that you don’t have both legs?”

  He was quiet for a long moment before he looked me straight in the eye and answered, “Every morning when I wake up.”

  Although he said it with a deadpan expression, his words hit like a reprimand for asking such an invasive question. My discomfort didn’t keep me from saying, “That must make it hard to get out of bed—” I didn’t catch my unintended irony until he laughed.

  “Good one,” he said.

  Now my face heated. “I meant, you know, ‘hard to face the day’.”

  He shrugged, “I’m just glad I have this one.” He slapped his good leg.

  “So, are you going to lose that one, too, on account of the muscular—you know—the disease you have?”

  “Not unless they botch another biopsy, so I get another infection and gangrene and have to have it lopped off.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was kidding, but I chuckled, “Really? That’s what happened?”

  His eyes darted. The corner of his mouth flinched. “Yeah. Really.”

  My mouth hung open. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.”

  “No sweat.” He shrugged. “Besides, look at me, I’m out on a lake, fishing!”

  “How can you be so positive?”

  His brow cocked. “It’s like if the boat flips over—what are you going to do? Sink or swim? Me—I’m a swimmer.

  “I see what you mean,” I said, although I still had a hard time understanding how a person could maintain such optimism and determination.

  We reeled our lines in and cast again.

  Studying his now-smiling face, I asked, “So, how long have you been living at Daisy Hill?”

  “I don’t live at Daisy Hill. I live with my parents in Connecticut. I just come up here for a few weeks in the summer so I can have a little privacy and fun on my own.”

  “When are you going home?”

  “They’re coming to get me in a few weeks, at the carnival—you know, that way they can have fun with me, too.”

  “Do you like hanging out with them?”

  He shrugged with a grimace. “Yeah, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are great, but they can be a real pain in the butt.”

  “So, this is like a summer camp for you?”

  “Yeah. With a whole different pool of girls to choose from.”

  I chuckled. “What do you think of Amelia?”

  “Amy? She’s okay—not my type.”

  “What’s your type?”

  “Tall. Blond. Blue-eyes. I want blond, blue-eyed kids. A dozen of them.”

  I laughed. “I bet you end up with them, too.”

  “Hell yeah, I will.”

  His bobber dropped below the surface and popped up. With a yank, he let out a “Whoop” and reeled in a big fat perch. “I’m eating fish tonight!”

  Chapter 16

  The transistor radio joins the folder of papers and Sunshine’s note beside the box. I wish I had some memento from that afternoon with Christopher. Maybe a big fat, plastic perch mounted on a plaque. My red-and-white-striped socks will have to suffice. Whimsical yet practical. That’s Christopher. I learned a lot from him in a short time. I still struggle with implementing that kind of buoyancy, but his example helped me see that optimism exists in real circumstances, with real people, not just in Pollyanna characters.

  I may not have a souvenir from that afternoon, but here’s a fitting bit of memorabilia that Christopher—my guinea pig and prototype tester—had a lot to do with. My first patent. This piece of paper, with the B-T insignia, is one of my foremost professional accomplishments. Doc was behind the purchase of my patent, but that didn’t rob any of its luster; it only supports my speculations about him. Doc ended up being a strong tailwind, giving my life direction—in addition to providing some great aviation metaphors. I’ll never forge
t the first time he put me in control.

  Right after Mom left for her Friday morning errands, I met Doc at the mooring. Upon his direction, I climbed into the cockpit, buckled my seatbelt, and put on my headphone. His voice came through loud and clear as he rattled off the instrument checklist: “Flaps, carburetor, throttle, backpressure, and ready for take off.”

  He increased the throttle to 2600 RPMs. We bounced around until the plane gained enough momentum and the nose lifted. The lake shrank in the distance as we gained altitude. My attention refocused on Doc, his maneuvers and how each affected the plane. This time, after we were airborne for several minutes, at about 110 knots, Doc held altitude and said, “You wanna take the controls?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure. I’ve seen you studying everything I do.” He patted the yoke. “What’s this for?”

  “Pulling makes the nose go up, pushing goes down. Left or right makes the ailerons go up or down for banking left or right.”

  “Ailerons,” he said with astonishment. “You know what they’re called.”

  “I read.”

  “Good man!” He smiled and leaned back so I could see his feet. “And these?”

  “Rudder pedals control the yawing motion, left or right.”

  “Good. Take over.”

  Hesitating until he gave me a nod and a nudge, I then gripped the yoke.

  “Bank left. Easy does it.”

  I turned left, my heart pounding right out of my chest.

  “Give the left rudder pedal a little pressure,” he said. “It will even out the banking.”

  As I followed through, the plane responded to my command.

  “Good … now hold your course.”

  My insides leapt as if I had grown wings and burst out of this metal shell around me, soaring under my own power. I had never felt more in control than I did in those moments when I was flying at 7000 feet. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the horizon to enjoy the view—who needed a view, with all this power?

  “You’ve got quite a knack,” Doc said. “Reminds me of myself when I was your age.”

  “Did your dad teach you?”

  “Hell no—pardon my French! The only thing my dad ever taught me was how to duck.”

  I didn’t know how to respond.

  “That’s okay, son. A man should know how to duck—comes in handy. No point in getting a black eye if you don’t need to. Besides, I wasn’t a kid who shriveled up just because my daddy didn’t love me. Made me tough. Taught me how to fight for what I want, to stand on my own two feet.”

  If this was a lecture on standing up for myself, it sure felt a lot different from Dad’s ‘bully’ spiel. I glanced at Doc for but a second as his eyes met mine. There was no sadness or pain in his expression—just a satisfied smile.

  “That’s right,” he said, “the only thing I got handed to me was these—” he held up his big mitts and then tapped his head “—and this. Just like you son. You may not know it, but you’re blessed.”

  My gaze shot to him and back to the horizon. I sure didn’t feel blessed, but ever since I started hanging out with Christopher, I thought more about some of the things I took for granted—like legs and hands.

  “You think every kid has a brain like yours?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Mom said we were fortunate not to have mental handicaps, like Dora, but I hadn’t ever thought of my brain as anything exceptional.

  “You may not think so, but you’re special, Ben. You’re a smart kid.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He continued, “Your potential is limited only by what you believe about yourself, son. Do you know what that means?”

  After talking with Christopher, I had an inkling, yet I shrugged.

  “If you think you’re at a disadvantage because your father doesn’t treat you the way you’d like, or your mom has mood swings, you’re only right if you believe it. Look at me! I could have believed my father when he said I was no good, but I never believed it. Not for one minute. Everything I have, I’ve earned it myself—nothing was ever handed to me. That takes mettle, son. And you’ve got that mettle. I can see it in you.”

  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t sure why he was telling me all that. It only mattered that he liked me and saw something in me, something I had never seen. Maybe Christopher was rubbing off on me. Maybe he had planted a seed—and now Doc was watering it. It was a lot to think about.

  I tried to picture Doc as a kid and as a young man. How had he put his brain to good use and made a success of his life? I stayed the course we were on and kept mulling over everything he had said. After we had been flying for a while and hit some turbulence, Doc took the controls. I was glad to give them up.

  “Don’t worry, son—just a little pocket of mixed-up air.”

  “I’m not worried, Doc.”

  “Then what’s that look on your face?”

  “I was just wondering something.”

  “Well, out with it!”

  I sorted through which question to ask. “So, how exactly did you earn all your money?”

  He chuckled.

  “I’m sorry.” Idiot! “That was a rude question.”

  “You should never be sorry about curiosity. I’ll tell you how I made my money. I worked for it—that and a little luck and good timing. Treating people the way I want to be treated.”

  “So, there’s money in medical equipment?”

  He winked. “Booming business. Ever hear of Burns-Tech?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you’re in good health, why would you?”

  I shrugged again.

  “Quit shrugging, son. It makes you appear indecisive.”

  “Yes, sir. So, is that why your name is Doc? Are you a doctor or something?”

  He laughed. “Just a nickname. I earned it though. Back in the day, I could cut up a machine and sew it back together like nobody’s business. Now, I manage all the people who do that for me.” He exhaled and continued, “Cutting-edge technology. Makes X-ray machines look like a Brownie camera. You wanna get into a field that’s up-and-coming? Medical technology. Computers. By the time you’re my age, every household will have one. Focus on your math skills, son, and physics.”

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t understand half of what he was talking about, but I liked the ring of the word technology. It sounded so modern, like science fiction. And I liked math and science. I was good at those. My eighth-grade teacher had said I had aptitude.

  “Now, you listen to me, young Benjamin—” he seemed to wait until he had my full attention before he continued, “—when it comes time for you to start applying for universities, you let me know. If you keep those grades up, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation that’ll get you into any school you want. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes penetrated mine until I started to squirm, but I didn’t dare look away.

  “I’m serious,” he said, sternly, squinting at me. “Sometimes, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. And I know people. Don’t ever be too proud to ask for a leg up.” He paused again. “You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a few seconds, he chuckled, “I bet if I were to ask you to repeat everything I just said, you could—word for word.”

  I grinned, “Yes, sir.” And I could. I would never forget—not one bit of it. After a few seconds, a thought occurred to me. He must have read it in my pause, because he looked at me with his raised brow.

  He said, “Speak your mind, son.”

  “You could have fixed that clock easy.”

  “Sure I could.” He winked.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He let out a long sigh. “I saw potential.”

  “In me?”

  He nodded and gave me a sideways look. “Not just in you, son.”

  I wondered what he meant, but didn’t have the courage to ask.

  Chapter 17

  Years of debris speckle the sc
reen over the kitchen sink. I look beyond the dreck, beyond this dismal and depressing shell of a house. The poor old place, with its history—who would want to make a home of it? It would have to be someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts. Someone with vision. Not that I couldn’t see potential in this property if I were inclined to look—which I’m not. Although, it is tempting.

  That concept—potential—fascinates me. Years ago, I memorized the definition of the word: Existing in possibility—from the Latin word for power.

  Potential is a powerful word. Unfortunately, it offers no closure. That’s the open-ended nature of it. Always striving; never fully accomplished.

  My ability to see things that ‘exist in possibility’ is an asset in engineering and design, but I’m also inclined to look for potential in other places. The artist woman, for example. It’s ridiculous how quickly I could build a scenario—a fantasy—out of ringless fingers on a pretty hand. I didn’t even get a real look at her, but I had already provided her with rosebud lips and a face I could fall in love with.

  Romantic fantasizing aside, even as a kid, I saw potential in something simple, like the radio on this table. I scroll across staticky stations. This little device represented the possibility that my father might have liked me, that perhaps we could have cultivated a relationship. In some cases, the door closes on potential; it’s contrary to the nature of the word, but it happens.

  I roll the radio’s volume dial until the static dissipates and it clicks off, leaving only the sound of the ticking clock. A half hour has passed since I last checked the time. It seems like a lot longer, maybe because the walls of this cottage are closing in on me. I need some air—a walk down the road.

  As I step into the dooryard, I still can’t get over how dwarfed everything appears. My calves burn with the strain of walking downhill, even though the distance between camp and Whispering Narrows seems shorter. I come upon the first set of stone pillars quicker than I expect. My heart beats faster, as if I might see Amelia in the yard—or Doc. I hesitate, like a kid afraid of getting caught on the neighbor’s property. Passing the cement lions, I make my way toward the front door, walking alongside the recently mowed lawn and trimmed shrubbery.