As Easy as Falling Off the Face of the Earth (20 page)

R
y slept profoundly. No dreams could find their way into the black velvet canyons of his sleep. He was physically exhausted, and his mind and his emotions threw in the towel, too. For several hours the lights were out; all was silent. He did keep breathing. He had a pulse. His heart pumped blood through his veins; his organs functioned at a basic level. That was pretty much it.

But wait—a dim light, a soft humming was coming from somewhere. Up in the attic. Brain cells were still sifting through the events of the day and rearranging themselves in light of what had happened. They were looking for ways to organize the new information. They were talking it around and building tentative synapses. Networking.

His muscles were also reviewing their performance.
They were blaming everything on the head. This was all stuff they could do. Get over yourself, they said. Lead, follow, or get out of the way. They were prodding. They knew they could not do it alone.

I’m working on it, said Ry’s mind.

At what, the speed of mulch? taunted the muscles.

Which is to say, the speed of geniuses since the dawn of time, said the brain, unperturbed. Go flex yourself.

All of these messages traveled osmotically, chemically, through processes but dimly understood, and only by statistically microscopic numbers of humans. They worked on their separate but intertwined tasks through the night. The conclusion they reached was provisional. Ry woke up feeling the uncertainty of the truce, though to himself he just said, I don’t want to get in that boat again. But it’s the only way out. Don’t want to. Only way. Back and forth it went.

After a breakfast abundant with eggs, they made their way down the jackknife turns of the trail. There was the boat; there was the water. Still liquid, still roiling, still mighty.

The de-haffing of the chuffs, the unclipping of the ridings, the lowing of the highs, and so forth to the cleats.

Or rather, the removal of the sail covers, the checking
of the bilges, the eyeballing of the rigging.

Suddenly Ry seemed to know what the words meant. Maybe the part of his brain that had been activated by trying to speak Spanish was also working on speaking sailing. He was sailing in tongues.

Del made him put sunblock on, then they waved
adios
to Alejandro, and motored through the slim tumultuous passage out to the open sea.

Del called out to Ry to hoist the mizzen, and he did so.

Del called out to Ry to hoist the mainsail, and he did.

Del called out to Ry to belay the halyard to the cleat on the mast, and he was already doing it. They looked at each other and laughed.

The first island was in sight and they were headed for it. As they drew closer, the second island,
the
island, crept out from behind the first. The boat danced over the swells. They had a steady breeze. The sails hauled them along, the water sparkled around them, a million diamonds of light skittering over the surface. Ry could not think of anything he had ever done that felt better than this. Not that he was trying to. He wasn’t thinking at all, about anything, except wind, sails, water, sun.

A couple of times, when the sails were set and all
they had to do was lean back and be exhilarated, inner bits of Ry and Del that were usually snugged in tight somewhere loosened up and leaked out. Floated out.

Ry told Del how once, as a little kid, he had stopped to tie his shoe while his family walked from their car to a restaurant. When he had tied it, he stood up and ran after them. He grabbed his father’s hand and started talking away, until he looked up and saw that it wasn’t his father. Same build, same kind of coat, total stranger. A nice-enough stranger.

When Ry saw that it wasn’t his father, he burst into tears. His parents by now had turned to look for him, and he saw them and ran to them and buried his face in his mother’s coat. As the stranger walked by he said pleasantly, “I thought I had a little boy for a minute there.” All three grownups laughed. Ry was mortified. He wouldn’t even look at the guy.

Ry hadn’t thought of this for a long time, and it surprised him when it came to mind.

Del said he wished he hadn’t argued with Yulia.

“I was really determined not to,” he said.

“You should just say you’re sorry,” said Ry. “Say you were wrong.”

“What if I don’t think I was wrong?” said Del.

“Well, how important was it, whatever you were arguing about?” asked Ry.

“Not that important,” said Del. “But I wasn’t wrong.”

Ry said, “All you have to do is say you’re sorry, then. Or you can say you were wrong, but leave out part. Like, maybe the whole sentence would be, ‘There may have been times in my life when
I was wrong
; I’m not saying this was one of them.’ Or you could say, ‘I could be wrong,’ and leave out the ‘but I doubt it’ part.”

Del said, “That seems a little dishonest.”

Ry said, “Not as long as you really mean the part you say aloud. ‘I’m sorry. I could be wrong.’ Or just, ‘I could be wrong.’ Then at least the person knows it’s not completely pointless to keep talking to you.

“Didn’t you ever go to preschool?” he asked Del.

“No,” said Del. “They didn’t have preschool back then. We had to go right out and forage for nuts and berries.”

After a time they were passing fairly close to the first island. This one was large, and populated. Boxy houses that looked small from out here, but probably weren’t, were sprinkled over the hillsides, nestled in the foliage. Farther along, a flock of buildings and boats formed a harbor town.

Ry didn’t notice the windmill until Del pointed it out to him. Del said it was hundreds of years old. It had been taken apart in the Netherlands, brought here in pieces, and put meticulously back together. This was a Dutch island, owned and operated by the Dutch. It was called St. Jeroen. Del said he had always wanted to take a look at the windmill. He was a big fan of windmills.

“And here we are,” he said. “So close.” He squinted toward the windmill.

“I wonder if they’re taking care of it,” he said. “I wonder if they’re even using it, or if it’s just there for tourists to look at and take pictures of.”

The way he said this made Ry smile. It was as if he were talking about an animal, a noble old animal forced to wear a silly costume and do tricks in a traveling circus.

“Do you want to go check on it?” he asked. “Make sure it’s okay?”

“Do you mind?” Del said quickly. “I think we have plenty of time. It’s still pretty early. It wouldn’t take very long. I’m just curious. I’d like to take a look at it, up close.”

Ry thought he knew what was coming next, so he decided to say it himself.

“It would be stupid to pass it by when we’re so close,” he said. “It wouldn’t feel right.”

“That’s how I feel, too,” said Del.

“But we won’t stay very long, right?” asked Ry.

“Not long at all,” said Del. “A quick look and we’re back on our way.”

“Okay,” said Ry. “Let’s go.”

As they headed for shore, he yelled to Del, “If it needs to be fixed, you have to come back after we find my mom and dad.”

T
he main harbor was behind them. They could have made a U-ey and headed for it, but they spied a boat emerging from another inlet, closer to hand, and decided to go there. This seemed to be nearer the windmill anyway. No way to tell yet if the windmill was milling anything, but the blades were spinning merrily around. Glancing to the south, Ry saw the island of St. Jude’s. It was close enough that he could make out the movement of a tiny car climbing a steep tiny road that traversed the face of the mountain rising behind the port. It was unbelievable. They were almost there. He felt his blood quicken and more than a mild astonishment: they had actually done this. But there was no time to bask yet. They had swells to slice. They had rollers to romp over, spray to be soaked by.

“Be right there, Mom,” he said over his shoulder at the clump of verdant volcano tips. He turned back to St. Jeroen’s. The inlet they entered looked like paradise. Two other boats were anchored in the azure waters off the white sand beach. Del and Ry dropped anchor, too. They lowered themselves into the dinghy and paddled in.

The windmill, when they reached it, was a tourist attraction, but not too crowded. There was a guide dressed in a Dutch costume, but his hair was in dreads so he didn’t look that authentically Dutch. He demonstrated how flour was made between some grindstones, then he would sell people a bag of it if they wanted one.

Del asked several questions, but it was clear the Dutch miller was not a real miller, either, because he didn’t know most of the answers. He was just someone getting paid probably not much to dress up in his outfit and be friendly. Del kept asking questions, because he was interested and curious, but when he started talking about the industrial revolution and alternative energy, the miller looked at him, amused, and said, “The wind blows, the wheels turn, I put the flour into a sack. Do you want some?”

So Del and Ry went back outside while the handful of other people lined up to buy paper sacks of flour.

Ry wandered around the base of the windmill while Del was completing his observations. The stone foundation it rested on looked fairly ancient, and he wondered if that, too, had been brought from the Netherlands, or if the St. Jeroenians had built that themselves. On the back side, he looked up at the cranking arms that translated the spinning of the blades into the turning of the grindstones. Okay, he thought, that makes sense. I get it. Humans were pretty brilliant, really, to think up stuff like this. Of course, it had taken several dozen eons to get to the windmill. Still, he was glad someone had done it. Because of how one thing leads to another. First the windmill, then just an epoch or so later, the airplane propeller. Though he couldn’t say that was currently his favorite invention. That would be the pillow-top mattress.

A movement caught his eye. He followed it and saw that Del was climbing up the side of the windmill.

“What are you doing?” he called out. Meaning, Why are you doing it? He flashed on what Everett had said about going rock climbing with Del. “When the rope is attached to Del,” he had said, “I tend to think of it more as a leash.”

Del hauled himself along the braces under the
decking, then pulled himself up and over the railing onto the deck.

“It’s my favorite thing to do on windmills,” he said over his shoulder. He jumped up onto the railing and walked along on it with his arms out to his sides, like a tightrope walker. It was kind of funny: Del didn’t want the windmill to be forced to perform circus tricks, but he didn’t mind doing them himself. Now he grabbed onto one of the giant blades as it rose swiftly beside him. He was lifted into the air. The part he grabbed was a crossbar of wooden latticework. He shifted the position of his hands once or twice as he rode up and around to maintain a comfortable angle, a good grip.

He did it the way he did everything, as if he did this every day. As if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if any sane person would do the same.

He hung gracefully from the turning blade by one arm as he turned to step lightly back onto the railing when it came within reach.

The railing was wooden and it was old. Maybe not hundreds of years old, maybe it had been replaced at some point, but not lately. The expression on Del’s face as it gave way beneath him was one of surprise.

His eyes met Ry’s as if to say, “What the heck? What
just happened?” His arms and legs went slowly spinning in a weird echo of the blades still spinning behind him, but in the opposite direction. As he fell through the air he began the movement of pulling into a tuck, but this was a trick he hadn’t practiced. The timing was off. He met the Earth before he was ready.

For his part, Ry watched Del fall as if he were the pitch, the shuttlecock, the ball in some sport Ry had never learned how to play. What was he supposed to do here? Catch him? Before he could figure it out, there was, almost all at once, the thud of Del reaching the ground and the snapping sound of cracking bones. And Del lay there, his limbs all wrong to his body.

Ry ran and knelt beside him. Del’s eyes fluttered open and shut, and then stayed shut. Ry put his fingertips to the place on the neck where you can feel a pulse. Without opening his eyes, Del said, “I’m not dead, but I think I might need a doctor.” His voice vibrated in Ry’s fingertips. Ry pulled his hand away, startled. Then someone else’s fingertips were on Del’s throat, a woman’s. Ry looked up to see one of the tourist ladies kneeling on Del’s other side. The whole group of tourists huddled a few yards off, along with the miller, each one holding a brown paper bag. It was like an advertisement for brown paper bags.
Except that with the expressions on their faces, it was more like a warning against brown paper bags.

Ry glanced down and saw something protruding from the skin on Del’s leg. He realized it was Del’s bone. Everything sort of disappeared then and went black, until he felt the doctor’s warm hand on his cheek, turning his head for him. Her voice said, “Just look at his face for now.” So he did.

The doctor said, “Is he your father?”

Still looking at Del’s face, Ry wondered if he only imagined a smile moving through it.

“No,” said Ry. “He’s my friend.”

When the ambulance arrived, it was a taxi, a minibus of a manufacture Ry hadn’t seen before. The driver jumped out and peeled off the magnetic
TAXI
signs on each side. He replaced them with signs that said
AMBULANCE
, and then it was an ambulance. There was even a light on the roof.

The driver hurried over with a bag. Ry was apprehensive, but the guy was not inept. He took one look, then went back to the minibus and returned with a human-sized board with straps on it. Somehow he and the doctor and Ry gently maneuvered Del onto the board
without altering his arrangement too much and secured him there. Ry and the driver carried him over to the minibus and loaded him in through a door in the back, sliding him along the aisle between the seats.

The doctor rode along to the hospital. The road was not smooth. With every bump, Ry and the doctor (and Del, no doubt) winced. They looked back and down at Del. His eyes were still closed.

The doctor said to Ry, “Does he often do things like that?”

“Yeah,” said Ry. “He kind of does. But I’ve never seen him fall before.”

“The wood was rotten,” she said.

Ry was grateful that she didn’t say it was a stupid thing to do. She just said her name was Shirley, and that Del would be okay. Eventually.

“He’ll be laid up for a while, though,” she said. “No wing-walking for a few months.”

Bump. Ba-da-bump.