Flights (15 page)

He woke to unusually bright sunshine. Stupid was still thumping and his father was laying his jacket and pants out over his legs on the bed.

“Let's go, Admiral Peary,” his father said. “The expedition's about to begin.”

“What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“Time to get ready. Time to hit the ginzos. Let's go. We're supposed to be there by noon.”

Biddy climbed into his pants and sat at the edge of the bed, stroking the dog. Kristi went by, her mother trailing behind combing out snarls.

“Let's go,” his father repeated. “I polished your shoes. They're downstairs. And comb your hair. It looks like a rat's nest.”

Sandy and Michael, his aunt and uncle, lived just north of Norwich on what Michael liked to call a kind of a farm. It was a new ranch house of a sort, with a garage on one end and a huge family room on the other, the whole structure spreading across the property lengthwise, with the land sloping away on both sides. Each time they visited, Sandy had a new addition to show his mother. And each time, his father said, his mother came away with a bug in her ass.

Behind the house a fenced-in corral ran up an easy grade to trails leading into the surrounding woods. Sandy and Michael had five children, three of them girls, each of whom had a horse of her own. There were rabbits as well, and ducks and cats and dogs. All this was fairly new.

Upon arriving at their house he said hello to everyone and slipped away in the confusion. The backyard was full: girls surrounded the captive horses and boys were slinging footballs back and forth across the uneven ground. He found himself in the den, a new addition. It resembled a ski lodge, with a pitched white ceiling supported by thick dark beams. There was a giant picture window and a new rug and sofa.

His father came in behind him. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Wait'll your mother sees this.” He smiled. “Gonna go out?”

Biddy didn't think so.

“Why don't you see what's on, then?”

He flipped the remote switch on the TV. He heard his father, back in the kitchen: “I saw it. It's really something. Has Judy seen it yet?”

The picture rose up from the dark screen and fixed itself.

—We've only got a quarter, don't you understand? What's wrong with you?

Abbott hustled Costello off the chair.

—Well, a quarter. We can get something to eat.

—Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll order a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, see? And I'll give you half. But if she asks you if you want anything, you say no, I don't care for anything.

Biddy laughed, dropping to the rug and pulling a foot in close, crossing his legs.

“Hey, hey, crusher.” Dom reached down, shook his hand. “The Lirianos make the scene. Mickey's out back.”

Biddy nodded.

“What've we got goin' here?”

—You mean we're going to put something over on her?

—No, no, we're not putting anything over on her.

—Gonna try and slick her?

“Click this a minute,” Dom said. “See if the game's on.”

He turned to a football field, pale green in the bright sun, with players milling around the sidelines, hopping up and down or high-stepping here and there. He switched back.

—Aw, go ahead, have something.

—Give me a turkey sandwich.

Abbott pulled him off the chair, both of them tumbling toward the camera.

—What did I just get through telling you?

—No matter how much you coax me?

—No matter how much I coax you. You just say you don't want anything.

—I'll say I'm filled up, that's all.

—That's all. We only got a quarter.

—I ain't, but I'll say I am.

—Well, say that.

“Biddy, come on.” Dom shifted in his chair. “I don't need to see these two for any reason.”

“Let's go,” an aunt called from the kitchen. “Everything's ready. Call the kids.” They rose together, Biddy lingering to catch the end of Abbott and Costello. They left the television on.

Five aunts and four uncles—one divorce in the family—and a sweeping majority of the twenty-seven cousins as well, entered the dining room at once. The Lirianos, friends of the family, squeezed in besides. The adults would be seated at one long table, elbow to elbow. “This is nice,” Dom said as he edged in. “Camp Lejeune.”

The children were divided roughly into age groups along five other odd tables that spilled out into the front hall and kitchen: He stopped as he passed the main table: his aunts had suddenly moved to reveal the multitude of choices and offerings before him. Crystal and china serving dishes ringed the middle ground, clustered toward the center, supporting steaming areas of color: in the china the moist, rich green of mounded asparagus, the off-white of the cauliflower and creamed onions, the red and yellow of the manicotti; in the crystal the cool, isolated colors of black olives, cherry peppers, celery. Turnips lay beside yellow summer squash, brown gravy near the mottled stuffing. Rising from the center like an island at which these boats hoped to dock was the turkey, glistening and giving off heat and holiday smell. His mother was beside him, her hand reassuring on his hip. This was her world, not his father's, and he touched her fingers with his own, wanting to communicate how much it meant to him. He was transfixed, and only under her gentle pressure reluctantly moved on, to unclog the aisle.

Cousins were still streaming into the room, laughing and arguing over seats. Kristi was sitting at the farthest table with four other girls her age. Mickey sat sullenly opposite Biddy. Louis was not there; in two hours Stratford would attempt to complete its undefeated season against Milford, and the team had gone somewhere to eat together or be together, he wasn't sure which. Cindy was having dinner with Ronnie's parents. She cruised briefly through his thoughts and he wished she were present, though he wasn't sure why. He thought of Laura and Sister Theresa and the spelling bee, and focused on the water glass in front of him, draining all his thoughts into it, going blank.

His uncle told everyone to remember their seats and come up and get what they want this way, kids first, before the adults sat down. Dom, his wife noted, was already sitting.

“I might as well stay sitting,” he said. “We'd need engineers to get me out anyway.”

So they carried their plates to the central table, listening to the warm, pleasant voices of the parent chorus urging them to take more of this, try some of that. “Is that all you're having?” voices asked. “Try Aunt Judy's manicotti. Take more of Aunt Frankie's stuffing.” He filled his plate and followed the line back to his seat, and they all settled in, waiting.

“Let's have one of the kids say grace,” his uncle said. “Biddy's an altar boy. Biddy. Give us some grace here.”

Everyone at his table grinned, off the hook. He looked at the adult table in genuine surprise but they all smiled back encouragingly.

“Grace?” he asked.

“An altar boy doesn't know grace?” someone said.

“He knows it,” his mother said. “Shh.”

There was a silence, forks tinkling.

“Thank you O Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty to Christ Our Lord Amen.” He realized immediately that he'd botched it, muffed one of the easiest, most mechanical of prayers, but no one noticed; in fact, there was a murmur of appreciation, and the sound of knives and forks digging in.

Dinner for him was a blur, as most of the best holiday dinners were: a taste, a smell, and some cooling water on the back of his throat, appreciated and savored, standing out at each precise instant but fading quickly into the rest as the meal wore on. The adults' table was noisy and festive while at Biddy's the food was handled with dispatch. He was one of the first finished, and picked a piece of pumpkin pie and some coffee from the dessert assortment, heading for the den. He slipped into the sofa, setting the pie dish on the table, and sipped the coffee with both hands. He loved coffee and had grown up on it, his earliest breakfast memories being of Sanka and farina. The Abbott and Costello movie was over, and he changed the channel to the game with the remote switch lying on the cushion next to him.

The maroon and white of the halfback lunged forward, the colors bright and bracing on this brand-new set, and moved with the slow, unstoppable smoothness of instant replay. He drifted from the reach of arms and helmets of white with scarlet trim and tumbled headlong into the end zone, skidding on a shoulder. The replay began again. He broke his eyes away and took a bite of pie.

His father's hand landed on his head. “What's the score in here? Who's playing?”

The score flashed on the screen. “Oklahoma's kicking ass,” Dom said behind him. “Don't get too comfortable, by the way. We should leave for the game pretty soon.” Nebraska fumbled the kickoff, Oklahoma recovering.

His father turned from the room. “Hard to beat those Sooners,” he said. “C'mon, Biddy. Get your coat.”

“How you gonna beat these guys?” Dom called after him. “They send those big spades atcha in waves.”

They got their coats and collected Mickey and Ginnie. Ginnie told Biddy's mother that she thought it was silly, too, but it was the last one she was going to, and the team was undefeated. They got to the game a few minutes into the first quarter.

Milford punished Stratford, up and down the field. Dom suffered visibly, then audibly. Ginnie stood up finally and said she wasn't going to listen to it anymore. It was ridiculous to aggravate yourself over something you couldn't do anything about. Biddy's father agreed to give her a ride back to Michael's.

In the third quarter the score was 35–7 Milford, and Louis swept around a block and caught the ball carrier's helmet flush in the face, shattering his face mask. Dom and Biddy stood up, trying to get a better look. “Oh, Jesus,” Dom said, as though he had no more energy for this. Louis was sitting with his head down, trainers and teammates around him, and when one of them moved, Biddy could see jagged pieces of face mask. Louis was making circular motions with his head, bits of blood and teeth beading out along a line of spittle.

“Oh, Jesus,” Dom repeated, turning away.

They stayed a few minutes longer but Dom insisted they go back; they didn't all have to wait to check on Louis, and there was no sense staying for the end of the game.

Back at his uncle's, they announced what had happened and quieted the big table to a hush. Ginnie wailed, “Oh, God, I knew it.” Biddy left Mickey to field questions and returned to the TV, shaken.

During
The March of the Wooden Soldiers
Dom came back, and moved through the dining room faster than the family's questions seemed to allow. He came into the den and fell heavily into the chair beside Biddy.

Michael followed, asking if he was sure he couldn't get him anything. Dom was sure. Michael hesitated, and left.

“How's Louis?” Biddy said.

“Fine. Toothless Joe.”

A headache commercial came on. It was an animation of a head with electric bolts throbbing through it. They watched in silence.

“Is that what you got your thing for?” Biddy asked quietly. “The things they did with your head?”

Dom gazed at the screen. “What?” He rubbed his eyes. “The encephalogram?” He seemed exhausted, sad. “No, that was for epilepsy. That was a test for epilepsy.”

“Why'd they test you for that?”

“I don't know. Why do they test you for anything? They were short of cash. I was thrashing around in my sleep, Ginnie couldn't wake me up. I had something in the Navy and they thought there might have been brain damage.”

“Brain damage?” Biddy's eyes widened.

He changed the channel. “They don't know. What difference does it make anyhow?”

“Don't talk like that,” Biddy said, more moved than he wanted to be. “Do you still take pills for it or anything?”

“I'm at that stage now where it doesn't matter,” he said. “It's almost the end of the line.”

“No, it isn't.” He detested and feared adults when they spoke like this.

“It isn't?” He snorted. “Everything's coming down around my ears. The job, the wife, now this. You know what you do in my position? Take a guess. What do you do when it's fourth and forty-one? Punt.” He sat back and ran his palm across the back of his neck. “And sure as shit if I did it'd be blocked.”

That night although they got back late he went right out with Teddy's rifle, allowing only the barest minimum of elapsed time for his parents to fall asleep before creeping down the stairs and out the front door. He carried the ladder silently around to the back of the garage himself, teetering under its awkward weight, and set it against the side of the building, where it promptly sideslipped and slid off the roof onto the patio with a terrifying crash. He ducked behind the garage, throwing the rifle a few yards away in a hedge, and waited. The garage light went on. He crouched, wondering what to do, what to say. The light went out. Finally he eased out of his crouch and retrieved the rifle from the hedge. He brought the ladder back around and, after a second thought, left it on the floor of the garage to account for the crash, then hurried down the driveway and into the house.

The door swung away from him and his father grabbed his arm in the dark. “What the hell are you doing out there?” he whispered. The lights came on. His mother and father flanked him. His mother's eyes widened at the gun. “What are you doing with this?” she said, voice rising. He didn't answer and she shook him, his neck snapping back. He started to cry and they shook him harder, demanding answers, and finally led him up to his room. They stalked back and forth past his bed and he insisted the gun was Teddy's and he wasn't shooting at anyone. His mother finally threw up her hands and left, taking much of the noise downstairs with her. He lay quiet, his neck hurting.