Flights (25 page)

They found him still at his seat: his mother, Rose, Sandy, and Michael. The altar boys were moving swiftly back and forth extinguishing candles, anxious to get home. “You were wonderful,” his mother said. “Did you see us over on the left?” He hadn't. Everyone agreed the choir had been marvelous. Rose kissed his cheek, a glancing blow, and it occurred to him she was happy her talk had turned him around. His mother asked what they were waiting for.

“I'll be right there,” he said. “I just want to do something.”

She offered to wait but he said he wanted to talk to Father. They said they'd go on ahead in that case, and left, wrapping coats and mufflers around themselves and hunching forward as they passed through the main doors. Michael brought the car around for Rose. Biddy could see the snow coming down beyond. A noise from the sacristy intruded, and he turned and slipped into the second choir pew. He lay back along the bench seat gazing up at the ceiling beams brightly lit from below. He could hear odd metallic and wooden noises, as well as the rustle of Father's chasuble as he bustled around the church preparing to leave. When the noise grew very close, he knew Father was taking a last look in the chapel, and suddenly the lights went out, leaving only the glow from the sacristy coming over the horizon of pews like a yellow sunset. When the door shut, the light disappeared, leaving him in darkness. He imagined he could hear the snow piling up outside. An outer door swung shut with a much heavier sound, and he sat up.

It was already Christmas. Probably near one-thirty. He couldn't see his watch. There was a faint light coming in the rose window at the end of the nave. He could smell the smoke of the candles. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the lines of pews, silent in the dark. He started to sing.

It was very quiet at first: “
Hark! the herald angels sing
,” and then his voice grew louder and he sang it all the way through, once, and fell silent, listening to the church.

“Merry Christmas,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, the sound taking flight in the darkness.

He woke with Stupid on the bed and Kristi pulling at his mouth. “Come on,” she said unnecessarily. “It's Christmas.”

He got a tent. An EMS Explorer, extremely light and compact, rolling up to the size of a football. A mess kit. A big flashlight. A ground cloth. A compass. He had to be reminded he had other presents to unwrap.

When they were finished, his father returned to the kitchen and started cracking eggs into a big bowl. He stacked the shells inside each other and they looked like a fat necklace or smooth caterpillar.

“Thanks for the hot-lather machine,” he said when Biddy came up to the counter next to him. “Did you expect so much camping stuff?”

Biddy lifted the line of shells delicately, from both ends. “No.”

“Well, in the summer you can take advantage of them. Get some use out of them.”

The phone rang. Teddy said, “What'd you get?” when he picked it up. They each listed the highlights.

“Teddy got Atari,” he said when he hung up. His father was swirling eggs around the pan with a plastic spatula.

“Good for Teddy. Just what a kid needs—something to keep him in front of a television,” he said. “Come and eat something. Then you can play for a while, but we're going over the Lirianos' at noon.”

What was there to do? He didn't want to see Cindy again. He couldn't believe he hadn't realized this would pop up in the middle of his Christmas, like a horrible bug found under his pillow. He sat in a living-room chair gazing past the tree to the snow outside, and his father appeared before him, half his face covered with lather.

“You stare out more windows than I don't know who,” he said. “Are you going to get dressed?”

Upstairs he chose the same clothes he'd worn the night before. He couldn't refuse to visit the Lirianos. And he realized as he pulled his pants on that he didn't want to, for the same reason he'd found himself listening with special care to his parents' conversations around the house the last few days: he still hadn't completely deciphered what had happened, and he wanted to know.

He hesitated before entering their living room, causing Dom to inquire whether he had passed away in the hall. He came in and found sanctuary on the sofa, concentrating on their tree. It was smaller, decorated more carelessly. Presents were jumbled around it, Mickey's strewn in an arc across the room.

Gifts were exchanged. Only Louis was present. Mickey was already at a friend's house. “Someone got Atari,” Dom said. “And the kid found out. We don't expect him back until Tuesday.”

“Where's Cindy?” his father said.

“She's upstairs. Cindy!” he called. “She'll be right down.”

They unwrapped gifts, thanked each other, and held them up for all to see. Biddy opened his and pulled out a Viking jersey.

“See the number?” Dom said. “Fifty-nine.”

“What's fifty-nine?” his mother said.

“Who's fifty-nine, Biddy?” Dom asked.

Biddy folded it up. “Matt Blair,” he said.

The Lirianos received a knife block. “Great,” Dom said, hefting it. “We don't have to cut our hands to ribbons in the knife drawer anymore.”

Cindy still hadn't appeared. “Cindy!” Biddy's mother called. “C'mon. You got two presents to open this year.”

His eyes widened in horror. His parents had gotten their own present.

“Where's Ronnie, anyway?” his mother said.

“Don't ask,” Ginnie said.

Cindy came downstairs in a royal-blue robe with yellow embroidery on the shoulders. She glanced at Biddy first and smiled and wished everyone a Merry Christmas.

“Merry Christmas,” his father said. “Come get your presents here.”

She moved to the middle of the room and knelt on the rug. Her hair was brushed close to her head and tied back in a tight ponytail. Biddy wanted nothing more than to be out of the room.

“Two,” she said, raising an eyebrow politely. “How'd I get two?” She was very quiet.

“Biddy bought you one all by himself,” his mother said. “The small one.”

She looked at him, and he had to look away. “Well, let's see what we have here,” she said. She opened the large package first, a blouse, and lifted it gently from its wrapping. “It's beautiful. Isn't it?” Her parents agreed.

“Now open Biddy's,” someone said.

She tore off the paper, the dark red box showing through. She gazed at it silently before opening it and pulling out the bottle. She screwed off the cap and sniffed.

“Mmm. Very nice. Smell.” She dabbed her wrist and held it up to her mother, looking at Biddy intently. “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward until their faces were almost touching, and, smiling hesitantly, she kissed him.

He started to cry.

“Now isn't that the goddamnedest thing you ever saw?” his father said. “What's wrong
now?”

They waited, stunned, until he stopped sniffling. He said something about having to watch TV, and left the room.

His father followed, alone, and sat opposite him. “What was that all about?” he finally asked.

He didn't know. His father squinted at him. “Are you all right?” He nodded vigorously and his father stood up, half satisfied. “I don't know about you, guy,” he said at the doorway. “Sometimes I'm not sure you have both oars in the water.”

At eleven-thirty Christmas night his parents shut their bedroom door, telling him to get to bed soon, and at ten after, he went to the back porch and climbed into his boots, coat, scarf, and mittens. Stupid followed, and after a moment's indecision Biddy got his leash and took him along.

It was very cold outside, with no wind. Stupid led him down the driveway, weaving from snowbank to snowbank, his breath showing silver in the streetlight.

They walked toward the beach quietly, Biddy silent and the dog's sniffing muffled. The only sounds were the crunch of his boots on the snow and the jingling of the dog's license. He could smell the salt water, which surprised him. They passed Father Rubino's house on the corner facing the bluffs and he noticed a light on in the living room. He crossed over to it through the yard, the dog loping along in chest-deep snow to keep up. He crept along the bushes and peered over the sill.

Father was alone, his back to the window, playing the piano. On a small table nearby was a glass of wine. There were a few sprigs of holly about, and a red candle over the fireplace. The rest of the house was dark and empty. The whole image seemed melancholy and sad, and Biddy pulled away from the window, turning his back to it.

At the edge of the bluffs the beach spread out below him, dark and noisy, the waves glistening in long lines. Stupid strained to go down, his breath hoarse and visible, and after Biddy tested the steps for slipperiness, they did, the sand poking through the snow in great coarse patches after they'd reached the bottom and walked up the rise to the water.

There was a suggestion of wind. At close range the waves made a sibilant sound slapping under the ice at the water's edge. It was salt-water ice, less smooth, greenish. It crumbled easily in his hand, as if made of countless tiny pellets, and lay tumbled about in slabs like translucent pavement that had been torn up. A piece of driftwood rose from it nearby and he maneuvered over it and sat down. The dog, after wandering the length of the leash, sat next to him. The horizon was invisible, the stars simply fading away at a certain point.

“I used to take Lady down here,” he said, but Stupid gave no sign of understanding. A wave advanced a little farther than usual, collapsing some slabs in front of him.

“I could sing,” he said. “Want me to sing?”

The dog sniffed the air, as if to guess his mood.

“I don't blame you,” he said. He rubbed his thighs, bunched his mittens into fists. “It was a good Christmas. I was the one who had to make it a good Christmas, and it was a good Christmas. I'm the one who has to help me.”

His rear felt wet, cold. There was ice on the log. “I wonder what Ronnie's doing,” he said. He broke off a piece of ice and offered it to the dog, who sniffed it and turned away. He tossed it into the water. For a second it stayed opaque, bobbing, but then the dark sea color poured into it and it disappeared completely except for the faintest trace of an outline.

“I keep thinking I'm going to figure out something down here,” he said. “What to do, how to make things better. What's wrong, even.” He stood, wiping the seat of his pants. “And I never do.”

You're a very fortunate boy, Sister had told him once. Jesus loves you, your parents love you, you're healthy and bright, you live in the best country in the world. Imagine if you lived in Pakistan or a place like that. What do you have to be so unhappy about? He shook his head, starting for the bluffs with Stupid. There was a piece of salt ice on his mitten, and he touched it to his tongue, wincing at the familiar saline taste. He labored up the stairs behind the dog, surprised by his fatigue. The wind was picking up behind them. It had been a good Christmas and the beach at night was beautiful. Stupid was a good dog. He would get some sleep. Things would get better. At the top of the stairs, with the new wind across his face as he turned for one last glimpse of the beach in the moonlight, that was what he decided: things would get better.

IV

Memorial Day

BIDDY

Completing the Checklist

I saw things in my head. I knew they weren't real but that didn't make them any less important. I tried to talk to people about them and never got anywhere. It was like they were keeping something from me. If they're not, am I the only one like this?

They were dreams I could go to whenever I wanted: except I started them, I made them up. They were mine. But even there I couldn't always keep control.

Which could make it awful, like I was fighting myself, like what I thought was as hard to control as the way I threw a pass. When my punt was blocked or I threw the ball away on a double play, I got twice as frustrated: whose fault was that? It was like I knew myself and what I couldn't do so well that I couldn't even dream it right. I only wanted to do it right; to hold up my end, be part of a team, do a good job.

I didn't think I was crazy. But my father used to say if I wasn't, then I'd done a few things that needed explaining.

For a while I needed to see things in my head. But I learned that it didn't do any good unless I took them out of my head and made them real. And even that, like the BB gun on the roof, or the sailboat, might not be enough. Because I finally figured out that when you're through with all of that, you're still in the same place you always were.

A fish jumped nearby, a ripple breaking the water.

He slipped across the surface without hesitation, the cold swirling over him. With his mask a tight seal on his face he submerged, pulling away from the land. The water warmed as he grew used to it and cleared as he dived deeper. He pulled with wide, sweeping strokes and the bottom drifted closer, firm and inviting. It was rippled and sculpted by eddies and currents, and he flippered in close, his mouth holding air pressure steady in the flooded snorkel and his chin inches from the sand. Shells swept by, and hermit crabs, jerking sideways; the occasional gray ghost of a fish disappeared like a magician's illusion. He followed the slope easily, nosing swiftly along its contours with the confidence of an eel. At a horseshoe crab he stopped, kicking fluidly to stay down. He nudged it, hand on the smooth, hard carapace, and in its haste to escape it skimmed momentarily over the sand like a ray or a flatfish. The pressure in his lungs grew insistent and he looked to the surface, blue dazzling above him, and shot off the bottom, surging toward warmer and brighter levels, his momentum carrying him out of the water in the pleasing manner of a rocket.