Flights (26 page)

“I wish you wouldn't stay down so long,” his mother said from the shore. “Every three minutes I think I have to go after you.”

He paddled easily for the beach, turning on his back and letting his fins do the work. He floated to the very edge of the shoreline, tiny wavelets breaking over his shoulders. His shoulders rubbed on the pebbly sand. When he stood, the water flowed off his body in a noisy rush, and he took off his fins and mask and crossed to his mother's blanket, shaking off water like a spaniel before sitting down.

“Well, it's not something I can do anything about,” Ginnie said, sighing. She was wearing sunglasses and had white cream on her nose, and her face resembled a mask. “What bothers me so much is they won't say why.”

Biddy's mother smoothed lotion onto her arms. “I guess it isn't really anyone else's business, they figure.”

Ginnie nodded, grimacing slightly.

“And we knew they were having problems.”

She nodded again and lay back, unhappy.

“Maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's better they find out now.”

“All the preparations, the invitations, the hall—”

“It's terrible, I know. But what are you going to do? A divorce or annulment is better?”

“These kids, they don't know what they want,” Ginnie said bitterly. “They get married, they don't get married—to them it's like crossing the street.”

His mother glanced out over the water. A red-and-white Sunfish was going by, a boy at the sail and a girl at the rudder, her foot trailing in the water. “I still can't believe it,” she said.

“You can't believe it? Check out
moi.
She comes to me—I'll never forget it—and says, ‘Ma, I'm not getting married.' Like that.” Ginnie's face was to the sun, eyes closed. “Like she's not having dinner that night.”

“Oh, she was upset.”

“Oh, yeah, she was upset. You should have seen her mother, with two hundred and fifty invitations out. She's upset, but who ends up feeling like a jackass?”

Biddy settled back on his elbows, looking down the beach. The water still on his shoulders and chest was already warm from the sun. He eyed a puddle in his navel. Opposite him two girls lay on their bellies flanking a cassette player like marble lions on the steps of a museum.

“And how about your cousin's daughter? From announcement to wedding it has to be six weeks. I tell you, these kids are crazy. She's getting married next week the same day Cindy was going to. And she's friends with Cindy, and the groom's friends with Ronnie. They'll both be there. Lovely, huh? I can't wait to see the seating arrangements for that one. I tell you, don't get married, Biddy. Save your mother some heartache.” She rolled to her stomach, spreading her arms wide of the blanket to scoop sand as if she were swimming. “Or elope. Leave town and write us a note about it.”

For Biddy, Doug DeCinces had always been unalterably a Baltimore Oriole, in his imagination as fixed and immutable at third base as his own identity as a Catholic. DeCinces was a Baltimore Oriole and could no more have gone to another team than Biddy could have joined another family. Journeymen came and went occasionally, utility infielders and relief pitchers, but the central Oriole core remained unchanging, unlike other teams such as California or New York, which seemed filled with malcontents and strangers. The Orioles were stability itself. They made do, won or lost—mostly won—with what they had. To Biddy it had been a great shock when the Orioles traded Doug DeCinces.

On a beautiful Saturday he lay in the backyard in the sun, the Bridgeport
Post
propped against the sleeping Stupid. The print rose and fell gently with the dog's breathing. The sports section was folded to isolate a piece analyzing the month-old trade of the Orioles' DeCinces for the Angels' Ford. The piece went into great detail: batting averages (.277 to .281), RBIs (11 to 10), home runs (6 to 1), and extra base hits (20 to 16), as well as intangibles. (DeCinces was a leader, Biddy read, willing to get his uniform dirty, gritty, a coach on the field, while Ford's attitude was a question mark.) Ford was quoted as saying all he wanted was a chance. The article concluded that while the Angels seemed to have had the better of the deal, it was still too early to tell.

He rolled over, head on his arm, and let the paper fall lightly across the dog. Inside the house his father was watching the NBC
Game of the Week
, California at Baltimore. Stupid lay inert under the newspaper, his rear end and legs sticking out.

Baseball seemed no more a part of his present than World Cup Soccer. He wasn't playing or following it. His father was worried and disappointed.

He had been a disappointment in many areas over the last few months, since Christmas. He hadn't done anything unusual or worrisome enough to galvanize his parents into making that series of appointments with Dr. Hanzlik, but he had been unhappy, listless, and his work at school had suffered. His third report card had been mediocre, as had his second, and to a lesser extent his first. There had been an ultimatum issued for the fourth, which was only weeks away: no improvement and he was going into a special motivational training program for three weeks. It was new, met in the mornings at a smallish grade school nearby, and seemed less of a step than psychiatric help. If his grades plummeted still further, his ass, his father assured him, would be out of Our Lady of Peace so fast his head would swim. His parents were at a loss as to what else to do. He had quit the altar boys. Nothing seemed to be effective enough for him; nothing seemed to be creating any sort of change. As the weather improved, Mr. Carver's Cessna, wet and alone in its parking space, seemed to taunt him. He spent long hours rereading his notes and manuals, and his father wondered if he was getting enough iron.

It seemed to him, lying in the grass with the sun warming his arms, that he hadn't talked to anyone in a long time. Laura had a new friend and seemed distant. He hadn't seen Ronnie since Christmas. He rose without waking the dog, walked past the house to the street, and stood at the end of the driveway. Nothing was moving in either direction. Four houses down, Simon sat on the curb, hands on his shoes.

Biddy walked over and said hello. Simon didn't look up. “My mother went to the beach and I couldn't go,” he said. There was not the slightest hint of sadness in his voice. His mother had a boyfriend, and they didn't always want him with them.

“Is she right down here?”

“In Milford.”

“Well, you want to go down this beach?” Biddy said, pointing. “I'll take you.”

“I don't want to go anywhere.” He scuffed the pavement.

“Where's your baby-sitter?”

“Watching TV. I don't want to do anything. Leave me alone.”

“Want me to—”

Simon got up, moved farther down the curb, and sat again. Biddy straightened up, angry, and turned away. Sit in the street, he thought. Get your feet run over. He returned to his yard and, before passing behind the house, glanced back and saw Simon still sitting where he'd left him, stubbornly determined, in all probability, to be in that same spot when his mother returned.

Biddy's math had been poor and was going downhill steadily. That was the gist of Sister Theresa's talk.

“And you know what it is, Biddy? You know what it is, don't you? It's carelessness. You can do the work. You do do the work. And then you make stupid mistakes, from carelessness.” He nodded, let his eyes wander through the tangle of papers on her desk.

“It's a lack of respect, Biddy. For yourself, especially, but also for the work, and for me.”

They were sitting in her office, off the main hallway. He was forfeiting part of his lunchtime. He was thinking only of the Cessna. Outside the sun beat down and waves of heat rose from the playground.

She pointed to a number on a sheet. “See this? This is your average right now. That's pretty shocking, young man. Are you shocked?”

“I'm surprised,” he said.

She looked at him grimly. “We're trying everything we can with you, but our patience has a limit, let me tell you. You have to do something, too. If you earn this grade, I'm telling you right now I'm going to give you this grade. Is that understood?”

He nodded.

“Now go eat your lunch. And I want to see some improvement starting tomorrow, mister.”

He nodded again and shut the door behind him on the way out.

The hall was empty. Teddy appeared from the niche for the drinking fountain. “Let's go up to the roof,” he whispered.

It was possible. The class was left on its honor, as Sister liked to say, for lunch, so they wouldn't be missed unless someone checked. There was a shed adjoining the outside wall in the back. It had a low roof that allowed access to the higher roof. It was possible, for a few minutes. They slipped out the side doors and scrambled atop the shed, quickly pulling themselves up onto the main roof. Biddy stood up.

Sister Theresa stopped, halfway down the sidewalk, staring up at him.

“What are you, crazy?” Teddy whispered. “Get down.”

“Young man,” Sister called. “I'm not really seeing what I think I'm seeing, am I? Not two minutes after we talked?”

“Oh, God,” Teddy said. He lowered his face to the roof, thumping his forehead on a shingle.

“Come on down,” Sister said. “And as soon as your feet touch ground you're in serious trouble.”

Sister didn't believe in suspensions. Missing school never helped anyone, and she wasn't handing out vacations but punishments, she used to say. Sister believed in detentions, long strings of them; the longer ones students would sometimes imagine to be the worldly equivalents of Purgatory. His was for two weeks, which was, not coincidentally, all that was left of the school year. Teddy's was for a week. Biddy's parents did not take the news well.

“The roof,” his father said. “Can you imagine this? She calls him in to try and straighten him out and he ends up climbing around the roof. Biddy, just what is wrong with you?”

Biddy sat in the kitchen feeding the dog his supper bit by bit under the table. Sister had called home with all the details.

“I don't know who's more aggravating, you or your sister.”

His sister had recently thrown chalk at one of the lay teachers.

“I really don't know what to do with you,” his father said. “I really don't. What am I going to do? Ground you? You never go anywhere anyway. Tell you you can't stare out windows?”

“He needs to see someone,” his mother said. “We don't know what we're doing. A professional.”

“I'll tell you what I will do,” his father said. “If your grades haven't improved on this last report card, you can kiss Our Lady of Peace goodbye. If you're not going to learn, you might as well do it for free.”

“Don't be an idiot,” his mother said.

“I'm not being an idiot. And I'm not pissing money away if he's not interested, either. I can tell you that right now. Maybe the school has something to do with it, anyway. If they stopped working on his soul and tried working on his head we'd all be a little better off.”

His father went into the den and his mother tossed salad in a beige ceramic bowl in front of her. “Finish your supper,” she said. “Your father's upset right now, that's all.”

“I don't need to see a doctor, Mom,” he said quietly.

“Well, what do you need?” she said, pausing over the salad. “We'd all like to know. Have any idea? What do you need?”

His parents, unfortunately, did not enjoy the luxury of being able to worry about him alone. His sister over the last four months had thrown chalk at a teacher, attempted to feed the dog tacks, shoved Sister Theresa on the stairs, started a fight at the water fountain, and tried to bury all of her school-books in the garden. She had racked up more detention time and earned worse grades at school than Biddy. And there was the matter of her temper. “Don't ask me where she gets it,” her mother would say. “When she gets upset, it's like
Raging Bull
.” Recently she'd had a fight with her friend Lisa, whose mother had called to complain that her daughter was “still bleeding” as of the time of the phone call. Kristi had remained unrepentant.

She sat in the backyard next to him, on a lounge chair she had pulled alongside his. Both of them were eyeing the dog, waiting idly for it to do something amusing or interesting. It stretched and rubbed the side of its head in the grass. “You stay around,” their father said, and the dog looked up apprehensively. “You stay around or you'll really be on my shit list.”

The three of them had been in the sun too long and Kristi was growing dangerously bored. They had been spending a lot of time in the yard recently, owing in part to their various punishments but also of their own accord, to get on their parents' nerves. Their father was setting the ladder up against the garage wall nearest them. They were getting rain in the garage, and he wanted to check the shingles. The ladder had a sliding arrangement that allowed it to extend to twice its storage height and two hook clamps that kept it in whatever extended position was required. He set it up carefully, working unhurriedly in the bright sun, and returned to the house.

Kristi had been watching all of this with a close interest. When the back door closed, she got up and crossed to the ladder and, reaching high on her tiptoes, one hand spread delicately against the garage for support, she flipped one of the locking clamps away from the rung it was to support. That accomplished, she returned to her chair.

“What are you doing?” he said.

She didn't move, her eyes remaining on the ladder. He glanced toward the house. The dog's tail wagged, stirring mosquitoes. His father banged out of the back door and walked over, dropping tools on the pavement near the ladder with a musical noise. He sorted through them, choosing two.