Flights (7 page)

They were kept out in the driveway after being dropped off with a warning, his father pacing in front of them.

“It's not your fault, Louis,” he said. “This bonzo should've known better.”

“We were only on the runway for a second,” Biddy said. “The rest of the time we were in the reeds.”

“What, that's better? There're rats and all sorts of shit in there. You were asked to stay around, do something a little sedate, but no. It's like talking to a wall. You can't find your ass with both hands and you're wandering around those paths back there. And dragging this poor soul with you.” Louis looked up, embarrassed. “What has to happen? What does it take to get through? Does one of those planes have to take your head off? Does a rat have to bite you on the ass?”

Six and three: Singleton lines out; runners hold. Six and one: Murray reaches on an error. Two and four: Roenicke pops up. One and one: Dauer strikes out. No runs, three left on base.

Preparations for the Air Show: his father stood in the sunny area of the driveway, washing chaise longues and lawn chairs with a hose. His mother and Kristi edged around the bushes bordering the yard, trimming and cleaning out odd piles of debris, his mother snipping and pulling efficiently, Kristi raking with the three-pronged hand rake listlessly, uselessly. He sat at the redwood table, rolling dice.

“Get a rake,” his father said, splashing water. “Give your mother a hand.”

With Randolph and Mumphrey on base in the ninth, Winfield homered. He rolled a few more times and then carefully wrote, “Balt. 5, N.Y. 6.”

“Biddy, are you deaf?”

“No sense getting excited,” his mother said from across the yard without turning. “He doesn't listen to me, either.”

“Keep playing with those dice.” His father returned his attention to a chair. “That's a good thing to do with your time. Useful.”

Biddy looked at the dice in his hand.

“You could be reading, it's a beautiful day, you could've gone to the beach. … Who was that kid from school? Teddy? Why doesn't he come around anymore? You could've done a lot today, instead of sitting around bored. But sit around,” he said. “Improve your mind.”

He could've done a lot of things. He could do a lot of things. Lying in bed that night, he realized that: like sliding belly up onto the roof with Teddy's BB gun, edging off the ladder just before dawn. The spaniel next door would bark when the shingles crunched and popped as he put his full weight on them, swinging his legs up. He'd creep to the peak of the roof, rest the barrel lightly between the top of the basketball backboard and its two-by-four support, and wait.

He liked this one, he mused, turning in bed. He pumped up the gun, increasing the tension on the firing mechanism until he felt it would explode in his hands if he handled it roughly.

And the sun came out red and weak, and Lady was let out. She ran around the yard sniffing and urinating and went back in without seeing him.

And his mother and sister set up for the Air Show.

And when Dom arrived and edged from the car with two trays of rolled prosciutto and ham and a bottle of cherry peppers held lightly by his chin against his chest, he sighted down the barrel and fired quickly,
thonk thonk thonk,
at the hunched figure, and the jar made a musical
plish
and dropped away magically from beneath the cap, peppers and juice streaming and tumbling down his dark blue chest. And he swung his rifle,
thonk,
and Lady yelped, splaying out a hind leg, and swung it back,
thonk,
and Dom yelped and sent two trays of meats cascading up and over, the meats fluttering pink and the trays spinning silver. And down along the TV trays in a crooked line:
pling plang plung,
the sound to mix with Dom's silver trays coming down on the driveway.

And they all rushed him at once, Lady, Dom, his father, his mother, with scaling ladders and needle-sharp bayonets, with bright blue tunics and long white sabers, or dark blue police suits and long brown clubs, or sweaty red bodies and painted, feathered faces, and he stood and fired from the hip, levered Teddy's Winchester up and down, kicked away tomahawks and sabers, nightsticks and savage hands.

The sun seemed bright and cold the morning of the Air Show. Biddy had been awake and outside with his mother before seven, while it was still clear and chilly. He lay on his belly on the warming pavement of the driveway, gazing vacantly down the street at Simon's yard. Kristi was playing with Simon, Simon in the wagon, the wagon at the top of the driveway, the driveway a long coast to the street. Simon rattled the handle. Cindy's car turned onto the street and with a shove Kristi sent him out and down the incline, the red wagon gaining speed all the way down the driveway and it occurred to Biddy that it wasn't going to stop. It bounced once, jiggling Simon and making him puppetlike, and swept out in front of Cindy's car, which jerked and bucked and turned aside. The wagon continued across the street and onto the lawn opposite, pitching over and tumbling Simon out. Cindy got out of her car and stood surveying the scene, looking tiny and ineffectual in the distance. She said something to both Simon and Kristi, and got back in and continued to Biddy's driveway. The car grew as it cruised up the pavement toward him. He didn't move and the bumper stopped above him.

Later, in the chaise longue, Cindy said, “Biddy, you're going to have to watch that kid. His mother obviously isn't going to.”

“Can I taste that?” he asked, pointing to her drink.

“It's too early in the morning for you to be drinking.” She had on a white bathing suit with light brown straps. One leg tapered along the length of the chaise longue; the other had slipped off and lay on a diagonal between grass and chair.

“Why isn't it too early for you?”

“I'm engaged,” she said, turning on the chaise longue without opening her eyes.

“Where's Ronnie?”

“He's coming. He's getting some stuff at the bakery.” Her arm dangled vaguely at a plastic bottle in the grass. “Put some lotion on me?”

“What's he getting?”

She took a sip of her drink, her glass intricately beaded with condensation. “Don't you want to put some lotion on me? Want me to fry?”

He knelt in the grass near her, the plastic bottle hot and soft in his hands, and she said, “Get my legs first. I'm beginning to feel it on my legs.” He dabbed lotion on the top of her thigh.

The screen door slammed and his father went by. “When you're finished there help me with the grill,” he said.

Her skin was hot under the sun and dry, wrinkling to his touch. She was peeling and he eased a flake away from the surface of her leg with his fingernail. The lotion glazed as it spread, moistening it and deepening the brown color. He did both legs and his hands were sticky.

“Put some more up by the suit,” she said, eyes still closed. “I always get burned there.” He put some dabs farther up and heard Ronnie's car pull in behind hers down the driveway. “Rub it in, Biddy,” she said. “Want it to dry on me?” His middle finger touched the dab, broke the bubble, pressed further to the skin underneath.

“Isn't this nice,” Ronnie said. “The Queen of Sheba.” Biddy turned, lotion on his fingers. “She'll have you out here with a fan next.”

She didn't open her eyes. “Finish up, Biddy,” she said.

“Aren't you helping Judy?” Ronnie asked.

“I've been here for a while,” she said. “Everything's ready. You're in the sun.” Ronnie went into the house. “Grab a chair and come on out,” she called. She opened her eyes, hand cupped over them. “That's enough, Biddy,” she said. “Thanks.”

He washed his hands twice, the stickiness elusive between his fingers. “What time is Uncle Dom coming?” he asked Ronnie, stacking plates in the kitchen.

“Few hours,” he said. “He's getting some provolone and prosciutto and that place is a nuthouse today.” He handed a full glass to Biddy. “You going back out? Take this out to her. It might as well be you as me.”

“I'm thinking about cutting my hair, Biddy,” she said. “What do you think?”

“Don't,” he said. She opened her eyes. “I mean—it's beautiful.”

“Well, thank you.”

He fumbled with a sneaker. “Who wants you to change it? Ronnie?” She continued to gaze at him. “For the wedding?”

“No. I don't know, just for something different. But you like it, huh?”

He nodded, glad the embarrassment was over.

“Then I'll keep it. C'mere.”

He reddened as he leaned forward and she kissed him, half on the mouth, half on the cheek.

“Go help your father with the grill,” she said softly.

An hour later they were starting to arrive, the Lirianos, the Pierces, the Sheas, the Terentieffs, the Cartenellis, and more.

The Air Show was about to begin.

The yard included a patio, a redwood table and some benches beside the clusters of lawn chairs and lounges, a large maple tree, a small maple tree, a gray cellar door adjacent to the house, a vegetable garden, and a fair number of bare spots. It was a small residential tract just barely suitable for a cramped game of Wiffle ball, bordered by the Frasers' garage on one side and their own on the other. The garden was small and weedy, and the dog's urine had browned the grass near the knee-high fence bordering it. A red tomato showed here and there, unpicked.

The backyard, with the garages and trees allowing some privacy, was where the Sieberts entertained. The front yard was a bare, flawless expanse boasting two dogwoods flanking a sidewalk leading to the front door, and that was all. On those rare occasions he played there Biddy felt as though he were onstage.

The backyard as well had an unencumbered upward view of the north, over the airport, perfect for the Air Show.

The Air Show included the U.S. Navy Blue Angels, an R.A.F. Harrier VSTOL (vertical takeoff and landing) jet, a World War II P-51 Mustang, a Bell Huey helicopter, a Sikorsky HH-52 helicopter, some skywriters, a U.S. Army parachute team, and a smallish orange plane that stood on its tail and cut its engine and flew acrobatically. Biddy's job was to keep the soda moving, run for beers, and change empty cheese and meat platters for full ones. Everything wavered on TV trays on uneven ground, under the shadows of the leaves. People began to fill the backyard. The meat and cheese platters, as his father had predicted, began to take a beating.

The party was not a gathering for children, and Mickey Liriano was the only child present besides Biddy, hustling back and forth with empty or full trays, and Kristi, jealously guarding a chair in a prime viewing location. Mickey dealt with his isolation principally by throwing a rubber ball off the side of the garage with a relentless energy and fielding it, pausing only to retrieve a bad hop from the garden or let someone with drink in hand pass by.

His father called out at one point, “Listen, Cy Young, you want to give that a rest?” but gave up soon after.

Mickey was bored, Biddy knew. Kristi bored him and Biddy bored him and his older brother especially bored him, with his excessive patience and kindness and lack of speed in everything he did. The dog bored him, and didn't like him, besides. The food bored him. Throwing a ball against the side of the garage bored him, and when the Blue Angels came over they'd bore him as well. He brought and wore his Reggie Smith glove in the futile hope he could talk someone—his father, Biddy, anyone—away from the Air Show for a catch at least. He'd already asked more than once and was bored with asking. The rubber ball made almost no noise in his glove, and he threw it against the garage as though it were a hard ball.

Cindy and Ronnie stood under the big maple, talking and accepting congratulations on the engagement. She was wearing a gauzy light blue dress and he was in shorts and a tennis shirt. Biddy watched them for a short time before Ronnie called him over.

“How's tricks, champ,” Ronnie said, sitting down. He was very close to his fiancée's knee and her dress drifted against his shoulder. “I hear you're finally getting the hang of second base.”

Biddy winced, thinking of the game at the field. “Have you set a date?” he said.

Ronnie made a face. “This May. Memorial Day. Which is perfect.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “Just a joke. Where's your glove? Want to throw the ball around?”

“I'm gonna go down and see the Blue Angels come over from Long Island.”

“How do you know they're going to do that?”

“My father told me. They're filling up at the Grumman plant over there. Doesn't Cindy want you to hang around?”

Ronnie shrugged and looked up at her. “I'm like you. I'm not too good at this social stuff.”

Biddy looked at his watch. The possibility of Phantom jets, in formation, at Lordship was making him impatient with everything else. “I should go. Mickey'd want to play.”

“I believe it,” Ronnie said. “I surely do believe it.” He leaned around the tree. “Hey psycho. You want to throw it around?” Mickey waved and nodded. “That's a surprise,” he said, and Biddy left, hurrying toward the blue Sound he could glimpse between the houses.

He didn't wait long at the bluffs: six black specks spread themselves along the horizon over Long Island, exciting and precise against the broad blue sky, growing in size and detail until he realized the center of the V formation would be coming right over him, and he waited as long as he could, taking in the royal-blue and yellow markings, the underwing detail, the hint of clear orange behind the exhaust, before running up the bluffs and down the street as they flashed over him, huge, seemingly only a few feet above the houses, the sound following behind like an invisible trailer as he ran, trying not to be left behind. He stopped, panting, to watch the six jets, all glowing orange, huge and powerful, commanding the skies, sweep over his house in the distance and drop into the basin of the airport beyond; he ran again only when they disappeared below the trees.