Spirit of the Place (9781101617021) (20 page)

“Good.”

Schooner eyed him. “Wait a sec. You think I set it all up?” Orville said nothing. “How could you even think that I would without your permission—”

“Easy.”

“You think your endorsement of me, as town doc, means that much to—” He stopped. “Yeah, I see. It'd mean a
lot,
the town doc and all, yeah.”

“Gotta go, Henry. Got work to do.”

“Cut me some slack, Orv, 'kay? You know, we're more alike than otherwise.”

“Bullshit.”

“You'n me should sit down alone and chew the fat, get it all out on the table, get it over with and move on. I mean, we never did that, right?”

“Why should we?”

“'Cause we're in the same boat, bein' back in this shit hole town after bein' out in the wide, wide world! We both want to make it better, right?”

“Shit hole town?”

“Who said that?” he asked, looking around at the empty walls, chuckling. “Not me. You didn't hear that from me.”

“Which is why we're not sitting down.” Orville left.

Back at the office, he settled into Bill's chair. On the desk Orville saw a postcard among the mail—the Sphinx, a palm tree, a camel held by an Arab in a
jalabi
and ridden by two hefty Western tourists, a man and a woman
.
He flipped it over.

Howdy, partner,

Joined Wolfgang and Kenni Vista on their round-the-world trip. First stop, Egypt. Hot! Mosquitos big as small children. Babs bowels bad, but Starbusol working good, so far. Food foul, even at Cairo McDonald's. Good luck.

Bill

Orville raised his eyes from the postcard and found himself staring up into the dead eyes of the fourteen-point buck.

“I'm screwed.”

That night Miranda, Orville, and Cray sat at her kitchen table for dinner. It was the first time Cray was eating with them and not in front of the TV. Clearly unused to the idea of dinnertime conversation, Cray had to be coaxed into talking about his day at school.

“Well, today in class I started my new novel. It's called
CFIT.
”

“Sea Fit?” Orville asked. “What's that?”

Miranda knew. She held her breath.

“C-F-I-T.” Cray spelled it out. “It stands for Controlled Flight Into Terrain. That's how my dad died. He died in a CFIT. He crashed his acrobatic plane. I got a picture of him and his plane. Can I be excused to go get it, Mom?”

Miranda, startled both by his wanting to show it and by his courtesy, said, “Sure.”

She and Orville barely had time to exchange glances when Cray was back with a framed snapshot of a stunt plane, gleaming all red and yellow, a man standing beside it, hand on it affectionately, as if it were a woman. Beside the plane he was small, his features hard to make out. A shock of sandy blond hair, ruddy cheeks, a strong jaw, a smile. Aviator sunglasses and leather jacket completed the picture of the flier, tough and confident.

“That's great, Cray,” Orville said, moved.

“Yeah, but for my novel I need to know why he crashed. The problem is I can only ask him why he crashed if he didn't crash. But if he didn't crash I could ask him, but he wouldn't have. It's confusing.”

“Very,” Orville said.

“I wish I knew, too, Cray,” said Miranda.

“Okay,” Cray moved on, “now you tell me about your days.”

Orville told a funny story about a boy bringing his pet pig into the office because he wasn't oinking right. Miranda told them about Mrs. Tarr and her finding in the DAR attic a gigantic old map of Kinderhook County, the Penfield Map, as big as a two Ping-Pong tables and drawn in an old style that showed orchards by drawings of rows of individual trees and farms by rows of corn.

“Cool,” he said. “I'm finished. Mom, can I go watch TV now?”

“Sure.” She was stunned by all this, and by Orville's presence bringing it out.

Cray turned on the TV but then came back. “I got an idea. I could ask his grave. Where's he buried, Mom?”

“Mississippi. Avalon, Mississippi.” She had told him this several times.

“Can we go ask his grave?”

“Sure. If you think you're ready.”

“I am. Can Orvy come, too?”

“He sure can, cute-heart.” Her voice was unsteady.

“All three of us? Cool.” Cray went back to the TV.

Miranda, wide-eyed, said, “Do you know how incredible that is?”

“No, how?”

“A first. I just . . . I'm just amazed.”

“I'd love to hear more about him.”

Miranda took this in slowly, as if it were a hand reaching in toward the store of her secrets. A little war took place inside. A negotiated settlement came out. “Sometime, yes. I'm not sure I'm ready yet to talk about my . . . well, my pre-Columbian history.”

Sensing her struggle, Orville offered her his own secret. “You know, this thing about asking his grave, well . . . not only do I get these letters from my mother, but from time to time I . . .” He stopped himself, unable to admit to seeing her flying around, and instead said, “I talk to her.” But suddenly it seemed too intimate, and he regretted putting himself out there.

“Yes,” she said, nonchalantly. “After my parents died, I'd have conversations with them. In fact a few times, in the year after, they'd come to me when I was, you know, half-asleep, as if they were in the room, and I'd talk with them. What do you say to her?”

“It's not so much what
I
say, it's more what I imagine she says to me, and—”

“Hey, Orvy, look!” Cray was shouting. “You're on TV!”

They rushed to the set. There he was shaking hands with Henry Schooner. Orville had told Miranda about Schooner's promise, and now they watched his betrayal. In spite of himself, Orville's disgust was tempered with astonishment. What he had seen as a chaotic, pitifully amateurish scene with a
schlumpy
candidate and an unattractive crowd under a brooding sky had been transformed.

The camera had created a world of order and professionalism. Henry Schooner looked terrific—chest out, smile big, collar and tie snappy, white hair wind-blown, hatless and winter jacketless and impervious to the cold that had everyone else bundled up to their eyeteeth. All of this gave the impression of vitality, of an outdoorsy youthful candidate who those of a certain age could not help but associate with John F. Kennedy or Robert. In the segment they ran, Henry was clasping Orville's hand and elbow with confidence and conviction. “God Bless America” played subtly in the background. Orville, identified as “the town doctor,” looked pale and tired and, yes,
schlumpy
but seemed in that video moment to be in the very process of being
transformed,
popped out of the worn, dull groove of his daily grind and uplifted. Clearly, one man's hand-and-elbow clasp was lifting another man up into the rare atmosphere of a seminal event in Columbian, perhaps even American, history. Other footage showed Nelda Jo and Henry Jr. and little Maxie held up high in Henry's arms—all as telegenic as their man. The background music was somehow muted yet hopeful. Strangest of all, the day itself had been fashioned anew. It was bright and cheery, lit with angel-rays of light streaming down through the clouds, a joyous, even biblical, illumination.

And when Henry spoke, it was magical. That voice! Where had they heard that voice before? It was a little husky, down-homey, honest, even authentic—a voice neither Orville nor Miranda could ever recall having come from Schooner in person. A leader's voice, a voice they could follow: The Voice.

“You asshole!” Orville shouted at the tube. “You slimeball!”

“Orvy?” Miranda said, squeezing his arm, motioning to Cray.

“What's wrong, Orvy?” Cray said, frightened.

An ad for acid indigestion came on. “Nothing, Cray. Sorry.”

“But I
like
seeing you on TV. Why are you mad?”

“I said,
nothing!
” Cray's face collapsed. Orville felt terrible. “Hey, I'm sorry.” Cray turned away, back to the TV.

“Why don't you and Cray play something?” Miranda suggested.

Cray turned around and looked at her, then at Orville. He seemed to be calculating. “Will you help me make my B-52?”

Orville stifled a groan. Sol's Toys—because of Selma's love affair with flight—had specialized in model airplanes. For years, on every birthday he was presented with a new model airplane kit to glue, decal, and paint. Orville grew to loathe making the planes. His finished products never matched the pictures on the boxes. But now, what choice did he have?

They worked on the bomber. But soon Cray was whining, criticizing Orville's technique. “No, you're not doing it right! Let me do it myself!”

“Cray,” Miranda said, across the kitchen table. “Be nice, okay?”

They went on a while longer and then Cray, again in a whining tone, said, “No, you don't know how to put on the decal right. You
never
do it right!” He burst into tears, threw down the plane, ran upstairs to his room, and slammed the door.

In the heightened silence, Orville and Miranda stared at each other.

“Should I go up there?” he asked.

“Give him a little time.”

“I feel terrible.”

“I know. It's okay. Just wait.”

They sat together quietly, straining to hear any sounds from upstairs.

There was a squeak, Cray's door opening. They held their breath. Was he coming down? Nothing. They went upstairs, Orville leading. The stairs creaked.

The door slammed. Harder. Taped to the door was a fresh sign.

PLEZ CAEP OET

“At least he said please,” Miranda said.

“Yeah, but why's he writing to us in Dutch?”

She laughed, hugged him. They went into her bedroom, undressed, and got into bed.

There was a knock on the front door. Several more knocks.

“Who in the world?” Miranda said, suddenly frightened.

“I'll get it.” He pulled on his clothes, went downstairs, turned on the outdoor light, and opened the door. Henry Schooner. He looked bad and smelled bad. Sweaty, boozy.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“No. Get out of here!”

“I know you think I'm a sonofabitch but—”

“A lying sonofabitch—”

“—but you heard me call the fucker, and—”

“I don't think there was anyone on the other end of the line.”

“You
don't?
” Henry seemed about to collapse. Orville instinctively reached out and grabbed his arm. Henry seemed to be trying to get into the house. “Can I come in?”

“No!” Orville closed the door firmly and went outside to face him.

A window opened above. “Orvy, who is it?”

“Nobody.”

“Aw shit!” Henry cried out drunkenly. “Izz
me,
M'randa! Kin I come in?”

“No!” Orville said. “I'll handle it,” he said to her. “Go back to bed.”

“Okay.” She closed the window and turned off the upstairs light.

Suddenly he was seeing Schooner up close. His doctor's eyes took in the tiny spider telangectasiae on his nose, a sign of chronic alcohol intake, the weathered skin older than his years, the little fatty deposits on the half-hooded lids that suggested a family history of high cholesterol. There was a strand of spaghetti and a red stain on his rumpled white shirt. His hair was messed up, his mouth looked sloppy, his chin flabby—not only had the TV camera hidden all this, Orville realized, but it was as if in creating something more of Schooner, it had reached in and taken something from him, leaving him, in reality, somehow less.

“I came here to make retributions—no, reparations . . . razza razza roo.”

“You were always a sleazeball, and you're still a sleazeball, so forget it.”

“Here.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a piece of paper. “I called the fuckin' station, sent this to them and
The Crier,
saying it don't mean you support me.”

Orville took the letter and crumpled it up and threw it away.

“It's a free press,” Henry went on. “I can't control the bastards. I'll make it up to you. We'll do deals together, play golf. I want to earn your respect.”

“
Why?
Why in hell do you keep talking about earning my respect?”

“'Cuz it'd be like finding out my big brother loves me after all.”

“Get a life, Henry. Get a damn life.”

“I'm tryin', ol' buddy.” His eyes were wet. “I really am.”

“Go home.” Henry didn't move. As if talking to a dog, Orville repeated, emphatically, “
Go. Home.
”

“I respect you so much, Orvy. I even dream of you, did you know that?”

“How the hell could I know that?”

“Nice dreams, where you're my friend.” The Voice, the husky and kindly and sure
one that commanded attention, had gone, replaced by just a voice, one like any other.