by Neil Hetzner
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Flight
After he scuttles the bass boat, Joe stands rigidly at the helm of the launch. The quiet disturbs him because it gives him the opportunity to think and thinking, definitely, is not what he wants to do. Joe can provide himself with no coherent reason why he thought it was a good idea, let alone a plan, to take the boats and leave Prissi behind. He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t fear for himself, but rather faith in her…her skills, intelligence and courage which led to his choice. When he had found a backwater close to what he had guessed was three kliks downstream, he had pulled in to shore. The first five minutes of waiting he could tolerate, but, now, as each minute passes, what he is feeling becomes more unendurable.
He is a coward. Prissi is dead. Prissi is dead…but, she would have been dead despite anything he could have done. He is not a coward, but he is a fool to sit waiting for the wingers to show up to reclaim their boat and take care of him. Prissi, somehow, is holding on, but waiting and needing his help. He has lost Bob Tom and Prissi and he will lose himself if he doesn’t take action.
Joe sits in the boat, as frozen in inaction as Lot’s wife, until he hears the sibilant notes of wings. Even when the winger’s arrival forces him to act, Joe remains indecisive as to whether his chances are better staying under the canopy of tree limbs or trying to outrun his enemy. When his hand flips the ignition, that slight movement is less the result of rational thought and more an act of mindless fear. He accelerates into the river.
The red-faced winger is no more than ten meters behind Joe by the time he has the boat in the fastest part of the current. Joe has a moment of dark insight when he understands that his fear has led to his end. And that insight will prove true, but not in the way the boy has foreseen.
The winds, blowing to the northeast, slow the winger and the river’s current, flowing south, adds several kilometers an hour to the launch’s top speed. After five minutes the launch is a hundred meters in front of the winger. After ten minutes, the threat is no more than a dark speck in the sky.
Joe gets to the mouth of the Carman’s River just before five in the afternoon. He slows his speed as he makes his way along the coastline of Long Island. He motors west until the water goes dark. Just before the sun slinks away for good, Joe veers into a small cove and secures the launch high on the shore. He takes a pak full of food he has found in a cubby, grabs cushions and blankets and heads inland to find a safe place to make camp.
Joe eats until he feels fuller than he has in many days, but he can’t sleep. Thoughts of abandoning Prissi and losing Bob Tom’s body take care of that. He lies on his back looking at the stars and ponders his fate and those of the others in his constellation.
Tired, and as mentally exhausted as he can ever remember, Joe swears a dozen revenges on his uncle and cousin. After hours, he falls asleep and, given the condition of his conscience, sleeps deeply. He wakes at sunrise and fills his belly for a second time before dragging the launch back into the water and a course that will take him home.
Joe makes it back to Manhattan early the next afternoon.
He calls his family. Bears the burden of their rage, relief and love. Visits his grandfather and, mostly, tells his story. Tells what Prissi has told him and how she has died.
Two days later he fledges. With red and silver feathers. Joe returns to Dutton ten days late from spring Break. Endures the stares, the gossip and his new bodyguard. Works hard at both his studies and keeping his memories at bay. With few exceptions, Joe Fflowers is as adept as most teenerz at moving so fast that the things that niggle and chase a heart or conscience get left behind…things and events once mountainous and momentous soon become memories no bigger than a pair of small wings in a great open sky.
