Crawling From the Wreckage

by Michael C Bailey

  What are you doing? I write. Are you busy?

  Not really.

  Sara did want me to get out of the house.

  Good. Suit up and meet me on the bridge in 15.

  ***

  Dennis and I spend the afternoon driving air traffic controllers across New England crazy. I imagine that by the end of the day #lightstormsucks will be a trending topic on Twitter. We end the session with a Starbucks stop, and we take our drinks to the bridge.

  “Thanks for coming out,” Dennis says. “I really needed this. I wasn’t getting it on my own.”

  “You’re welcome. I needed this too. If you hadn’t messaged me, I probably would have spent the day sitting on my butt sulking,” I say. Instead, I’m sitting atop the Notre Dame Bridge looking out over scenic Manchester. I understand why Dennis likes to come here.

  “Glad to be of service.”

  “You’re not going to ask what happened?”

  “I wasn’t going to. I figured it was something personal, and we don’t really know each other too well, so...”

  “We should probably fix that. Training partners need to know and trust each other, right?”

  “Yeah, okay. So what happened?”

  “I learned that I don’t get to be a senior this year. I have to do my junior year all over.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I missed half of eleventh grade gallivanting around the Milky Way playing space cowgirl.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry. I know how much that sucks.”

  “You do? Mr. I’m-Going-to-MIT got held back?”

  “No, not me. My brother Kyle.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  Dennis’s expression darkens. “He died last year,” he says, a verbal gut-punch.

  “Oh, God, Dennis, I’m so sorry,” I offer as both a condolence and an apology. “I didn’t mean to —”

  “It’s okay,” he says with a forgiving smile. “Really, it’s cool. Besides, we’re supposed to know and trust each other, right?”

  “I still feel like a total ass.”

  “Don’t. You didn’t know. It’s not like I talk about him much.”

  The impulse to ask him what happened is there, and he seems to want to talk about it — and he does, but his opening is not at all what I expected.

  “This was his suit.”

  “Your brother was a super-hero?” I say, and Dennis grimaces. Oh, God, what did I step in this time?

  “No.” He hesitates, like he’s building up to something — and boy, is he ever. “I think he was a super-villain.”

  THIRTEEN

  I sit there gawping at Dennis, trying and failing spectacularly to think of a response that isn’t totally stupid or insensitive, but what could I possibly say after a revelation like that?

  Heck with it, let’s go with the foremost question on my mind. “Are you sure? I mean, I know the players around here fairly well and I’ve never seen that armor before I met you.”

  “I don’t know what else fits,” Dennis says.

  Kyle Antar always had a chip on his shoulder thanks to being a second-generation Iraqi immigrant growing up in a predominantly white state in post-9/11 America, Dennis says. Long before he graduated high school, he made plans to join the army — not so much to serve his country but to prove a point to every racist idiot who ever gave him grief or questioned his loyalties.

  Kyle was dispatched to the Middle East almost immediately after finishing boot camp. He served honorably for six years before he was caught in an IED explosion. He took a piece of shrapnel in the calf — a minor wound, and by all rights, he should have been treated, released, and sent back into the field. Instead, he got a Purple Heart and an honorable discharge. He fought to stay in, but the army insisted he’d done his duty and earned his ticket back to the states.

  “He was convinced the army used his injury as an excuse to get rid of him,” Dennis says.

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard of the military discharging personnel of Middle Eastern descent for stupid reasons, so maybe? It almost doesn’t matter. Perception is reality, you know?”

  Kyle spent four restless, angry months at home before returning to action in a different way. He became a “private military contractor” (which is a fancy way of saying he became a mercenary) with a firm called Gladrock and work for them for two years.

  “One day last year, out of the blue, he came home and told us he’d resigned from Gladrock, but he wouldn’t say what he was doing for work.” Dennis frowns. “He wouldn’t say much of anything, actually. He got a place of his own in town but he kind of cut us out of his life. Dad was worried sick Kyle had gotten involved with some terrorist group.”

  “But you think he became a super-villain?”

  “Like I said, it’s the only thing that fits.”

  Kyle’s radio silence ended, permanently, almost a year ago when his body was found on the shore of the Merrimack River, not too far from the very bridge we’re sitting on — the bridge that police believe Kyle jumped off, Dennis says. The cops asked the family to let them into Kyle’s apartment to look for a note or some other evidence to back their theory. They didn’t find anything, but Dennis did.

  “Growing up, Kyle always kept a journal, so I poked around his bedroom hoping maybe he’d kept it up as an adult,” he says. “He did. I found it under his bed. I stuffed it in my jacket and took it home to read it. That’s when the key fell out.”

  “A key?”

  “To a storage unit. I freaked. All I could think was that Dad was right and Kyle had gone off the deep end and he had guns or bomb-making materials stashed somewhere, so I tracked down the unit to check it out.” He chuckles, ruefully. “I had no idea what I’d do if I found anything, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight, you know?”

  “I know,” I say. I remember what a basket case I was after Granddad died. Common sense and I were not on speaking terms for a good long while. “Is that when you found the suit?”

  “In a big case marked ‘Skyblazer Armor Mark III.’”

  “And that’s when you realized Kyle might have been a super-villain.”

  “Yeah. But you said you never heard of him, so maybe he hadn’t gone public yet?”

  “That’s entirely possible. I know someone out there has been outfitting wannabe super-villains with tech. Your brother might have been one of them,” I say, and I immediately regret my words. “Oh my God, that was such a stupid thing to say. Dennis, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. It was thoughtless and insensitive and —”

  “Carrie, stop.” He lays his hand over mine. “Look, I’m not happy that I was right about Kyle but I don’t blame you for that. And I can’t pretend he was something he wasn’t.”

  “I don’t want you to remember your brother as a bad guy.”

  “He’s not. He wasn’t,” Dennis amends, “but he was always angry, always lashing out. He never learned how to deal with all the crap the world threw at him. I didn’t want to be like that. I didn’t want to end up like Kyle.”

  “So you took his super-villain suit and decided to become a super-hero.”

  “Because that’s what any sane kid would do, right? Big bro was a bad guy so I became a good guy to make amends. You know, right after I took it apart to see how it worked and read the instruction manual.”

  “There was an instruction manual?”

  “Right? How crazy is that?”

  “You’re asking the wrong girl. My bar for crazy is a lot higher than yours. You actually took the suit apart?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Just like that. You took apart a cutting-edge flying suit and put it back together?”

  “I didn’t completely take it apart,” he says, like that makes it somehow less impressive. “I cracked open the helmet, poked around a little in the maglev modules, removed what looked suspiciously like a GPS tracking chip...whoever gave Kyle the suit def
initely wanted to keep tabs on him.”

  I hate myself for asking, but the perverse curiosity is too much. “Dennis? You said your brother committed suicide. Do you think...did you ever consider that maybe all that anger finally got to be too much?”

  “I never said Kyle killed himself; I said the police said he killed himself.”

  “But you don’t believe them.”

  “It doesn’t add up. I read the police and coroner’s reports —”

  “They let you have copies of the reports?”

  Dennis winces. “Not exactly. Did I mention I’m something of an accomplished hacker?”

  “You did not.”

  “Good. That means you have plausible deniability. Anyway, the coroner said Kyle’s injuries were consistent with a fall of approximately three hundred feet. The Notre Dame Bridge is only one hundred and thirty feet above the river at its highest point, which is where we’re sitting right now.”

  I gaze down at the river below us. Part of my training with Concorde involved how to respond to uncontrolled freefall conditions, which in most cases amounts to closing your eyes and praying for a miracle, but I know that under certain circumstances it’s possible to survive “augering in,” as he called it. There’s a wealth of variables, from your speed at the time of impact to the angle of approach to what the landing surface is like, but a straight fall into water from a height of one hundred thirty feet is within the realm of survivability. You’d be seriously messed up, and you might well drown afterwards, but the impact itself isn’t necessarily lethal. A three-hundred-foot fall, however?

  “Did anyone actually see Kyle jump?” I ask.

  “The police have a statement from a cyclist who was crossing the bridge at the time. He claimed he saw someone fall, and all things considered I think it’s safe to say it was Kyle,” Dennis says, “but no one saw anyone actually jump off the bridge, and no one reported anyone climbing on it beforehand. You’d think someone would have noticed something like that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but I’m hesitant to offer an opinion. There’s ample evidence to suggest the police got it right, that a lifetime of rage and frustration caught up with Kyle and he had a nervous breakdown, but there are also enough holes in the story to raise reasonable doubt. Either way, there’s something about the story striking me as somehow familiar. I can’t say what, exactly, but when my gut talks, I listen.

  I notice the time on my headset’s HUD. It’s almost five? Wow, where did the day go? “I should take off. I’m going to see Sara’s show tonight and I need to get ready.”

  “Okay. Thanks again for coming out.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Careful, I might take you up on that. All right, get going. I don’t want you to get caught up in rush hour traffic,” Dennis says, pointing skyward.

  “Very considerate of you. See you later.”

  “See you later.”

  ***

  Even after taking the time to go home for a shower and a light dinner of leftovers, I’m the first person at the theater. I’ve never been here before. It’s a cool historic theater from the 1930s located at the edge of Milne’s Woods, which means it’s nice and quiet. I wander around outside, listening to a gentle symphony of nature sounds, feeling more relaxed than I’ve felt in forever, until they open the doors. I pick up my ticket at the box office and then head into a little lounge to wait. I’m not alone for long.

  “Good evening, fellow patron of the arts,” Stuart says, entering arm-in-arm with a girl who is at best passingly familiar. “All right, since none of us knows for sure whether you two have actually met each other? Carrie, this is Peggy; Peggy, Carrie.”

  “Hi, Carrie,” Peggy says. “Nice to finally meet you for real.”

  “Same here. Man, I feel so underdressed now,” I say, taking in Stuart and Peggy and their respective ensembles. Stuart’s hair is tied back in a ponytail, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt and khakis, and Peggy’s rocking the Little Black Dress action.

  “I thought it’d be fun to doll up for an evening of legitimate theater. I even wore my formal leg,” she says, extending said leg. I don’t get what she means at first. It looks like a normal leg sheathed in a sheer black stocking, but then I catch a glimpse of the artificial knee joint peeking out from under the edge of her skirt.

  “I told her to go with the one with the racing flames on it but she said it was too gaudy,” Stuart says.

  “I told you, that’s a monster truck rally leg, not a community theater leg,” Peggy chides playfully.

  “What if we were seeing a community theater play about monster trucks?”

  “Ooh, that’s a stumper.” Peggy grins. “Waiting for Grave Digger.”

  “The Importance of Being Bigfoot.”

  “Monster Mutt and Towasaurus Wrex are Dead.”

  “You’ll pay for the whole theater seat, but you’ll only need —”

  “The ehhhdge!” they finish together.

  As if I didn’t feel underdressed enough, Meg Quentin appears at my shoulder in one of her awesomely adorable retro ensembles, a black 1950s-era cocktail dress with a scooping neckline. Her hair is tied back with an oversize black velvet bow, and for a slightly whimsical finishing touch, she’s wearing vintage saddle shoes. Yeah, well, I’m wearing my nicest jeans and a clean T-shirt, so take that, fashionistas.

  “Did I say you could start having fun without me?” Meg says. “Stuart. Peggy, darling.”

  “Megan, dear,” Peggy replies with an affected haughty tone. They lean in for back-and-forth air kisses, which has the feel of a personal ritual.

  “Last but certainly not least,” Meg says before hugging me and planting a noisy kiss on my cheek. “God, I have missed you.”

  “Missed you too,” I say.

  Meg steps back to check me out. “Damn. Space agrees with you, girl, you look great. Hello, what’s this?” she says, noticing my tattoo. I explain its meaning and hope that’ll satisfy Meg’s curiosity well enough. It does; she doesn’t hit me up for any war stories, thank God.

  An usher announces that the theater is now open for seating. Meg slips her arm around mine, and we follow Stuart and Peggy in to our super-sweet front row center seats (thanks, Sara!). The usher asks us to turn off our phones, informs us there will be one fifteen-minute intermission, tells us to enjoy the show, then trots off to fetch another group of theater-goers.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been ushed before coming here,” Stuart says.

  “I think the world would be a much better place if there was more ushing,” Peggy says.

  “Definitely be more orderly.”

  “Fact.”

  “I love them,” Meg says to me. “Second-cutest couple in the super-hero world.”

  “Gee, I wonder who the first-cutest is?” I say.

  “As if there was any question.”

  “I’m glad you were here to take care of Sara while I was gone. Thank you.”

  “The caretaking was mutual,” Meg says, smiling.

  “Then I’m glad you were here to take care of each other.”

  “Me too.”

  The lights dim. I look around the theater, and every single seat is occupied. It’s literally a standing room only crowd.

  I’ve of course seen the movie version of The Sound of Music (who hasn’t?), but seeing it live, even in a relatively small venue like this, creates an intimate, personal connection between the cast and audience movies simply can’t duplicate — and never more so than when Sara is on the stage. She is flat-out amazing. She hits all the right notes as Liesl, convincingly conveying all the misplaced confidence and moments of childish naïveté of a teenage girl teetering on womanhood — and when she gets to her spotlight number, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” she kills it. Meg spends the entire song with her hands clasped to her chest, her eyes alight. I’ve never seen a human being look at another like that — not Mom and Dad at their happiest, not Dr. Quentin and Joe...

  My ex, Malcolm, never looked
at me like that.

  Sara’s been through so much crap in her life, she deserves to have someone so very much in love with her, and I should be — I am happy for her, but I can’t deny I’m a little jealous.

  Okay, a lot jealous.

  That one little emotional detour aside, I’m lost in the show from start to finish. Three hours zoom by, and next thing I know, I’m on my feet, applauding and hooting along with everyone else, with only Meg outdoing me in the wild adulation department.

  Sara deserves that, too.

  ***

  Twenty minutes after the curtain falls, Sara joins us in the lounge for the post-performance reception. Kid-friendly non-alcoholic sparkling cider and pre-sliced Cracker Barrel cheese for everyone.

  “You were incredible!” Meg squeals before sweeping Sara into her arms for a kiss that is perhaps a bit too racy for mixed company.

  Yow, strike the perhaps a bit part. I think I’ll politely turn my back until they’re done.

  Okay, they should be — nope, still going. Jeez, get a room, you two.

  When she finally comes up for air, Sara gasps and says, “I take it you liked the show.”

  “It was okay,” Meg teases. “It was fabulous. You were fabulous.”

  “Carrie? What did you think?” Sara asks with more than a little trepidation.

  “Sara, you were fantastic,” I say. “I knew you were a good singer but I honestly had no idea you were that good.”

  “If you don’t land that part in the spring musical, there’s going to be rioting in the halls of Kingsport High,” Stuart says.

  “Because you’ll start one?” Peggy says.

  “Shyeah. Why should sporting events get all the quality civil unrest?”

  “I should go mingle a little,” Sara says. “The board of directors likes it when their actors kiss up to the longtime patrons.”

  “Cool. Want to grab a late dinner with us after?” Peggy asks.

  Sara and Meg exchange looks, communicating without saying a word — and yet, I sense, without jumping onto the brainphone. This is the kind of connection you only see in tight couples.