“Arlo,” Major Anderson cuts in. “We need to hit him before we lose him.”
“When?” I ask.
“The analytics will tell us,” Major Anderson says. “Just be ready for the call.”
I shake my head. Shrug. Lost.
“So it boils down to this,” Colonel Kincaid says. “You sacrifice for your country, and your country will sacrifice for you. Together we’ll do extreme and lasting good for each other. Now go home, Arlo. You’ve got some thinking to do.”
Chapter 43
IT’S JUST AFTER TWO A.M. when I pull out of White Sands. I’m heading north on Highway 54, fog rolling out of the Chihuahuan Desert, when I pass a sign I’ve never noticed before:
JOHN G. MAGEE, JR., MONUMENT AND MEMORIAL CHAPEL
NEXT RIGHT
I peel off the highway and cruise up a gravel road. The chapel, illuminated by garden spotlights, is perched on a hill. The roof is shaped like an airplane wing tilted into a chandelle turn.
As I coast into the parking lot, a shadow darts away. A garbage can rolls back and forth on its side.
I drop the stand on the Ducati, pick up the garbage can, and set it on its concrete base. Then I pick up the scattered crap—including a few half-eaten Happy Meals—and dunk it all back into the can. Jam on the lid and seal it tight.
Probably a coyote. Or possibly a raccoon or small bear. Caught him just tearing into those Happy Meals. If it’s a coyote, I know he’s watching me from under some mesquite bush. Coyotes persevere.
“Dude,” I say into the darkness. “Pick up your own damn trash next time.”
I go up the footpath to the chapel. The sign over the door reads DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF PILOT OFFICER JOHN G. MAGEE, JR., AND TO PILOTS EVERYWHERE MAIMED IN BODY OR SPIRIT. OPEN 24 HOURS A DAY.
The light inside casts a soft-yellow glow on the walls and pews. A marble plaque near the altar holds a large black-and-white photo of a pilot looking spit-shined in his uniform. Pencil-thin mustache. He stares at some horizon. The plaque reads:
JOHN GILLESPIE MAGEE, JR.
ROYAL CANADIAN AIR FORCE
KILLED 11TH DECEMBER 1941
AGE 19
PILOT OFFICER MAGEE CRASHED TO HIS DEATH DURING TRAINING MANEUVERS IN THE SKIES OVER ENGLAND, JUST DAYS AFTER THE UNITED STATES ENTERED WORLD WAR II. THREE MONTHS EARLIER, HE COMPOSED A POEM THAT HAS BECOME THE AVIATOR’S ANTHEM AND EPITAPH.
(PUSH BUTTON TO HEAR “HIGH FLIGHT”)
I push the button and wander over to a pew. It’s been a long day. I feel those miles. Just the thought of getting back on the road tonight—forget it.
Bagpipe music comes on. Then some overblown actor launches into the poem:
“Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings . . .”
Dad recited these lines at the Atomic Burger in Alamogordo. He put a beer bottle to his forehead and remembered them.
“Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds—
and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—”
My mind drifts to Colonel Kincaid’s proposal. If the “human map” can find a target, I can hit it. And the payoff—leveling Pike’s Peak and helping Siouxsie for “the long haul”—sounds like the best deal in history.
But if I do this, what happens? Because you don’t take just one life. You take more than that. You kill something else. I know that for a fact.
“Up, up the long delirious burning blue
“I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace.”
Was that Caracal’s son running to the sandbag wall? What about his daughters—those little girls? Didn’t they lose their mother like I lost mine? Why do I even care?
“. . . and, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
the high untrespassed sanctity of space . . .”
Fact is, I don’t have anything against him personally. So what if he’s an extremist. I’m an extremist. Colonel Kincaid says we need to prevent all those terroristic acts that he might do in the future. Not sure about that.
So why take him out?
To help my sister and father, that’s why. I’d do anything to help them.
But what if the situation was reversed, and somebody took out my dad? How would that hit me?
“. . . put out my hand and touched the face of God.”
Damn! It’s how I feel too.
I could never say it like John Gillespie Magee, Jr. His words are way too “delirious.” But maybe we need to be delirious to get to the gut of how we feel.
It’s why we ride the way we ride.
Fly the way we fly.
To feel something.
Let in life.
Hold back death.
Break through.
I get up and push the button again. Stretch out in the pew and plant a fat hymnal under my head.
Pull Dad’s duster over me.
Close my eyes.
Wait for the last line.
Am asleep before it arrives.
BANG! I’M AWAKE.
Dawn jitters through the cut-glass windows. I stand, stretch, and go outside.
Yup, there he is—damn coyote! Red-desert gray. Scrawny as hell. He’s knocked over the garbage can again. I watch him paw the lid, circle the can. Sniff. Paw. He sits and contemplates his problem.
Never feed a scavenger, that’s the rule. And coyotes are the worst. Better off shooting them.
I pick up a rock and pitch it—not to hit him, just to scare him off. He startles and bolts.
“Get outta here, you bum!”
He slows to a lope. Takes cover under a pine and watches me.
I go down the path and pick up the garbage can. Plant it square on its base. Brace the sides this time with flagstones from the garden.
“Hey, I got problems too,” I grumble.
He stares at me with yellow eyes.
I pull off the lid, reach in for those Happy Meals, squat, and shake the contents of the bags onto the pavement. Make a heap of petrified fries and ragged burger remains. Perch the cold nuggets on top.
Then I seal the garbage can against all future coyote safecrackers—at least for a few hours.
I fire up the Ducati and rev all 1100 ccs. The coyote pricks up his ears, one growler respecting another.
Rolling out of the parking lot, I lift my voice and offer some advice:
“Watch out for those nitrates.”
And I’m gone.
Chapter 44
WHEN IN DOUBT, talk it out.
Two-four-six-eight—communicate!
Two of Mom’s favorite sayings.
They echo in my mind as I bomb north.
In Tularosa—the chocolate churro capital of New Mexico—I pull off and find a park bench. Dig out my phone. Call Mr. Martinez.
“Arlo! I’m just heading out.” I hear a door bang, footsteps, jingling keys. “Will I see you at school?”
“Nah, gotta miss today.”
I hear him get into his old Saturn and shut the door. He does not start the engine.
“Talk to me, son.”
I tell Mr. Martinez the skeleton bones of my problem—leaving out the proper names and nouns out of respect for the confidential nature of Brave Panther.
“It sounds to me like you have a classic dilemma on your hands,” he says. “That level of subtlety is above my pay grade.”
I can hear his fingers drumming on something.
“Arlo,” he says finally. “Of all the great men and women whose names grace the walls of our classroom, whom have we exalted to the highest rank, above all others?”
It’s an easy question, because one name is written larger than any other on the wall.
“Anonymous,” I say.
“Glad you remember, Arlo.”
How could I forget. Mr. Martinez gives us his “Anonymous Speech” about once a month. It starts like this:
“‘Anonymous’ lived and di
ed in obscurity. Was hoodwinked, vilified, exploited, enslaved, trampled, and ignored.
“Yet . . .
“‘Anonymous’ was wiser than Solomon, more eloquent than Shakespeare, braver than Joan of Arc.
“‘Anonymous’ sang the most beautiful songs, wrote the tenderest poems, built the loveliest cathedrals, fought the fiercest battles, painted the greatest frescoes.”
On and on.
Mr. Martinez has been giving his “Anonymous Speech” for decades. Dad heard it in his day. Mom heard it in hers. It’s kind of a local joke. I’ve heard people say: “Look at me, Mr. Martinez, I’m Anonymous.” Meaning their lousy job, empty fridge, or depressing life.
Me, I like the speech, because it links me to all the nameless people in history who have helped me, like the pioneers, the GIs, and my ancestors.
“Arlo, most people don’t get to drink from the cup of glory,” Mr. Martinez says. “What matters more is, wherever you go and whatever you do—be sure it’s you. Remember, you have a wise and loyal friend in yourself.”
“Hope so,” I say.
“Are you somewhere on your motorcycle, son?”
“Yeah, so happens.”
“Stay focused. Drive safely.”
“I will—thanks.”
Next I call Lee. She’s just pulling into the school parking lot. Tells me to hold on while she backs into a space. While I’m holding, I grab a stick and scrape about a hundred carmelized bugs off my headlight.
She picks up. “Hey, where are you?”
“Taking the day off,” I say. “Probably take tomorrow off too.”
“You’re sure absent a lot lately.”
“Yeah, well . . . I was wondering, you free Saturday?”
“Might be. Why?”
“’Cuz I want to show you some country. The real Land of Enchantment.”
“Dirt bike show me?”
“Yeah, dirt bike,” I say. “What other way is there?”
Lee laughs. “It’s about time, Arlo.”
“Just fuel up the 125,” I say. “See you at the ranch Saturday morning. Early.”
Click.
I blast another eighty miles up the pike. No cops out—just me and the desert.
Land so big, speed so pure it feels like I’m standing still.
Just hearing Lee’s voice—it’s like I’ve known her all my life. Fact is, I barely know her, and it’s my own damn fault. It’s about time, she said. And she’s right. It is about time.
Siouxsie’s always telling me that I get on my bike and ride away.
Why is that?
I don’t know. It’s beyond me. I’m my own mirage—the closer I get to myself, the more I recede.
Nah, that’s a load of crap. I’m not a mirage—and it’s not beyond me.
In the hills north of Santa Fe, I grind down and exit onto a rural road that squanders into dirt. Cruise over to a broken-vane windmill. Stop. Key off.
Now it’s just me and the pine on the breeze. If Dad were here, he’d recite the names of the peaks to the north and the rift valley to the west. He’d talk about Navajos, Utes, and Kit Carson.
But he wouldn’t talk about Mom. And he wouldn’t talk about Siouxsie. Not in the way they need to be talked about.
I dig out my phone and call him.
“Mornin’, Arlo,” Dad mumbles from the depths of his pillow.
“Hey,” I say. “Let’s go up on the mesa today. We got some catchin’ up to do.”
Chapter 45
“THIS IS THE PRETTIEST PLACE on the earth, isn’t it?” Dad says.
We’re resting our asses on a hump of sandstone on the western edge of Burro Mesa. For the past couple hours, we’ve hauled, scythed, and shoveled. We’ve cut a black checker square of earth and spread sand. Because of my still-tender clavicle and arm, Dad’s done most of the heavy lifting.
Just below wave the tendril tips of the pines and larches—those that cling to the west flank of the mesa. And far below in the meadow, tiny as a silver BB, sits a junked Airstream trailer. Some pacifist-hermit named Walter lived there during World War II. Nobody remembers anything more about him. He’s basically Anonymous.
“Tell me one more time,” I say. “Why do you want to mess all this up with a monument?”
“Ughhh!” Dad says. “That again.” He goes over to the pickup, fishes in back for a couple of warm Sprites. Tosses me a can as he strides back.
“It’s how I want to remember her, Arlo. Leave it at that.”
“Not me,” I say, popping the lid. “I want to remember her by leaving it all alone. Just let the grass grow green, the sky stay blue, and the wind keep on whippin’. That’s who she was. That’s the way she’d want it.”
Dad settles beside me on the sandstone. “I’m old-fashioned. Just a few words in stone. Your mother will appreciate them.”
“Who’s gonna read ’em up here anyway?” I ask.
Dad shrugs. “You and me. Some occasional wrangler and literate coyote. Siouxsie, I hope. All those times I should’ve done something, said something. You know, all those little gestures. Life is about little gestures, Arlo. They ripple into waves, and the omission of them can flatten mountains. This is my little gesture. Long overdue.”
“She wouldn’t want it.”
“Oh, yes she would!”
Dad points. El Guapo is sneaking up behind a calf.
“Here it comes,” he says.
Guapo stands just outside of kicking range and starts to air hump. The calf glances back, bleats, and skitters away.
“Poor old Guapo,” Dad says. “Helluva life. Got to hand it to him for trying. Perseverance—that’s what it’s all about.”
“Plus, the weather’s gonna fade it out,” I say.
“Don’t waste your breath, Arlo.”
Dad looks over his shoulder at the black square of earth. Our afternoon’s work.
“It’s nice that it’ll look down on your Grandpa Spencer’s ranch,” he says. “That’ll be a comfort in the winter. But I’m still not sure this is the right spot. Seems a little crowded in here, among all this sandstone.”
“You ever get that epitaph written?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
“Shouldn’t you write it before we do all this?”
“Words come when they come,” Dad says.
“Just say ‘Gone but not forgotten.’”
“Maybe I will,” Dad says. “Hey, did I ever tell you about our first date?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did.”
Dad points. “See that switchback trail right there?”
I lean forward and peer over the edge at the western flank of the mesa.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“We came up that trail on horseback, your mom on a mount called Pretty Boy, ornery as all hell. Your grandpa had warned her not to ride him—”
“Hey, you already told me this story.”
“Well, Arlo, I’m gonna tell you again, because you need to hear it. It’s who she was, and it’s who you are. So just listen.”
Dad sips his Sprite. Squints at the sky.
“All the way up the trail, Pretty Boy was docile as a buttercup. But when we got up here, and he saw this vast sea of sweet grama and alfalfa grass—good God, what horse wouldn’t love all this?—he just bolted. Drew a line straight for the north rim.”
We shift around and look north. It’s a good run to the rim—more than a half mile.
“You ever look over that edge?”
“Plenty of times,” I say.
“Just thinkin’ about it spins my head,” Dad says.
“Clears mine,” I say.
“Sheer as a blade through cake,” Dad says.
“Three thousand feet sheer,” I say. “That’s my guess.”
“Your mother knew that horse was just trying to con her—that he would never jump. He might have been ornery, but he wasn’t crazy. So she called his bluff. Gave him all the rein he wanted. I’m sitting up here on my mount watching your mom and Pretty Boy
charge the rim at a full-tilt gallop. Not being much of a horseman, or well versed in horse psychology, I thought she was gone—this beautiful young lady, this rancher’s daughter, to whom I’d already lost my heart. As I watched, my whole future was galloping off into the clouds. It just about killed me, Arlo.”
Dad whistles. Shakes his head.
“Pretty Boy balked, of course. Reared up like a damn rodeo horse. Your mother wheeled him around, not five yards from the rim, and they came trotting back, sunny and peaceable. All those coiled muscles now loose. I’ll never forget the look on her face. She just glowed. She was the prettiest damn . . . You’re just like her, Arlo. You have that streak.”
“That would’ve been a good way to go,” I say.
“How do you mean?”
“Just gallop off into the clouds.”
Dad scoffs.
“I’m serious. A lot better than—”
Dad says, “Yeah, a lot better than that.”
“What happened with you and Mom? I mean, was it good being married?”
“Like I said, Arlo, little gestures—or the lack of them. The difference between men and women is, men are like folk tunes played simply, with two or three chords. ‘Red River Valley’ comes to mind. Or ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ Women are like Brahms concertos, full of nuances, depths, and complexities. In all future relationships, you will encounter this tension. A bad relationship shrivels you to less than nothing. A good one fills you out in every way. You become ten times who you were. ‘Red River Valley’ becomes, say, for the hell of it, ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ But the thing is, you’ve got to give to get. It’s the law of opposites.”
Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly Page 21
