Neat white houses line both sides of the street—big clapboard houses with pitched roofs and open porches. Raised windows frame the soft folds of lace curtains, brilliant in the sun against the void of dark rooms within. Lawns are sheared smooth as carpets, yet no one mows them this fine day, no one trims their chalk-snapped borders with little silver scissors.
Manning turns to glance behind him, hearing the scrape of his soles on the pavement. The rows of houses and trees look identical to those ahead, as though he stood within the plane of a mirror bisecting the planet. He steps off the sidewalk and into the center of the street. A white line divides it, unsmudged by tires, freshly painted with laser-crisp edges that have not dripped into the little valleys formed by pebbles poking through the asphalt.
He wears new white leather running shoes with still-clean laces. Won’t get them dirty on this street, he assures himself. The shoes are worn over rumpled white socks that bunch beneath the muscles of his calves. His shorts are old and comfortable, of bleached white cotton. They balloon a bit, hanging loosely from the elastic band that circles his waist. A tight black T-shirt pinches under his arms. In the sunlight, it makes him feel sticky and hot, so he peels the shirt over his head and lets it drop to the street. It floats too slowly, he notes, landing like inky mire on the virginal white line. He rakes ten fingers through his mussed hair, which is longer than he has worn it in years.
Manning stands on the stripe and decides he will run directly down the center of the street, setting the impossible goal of reaching the point where stripe and sky converge. His mind rushes with confidence and doubt, determination and resignation, exhilaration and fatigue—the emotional jumble known to any runner who summons the will to begin. He sets off with those first awkward steps that precede a running stride.
His feet tangle. He trips. And though he feels the forward pitch of his body, he does not fall. Glancing down, he finds the T-shirt wrapped around the tips of both shoes. What’s more, the shirt has somehow worked its way beneath the stripe.
He squats to untangle the shirt. Examining the stripe, he finds that it is not paint at all, but a rubbery ribbon, a tape of fine elastic film that stretches tightly to both horizons. He straddles the stripe and grasps it with both hands, yanking it up between his legs. He lets go. It slaps the ground with a resounding whack that silences the birds. Manning grabs the shirt, tosses it aside, and watches it drift like a leaf, undulating through sinuous, contorted shapes. With his weight thrust to one leg, hand on hip, he stands akimbo like a Greek athlete cut from marble. Birdsong swells again. Eyeing the point where the stripe vanishes, he musters the will to run.
He raises one leg and begins at a trot, trying to find his stride, unable to goad the mechanism of his body into a full run. His shorts no longer drape loosely, but pinch his waist and thwart his movement. He is running in place without moving from the spot. Closing his eyes and lowering his head, he redoubles the pumping efforts of his legs.
He trips—feels the ground pull out from under him—spreads his arms before him to break the fall, to cushion the grinding of pavement against flesh. But the blow is not delivered; he feels nothing. Opening his eyes, he is amazed to see the street floating beneath him, inches away. He hovers above the line, suspended. With the tips of his fingers, he nudges the ground, propelling his body upright.
The futile run has left him confused and breathless. His groin burns. His shorts bind his hips in a clammy grasp. Without hesitation, he slides his thumbs inside the waistband, pushes downward, and lifts each foot to freedom, kicking the shorts to the side of the street.
Manning stands broadly, both hands on hips, naked except for his immaculate running shoes. He feels the play of fresh air on his genitals and savors the sensation with face skyward, eyes closed, mouth open. Once more he summons the will to run, and this time his head fills only with emotions that will push him onward—no dread, no fear, no doubts. His brain sends the message to his feet with an electric shock that bolts him forward. Each foot pounds in front of the other; the street’s pebbles streak backward. Each impact pulls harder on his swaying genitals, and he feels his penis harden, hears it slap against his legs. He fixes his eyes on the point that lies forever ahead. His peripheral vision blurs with racing houses and trees; only the stripe appears stationary in the world rushing past.
Manning quickens his pace, lengthens his stride. The muscles in his chest stretch to their limit. He no longer hears the birds, their song drowned out by the bellows in his lungs, by the heart that pumps in his ears, by the sound of feet gripping ground like the claws of an animal fleeing a predator.
And now it happens. Manning trips again, flying forward with the full force of his sprint. In one moment, he cringes at the prospect of his naked body scraping the street—in the next, he is aloft. His feet stop treading, for they can no longer touch ground. His breathing slows. He keeps a cautious gaze fixed on the white line.
While Manning drifts at a walking speed only a yard above ground, his uneasy thoughts flood with the mystery and awe of the phenomenon. He holds his body straight, with his head somewhat higher than his feet. His height above the street gradually lessens. He can just touch the ground with his toes and, kicking, can gain speed momentarily, but can rise no higher. He finally drifts so low that he reaches down with both hands and pushes backward; his body rights itself, and he stands motionless on the line.
Looking over his shoulder, not seeing his clothes near the curb, he confirms that he has floated a considerable distance. Could it happen again? Can he summon this strange faculty at will—like running—or is it some outside force that acts upon him? Does he even want it to happen again? He decides that his anxiety was merely a reaction to the unknown; the experience itself, he admits, was enjoyable. He wants to repeat it, but he doesn’t know how.
Manning tries jumping—and lands firmly on his feet on the same spot, feeling foolish. He jumps again, higher, this time flapping his arms once or twice—and lands as before, now feeling very foolish. He recalls that when he floated before, he had tripped first. So he runs a short distance, waiting to trip—or to fake a trip—but nothing happens. Perhaps if he just stands still and tips forward, as if to fall on his face …
Dropping his hands to his sides, he consciously relaxes and rocks forward onto his toes as if falling, not diving, off the edge of a precipice. At the moment when he loses equilibrium, he is aloft.
Just as before, he drifts silently above the line down the center of the street. Exhilarated by his ability to summon this new power, Manning itches to explore its limits. Can he move faster? Higher? He tries kicking and pushing as before. He even wriggles in midair like a fish in water, but without success. He floats along, gradually losing altitude, when the answer occurs to him, seeming so obvious—he simply decides to fly higher, and his distance from the ground begins to increase. He wants to fly faster too, so he wills his speed to increase.
Manning now flies at a height midway between the street and the canopy of trees, at the level of the houses’ second-story windows. He can tell by the progress of his broken shadow on the street that he is moving faster than he could run. The birds are louder up here—he’s practically in the trees with them—but their chatter is muffled by the rush of air past his ears.
He amuses himself flying higher and lower, faster and slower, as if trying out the controls of a machine. Wondering if the white line limits his pattern of flight, he focuses his efforts upon cruising to the left of it, at the same time leaning slightly in that direction. He effortlessly glides to the left of the line. Then to the right. Satisfied that the direction of his flight is indeed within his control, he returns to the center to fly straight above the stripe, enjoying the symmetry of the view.
He’s having fun. And before long, he’s faced with the inevitable question: How high, how fast, can I go?
Manning rises above the roofs of the houses and feels his pulse quicken. He tests his skill by boosting his speed and darting just below the br
anches of the huge trees. Protruding leaves brush through his hair, down his back, and over his buttocks. His groin tingles. His penis stiffens in the rush of air passing under his body. He slows his flight and rises higher into the trees. Can he pass through them and soar higher still? Ahead he sees a clearing in the foliage and a patch of sky beyond, so he flies upward through the branches toward the blue. Leaves skim the length of his body, gliding over his chest, rustling between his legs, bombarding his mind with frenzied, erotic signals. Twigs snap. Birds cackle at the intrusion.
And now it is all beneath him. Treetops glide below, clouds above. He flies faster, higher still, as the trees recede farther and the panorama of earth itself arcs before him. Thrilled yet frightened by the height at which he travels, he dares not think of what might happen if he suddenly lost his newfound power.
Power. This power overwhelms him with a freedom and virility he has never known. His erect penis drives forward, slicing two broad sheets of air, a wake in the atmosphere that fans out invisibly behind him. Pricking sensations rise from between his legs and into his chest. His genitals clench. His limbs thrust outward, making a giant X of his body like a sky diver in free-fall. The coming surge in his groin convulses his hips and at last pumps long glistening strands of semen into the air beneath him. He watches through a euphoric haze as the crystal beads glitter in the sun and plummet toward the trees. Hearing the smack of the drops as they hit the upper leaves, he wonders if they will stick there or drip like milky taffy to the street.
“Good morning,” says a familiar voice—as if from the clouds, as if in his ear. “It’s seven o’clock in Chicago, the ninth of October. Current O’Hare temperature is fifty-eight degrees, and we’re due for more rain. Friends and neighbors, this is Bud Stirkham. Later we’ll talk with a number of guests who will share their outrage over the Helena Carter murder case, and then we’ll open the phone lines—because your views are important! But first, let’s try waking up with a bit of Saint-Saëns, whose birthday we celebrate today.”
Manning groans. He rolls over and squints at the clock radio, which now fairly bubbles with the strains of a bouncy tarantella. He imagines the plastic box prancing, Disney-style, on its stubby feet. The music is pleasant enough, especially after the rude awakening by Stirkham’s nasal twang. Manning would like to lie in bed listening, easing gracefully into the day, but he can’t afford to linger. It’s Friday, and his calendar is crammed with extra deadlines for the weekend. He reminds himself, though, that the day will have its reward—Roxanne’s party that night.
“Good evening, sir,” the doorman tells Manning, swinging the door to his side with a well-trained arm. “Whom did you wish to see?”
“Miss Exner, please. My name is Manning.”
“Ah, the party. Miss Exner said you might be early. Do go on up—just press thirty.”
Stepping into an elevator and pressing the button, Manning wonders, Am I that predictable? Why did she think I’d be anxious to get here?
He realizes that he had in fact felt rushed. He was kept at the office till well after six, and he had to go home to shower and change. It drizzled all day, and thunderstorms threatened the evening, so he planned to take a cab to Roxanne’s apartment, even though it is only ten or twelve blocks up the lake from his loft. There was a break in the rain, though, so he walked, taking it at a fast clip in order not to get wet. He barely made it.
He is panting now, feeling less than shower-fresh. Rising nonstop to the thirtieth floor, his ears begin to plug, clearing when he swallows. The elevator halts and deposits him into a short hall that leads to either of two doors, the only two condominiums on the floor. He steps to Roxanne’s and raps once with the chromed knocker.
Alerted by the doorman, Roxanne has been waiting on the other side of the door, which opens the moment Manning knocks. “Mark!” she gushes with a delight more typically prompted by someone unexpected. “So glad you could make it,” she tells him, all but pulling him through the doorway while offering her cheek for his kiss.
“Wouldn’t miss one of your parties,” he tells her.
“Really?” She asks the question wryly while closing the door, catching him in a half-truth. Manning has been here only once—she moved to these sleek quarters sometime after their fling, around the time of her promotion—and he has turned down several invitations since. Letting him off the hook, she tells him, “The important thing is that you’re here now. Matter of fact, you’re first to arrive. Vodka on the rocks?”
“You’re too good, Roxanne,” he says with a sigh, needing a drink, again surprised that she finds him so predictable.
She ushers him from the apartment’s entry hall into the sprawling living room. Its colors are dark and neutral, its lighting dim, its furnishings starkly modern. A bare wall of glass looks out upon a skyline aglow with a million sodium-vapor lamps, like a golden rococo fantasy flickering through the distance and the rain. Soft, bouncy jazz—party music—has been playing, and the recording now ends.
A man emerges from the kitchen to tend the music, wiping his hands on a dish towel. This must be Roxanne’s houseguest, her college friend, so Manning deduces that he can be no younger than thirty-one, though he looks it. “How rude of me,” Roxanne scolds herself. “First introductions, then drinks.”
The younger man strides toward them with a broad smile. He is undeniably handsome and exudes a self-confident charm. His dress is studied though casual, with attention to every detail—well-tailored beige slacks, a gray T-shirt, and a slate-colored cashmere cardigan with its sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms. The heels of his Italian loafers clack on the teak parquet as he approaches. His overall look and bearing are not what Manning expected of the “artist friend.”
“Mark,” says Roxanne, “this is Neil Waite, my friend from Phoenix. Neil, I’d like you to meet Mark Manning of the Journal.”
“The renowned reporter,” says Neil, extending his hand and shaking Manning’s firmly. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Thanks, Neil. The pleasure’s mine. Reporter, yes—but ‘renowned,’ I’m not so sure.”
“Nonsense,” Roxanne insists, “you’re far too modest. Your reporting of the Helena Carter case is utterly authoritative.”
“I’ll have to side with Roxanne,” Neil adds. “The Carter case isn’t exactly front-page news in Phoenix, but it does get reported there, and everything I’ve read has carried your byline. I’m impressed, Mark.”
“What can I say?” says Manning, acceding to the flattery. Ready to change the topic, he asks, “How about you, Neil—what do you do?”
“I’m an architect. I’m here for a couple of weeks working on a project with our firm’s Chicago office. That happens from time to time, and Rox is always kind enough to put me up—”
“In the den, alas,” Roxanne interjects with a low chortle. Her suggestive tone strikes Manning as more inappropriate than amusing. He wants to hear more about Neil’s work, but before he can ask, Roxanne continues, “Now, Mark, how about that drink? Neil, can you take care of it in the kitchen? I need to finish dressing. And I’ll put the CDs in order—I like to have the evening fully programmed.”
“No kidding,” says Neil under his breath. With a jerk of his head, he beckons Manning to follow him to the kitchen. It is a bright, spacious room—no mere apartment-style galley. Neil has taken charge of the duties here, and all seems ready. Trays of hors d’oeuvres are arranged on the counter, something’s in the oven, and the cocktail cart is freshly stocked, ready to roll. Neil offers, “What can I get you?”
“Just vodka on the rocks.”
“Nice clean drink,” says Neil with a tone of approval. “I’ll join you.” He plunks ice cubes into two squatty crystal glasses, then grabs a bottle of Japanese vodka, a brand unknown to Manning. He pours without measuring until the ice is just covered. “Let me garnish this with something I think you’ll like,” says Neil as he picks up an orange. He deftly strips off a long sliver of peel, then twists it over both drinks, d
ropping half of the peel into each. Invisible droplets of citric oil fill the space with their fragrance. Neil hands one glass to Manning and lifts his own, saying, “I’ve never known what to call this concoction, but I just had an inspiration. Henceforth, this is a ‘Mark Manning.’ So, a toast to its illustrious namesake. Cheers, Mark.”
Touched by the gesture, Manning says, “I’m at a loss for words, and I’m the writer.”
Neil tells him softly, “Just drink it.”
They touch glasses and share a smile, a gaze that lingers, suddenly blocking other senses, suspending reality for a long, long instant. A wave of breathlessness passes through Manning like a roll of timpani that is felt but not heard. His jaw droops.
“Drink it,” Neil repeats, this time through a laugh.
Manning blinks. He sips. As the icy alcohol assaults his tongue, the reality of the moment snaps back into focus. He pauses to taste what’s in his mouth, swallows, and says, “Neil, this is great—the orange gives it a whole new character.”
“I thought you might be ready for something different.” The curl of Neil’s lip confirms the double entendre.
“Never can tell,” Manning admits. Then, defusing their innuendo, he asks, “Who’s coming tonight—do you know?”
“Rox said we’d be ten or twelve. There’s someone she works with, she mentioned ‘several writers’—spouses, I imagine—and she invited someone I met here before, someone I’d rather forget.”
“Blind date?”
“Not exactly.” Neil snorts a loud laugh and takes a swallow from his glass.
“What’s going on in here?” calls Roxanne, her tone playfully accusing, as she appears through the swinging door. She has the music going again, more upbeat than before.
Flight Dreams Page 7
