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Title Page
The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight
By Jeff Jacobson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright 2013 © Jeff Jacobson
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To my paternal grandmother, Lorraine Geehan, who taught me to believe in witches.
Prologue (West Seattle, Last Year)
“It’s barely ten o’clock!” huffed the girl in the Lolita costume, watching the last of her friends walk away down the street.
“Knock yourself out, Zoey!” Her friend Ross’s voice carried to her as the group disappeared around the corner. Hoots and hollers of laughter faded on the cold wind.
She looked up and down the street. A few jack-o’-lanterns still glowed from their porch perches scattered throughout the neighborhood, but most house fronts sat in shadow.
Halloween was over for the year.
Zoey shivered, then sighed. Several fathers handing out candy earlier that evening had stared openly at her before looking away in embarrassment. She wished her friends had agreed to stay out a little longer, because she wanted to knock on more doors and watch the men watch her, their lips parted, their faces red.
Stepping past a pile of sodden leaves near a storm drain, she headed over to the neighborhood park to see if any kids were hanging out.
The park was empty.
Using her plastic trick-or-treat bag to wipe away droplets of rain, she sat down on one of the swings, removed a mini Snickers bar from her stash, ripped open the bronze-colored wrapping and popped the cold square of hard chocolate into her mouth.
Zoey pushed at the dirt with the toe of her Lolita boot, swinging back and forth in a lazy arc. The chains supporting her swing creaked and groaned. In the distance a ferry boat traversing the Puget Sound blared its horn, the sound forlorn as it traveled over the water.
Zoey set her bag of candy on the ground, gripped the chains on either side of her and leaned back, looking up at the bare branches above her head as they rustled in the wind. A slight drizzle spotted her cheeks with moisture. Soon she would be freezing cold and wet. She knew she should go home, but she didn’t want the night to be over just yet.
“All dressed up and no place to go?” said a soft female voice near her ear.
Zoey started, nearly losing her grip on the chains, and her teeth clamped down in fright, missing the melting lump of Snickers and biting down hard on her tongue. She barely noticed the taste of blood in her mouth as her head jerked to the side.
A tall, pretty woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties sat on the swing next to her, smiling and flipping her red-orange hair off her shoulders. Her pale skin reminded Zoey of her mother’s Peaches-n-Cream Facial Night Milk. She wore a light-colored cowl-neck sweater, and a nearby streetlight cast her eyes in emerald green.
“Whu-what? How did you…?” Zoey tried to say as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and looked at the woman, her words rushed and breathless.
“How did I get here? Without you seeing? Never you mind.” The woman smiled, then reached over and placed her hand on Zoey’s black-stockinged leg. “Let’s say we have ourselves an adventure!” Her face glowed with the promise of excitement.
Zoey looked at the grand Craftsman homes surrounding the small neighborhood park. All the porch lights were off now. No trick-or-treaters roamed the streets. Not even a late-night dog walker could be seen.
“But I…I have to…my parents,” she said, already more than a little confused. The smell of wet wood filled her nostrils. The woman’s hand was warm on her knee, and Zoey thought the twin green lights of her eyes to be the loveliest thing she’d ever seen.
“Oh pooh!” said the woman in the hushed tone of a friendly librarian. “Come on. It’ll be fun!”
“But my parents…” said Zoey again, though she wasn’t really sure if she said it out loud or only thought the words inside her head. She found herself standing up from the swing and turning with the woman toward the thick woods behind the park, which the grownups in the area called “The Green Space” but all the kids referred to as “The Forest.”
The tall woman waited near the entrance to The Forest with her hand extended, fingers wiggling in invitation. Zoey walked toward her, stumbling slightly in her new high-heeled boots, thoughts of appreciative glances from older men already forgotten. She glanced over her shoulder one last time at the cozy, sleepy street with its charming homes, wondering if she were making the right choice, not seeing how the tall woman’s eyes flashed with something like hunger.
Zoey placed her fourteen-year old hand into the palm of the lovely woman, whose skin was warm and soft. Fingers encircled, they passed beneath the conifers dwarfing the entrance into The Forest, the woman’s long-legged gait slowing to accommodate Zoey’s young wobble.
If you had been standing nearby, you would have heard a whooshing sound as late-night gusts rustled the tree branches overheard. You would have tasted the sea brine, drifting off of the nearby Sound, on your tongue and in your nose. You would have seen the three-quartered moon slip from behind the clouds to silver the surrounding sky before going back into hiding.
But you would not have worried.
This neighborhood had always been a safe place.
Part I
Chapter 1 (Sierra Nevada Foothills, Late August, This Year)
Charlie Creevey sat in the back seat of Mrs. McMeniman’s minivan as she drove along the state road toward his house. His friend, Mike McMeniman, sat next to him. Mike was trying to get his mom to change the music.
“But Mikey! I love this song. It’s so hip-hoppy. I thought you did too!”
“Yeah Mom, but not every single day on the way home from school! Plus it’s embarrassing. Moms aren’t supposed to like what their kids listen to. And don’t say ‘hip-hoppy.’”
“Whaddya think, Charlie? Should I change it or leave it?”
Charlie looked up at Mrs. McMeniman’s face in the rearview mirror. He knew she didn’t expect an answer. It was j
ust her way of trying to include him in conversation. For nearly four years now, she and his own mother had been trading off driving the boys to and from school. Charlie was well aware of the fact that Mike’s mom had long given up expecting him to be social.
He smiled back at her and shrugged his shoulders.
“Charlie, do you know how easy you are? You know how to compromise, something that your friend Michael over there doesn’t. That, combined with your blond curls and your hazel eyes, wowee! You’ll make some girl very happy someday.”
Charlie ducked his head and pretended to look out the window at the passing scenery, wishing he could hide the deep red burn, probably bordering on nuclear, that was invading his cheeks as his shyness spread over him.
Not soon enough, the minivan pulled off the county road and stopped at the head of the lane leading to Charlie’s house.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the front door?” Mrs. McMeniman asked. It was the same question every time.
“Mom,” said Mike, answering for Charlie, “why do you always have to ask him that? You know he likes to walk.”
“Thanks for the ride!” Charlie yelled over his shoulder as he slid open the minivan door and stepped onto the dirt. The cool air from inside the van disappeared as he was hit with the intensity of the late afternoon heat.
“Dude, can I call you if I get stuck on geometry?” Mike asked through his open window.
“Yeah. Give me a call,” he said, already having slid the car door closed, already walking down the long lane.
He heard the tires spin in the gravel behind him, then the heavy base of the car stereo fading away.
And then, nothing.
Or at least, no one’s voices. He could hear the dry-paper squeak of the afternoon cicadas, the hush of brown grasses as a welcome breeze blew across the fruit orchards, which sat between the road and his house. Faraway birdsong followed the breeze.
Charlie liked it when it was quiet, when there was no one around. He wasn’t put on the spot to have an opinion; he wasn’t expected to do or say anything specifically. And most importantly, he did not have to suffer his shyness and blushing in the presence of anyone else.
He looked around at the trees, full of apples and pears needing picking, at the brown hills rolling off in the distance, at the hot sky without a single cloud marring its wide stretch of blue.
This is my home, he thought. This is where I live.
This thought was followed by his own admonishment: Well no duh, Sherlock, where else would you live?
And so, a familiar battle began in his head, the one where he chastised himself for his thoughts, his actions, his lack of thoughts and lack of actions, and all he could do was sigh and walk down the long lane, flanked by black walnut trees, to his house.
The walk took about two minutes, and by the time he reached the house, his T-shirt was already stuck to his body in several places, including where his book bag sat against his back, and sweat drops beaded along his forehead. Summer had been long and hot this year; it would probably be mid-September before the weather began to cool down.
He looked at the house, a rickety but well cared for, two-story Victorian with a wide, covered porch. There were vegetable and fruit gardens running along the north and east sides, two old rocking chairs on the porch, and a big “Welcome” sign above the door.
Sometimes he laughed when he looked at the sign. His mother, whose hands had burnished the lettering, was nearly as tight-lipped as he was. He thought the sign should read: TWO QUIET PEOPLE INSIDE-GO AWAY! He stood still for a moment, letting the breeze cool his neck. Then, he waited.
Like clockwork, his mother came around the side of the house, one thin and freckly arm raised to brush the hair, which was a light blonde-red color, from her eyes. In one hand she held a bottle of water out to him. She wore her standard summer uniform: baggy blue shorts, and a ratty T-shirt (today’s choice read: “Clarkston Library Renewal Committee: Books are Life”).
“Hi kiddo.”
“Hi Mom.”
“Whew, it’s hot. Let’s get to it so we can get out of the sun.”
Charlie took a long drink from the water bottle, then handed it back to her.
She was already in motion, heading back toward the orchards, speaking to him over her shoulder.
“Just a few things today. Some birds have gotten through the strawberry netting, and if we don’t get to the pears and apples, they’ll all go to rot.”
Charlie sighed. His idea of “just a few things” was always less than hers.
But he didn’t mind. He actually liked working with her. She never asked him useless questions, and seemed to enjoy the silence and the outdoor smells as much as he did. Despite the heat, it was a nice break from school and everyone talking all day.
In less than an hour they finished their work, replacing the netting and picking enough fruit for pies, sauces, and trades. Plus an afternoon snack. The trees had provided pleasant enough shade.
“Okay, Charlie, why don’t you get to your homework while I start dinner?”
He nodded, knowing it wasn’t a suggestion as much as the way it would be.
Two hours later, Charlie sat at the dining room table, finishing his Geometry assignment while his mother cleaned up the dinner plates. When summer gave way to autumn, he would begin to do his homework upstairs in his room. But for now, they both avoided the heat trapped on the upper floor of the old house for as long as they could. When it was really bad they would even sleep on the porch outside, or stretched out on the floor in the living room.
“Wow, it’s hot,” his mother said for the fourth or fifth time that day, pausing at the kitchen sink to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I know. When is this heat spell supposed to break?” Charlie asked, looking up from his books and pulling the front of his shirt away from his chest.
“I have no idea, but not soon enough,” she said.
“I can’t believe school started a full week before Labor Day. It seems so early.”
“Who can figure out the ways of the School Board,” his mother replied with a smile, which quickly turned into a frown. “Sit up straight, Charlie. Slouching like that won’t help you do your homework, and will only give you a bad back later in life.”
Charlie sat up, then watched his mother put away the leftover green beans and the chicken from tonight’s dinner. The beans were from their own vegetable patch, and the chicken came from the neighbor’s coop, bartered with their tomatoes and corn, and some late-summer apricots.
For as long as he could remember, he and his mother had worked their land, just over four acres, tending to the fruit and the vegetables, the mulching and tilling, the planting of seeds. He never used to like the work, though he’d done it without much complaint. Recently, however, something had changed. He had begun to enjoy it more, to feel some pride, maybe the same pride he imagined his mother felt, in the harvest they produced.
Tonight, as they ate the food from their own gardens, like they’d done a million times before, he thought that it had tasted especially fresh.
His mother liked to remind him that they weren’t like those New Age types living in their expensive Craftsman homes over in Lark Springs, paying too much for everything to be organic. She’d gardened her whole life, and thought it was funny that only now people were riding the “new” green movement.
“I’ll tell you what ‘organic’ is,” she’d said to him more than once as they hauled soil between the vegetable beds. “It’s doing things the way they used to do, with hard work and constant vigilance. I don’t know why these people think they’ve discovered something new. You should read the articles they write these days…”
His mother not only gardened, she also knew how to: keep their old Toyota truck running all year long, repair fences, can fruits and vegetables, lay tile (which she had done in both their upstairs and downstairs bathrooms), trap gophers, make unguents to cure skin rashes and bee stings, and, ac
cording to some of the women up the lane make, “the best pies and cakes this side of I-don’t-know-where.”
When people complimented her, she tended to look away, or to brush off their words. “Oh Sue, come on, your apple pie is delicious,” she’d tut-tut.
As he watched her now, Charlie wondered where she’d learned everything. It seemed silly, but he’d never really thought about it before. Instead, he took it all for granted. Who had taught her how to fix engines, to fish for trout in the stream, to lay bathroom tiles? She was only thirty-three years old. His own friends’ parents, some of whom were twice her age, couldn’t do half the stuff that she could. She’d taught him a lot of what she could do, but where did she learn it? Even though she was on the board at the library, he doubted all the knowledge came from books.
Snippets of conversations ran through his mind:
“Elizabeth, how did your berries survive this summer? Seems like bugs got to everyone else’s.”
“Lizzy, that crust of yours. Really. It’s the best ever.”
“That lotion you made? You’d think Laurel had never even been sunburned!”
Why hadn’t he ever wondered about it all before? He supposed he was just used to it. She was constantly in motion, fixing things, fussing over others. He’d heard her say more than once to neighbors that she’d grown up on a farm in Iowa. Yet when he’d asked her over the years about her family, she would say that her parents were killed in a car accident when she was young, that she had been raised by distant relatives, and that she didn’t want to talk about it. As for Charlie’s father, her pat response was, “The only nice thing about that man was that he brought me you. End of story.”
His mother was a person of few words. When she said “end of story,” she meant it. Regardless of how much he persisted, he could never get any more information from her about his father. He had long ago given up trying. Instead, he’d invented a kind-hearted fisherman with a beard who worked up in Alaska. As he’d grown older he’d stopped thinking so much about his fictitious father, but every so often he’d let his mind wander, trying to guess what his “fisherman dad” might be doing now.
The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight (The Broom Closet Stories) Page 1
