I remembered Floon in Vienna telling me George and I had given him the feather when he was young and that it had changed everything. I remembered George saying old Floon knew him from when he was young.
George followed by the thirtysomething Caz de Floon clumped down the porch steps and toward us. Neither Floon seemed particularly interested in the presence of the other. Their coolness at this meeting astonished me. Then I realized it was one-sided because Floon Junior could not possibly know who this white-haired man with a gun was. Because if you look in a mirror and try to imagine what you’ll look like in thirty years, I don’t think your guesstimate will be right. Mine certainly wasn’t when I saw myself in a mirror in Vienna for the first time.
But there was a piece to the Floon puzzle I didn’t know about that was going to reveal itself and change everything.
The younger man had the same big head of hair (only his was chestnut-brown), army officer posture, and thick stubby hands. But what fixed the resemblance between the two was the tone of voice when he spoke—it was identical. “Father? Why are you here?”
Floon said to Floon. Young to old. The floor was all theirs now—the rest of us were just house lights dimming for the beginning of their show.
Old Floon said nothing but watched his younger self intently, as if trying to figure out what the other was getting at. He kept the gun tight against his side, still pointed at me. I saw it was a Walther PPK. Nasty gun. Nasty man.
“I’m not your father.”
Ignoring what the other had just said, Young Floon stepped forward and spat out, “You promised to leave me alone for two years. Two years later, Father. That was our deal and you agreed to it. But it’s not even been six months. Why have you come here?” His voice was blistering now. If he’d thrown it on someone it would have burned their skin off. It was in complete contrast to the look on his face which was empty, indifferent and said nothing.
“I am not your father! How can you not see the difference?”
“I see an agreement we made which you are now breaking, in typical fashion. You are a contemptible man. Do you know that, Father? Both you and Mother are contemptible people. Please get away from my car.” He looked the old man up and down like a guy does to a girl he’s sizing up. His eyes stopped when he saw the pistol. “Where did you get that gun?”
Old Floon looked first at his hand and then back at the other man. “Where did I get it? Under the car seat. You know that.”
“I thought so. You went into my car and took it without asking. My car, my gun—it’s so typical of you. That’s what I’m talking about. Because it’s not your gun to take, Father. I bought it. I bought it with my money, not yours. Nothing I own anymore came from you, nothing on this earth. Nothing ever will again.”
“I know that! I remember doing it. One of the great days of my life!” Old Floon said.
Then it became so quiet you could have heard a body drop, which I more than expected to happen at any moment although I didn’t know whose body it would be. The whole situation had turned so fucking weird that it chewed up logic and fact like they were Juicy Fruit gum. Anything could have happened at that moment. I wouldn’t have been surprised if anything had. Floon shoots me. Floon shoots Floon. Floon surrenders to Floon. Floon... You get the point.
“Look at my hands, for God’s sake! Look how fat they are.
Don’t you remember his hands?” Pistol dangling from an index finger, Old Floon put up both hands like he was surrendering to us. “Those long fingers? The ones he used to stab into my ear whenever I did something wrong. You don’t remember?”
The younger man appeared unimpressed. Arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed, he shook his head. “You have the same hands I do, Father. Why are you lying about it? What is your problem?”
Old Floon exploded. “My problem? My problem is I am not your father! He had thin hands! And when I did anything wrong he used them on me! Oh yes, oh yes. Stabbing those terrible fingers of his into my ear. Saying ‘My son will not do things like this. Not-my-son.’ ‘We are living in Amer-i-ca now! So you will talk like an Amer-i-can.’ Once a week, more, sometimes five times a week he would find a new reason for torturing me with those goddamned hands, those fingers like pencils.” Voice crazed, Old Floon’s eyes stayed in his head but at the same time they were somewhere else very far away. “Look at my hands, you fool. They are like catcher’s mitts. Do these really look like his?” When there was still no response, the old man got even angrier. Grabbing little Frannie by the arm he jerked him over. The kid grunted and tried to twist away but it was impossible. Old Floon stuffed the pistol halfway down the front of his pants to free up his other hand.
The next time he spoke his voice sounded completely different—it had a thick guttural accent and his words slowed so they had more weight and flavor when you heard them. He sounded like Henry Kissinger talking. “A hero eats lions for breakfast.” He stuck his index finger so hard into the kid’s ear that the poor boy’s face collapsed in on itself while he let out a screeching catlike yelp.
“Do you want to be a hero, or do you want to deliver mail? Or iron another man’s shirts? That would be a good job for my son—iron another man’s shirts.” Another ringer stab into the ear, another startled scream.
George, Floon Junior, and I watched the lunatic vent his festered fifty-year-old gripe on a little boy. It was so bizarre and crackbrained that for too many moments we did nothing because all three of us were simply hypnotized by the force and ugliness of it. What’s more interesting than a car wreck when you first see it? Why do you think traffic always backs up for miles? All those eyes want to see what’s left. A car wreck or another’s bad news, a person losing control in public... Because they are all different kinds of death in action, folks. Step right up and see life bite—someone else.
“Lemme go!” The boy struggled wildly, twisting every which way but he could not escape. No way.
Leaning against the house a few feet away was a long and quite heavy metal pole. On the porch was a black plastic dishlike thing with several color-coded wires hanging off it. This contraption was meant to be bolted onto the pole. If done correctly and with proper adjustments, the completed outfit became an outdoor TV antenna. A few days before George had been sitting up on his roof, imagining himself as this very antenna so that he could write a good description of how to properly assemble it.
I had seen the pole earlier but what with all the action taking place it didn’t much register on me. Old Floon watched with interest as the boy flipped and jumped frantically around in his hand. While his attention was distracted, Young Floon stepped over to the house, took up the pole, and without a second’s hesitation swung it full force at the old man’s head.
The sound of metal on skull came out a mix of clong and thunk. It was a deep, dull noise, not loud but oh-so-vivid. You remembered a sound like that even if you didn’t know what caused it. After the hit, the pole shook so violently in his hands that it looked alive. My eyes followed that jittering pole up all the way to Young Floon’s eyes. They were still blank/empty of anything but just being alive. That’s all—that’s the only thing they showed. As far as he knew, this man had just crushed his father’s skull with a five-foot-long metal pike but the only emotion that showed on his face was nothing.
Old Floon fell to the left. Little Frannie to the right. He had been pulling so terrifically hard to get away that when the old man let go of him, the boy just dropped toward gravity. They separated like a wishbone snapping. As soon as the kid hit the ground he crawled lickety-split away on all fours, not sure of what had happened except for the physical fact he was abruptly freed and was not about to be recaptured. As he moved he screamed, “Asshole, asshole!” in a high, hurt little boy’s voice. It was a strange sight—him crabbing away, shouting that word over and over at an old man who lay on his back with nothing left but some escaping body heat.
I looked at the others and then eventually bent down to feel for a pulse. Nothing. A
nyway Floon’s head told the tale before I even touched his throat—one look and anyone would have known. Because what had once been the man’s temple was now fresh bread dough and red oatmeal.
I glanced at his killer. “Home run, bud. You knocked this guy out of the park.”
Raising his eyebrows only a little, Young Floon dropped the metal pole on the ground. It landed with a clang and rolled away from him. I think all of us spent a moment watching it roll till it stopped. Lying there, it suddenly had a whole new personality: It had gone from being an antenna pole to a murder weapon in a minute and a half.
Dreampilot
Just about everything that took place after that was strange, but strangest of all was what happened immediately after Floon killed Floon. Without a word the three of us adults moved into action with the kid looking on.
I went to the car and gestured for Floon Junior to open the back gate. He unlocked it and as soon as it swung open, we went back for the body. I looked at George and said only, “Get those big Baggies.” He went into his house and came back a few moments later (followed by Chuck the dachshund) with a box of giant, industrial-size garbage bags he used when he cut branches off his apple tree. Walking to the back of the car, he pulled out several and rapidly lined the floor of the trunk with them. Not once did I look to see if anyone in the neighborhood had witnessed our goings-on in the last ten minutes or even if anyone was watching us now.
We picked up the body, awkwardly maneuvered it into another of the shiny black bags, and hefted it into the trunk. Its plastic landed on the other plastic with a clunk and the sound of a lot of crinkling while we pushed and shoved it flush into a corner. Then I slid the murder weapon in next to the bag. Obviously it would have to disappear too.
That done, I put out my hand for the car keys. There would be no debate about this—I was driving. Floon gave them right over. All four of us (and the dog) got into his brand-new Isuzu and drove off.
We rode through town in silence. Once in a while I looked around remembering how different the place looked earlier that morning when it was Crane’s View of thirty years ago. From what little I could see, the Rat’s Potato crew had put everything back in its proper place. But then again I wasn’t about to stop to check the details, what with the serious cargo we were carrying.
George and Floon sat in the backseat, the boy up front next to me. Our silence continued until I realized, hey, I don’t having a fucking clue where to go now. I looked in the rearview mirror and checked the passengers to see if they looked any less confused than I. Both were staring out the windows with their hands in their laps.
“Hey.”
Blinking, I shifted my eyes over to the kid. “What do you want?”
He just happened to be holding the famous feather, twirling it back and forth in his little fingers the way anyone plays with a feather in their hand.
“Where’d you get that?”
Saying nothing, he jerked his head toward his shoulder.
“What? What does that mean?”
“I got it from him. The guy. The guy in the baa “
“How?”
“I just got it.” Suddenly he had changed from a chatterbox into Mr. Laconic.
“Give it here.”
He didn’t. Looking full at him, I snapped my fingers under his nose. “Give it to me.”
With a dramatic sigh he handed it over. “That big stupid jerk hurt my ear inside. It still hurts.”
“I bet it does.” Glancing in the rearview, I saw that Floon was watching me. I reached backward and gestured for him to take the feather. “You’re going to need this.”
He took it, gave it a look, didn’t say a word.
“You’ve also got blood on your cheek, so you’d better wipe it off. Now listen, Floon, there’s something incredibly important about that feather but don’t ask me what ‘cause I don’t know. The thing’s not what you think it is, it’s not even from a bird. It’s just something completely different. You’ll understand that when you examine it in your lab or wherever. That feather is going to play a really important part in whatever you do with the rest of your life, so take good care of it.”
“Frannie, how do you know these things?”
“I just do, George, so let me talk now and don’t interrupt. Next, if you have any money, buy stock in a company called SeeReal—”
“Cereal?”
“No, see—real. Like see with your eyes, and real like genuine. The two words go together as one: SeeReal. The ticker abbreviation for it is S-E-E-R. Buy stock in that company as soon as you can and buy a lot.” I tried hard to remember what else Old Floon had told me earlier in the library but I couldn’t think of anything. Only later did I recall “tancretic spredge” and cold fusion but by then the men were long gone in the direction of their next thirty years.
“What are we going to do, Frannie?” George held Chuck on his lap. Even that goofy dog must have sensed something serious was going on because it wasn’t hopping around as usual, trying to kiss everyone.
“We’re going to my house to get a shovel. Then we’ll go to the woods out behind the Tyndall place and bury the body. Unless you have a better plan.”
“Someone could find it. Those woods aren’t that large.”
“True, George, but the alternative is to drive around until we run out of gas trying to decide what else to do with our body. Then we can tank up at CITGO, hope no one sees what we’re carrying in the back, and then drive around some more. Does that sound like a better plan, or do you have another in mind?”
Silence.
“All right. I say we go with my plan, hope our luck holds and no one sees us.”
“Why are you even doing this, Frannie? If we’re caught they’ll put us in prison. We’ll all be in terrible trouble. You’re the chief of police!”
“He is?” Floon gulped, his voice climbing way up.
“I’m doing it because I have no time left, George. That’s the only thing I know for sure now. We have to get him out of here without anyone knowing what just happened. Please don’t ask me to explain it—that’s just the way it is. I have no time left to worry about what else to do with this body. We gotta dump it, and Floon’s gotta get out of here. I may be wrong but I gotta go with that instinct. There are other things way more important.”
“More important than this, Frannie?”
“Much more, believe me.”
The backseaters looked at each other.
“Floon, why were you at George’s house just now?”
“Because I have invented something and I need the best person in the business to write the instructions.”
I slapped the steering wheel for emphasis while keeping eye contact with George in the mirror. “You mean he came to you out of the blue today, this morning, to ask if you’d work with him?”
“Not exactly. He called yesterday to say he was in New York and asked if we could meet.”
“That’s still too much of a coincidence. This whole thing ain’t no fluke.” “What isn’t?” “It can’t be a coincidence that Mr. Floon here was visiting you today at the same time as I came to the house with him. I hitchhiked a thumb over my shoulder, assuming everyone knew who I was talking about.
A flame of pain seared across the inside of my forehead forcing me to squint my eyes almost closed. It shot to the back of my head where, for an excruciating few seconds, it flickered on and off like a blazing neon sign. It stopped. But I realized I had better not drive anymore because if another big one hit there was a good chance I would drive this snazzy new car right into someone’s living room and solve all our problems.
When I pulled up in front of our house, loud music was coming from an open window upstairs. Pauline’s room. I wondered if George had brought her home from the hospital before meeting with Floon. Despite everything I had to smile. A yellow and green summery day. Loud techno music pouring out of a teenager’s bedroom. What could be more normal and reassuring than that scene? Her mother was in the hospital
but she would be all right now. There was nothing to worry about. Magda would be home soon.
I stood on the sidewalk looking at our house, loving what I saw. I knew I must get moving but give me one more minute to look and remember, just one more. How happy I’d been here. How much I would have given to spend the rest of my life knowing these women day to day, getting older, watching Pauline grow up and into a valid and interesting life of her own. Maybe if I’d had more time I would have been able to figure out a little of what made my own life tick. Maybe not, but it wouldn’t have even mattered so long as I could live it here, around these people, in this town I loved. No matter what was about to happen to me, I had no reason to complain.
I was tempted to run upstairs and check on Pauline to see how she was doing, reassure her that everything was going to be fine now. But there was no time. Nor did I want her to see Floon’s car and ask questions about what was going on.
Instead I went to the garage to look for the shovel. My car was parked in there, which reminded me of finding the resurrected Old Vertue in its trunk the other night. Which reminded me of having that nice chat with Pauline in the car about what she wanted to do with her life. On and on, everything in that dusty place reminding me of something else, and my nostalgia for my flickering life grew even keener.
I searched the crowded garage for the tool I had already used to bury both my father and a four-hundred-year-old dog (twice). I discovered it leaning next to a rake against a far wall. Next to it was a window that gave a view of the street. Reaching for the shovel I glanced out the window and saw a police car coming up the street. It stopped almost directly across from Floon’s car.
Of course the cops would eventually show up here when they discovered I wasn’t being held captive at the town library (by a man who had just been killed by himself and whose corpse was lying in that car directly across the street from them). The situation was so surreal that it should have been funny but it was way too late for that.
Adele Kastberg and Brett Rudin got out of the police car. That was good to see because both of them were dimwits. I would have been much more concerned if Bill Pegg had showed up now at my door. These two cops walked up our path, but at a certain point I lost sight of them because of my limited view. The doorbell chimed its familiar ding-dong. Unconsciously I found myself mimicking those sounds quietly—ding-dong—just so I could hear them another time and memorize a little more of what would be gone soon. All three of us waited for someone to answer the door. When no one came they rang it again. Pauline had her music cranked way up. I could hear it through the walls of the garage. Could she hear the ring behind that wall of sound in her room? I closed my eyes and willed her to come answer the door. In the middle of that willing, I heard a car engine start. Opening my eyes, I caught sight of the tail end of Floon’s car slowly driving away down the street.
The Wooden Sea Page 24
