Flights

by Jim Shepard

  The next Monday, he played kids from Bridgeport on the bluffs near the beach. Ronnie Pierce was the only spectator, having pulled his car onto the grass to watch. The game was rough and quickly grew mean; no one knew anyone on the opposite side or intended to lose under those circumstances. Mickey had the sweat shirt torn from his back; a kid from Bridgeport had his nose bloodied. They decided to call a halftime at five touchdowns, and when they did Bridgeport was ahead five to two.

  Ronnie left his car and walked over. “Bad guys look tough today,” he said.

  “That one kid’s fast,” Biddy panted.

  “Those sweeps’re killing you, all right. That was some shot you took at the end there.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Ronnie sat and zipped up his jacket, and Biddy took off a sneaker and began to relace it. The wind was cold on his sweaty foot.

  “You guys are gonna have to force that play.”

  Biddy nodded. Ronnie retied his sneaker as well, a mirror image. “How come you’re not working today?” Biddy said. He had the uneasy feeling that Ronnie knew him very well and lacked the interest to pursue any insight he might possess further.

  “I took the day off. Spring fever.”

  “Now?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Fall fever.” He grinned, and Biddy grinned back.

  “Where’s Cindy?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Work, right?”

  Biddy kept lacing. “You have to do a lot of stuff to get ready for the wedding?”

  Ronnie sucked at a tooth with his tongue. “A lot of stuff has to be done. Doesn’t mean I have to do it.”

  “You’re not going to help?”

  “Hey, you know how long it took just to find a hall? Three weeks. Three weeks for the hall. You’re talking about serious hours here when you put everything together.”

  Someone from Bridgeport punted the ball off the side of his foot into the thickets and dune grass below the bluffs.

  “Do you think about getting married a lot?” Biddy asked.

  “On and off,” Ronnie said. “Not much.”

  They gazed out over the water beyond the bluffs, gray and whitecapped. The wind was running parallel to the shore. He had the nagging sense of being like Ronnie in some fundamental, elusive way.

  “Your mother says I don’t think about it enough.”

  “My mother?”

  “We had a talk about it one day. I think the worry is I’m not good enough. Or I’m not going to treat Cindy good enough.”

  Biddy looked at the grass guiltily.

  “And she worries about other things,” Ronnie said.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s all grown-up stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

  “About Cindy?”

  “No, other things. Your mother worries I don’t grapple with the larger problems,” he said. “I think Ginnie and Dom do, too.” He smiled. The Bridgeport kid struggled back up the steep side of the bluffs with the ball. “I told her I don’t grapple with anything I can’t take the top off of.” Biddy stood as the teams reformed. Ronnie smiled, and seemed younger to him suddenly. “That didn’t go over so big. Anyway, go get ’em. And don’t let that kid turn the corner on you.”

  But they couldn’t stop the kid outside and still adequately cover the middle. They continued to get pounded. He was acutely aware of Ronnie. He fumbled. He was run over and faked to his knees. He fumbled again the next time he touched the ball, and, outraged at his performance, he raced up and threw himself at the blockers and runner on the first play afterward.

  “Take it easy,” Ronnie called. “This isn’t the Super Bowl.”

  On the next play, he threw himself forward again, driving in low and turning away from the oncoming legs that kicked and trampled. Two or three people went down, but not the runner, who leaped the tangle and kept going.

  “Too aggressive,” Ronnie called. “Keep your head up. Don’t commit yourself too soon.”

  “Who is that guy?” one of the Bridgeport kids said. “You got your own coach?”

  Some kids laughed and he hunched over, bruised, panting, waiting for the snap. He couldn’t stop this kid, they were playing up to 10, the score was already 7–2.

  They were on the road at night, jostling back and forth with the bumps, coming home from visiting. His mother’s sister lived in Norwich and the ride was not a short one. They went rarely because of it. He was slumped against his mother in the front seat, gazing into the darkness as they descended from the highway exit to the lonely road through the meadows and flooded salt marsh that connected Lordship to Bridgeport. Officially it was Lordship Boulevard, a two-and-a-half-mile blacktop outlined in low wooden guardrails which meandered through the swamp, skirting bays and tidal wetlands. Biddy’s father called it the Burma Road.

  Kristi was taking up the entire back seat; she’d been sick the last few days and it was hoped she’d sleep on the way home. His father was driving badly. His mother was angry.

  There were no lights on the road; the darkness was complete except for the tiny points of the houses ahead and the multicolored lights of the airport to the left. On the curves the car’s headlights flashed stands of cattails fading from yellow to deep brown in the glare, and white speed-limit signs surfaced from the black and swept by.

  Curves were handled loosely, gradual turns corrected by jerks that made his shoulders quiver. His mother, looking out her window toward the sea, finally said something sharp and his father seemed to settle down.

  His father had been angry since late afternoon; when they had been leaving Lordship, he had said, “Get in, get in, get in,” holding the car door open. “Your mother isn’t happy unless we’re on the move.” To which his mother had replied, “Your father isn’t happy unless he’s sitting on his ass.”

  They continued around curves in the dark, Lordship’s lights growing larger. The grace of the movement of lights across the windshield gave him the pleasant sensation of being part of a dance.

  “Just what makes that little old ant,” his father sang in a soft voice. “Think’ll he’ll move that rubber tree plant.”

  His mother sighed.

  “Anyone knows an ant, can’t, move a rubber tree plant. But he’s got—high hopes.” He patted Biddy’s thigh in time to his singing. “He’s got—high hopes.”

  “Kristi’s sleeping,” his mother said.

  His father’s voice dropped in volume. “He’s got high apple pie in the sky hopes. So any time you’re gettin’ low, ’stead of lettin’ go, just remember that ant: whoops, there goes another rubber tree plant, there goes another rubber tree plant.” His voice trailed off.

  “Wanna take the wheel?” he finally said, and Biddy looked at him closely and realized with a start that he might be drunk. He looked hot and lazy. His hat was perfectly straight and there were beads of sweat under his sideburns. He was leaning back against the seat and had one finger hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel.

  “Walt.”

  “Yeah, yeah. C’mon, take the wheel. Don’t reach over. Get on my lap.” Biddy had never touched the wheel of their car while it was moving and had never wanted to, but he climbed onto his father’s lap.

  “Walt.”

  “Got it?”

  “Walt. Biddy, leave the wheel alone.”

  “I’m lettin’ go,” his father said.

  The car sailed in a sickening diagonal across the road before big hands around his righted the wheel with a jerk. “Take it,” his father said.

  He held on, feeling awesomely responsible for all of this, wanting his father to take the wheel back. In the distance he saw lights turn onto the road.

  “Dad. There’s a car coming.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “Dad.”

  “Walt.”

  “You’re all right.”

  The car came on them quickly and he seemed too far to the right, too close to the wood and cable of the guardrails, and he tried to compens
ate and the lights blinded him, his mother’s cry filling the car, and she grabbed the wheel just as his father did, and suddenly they were jerking to a stop, his father laughing, his mother leaning across him, her hands still on the wheel.

  “You asshole,” she hissed, and he could see the dashboard light in her eyes, reflecting in small points off her lipstick.

  That night in bed at Three Rivers Stadium he came out of a huddle next to Bobby Bryant and Matt Blair, turning to face the Pittsburgh Steelers. Strip the interference, Blair told him as he drifted into position. If they come wide to your side, you’re gonna have to strip the interference. Don’t think you can stop the sweep by just waving at them as they go by. The crowd noise resounded on the artificial turf, and TV cameramen hustled along the sidelines. He waited, opposite John Stallworth. The Steelers were in deep black and yellow, and the lights reflected in bright white circles off the gloss of Stallworth’s helmet. It was a Monday night in Three Rivers Stadium with the whole world watching, and he was trying desperately to hold up his end of the Minnesota Viking defense. The white horns of his teammates’ helmets angled in unison as they bobbed close to the line of scrimmage, waiting. Bradshaw was shouting signals over the crowd noise.

  At the snap there was an explosion of speed and power and he watched the play develop for too long, picking up Stallworth only as the Steeler receiver lashed into him, driving him onto his back so that his helmet bounced on the artificial turf and the condenser microphones on the sidelines could pick it up. He was aware of his father somewhere in the crowd.

  Blair stood over him, eyes looming out of the white cage and purple helmet. Man, you’re gonna have to deal with that, he said. Stallworth’s gonna be comin’ at you and you just gotta beat him to the guard or whoever’s leading the play. He pulled, lifting Biddy off the cold artificial surface, and in the defensive huddle Biddy felt as he had in the Oriole dugout: he wasn’t doing the job and they were going to get rid of him. Or worse, as he left the huddle and hunched opposite Stallworth once more: he was letting everyone down until they did.

  While he diagnosed the next play, Stallworth moved like light and drove his shoulder and helmet into Biddy’s thigh, pinwheeling him around and knocking him out of the runner’s path. He lay on his side, arm pinned at an odd angle, watching Franco Harris score.

  Oh, man, Blair said from behind him. You are just not willing to do what it takes, are you?

  Every day for a week he sat next to Laura at recess. She sat alone during the free time the nuns allowed after organized games.

  Her father was a doctor and she used to live in Toledo, Ohio. She didn’t like Connecticut so far, but they were going to visit Mystic soon, her father said.

  “You know what’s at Mystic?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Boats?”

  They sat under a smallish tree at the edge of the playground. She raised the plaid of her skirt and nudged a beetle off her thigh. “The nuns are nicer here,” she said, watching Sister Theresa.

  “Some are nice,” he said.

  “They don’t hit you so much.”

  Kristi flopped down next to them. “It’s hot out there,” she announced. “You guys got all the shade.” She studied a kickball game across the yard before turning to Laura and squinting. “Who’re you?”

  “This is Laura,” Biddy said.

  Kristi peered at her. “Do you have a sister in the first grade?”

  “No.” Laura said.

  “Are you an orphan?”

  Laura looked up, wide-eyed. “No.”

  “Look like an orphan.”

  “Kristi,” Biddy warned.

  “You’re not very nice,” Laura said.

  “Well, you’re an assface.”

  “Kristi get out of here,” he said. “Go sit under your own tree.”

  She stood and left. “Assface,” she called over her shoulder.

  Laura squinted after her.

  “My sister’s creepy sometimes,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She started to cry. She said, “I don’t know anyone here.”

  “It’s okay,” he said meaninglessly, surprised. “You know me. You’ll know other people.” She stared moodily at the tree, a lone hair lifting from her head in the breeze. “I don’t know many people either,” he offered. “And I’ve been here my whole life.”

  She didn’t cheer up. He looked off in the direction she was looking.

  Sister Theresa was approaching, gesturing for them to assemble with the others. She had a small oval of blood inside her nose, dark in the shadow of her nostril.

  “What happened to Sister?” Laura breathed as Sister came closer.

  “Probably picked it too hard,” he said, and she laughed, startling him. Sister stopped, equally surprised, and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief and noticed the blood. She looked up at them and walked over. She waited.

  “My bloody nose is funny, Laura?” she said. “Is it funny?”

  They didn’t speak.

  “That’s very nice. You see someone bleeding and you laugh.” She paused. “I think you should stay after with me today, young lady.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s not fair. She wasn’t laughing at you. She was laughing at something I said.”

  “Oh?” Sister held the handkerchief back up to her nose. “And what was that, Jack Benny?”

  He looked away, sullen.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Was it that terrible?” She dabbed again. “You might as well tell me. You’re staying after as well.” She gestured toward the school. “You’ve held up the whole recess line now. Not brave enough to tell me?”

  “I said you must have picked it too hard,” he said.

  She slapped him across the face.

  Laura drew in her breath sharply, and his eyes filled with water. Sister stood them both up and followed them back to the recess line.

  They stayed in separate rooms after school and Laura was released a half hour before he was. He wasn’t allowed to leave his seat. He spent some time in Three Rivers Stadium but couldn’t find the will to stay and was beginning to derive less from it in any event.

  On his way home he thought, I could write a note.

  Dear Mom and Dad.

  I’m all right. It’s real nice here and everybody’s nice to me. I’m learning how to do all sorts of things. I found a new dog and he’s really good. I’m eating a lot. I’m sorry I left. Today we went for a hike and saw farms and mountains. Today we went swimming. Today we went skiing.

  Where was he going to go, he thought. How was he going to go anywhere? He didn’t know where to go, didn’t have any money, and didn’t know anyone. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go.

  I don’t know anything, he thought, and threw his lunch box into his yard as he came down the street.

  “Kristi,” he called up the stairs as he climbed. “Don’t do that again.” The bannister slipped and whistled under his palm.

  “What are you fighting about?” his mother called. “Stop it.”

  He called her again, and went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  “Shh,” she said.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m watchin’ Mr. Fraser back the car out.”

  He went to the window. “What for?”

  “He’s runnin’ over his rake.”

  “His rake? Where?”

  “There.” She pointed at the long, thin-handled rake, prongs up, lying in the driveway.

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  She looked at him. “I want to see if he sees it.”

  They both watched, charmed into silence as Mr. Fraser edged the car out slowly, looking farther down the driveway. The bumper crept nearer so incrementally that the scene began to resemble something from an inept thriller. The prongs disappeared under the car’s shadow.

  Fraser stopped and got out of the car, checking behind it, and pulled the rake ou
t of the way.

  Kristi turned from the window. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Kristi, don’t act like that with Laura anymore.”

  “You like her.”

  He stared at her. “What do you care?”

  “I don’t have to like her just because you do.”

  “You don’t have to like her. Just don’t be mean to her. Don’t be so mean to anyone.”

  She sat on the bed, bored. “Can we get a cat since Lady’s dead?” she said.

  “Shut up.” He looked at her blue eyes, her nose. “We don’t need a cat. And you’d just treat it awful anyway.”

  “Well I wouldn’t kill it.”

  They could hear noises outside. She rummaged in a drawer for a sweater, seemingly realizing she might have gone too far.

  “Why are you so mean to everybody?” he asked, in almost a whisper. He very much wanted to know.

  “I’m not. Leave me alone.” She found a bright red sweater and pulled it over her hair.

  He felt sad, beaten in some way. He said, “Put on a jacket if you’re going out.” I sound like them, he thought.

  “Leave me alone.” She went to the stairs. “And get outta my room.”

  “He’s always in my room,” he heard her complain to his mother as she passed through the kitchen.

  On the stairs later that evening, he heard his father and mother discussing him. “Well, we gotta do something,” his father said.

  He couldn’t hear his mother’s response.

  “Well, Jesus Christ, he walks around with his face down to here. Everything is ‘I don’t care’ or ‘I don’t feel like it,’ and he’s got no interest in anything anymore. Now all I have to hear is that his grades are suffering.”