by Gregory Hill
She spins around and shoots me in the stomach with a pistol.
* * *
I recall a conversation I had with Vaughn Atkins when we were kids, probably around seventh grade. We were talking about things we wanted to do before we died. At first it was stuff like screwing Christie Brinkley or doing a tomahawk slam dunk in the closing seconds of game seven of the NBA finals. But then we moved deeper. I clearly remember my top three things I wanted to do before I died:
1) Get bit by a shark.
2) Get shot.
3) Rob a bank.
* * *
When I lifted my hand off my stomach and saw the circle of blood on my palm, I thought, I gotta find me a shark, pronto.
This made me chuckle.
Miss Angie was still yapping. “. . . thirty-two kinds of ice cream, monkey brains, even though they’re grody . . .” She was pointing the pistol at Neal’s knee. Neal’s eyes were squinted shut, waiting for her to pull the trigger.
I didn’t feel that bad. Really, once you’ve been bit by a rattler, a gut shot is nothing. And this wasn’t Dirty Harry. Judging by the look of that pistol and the fact that my ears weren’t ringing, I’d been shot by a .22. Nothing. Barely a step up from a BB gun. I could take a few more of those before I dropped dead. Gimme some more orange pills and you could shoot me with a cannonball.
Still yapping, Miss Angie stepped over me, picked up the shotgun from the desk, and returned to her place next to Neal.
I slid to the floor. I said, “Would you mind removing that apple out of Neal’s mouth?”
Miss Angie stopped talking. She pressed the barrel of the shotgun against the apple. If she pulled the trigger, the shot would send the apple thru the back of Neal’s head. She said, “I would not mind.”
There was a crash in the hallway. I heard Clarissa shout, “Leave him alone!”
Miss Angie’s finger caressed the trigger of the shotgun.
* * *
Something happened. The room was filled with a terrible roar. It wasn’t a gunshot. It was bigger. The gun was still in Miss Angie’s hands and it wasn’t smoking and Neal wasn’t bleeding.
Miss Angie and Neal heard the roar, too. A mighty, apocalyptic sound. Neal didn’t seem to care. Like he was used to thundering, rumbling, vicious noises. Miss Angie, though, she was startled. Her eyes opened up wide, her chest heaved like a frightened deer.
This was something bigger than snakebites and bank robberies and gunshot wounds and forgetful old men. The earth was peeling apart. Miss Angie and I looked at each other as if the world was going to end and we were both sorry it had to be this way.
Then we recognized the sound, both of us at the same time. It was an airplane. It was the sound of my dad’s Cessna.
CHAPTER 26
FARTHER THAN A KITE
The roar became a thrum.
Kelly shouted, “Angie! Get out here.”
The moment of unbashful fear that Miss Angie and I had shared was over. She made as if to hit me in the head with the butt of the shotgun and then ran out the door.
I said, “Neal. You all right?”
He nodded. I peeled the duct tape off his face and took the apple out of his mouth. His lips were stretched. His teeth were red with blood.
After a couple of deep breaths, Neal said, “Call him. Now.”
I knew who he was talking about. I didn’t want to call him.
“No. I gotta help my pa. I’m gonna get those cat-killers.”
Neal gave me a worried, confused look. He said, “Call him.”
“That man steals farms. And airplanes.” I pointed to the hole in my stomach. “See that? It’s his fault. I’m snake-bit and shot. So fuck Mike Crutchfield.”
Neal nodded earnestly. He licked some blood off his lips. “I’ll grant you, he can be difficult. But call him, please. He can save us. He keeps a gun in the plane. There’s innocent people in that lobby.”
From the sound, I could tell that the Cessna had landed. It was taxiing behind the bank.
Neal said, “There’s not much time.”
“Okay.”
I walked to Neal’s desk and picked up the phone. The line was dead. I shook my head. “They clipped the wire.”
Neal said, “I’ve got a phone in my pocket. Untie me. Hurry.”
I couldn’t unfasten the cords around his wrists. The knots were tight and my fingers were slick from blood. My tummy was starting to ache.
Outside, the airplane engine sputtered to a stop. Neal pointed his head to one of his pants pockets. I reached in and pulled out his mobile phone.
I said, “I don’t know how to use these things.”
“Push ‘Unlock’ and then push star.”
“Where’s ‘Unlock’?”
“Look at the screen. It’s the button right under where it says ‘Unlock.’”
I pushed the buttons, the phone lit up. I said, “Gimme the number.”
He said, “I can’t remember. It’s in there. Scroll thru past calls.”
“How do you do that?”
“Push ‘Menu’ and then hold the down arrow.”
I pressed some buttons. A duck-shooting game came up on the screen. Fuck this. I put the phone on Neal’s lap and ran out the door.
* * *
Clarissa and Pa were in the hallway. Clarissa had her arm around Pa. Pa was holding a handkerchief against his nose. Somebody had socked him hard. He had blood on the front of his shirt.
The safe was open. I felt a moment of pride. He did it. I felt regret. We could have done it.
Miss Angie and Kelly were inside the vault. Next to them, the shotgun was leaning against the wall. Miss Angie held a canvas bag, into which Kelly was dumping the contents of a safe-deposit box. He had a swollen eye and a split on his cheek.
Clarissa, Pa, Kelly, and Miss Angie, they all four stopped what they were doing and looked at me. Clarissa’s eyes were wet. Pa’s eyes were angry.
Miss Angie let loose of the canvas bag, reached into the back of her pants, and pulled out the pistol.
She said, “Mind if I shoot him some more, Kelly?”
Kelly shook his head. “I do not mind at all.”
Miss Angie pointed the gun at my face. I was tired of having guns pointed at me.
Pa said, “Don’t do that.” His voice was shaking.
Miss Angie said, “How about I shoot them both, Kelly?”
Kelly said, “Go for it.”
Clarissa just stood there.
I held Pa’s hand. It was big and full of cracks and calluses. It was also warm. I tried to enjoy holding his warm hand. You don’t get many tender moments in a lifetime.
* * *
D.J. Beckman rushed in, breathing hard and sweating out of every hole in his skin. “Hurry up, fuckers. Crutchfield is coming. He’s got a machine gun.” Beckman looked at me and Pa holding hands.
I said to D.J., “How’s it hanging?”
He said, “Queer bait.”
Kelly dropped the safe-deposit box on the floor. “How’s he know? How’s he know we’re in here?”
Neal Koenig stepped out of his office, walking cocky, hands still tied behind his back. “Because,” he said, spitting a pencil out of his mouth, “I warned him.”
For a moment I thought, This is ridiculous. Then I saw that everyone was thinking the same thing. We were trapped in a moment of collective idiocy. The things that were happening, they simply couldn’t be possible. Me, Angie, D.J., Kelly, even Clarissa, none of us knew what to do. It was all too stupid.
* * *
Dad knew what to do. He grabbed me by the wrist and he started running. I stumbled, ran, tried to keep up. Kelly and Miss Angie just stood there. Pa put his shoulder into D.J. Beckman’s chest and dropped him to the ground. I saw Clarissa’s fac
e then, and I was happy to see she was crying.
Pa saw her face, too, and he stopped. I bounced into him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. He looked at it curiously. It was the same three-dollar coin he’d picked up off the floor at Vaughn’s place.
Everybody watched him, ready for him to say something amazing. Waiting for him to wrap this all up with some profound one-liner.
Pa tossed the coin to Clarissa. It spun slowly in its arc. Clarissa opened her palm. The coin landed flat in her hand. She bent her head down to look at it.
Pa said, “I swear I saw you in a movie once.”
They can’t all be profound.
* * *
Then he was dragging me thru the door to the front lobby, past Jimmy Young and Mr. Pridgon and Ezra Rogers, all still sitting on the floor. He pushed the front door open and we were out of the bank and running on the blacktop under the sun.
I slid to my knees. Before Pa could help me, footsteps pounded and Mike Crutchfield was sprinting right at us with a real-life M16 strapped over his shoulder.
He skidded to a stop and said, “You worthless old coot.” He punched Pa square in the face.
Pa staggered back a step and then stood up straight. He didn’t say anything. Punched in the nose twice in one day. Blood trickled out of his nostrils. He stretched his neck this way and that. Then he put on that smile he used to get when he was in the middle of building a contraption in his shop. He looked into the distance.
The vessels in Crutchfield’s temples quivered. “I saw what you did to my farm.”
Pa said, “Whose farm?”
Crutchfield said, “As of noon today—”
He didn’t finish on account of there being a whole bunch of gunshots inside the bank. Pop! Pop! Poppoppoppop!
Crutchfield ran toward the bank. Before opening the front door, he pointed a finger at us. I know he was trying to be menacing but he looked silly. I nodded real easy, like a good country boy.
Crutchfield went into his bank.
* * *
Oh, was it a pretty day.
* * *
Pa lifted me onto his shoulder. I didn’t feel hurt anymore. As he walked step after step, I watched the ground pass by. He ducked so I wouldn’t bang my head on the wing of his plane. He sat me on the ground and leaned me against the wheel strut. He opened the door, put me in the copilot seat, and then walked around the plane and climbed into the pilot’s seat. We were sitting in the airplane.
Pa slid the window open and shouted, “Clear!” That’s what you say right before you hit the ignition.
He turned the key. The engine started right up. The prop spun so it became invisible. He pulled a red knob. Got it just right. Satisfied that the engine was running good, he taxied onto the road in front of the bank. No cars. He said, “It’s a go.”
He throttled up. We built speed, he pulled back on the yoke, we left the road, we cleared the power lines, and we were flying like two stones in a bird.
Clear over the country. The land fell away. We passed over the softball field, the school, and, further along, the little strip of town that was Dorsey.
The land became golden squares and green circles. Quarter-mile-long sprinklers sent thousands of rainbows arcing over the corn stalks.
* * *
A line of smoke points to a place that used to be a farm. Pa passes the plane low over our old house. It’s burning. The roof has collapsed. Flames stretch tall over the crumbling walls. While the rattlesnake was biting my neck, Pa had been lighting that fire. Burning the trash.
Down below, the volunteer fire truck is on the way, followed by a cloud of dust, followed by endless dozens of pickups.
* * *
Floating, gentle.
“Hey Pa?”
“Yes.”
“We’re pretty high up.”
“Higher than a kite.”
“You think people get what they deserve?”
“They get lucky sometimes.”
“There’s always luck.”
“Lucky slots.”
“You win some.”
“You lonesome.”
“What do you think’s on the other side of that horizon?”
“We’re on the other side.”
“Pot of gold.”
“If you’re lucky.”
“You are.”
Pa aims the airplane down toward the ground. We build up speed. Parts of the plane begin to rattle. The engine whines. Pa’s got a half-smile on his face. Just before we slam into the earth, he pulls back on the yoke. The plane veers up. I’m squished into my seat. I blink my eyes. We’re heading toward the sky now.
Pa says, “Let’s see if this thing can do a loop-de-loop.”
Acknowledgments
Maureen, I love you like crazy.
For reading early drafts and providing guidance: Rebecca Hill, Brett Duesing, Marrion Irons, Eric Allen, Kelly Kievit, Paul Handley, Chuck Cuthill, Jeff Thompson, Jennie Tower, Tim Sears, Paul Muller, Zack Littlefield, Brennan Peterson, Brittan Hlista, Kristin Aslan, Paul Epstein, and Lucas Richards. For educating me: Janice E. James, Renny James, Sue Terrell, Luis Urrea, Petger Schaberg, and John Vernon. For inspiring me: the good citizens of eastern Colorado, the Liberty High School Class of ’91, the 1929 Joes High School Basketball team. For being my family: Aunt Jane, Uncle Larry, Aunt Marilyn, all the Hills, Hudiberghs, Williams, Walters, Heartys, and derivations of same. Special mention: Tony Parella, Phyllis Smith, and five thousand other extraordinary novelists. More special mentions: Louise Hughes, Theresa Alarid, and Merisa Bissinger. Still more special mentions: The folks at Penguin/Dutton who rendered this book ready for the public. Special, special mentions go to Jessica Horvath and Mary Beth Constant who edited with such a gentle touch. Continuing with the specialness: Judy and Elden Hill, for hiding their disappointment so well. And super special thanks to Thom Hill, whom we all miss very much.
I apologize to the people I’ve forgotten to mention here.
* * *
And now, in chronological order, I shall mention some rock-and-roll bands I’ve played in: The Screaming Cows, The Shivers, The Mudrakers, Armageddon Some, Mr. Tree and the Wingnuts, The Pork Boilin’ Po’ Boys, The Disklaimers, The Rugburns, The Orangu-tones, Six Months to Live, Manotaur, and The Babysitters. Thanks for putting up with me.
About the Author
Gregory Hill grew up in Joes, Colorado, and currently lives in Denver, where he plays in The Babysitters, a rock-and-roll power trio that includes his wife, Maureen, on drums, and Eric Allen on electric bass. He really, sincerely hopes to learn to speak Esperanto some day. Dankon, amikoj.