The Invention of Flight

by Susan Neville

  The bait shop is a shack, gray weathered wood, filled with plastic lures and the smell of shrimp and glass cases of fileting knives. Thousands of hooks tangle and gleam on the walls. She looks at her reflection in the glass cases, notices that she is smiling and that she doesn’t stop. Two men come into the shop. They look alike—short unruly beards, sunbleached hair, leathery skin, sandals, cutoff shorts, T-shirts. They smell like gasoline, the smell of her father’s outboard motor that day on the lake, her awakening, all her life, she thinks, comes to this slow awakening. She stares at the hooks on the wall while her husband buys shrimp. She holds onto his arm for balance. Water from his shrimp bucket sloshes onto her hand and she brings her hand to her nose, breathes deeply, to calm herself, the happiness becoming too great somehow, too large. Her husband takes her hand, but he’s talking to one of the fishermen about the fishing that day, the good spots, the best type of bait. The other man shows her husband a shark’s tooth on a chain around his neck, talks about shark fishing, how a shark had taken the leg of his brother when he was snorkeling in the Keys and how he and his brother try to kill as many of them as they can now, how they take the teeth and give them away as gifts. She looks at the tooth lying on his neck, bleached and white as milk glass. She tries to be frightened of it, to imagine it coming after her, after her husband, but she can’t, doesn’t believe in it. The man tells her husband that if he’d like to go shark fishing with them sometime to leave a message at the bait shop in the morning and her husband says yes, he’d like that, and asks what time they usually go out, and the man says at night of course, at midnight, that’s when all the man-eating fish—the sharks, the smiling barracudas, but the sharks especially—come in near shore. They’re hidden by the black water then, he says, but the water is thick with them. Wherever you throw in bait, he says, especially around here, you’ll find a shark. Her husband thanks the man, holds onto her as they leave, tighter than he’s ever held her, thinking no doubt of their swimming the night before, of the plans they’d had to swim again. She holds his waist as they walk to the car. He is pale but she is ecstatic, thinking only that they had made it through the danger, that last night they’d been swimming in sharks, swimming in them. That what she’d thought was the current brushing her legs could have been the smooth body of a shark, the smooth caress of a tooth, a fin. And her head back, her arm feeling the warmth of her husband, the world pulsing and glowing from the sun, something leaps up in her, finally, like a blind fish that rises and breaks through dark water for one, brief, clean taste of air.

  Johnny Appleseed

  He told me that his ancestor had left his hard black seeds in neat rows where scrub pine or thistle, cockle or thorns would have grown and that when people stopped just long enough to eat the apples he had planted they felt their feet become like iron and their heads become drugged and when they tried to move, found that they, like the trees, couldn’t. And in turn, he said, the people planted squash and corn and ate the apples freely, spreading more black seeds whose roots joined under the earth in dark rivers which spread under the houses which also grew from the seeds, wrapping around children’s knees, strangling pipes until they had to dig more and more wells.

  And he told me I was still under the spell of those trees of his ancestor and I said I didn’t believe that until he said would I leave in the morning with him for Zanzibar and I said no. And he pointed to the trees behind my house, black as obsidian against the darkening sky, and he said the black branches were the rivers from the apple trees, spreading out like sap at this time of night, and that to him they were a cutout in the sky. If I looked closely I could see stars where the bark should be. I looked closely and didn’t see stars, but there were stars outlined with gunmetal on the hat he wore and I liked it when he stroked his beard a certain way and I didn’t care about the trees or the bark or his illusions. He said he was a direct descendant of Johnny Appleseed, that he had the same name, and that once he had even seen him in a bar in Kansas City, the original Johnny, toting glossy catalogs, posing as an undergarment salesman so he could say “negligee” and “brassiere” to the women who came in. He said that he himself was an itinerant magician, specializing in appearing and disappearing, that I’d already seen one-half of his act. He put his arms on my shoulders and asked was I anxious to see the other half and I said no, I wasn’t. Then he asked again if I would leave with him for Zanzibar and I said no, but I’d put him up in the garage for the night. He said that was a trick question; since I’d said no I was in need of help and he would stay around until I said yes. I told him he sounded crazy, I thought he was just a tramp, but he pulled his beard and bent his knee slowly so that rings of cloth crawled up his leg and I thought, what could be the harm? Stay, but only for one night. By that time the cut-out trees had bled into the rest of the sky; there were stars around his head as well as on it.

  I pulled a mattress into the garage while he sat crouched on a high shelf watching, hanging by rakes, shovels, hoes. His eyes the same silver gray as the gun-metal, they glinted in the dark unevenly, like crumpled tinfoil. He mumbled while I worked, eyes always on me while he mumbled. I covered the mattress with fresh sheets, sprayed lavender between, set a Chinese enameled lamp on a short table, asked him if he needed a blanket. I tried to ignore his incantations. They started low.

  Johnny Johnny Johnny Johnny whoops Johnny whoops Johnny Johnny Johnny Johnny

  I placed a piece of chocolate on his pillow.

  whoops Johnny whoops Johnny Johnny Johnny Johnny Johnny

  Sweet cream in a pitcher beside the bed.

  Johnny whoops Johnny whoops Johnny Johnny Johnny

  I left him in the garage. I locked the door. The bed had looked nice, like a movie set looks—complete where the light reached, but framed by dark and oil and hard metal beaks of machinery. I tried to imagine him sleeping in it.

  I went into the house, opened doors and windows for air, locked screens, stopped by a window and touched the screen with my tongue. It was bitter and the taste lasted. I thought about the song I would probably go upstairs to write about a woman whose only sense was taste. About all the things she could touch with her tongue before she died a tragic death from rare infectious germs.

  But when I opened the door to my room, Johnny Appleseed was there waiting, the hat with the gunmetal stars slid halfway under the bed. I asked him how he’d found his way past me. He told me that I hadn’t really locked anything, that I’d allowed him to come in. I picked up the hat and put it on the dresser. He flipped open a pocketknife and took out a block of wood from between the sheets. Soon he had wood shavings all over the bed. He said the block of wood had once been a whole tree, that he made tiny smooth rings from the wood, that I would find them useful. I said if you’re really Johnny Appleseed, shouldn’t you have a bag of seeds? He motioned to the empty side of the bed with the blade of his knife.

  I said, if you’re really a magician, Johnny Appleseed, show me some tricks. He sat on a moonlit tree limb in the cemetery, carving faces in the bark, chips falling on a stone by my feet. Leaping to the ground, he moved the pocketknife toward my eyes, brandished it in the air. See the lights on the blade, he said. I’m carving chips from the moon. Catch one. I touched a reflection of the moon, buried in the hair on his chest. Now watch the blade, Johnny Johnny Johnny. See the blade bend, Johnny, stroke it, stroke the blade. I stroked it. The blade didn’t bend. Stroke it, Johnny Johnny, he said. He moved my hand along the metal, stroke the blade, watch it bend. It’s flat, I told him. His face moved closer to mine, the hard edge of his hat brushed my ear, he winked. Isn’t it amazing that the blade is bending? he said. Bending to match the contour of the earth, he said. The earth is flat here, I said. It looks flat, he said, but it’s really bending; it has to, you know, it has to bend everywhere. Not around here, I said. A circle bends everywhere, he said; it appears flat like the earth, but it’s really bending. It’s flat, I said. Very very flat.

  He tossed the knife at the tree. It folded in half
and fell to the ground. He turned his wrist and a wooden ring appeared in his hand, rough-hewn. I’m sure I saw it slide down your sleeve, I said. The satin shirt had rippled, I’d seen it ripple. Sit, he said. I sat on the stone amid the shavings. He slipped the ring over my foot, around my left ankle. Another turn of the wrist and another ring appeared, this one smooth sanded, varnished. He slid it over my right hand. A larger one appeared. He slid it up my right leg, around my thigh. That’s enough of that, Johnny Appleseed, I said, I feel very unbalanced. He slid one up my left thigh and asked me to stand. I clacked when I tried to walk toward him. Now where’s the trick, Johnny Appleseed? I said. Try to take them off, he said. I tried and they wouldn’t come off, they were stuck, and I said they must have shrunk from my sitting on the ground. I said at least-clack clack-help-clack-me remove-clack clack clack-one from one thigh-clack. One of the rings slid from my leg as if it were greased. I’ll figure out how to do it, I said. I know it’s an illusion.

  He took my hand and led me to a flat gravestone, pallid white and cold. He chanted Johnny Johnny and I lay down on the stone. The letters were indented deep in the rock; I could feel someone’s name and dates digging into my back. He lay down, brown curls near my lips, the wooden ring burning on my thigh. Over his shoulder was the tree, its leaves silver, fruit as bright and hard as crystal marbles, cat’s eye marbles in my hands, the clicking limbs. Johnny jump up, be nimble, be quick. I rolled over onto the grass. His back on the stone, he said that might be what death feels like. If it does, then it’s not so bad, I said, and I brushed the wet hair back from his eyes. He said Johnny Appleseed had planted the apples because he had been afraid to leave the land to the dead things, the wild things. That his own destiny was to face them, that he was building a power, that there was no security for him. He gripped my hand and stared at the sky; it was filled with clouds and moving with a violence. I could sense that the emptiness frightened him. The cemetery was quiet. Then he threw his legs into the air in an arc, did a kip to his feet, and pulled me up with him. I fingered the ring clutching my wrist. Mirrors, I said. You must do it with trick mirrors.

  He came once to watch me where I worked, coming in late after I’d finished most of my set, wearing the hat with the gunmetal stars and jeans and a muslin shirt and a floor-length apron with stenciled colored moons and seaweed on the bib. He asked for a table up front and the waitress gave it to him. He ordered a pitcher of sweet cream and ten ounces of bourbon. His table was in the light from the stage; he sat in the shadow. All I could see were his disembodied hands pouring the cream and bourbon into a glass, lifting the glass into the air and setting it down. The place I worked was decorated like a speakeasy—dim lights, waitresses in flapper costumes, pictures of gangsters on the wall. I was dressed like a moll in a red satin dress, greasy red lipstick. I carried a plastic carbine. I sang old jazz, mostly Billie Holliday and Bessie Smith, sometimes some of my own songs that I wrote to sound like that same style jazz. I was glad he’d come because it seemed to be my chance to mesmerize him. The satin dress molded my body with stripes of moving lights, clung tightly to my hips. There was a slit up the side to my waist and I wore a black leotard and black hose, though it was difficult getting the hose through the wooden ring on my thigh. My voice wasn’t great, I knew, but was throaty and rich and my movements were good. Men were always coming up to me after the show, wanting to give me a ride home. I had always said no. I sat on a round table and did a turn, easy with the satin dress. I lay back on the table, legs crossed, carbine on my knee. I caressed the microphone with my finger as I sang, looking over to the table where Johnny was sitting.

  If I should get a notion

  To jump right in the ocean

  Aint nobody’s business if I do.

  I slid off the table and walked over to Johnny. I stroked his hair with the point of the carbine. It tangled in one place and I pulled it out gently. I still couldn’t see his whole face, just half of it with a reddish glow from the floor lights. He was half smiling, elfin. The stars on his hat glowed red, more like planets. I walked away and did a few grinds as I sang, something I don’t usually do. I walked over to the upright piano and played with the band during the riffs. I looked at Johnny’s table, the glass still rising and falling as if by levitation. Suddenly his fingers began to move fast, at the same rate as mine moved on the piano keys. I looked and gold coins began to slide out from between his fingers and clatter on the table. More and more coins appeared in the air. He dropped handfuls; they formed a mound in front of him. I played more intricate riffs; we began to improvise, the band and I. Playing wilder. More coins appeared. Soon the stage manager focused an amber light on Johnny’s table. The crowd thought he was part of the show and they applauded. I noticed the band was beginning to play background to him, slowing when his hands slowed, at times becoming frenetic when his hands began to blur. Birds appeared in the air, flapped around the table, tiny globes of blue lights like moons circled among the birds, cards materialized and vanished and still coins were pouring onto the table and off, clattering to the floor. Waitresses stopped bringing drinks. There were no more conversations. Just the sound of the band and the birds and Johnny’s silent seductions. He picked up the pitcher of sweet cream and turned it over on the table. No liquid ran out and when he picked it up again, there was a mound of apples which rolled lopsided and thudded off the table. He squashed one beneath his heel. He reached into the air and held each bird, each coin, each moon with his hand and when he opened his hand they were gone. Then both of the hands moved suddenly, pushing the gold coins off the table. Some of them rolled toward me, landing at my feet. Oh Johnny Johnny, I whispered. Oh Johnny.

  I finished my set and he was waiting by the door when I left. He winked and said, “You know where I can find any bootleg whiskey, baby?” All of that stops at this door, I told him. The illusion stops here, doesn’t it? I stepped into the night air. This is real, isn’t it? He turned me to face him. The apron was slung over his shoulder. His shirt was unbuttoned, the hair on his chest thick and matted. His hand slid down my satin dress, fingered the ring on my thigh. You make a good moll, he said. I put my hand in his shirt, ran up and down his side. I’m looking for cards, I said. Trick cards. You won’t find them, he told me. You definitely won’t find them. I felt something cold graze my ear lobe. He produced a fifty-cent piece. Come on, he said, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. I reached for the coin and it disappeared. Oh Johnny Johnny, I whispered again. Oh Johnny Johnny.

  Wooden rings holding back the kitchen curtains, hanging from the ceiling like mobiles. Five wooden rings on each arm which clattered when I moved. One ring hugging my neck, rings hidden beneath tables and chairs, between the sheets on my bed, thin ones between the leaves of books, filling pans and skillets, sandwiched between slices of bread. I sealed a drawer in the kitchen shut, the drawer that contained the knives. I sealed the drawer with paraffin because the knives had begun to bend toward me when I neared them. Without stroking, they were all bending toward me. Knives bending, rings appearing. I stood looking out the window with Johnny Appleseed. I said I see it, Johnny. The trees are bleeding, the sap is flowing. He took out his knife. Stroke the blade, he said. Stroke the blade. It bent upward toward the sky. I see it bending, I said. I see it bending, they’re all bending. More rings on my arm, a flat one around my waist. Two more flat ones which circled my breasts. A brass teakettle rocking on the stove like a blind singer. Johnny Appleseed went up to bed. I went to sleep in the garage.

  I found a box in the garage, filled with toys, my artifacts. I lay on the mattress, surrounded by stuffed bears with music boxes, brass key wings plunged deep in their backs, rotating like hummingbirds. I caught a wing in my teeth, felt the metal cold and bitter on my tongue, let the notes out slowly. I held a bear to my chest, felt the humming of the song in the bear like a heartbeat. The bears stopped one by one. I continued holding on to them. I saw the door open; I’d known he would come. Johnny Johnny Johnny Johnny whoops Johnny whoops Johnny. H
e sat down cross-legged by the enameled lamp, the light modeling his face. Give me those, he said, it’s the only way you’ll live. I handed him the bears. He put them back in the box, pushed the box away, outside of where the light reached. He lay his hat over the lamp; it dimmed the light. He slipped off the apron. The shirt beneath was made without buttons and was open at the collar. He pulled it off over his head, the thick hair on his chest, the hair. He turned off the light then; the garage blackened. My blouse unbuttoning, jeans catching on rings. Hands moving up my belly, nipples rising as if by magic. Plant some, Johnny, plant. There is no garage, Johnny, I said. There is no house. No trees. No earth. Just this mattress, cool sheets, your voice in my ear. I can be in Zanzibar, Johnny, I said. I’m already there, I said. And I love it Johnny, it’s nothing Johnny, it feels good Johnny Johnny, and empty Johnny, it’s real Johnny Johnny, it’s real Johnny, it’s real.

  Rain Forest

  For the first time she was aware, though only slightly in the moments when she was still, of a warmth or a rumbling of something happening in a part of her body she’d always thought was her stomach. A part of her stomach, though, that had always been dormant, made no demands of hunger before dinner or pain after, was a hibernating animal stretching, waking, pushing to pull her attention away from a stuffed duck and a red scooter in the same way that once her legs, her arms, her fingers and teeth, when acknowledged, had drawn her from her father’s gold pocket watch, the first object of fascination.

  Though quiet, the animal grew more assertive throughout the day as she sat in school wishing she could run to free whatever it was trapped inside of her demanding her to look, not at the map of Africa with the rubber-tipped pointer migrating from Senegal to the Gold Coast, following the route of an ancient man long dead, the map, the man, stories of Tarzan and monkeys, elephant tusks and Christ still not fitting into one puzzle, one continent; not at the pointer or the man holding the pointer, but inside, something’s happening inside, the animal cajoled, prodded, demanded.