Flights by Jim Shepard Page B

On Sunday they lay in the hot sun and crested and splashed in tumbling breakers at the beach when it got too hot. That evening they showered and sat in lounge chairs in the back, cool and relaxed in the breezy darkness, unbothered by mosquitoes. He slept luxuriously on the cot, a hand or foot draped over the sharp-cornered edges.
    They flew back early Monday morning. Carver pumped Biddy’s hand goodbye and Biddy found it difficult finally to lift his other hand from the smooth metal of the fuselage. His parents saw their host off in his Datsun, thanking him repeatedly and insisting they get together soon, and then exploded into argument once he’d left. Something his father had done or not done or gotten or not gotten was the cause of it all. His mother had said nothing until safely in Stratford. She was, his father said as they crossed behind the Sikorsky hangar to their car, an Italian land mine.
    Later in the week, Biddy and Louis were picked up by the yellow security jeep at the airport for playing too close to the runway. Biddy had been drawn back to the Cessnas and they’d strayed too far from the edge of the salt marsh, daring each other onto the tarmac. Louis had been staying over for the day and his father had expressed the hope that they’d find something sedate to do.
    They were kept out in the driveway after being dropped off with a warning, his father pacing in front of them.
    â€œIt’s not your fault, Louis,” he said. “This bonzo should’ve known better.”
    â€œWe were only on the runway for a second,” Biddy said. “The rest of the time we were in the reeds.”
    â€œWhat, that’s better? There’re rats and all sorts of shit in there. You were asked to stay around, do something a little sedate, but no. It’s like talking to a wall. You can’t find your ass with both hands and you’re wandering around those paths back there. And dragging this poor soul with you.” Louis looked up, embarrassed. “What has to happen? What does it take to get through? Does one of those planes have to take your head off? Does a rat have to bite you on the ass?”
    Six and three: Singleton lines out; runners hold. Six and one: Murray reaches on an error. Two and four: Roenicke pops up. One and one: Dauer strikes out. No runs, three left on base.
    Preparations for the Air Show: his father stood in the sunny area of the driveway, washing chaise longues and lawn chairs with a hose. His mother and Kristi edged around the bushes bordering the yard, trimming and cleaning out odd piles of debris, his mother snipping and pulling efficiently, Kristi raking with the three-pronged hand rake listlessly, uselessly. He sat at the redwood table, rolling dice.
    â€œGet a rake,” his father said, splashing water. “Give your mother a hand.”
    With Randolph and Mumphrey on base in the ninth, Winfield homered. He rolled a few more times and then carefully wrote, “Balt. 5, N.Y. 6.”
    â€œBiddy, are you deaf?”
    â€œNo sense getting excited,” his mother said from across the yard without turning. “He doesn’t listen to me, either.”
    â€œKeep playing with those dice.” His father returned his attention to a chair. “That’s a good thing to do with your time. Useful.”
    Biddy looked at the dice in his hand.
    â€œYou could be reading, it’s a beautiful day, you could’ve gone to the beach. … Who was that kid from school? Teddy? Why doesn’t he come around anymore? You could’ve done a lot today, instead of sitting around bored. But sit around,” he said. “Improve your mind.”
    He could’ve done a lot of things. He could do a lot of things. Lying in bed that night, he realized that: like sliding belly up onto the roof with Teddy’s BB gun, edging off the ladder just before dawn. The spaniel next door would bark when the shingles crunched and popped as he put his full