Flight (36 page)

“Flyin, Noby, why there ain’t nothing like
flyin. It’s purty easy for some folks to be god-denying with both
feet on the ground, but you come up where I am right now and its
purty Damall hard to imagine that some big hand ain’t stirred the
pot.

“Okay, I’m done. I’m sure you listened real
hard to jist about evry word. You think about your folks first and,
then, you think about what a time we’d be havin if you were up here
with me.”

Surprising himself, Joe does just as he is
told. He thinks about where his mother would be sitting and waiting
and how she might touch a cup of lattea two or three times with her
long manicured fingers, touching, but not drinking, blinking, but
not crying, and wondering if it is her good son or an evil stranger
who’s breaking her heart.

After a long time Joe leans far back on his
seat so that he can see the silhouette of Bob Tom above him. He
studies the slow, steady, graceful pace and wonders just what the
riverman is experiencing. How silver is the starlight on the tops
of the pines? How much sweeter is the mix of river smells and fresh
air up there? What does the Hudson’s snaky tributaries look like
from high above on a moon-lit night? Joe thinks about how a person
can’t ever go slow enough in a plane to see the same kind of detail
as a winger would flapping over the treetops at fifteen kilometers
an hour. A person would see more things in a roto, but with a lot
more noise and smell. And how did a lifetime of seeing those things
from above compare to living a small fraction of a life in the cold
friction-free world of the ice rink?

It is after eleven and Bob Tom has been
flying for almost four hours before he drags the canoe out of the
current and heads it toward shore.

They eat more bear strips and Bob Tom gives
Joe something he calls bark brew. They sleep for five hours before
his guide rousts Joe awake to tell him that if they get moving they
can be in Albany just after sunrise—late enough to get around
without attracting too much attention from the hawks, but early
enough that there won’t be too many people on the streets.

Bob Tom’s estimate proves accurate, but by
the time Joe comes ashore just under a bridge that carries a rail
line across the Hudson his plans have changed. The hours he has had
to think have led him to the conclusion that, indeed, he loves
hockey, but it has come to him just how much of his motivation not
to fly has been birthed by defiance. It is exactly because flying
is what he is supposed to do, what is expected of him as a
Fflowers, that he doesn’t want to do it. He knows this is normal.
He is acting just like a teener is supposed to act. But, he tells
himself that even the dumbest teener must know that there is a
difference between a whim and something that lasts forever. Joe
decides that a smart teener wouldn’t do something that would
permanently thwart his future. In the hours of being drawn along
the moon-dappled river by the gray on black shadow above him, Joe
has come to understand that if it could be a choice between flying
now, or flying later, he would choose later. If, however, the
choice were between flying now, or flying never, then, he wants to
fly.

When Joe tells Bob Tom that he is going to
call to let his parents know that he is coming home, he isn’t
surprised to see the riverman nod his head and smile in agreement.
What does surprise him is when his guide throws a lock line on the
boat, carefully slings his pole case under his wing and cheerfully
says that he is accompanying Joe to the depot.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m okay. I’m
grateful for all you’ve done for me. I’ll ask my parents to thank
you in more than words—maybe with something that could turn into
another favorite boat. Just tell me how to get in touch.”

Bob Tom fiddles with the buckle of his pole
case strap so that it rides higher on his shoulder.

“C’mon. We better get movin. My guess is the
depot ain’t gonna be close. I wanna see you safe and sound.”

“But, I’ll be fine.”

“Make a promise. Keep a promise.”

“You didn’t promise me anything.”

“Not you, Noby One. My dotter. I promised my
dotter I’d see you safe.”

Even before he blurts the question, Joe knows
the answer and that knowledge surges through his body like a high
fever.

“Blesonus is your daughter?”

Bob Tom nods as proudly as when he was
telling Joe stories about his trophy catches.

“Yep, my one and only.”

“You were a Greenlander? Part of the
kin?”

“Yep, again. Noby, you’re sharpenin up. I
stayed as long as I could for her, but I finally got wimmined out.
Them bristle-lips got to be where none of em was tolerble for
more’n the time is takes a tick to puke. An it was just my luck
that the worst one was my soulmate and mother of my one and
only.”

Joe can feel himself on the verge of
hyper-ventilating.

“Who’s Blesonus’ mother?”

“Why you know who. That ole possum ugly
bristle-lip you done fed her soup to.”

Joe makes a complicated sound that
inadequately expresses the encyclopedia of thoughts and feeling he
is having.

Flaring his wings to keep the tips off the
levee where they are standing, Bob Tom bends over so that he can
slap his huge hands against his knees as he laughs so loud that a
small flock of buffleheads dabbling near shore take to the air in
disgust.

“Damall, Noby Flowers, flesh of intelligent
flesh, you are a slow one. Iffen a man was interested in improvin
his fortunes, he could do worse than throwin you in a sack and
sendin off a ransom note. Just so that don’t happen and snarl up my
hi n bye with my one and only, I’ll stay alongside til I’m
satisfied evrythin is just the way it should be.”

It takes most of an hour to make their way to
the Albany Noramtrax depot. When they push their way into the
crowded, low-ceilinged cavernous room, dozens of heads look up and
stare at the unusual duo. Since he has made the decision to go
home, Joe hasn’t thought that there are still good reasons to
conceal or alter his looks. Now, however, seeing how much attention
Bob Tom and he are drawing, he thinks that definitely is a mistake.
Across the graffiti-covered deformed plastic benches he watches
several sets of people lean their heads together to whisper. Two
raggedy looking bob n hobs, wearing their de rigueur many studded
boots and hand-chopped pageboy haircuts and carrying their immense
skateboreds, get up from their bench and start toward Bob Tom and
Joe.

“Let’s go find the commix so’s you kin talk
to your folks while I trade stares with a couple of these here
rough and tough hombreros.”

At the commix, all three of the cam-fones are
out of service. The blog on the cam-fones says they’ll be back up
in an hour. Joe turns back to see how things are going with the
riverman. The first two bob n hobs have been joined by two more and
a tag team of keds. Joe notices that Bob Tom’s pole case is off his
shoulder and that he is tapping it against his thigh like a
truncheon.

Joe spins back to the array of iconics before
him. If he can’t reach his parents directly, he will have to do it
indirectly. Either way, it doesn’t seem like there’s much of a
future in hanging around the depot. Sensing the air behind him go
electric, Joe quickly swipes and buys a pre-paid mypods. He turns
to see the six thugs have formed a circle around the river man.
While his antagonists have the scowls and puffed breasts of the
threatening male of most species, Bob Tom is smiling broadly as he
leans on the now extended pole case. As Joe comes closer, Bob Tom
is saying, “You young'ns ever heard of Paul Bunyan or Pecos Pete?
If you ain’t, it’s yore loss cause I’m cut from the same cloth.
You’ll be well-advised to turn tail now afore anythin happens to
you that’d put a serious damper on yore future happiness.”

“We get done with you, geri, you’ll be fardin
out your ear.”

The relaxed old man looks over the heads of
the hostile tribe to say to Joe, “Ah, Noby One, I believe our
business may be finished here…cept for one small item. Do you think
you could member what you done with my most favorite thing and
mebbe do the same with one of these here young'ns?”

Joe nods and edges closer to the nearest bob
n hob. The fat pock-faced boy, whose ears stand out two inches from
his greasy skunk-striped hair, is nonchalantly leaning against his
immense skatebored. Another boy, the one who has told Bob Tom’s
fate, whips his licorice stick frame around to stare at Joe

“Forget the geri; it’s the rich dwert we
want.”

As the leader steps toward Joe, Joe yanks the
skatebored free from the fat boy. Bob Tom yanks the lower third of
his fishing pole out of its case.

As all six teenerz leap toward Joe, he back
pedals as he sweeps the skatebored in front of him like a ship’s
boom swinging over a deck. One boy is knocked into a second, and
both stumble to the ground, but the other four keep coming. Knowing
that it will take too much energy to change the direction of the
eight kilo skatebored, Joe keeps spinning like a windmill. As he
comes around he catches one of the keds on the shin. The boy yelps
as he bends down to grab his leg.

“I love me a fracas.”

Bob Tom, poking and pointing his chopped off
fishing pole like a musketeer his foil, comes at the remainder of
the crew from behind. He stabs one bob n hob hard in the back of
the knee. The leg buckles and the boy goes down. When the leader
turns around to see what has happened, he takes a shot in the
stomach so hard that the air which explodes out of him is so foul
it could be from his bowels.

“Git. I’ll meet ya outside.”

Joe looks at the depot entrance and sees that
if he goes that way he is apt to get caught up in the crowd
gathering there. He turns the other way and begins running toward
the doors that lead to the air trains. One of the two remaining
hobs takes off after him. Once he is through the double doors and
out under the canopy that shelters the passengers from Albany’s
bitter rains, Joe throws the huge bored down in front of him and
jumps on. Even though it has been years since he has ridden a
bored—skateboreding is definitely not something done, or even
spoken of at Dutton, except by a Retro-neo-emo named Quacks—as soon
as he is moving Joe can feel some of the old body memory coming
back. A big grin crosses his face until he takes a quick look
behind and sees that the hob on is bored is is gaining on him. The
boy’s arms are flashing up and down like pistons, which is a part
of skateboreding Joe didn’t remember. A second later he realizes
that each of the hob’s fist holds a long thin bladed screwdriver.
Joe guesses the tools aren’t for making repairs.

Seeing the spikes of the screwdrivers draw
closer, Joe slams his foot to the pavement three quick times trying
to pick up speed. Looking to his right, Joe sees that the jaded
passengers on the departing air train are barely looking out the
windows at the unfolding drama he is starring in. Another quick
head twist tells Joe that he is losing the race. He looks ahead to
see where he can ditch the skatebored and try to outrun screwdriver
boy. Twenty meters ahead, the canopy ends and a high mesh fence
begins. The ramp itself curves off to the left. Joe figures that as
he enters the curve he will shoot the bored back into his assailant
and run to safety.

Just shy of the curve, Joe hears the hob
muttering something. It takes Joe a half-second to figure out that
his hunter is chanting, “Stab him. Kill him,” in cadence to a click
being made by a chipped wheel on his bored.

Joe’s heart rises into his throat as he
hurtles into the curve with his knees deeply bent and his center of
gravity far off the bored. The ramp continues back toward the
street, but instead of the walkway being edged with grass, it is
bounded on both sides by a meter high wall to keep people off the
grass. Joe tries to figure the odds of being able to fire the bored
at the boy, leap to the wall, then to the ground and outrun his
assailant with his bum knee. Instead of seeing himself sprint to
safety, the image that arises in Joe’s mind is of two screwdrivers
sticking out of his back as he tries to scramble over the wall.

“Stab him. Kill him,” seems to come from just
behind Joe’s left ear. The wheezing teener slaps his foot to
accelerate and, as he does so, the exact same noise echoes from
behind him. The street is still thirty meters away when Joe feels a
thud at the back of his neck. He flinches as he anticipates the
screwdriver being shoved deeper into his flesh. Instead of pain,
however, what he feels is his speed suddenly picking up. As he
hurtles down the walkway, he has to work to stay on the
skatebored.

“Keep your Damall balance, Noby,” Bob Tom
yells from ten meters above as he locks the line on his fishing
reel and begins towing Joe rapidly away from the trouble at the
depot.

“Stab him. Kill him,” falls to a whimper as
Joe hurtles off the walkway and makes a wide sweeping turn into the
street, just missing a truclet speeding down the road. The tiny
truc swerves sideways and half its contents, jugs of maple syrup,
go spilling from the back and bounce and split along the cratered
highway. The smell of breakfast fills the air.

Joe and Bob Tom’s return from depot to boat
takes less than half the time of their journey from boat to depot.
Joe’s heart is still pounding, but Bob Tom looks like he’d just
holed a forty foot putt.

“I love me a fracas. Don’t get much chance
anymore. Mountains are mostly empty. The bears are scared and I
cain’t quite bring myself to scrap up with all them bristle lips.
Damall, that was a good time. Even though I almost hurt my favorite
fishin rod poking at them boys. I’m awful glad I met you, Noby One
Fflowers. You’ve let a little lightning out of the bottle. What
next? How bout a walk-about? You and me and Noramica’s most
thrillin sights and sounds?”