Flying in the Heart of the Lafayette Escadrille (34 page)

“What do you want?” Roman said. His voice sounded empty to him and small against the hiss of waves in the gravel.

The wolf cocked its head to the side and whined again. It repeated the dash up the beach and back. Roman stood. Wind pushed against him, and he glanced up. The sky was darkening, and to the east a shimmer of lightning flicked within the clouds. He shivered.

This was not wolf behavior he’d seen before. It seemed sportive, like a game of tag. The large gray waited until Roman stepped toward him, then sprinted to the top of the dune. He flopped onto his chest again, sending a spray of sand down the slope. Mystified, Roman leaned into the dune’s bank, bracing himself with his hand to follow the animal up. The wolf raced out of sight, and a second later peeked over the top again as if to see if Roman were following.

Sand slithered away beneath his feet, and it took dozens of steps to climb the few feet to the top. A wall of dwarf pine filled the gully in front of him. To both sides bare hills rose like shoulders from the sea. The wolf popped out of a narrow gap in the pine, paused until Roman moved toward it, then vanished into the vegetation. Roman got on his knees and looked through the dark arch. He’d have to crawl. He left his backpack on the ground.

It seemed a long way. The strongest sense of deja vu swept over him as he pushed through the pine. He’d been here before, following a playful wolf. The behavior seemed familiar, but he didn’t come up with the connection until the pine opened up, and he could finally stand. There, sitting on their haunches, watching him intently, was the rest of the pack. He saw Fitzgerald in all their eyes, a little bit of Fitzgerald in the tilt of their heads. Fitzgerald resided in the passion of their stares.

Then he figured it out. Not wolves. Wolves wouldn’t ambush, but coyotes would. Clever tricksters, the wolves surrounded him, and the first drops of rain spattered down.

The rain fell. Roman turned a full circle, water running across his cheeks, dripping off his nose. As he faced each wolf, it tucked its head down, dropped its ears back and lowered its tail. It was deference. When he stepped toward the big gray, it too turned slightly away, exposing its neck, showing by posture a lower rank.

The wind sliced through Roman’s wet clothes. He shook against the chill, but he stood in the middle of them until the sky darkened enough to tell him that night was near. Straight across the island, the research center was no more than a couple of miles away.

What message should he take from this? What did it mean that the wolves made him the alpha-male? Was that the lesson that Fitzgerald sent to them through the hours of broadcasting, or was it what they picked up from him directly on those nights he mingled with them? It seemed a kind of forgiveness, a kind of benediction of clemency. Roman had turned away from Fitzgerald, but all was not lost. The wolves forgave him. Roman fell to his knees in relief, and he let the rain melt the letter until the words were unreadable.

Finally, expended and bone cold, he stepped past the first wolf and headed for the shelter of the research center. The wolves that had been lying down stood, and the big gray trotted to a spot in between Roman and his goal.

Roman stopped. The wolf growled deep from the back of its throat; his teeth gleamed.

“I’ve got to go, boys,” said Roman, but the wolf blocked his path, snarling when Roman tried to walk away. Only when he moved back to the center of the pack did the gray lose interest. Roman tried twice more to slip past them, but the reaction was the same. The pack would tear him up if he tried to leave. Night gradually fell; rain continued, and the wind never stopped.

Later, much later, Roman lost track of what direction he should go if he could go. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore, and the little voice in the back of his head that stayed with him when he was drunk told him that hypothermia was setting in, but he didn’t care. Caring took too much energy, and he wasn’t afraid either. He was just tired. Below him, the sand felt soft, so he laid himself on it. He’d quit shivering long ago.

Soon a warm, wet weight pressed itself against him. Another one warmed his other side. He opened his eyes slowly, took a long time to focus, and saw on the crest of the hill looking down, a marble white figure like a naked god in the moon light. Raising his head lethargically, Roman mouthed the name, but as he studied the shape he realized it was the crescent moon. The clouds had broken, although rain still fell, and the wind hustled over him, moaning in his ear. Sand pressed gently against his cheek; he closed his eyes again, understanding the wolves were keeping him warm, and before he slipped into unconsciousness, he knew they loved him. Fitzgerald and the pack loved him. They would stay with him until it was time to jump in the ocean and start that long swim.

And they would never, never let him go.

No Small Change

I
used to be able to kill flies.”

“What?”

“Flies, I used to be able to kill them.”

“You brought me to the girl’s bathroom to tell me you used to be able to kill flies, Maureen? I can kill flies.”

The two girls huddled together in a stall. Stagnant cigarette smoke whisped around them like a mist. Maureen sat on the stool, her hands pressed deeply into the blue and gray plaid skirt that was uniform at Mrs. Fennimore’s Finishing School. Leslie, facing her, arms crossed over her crisply starched blouse, leaned against the door.

“Anybody can kill flies.”

“I can still kill them, just not as well.” Maureen, head down, seemed intent on the floor between them.

“I’m ditching Home Ec for you. There had better be more to that than this.”

“You are the only one I can tell. I don’t have any other friends here. No one would understand.” Maureen turned her face up. Her eyes were rimmed red. “Please listen to me.”

Leslie stooped and put her hand on Maureen’s hands.

“I’m sorry. Just be clearer. That’s all. Now what do you mean about not being able to kill flies as well?”

“It won’t do any good to tell you. I’ll have to show you,” she said and stood up. “Find a fly.”

“We’re in the head. No problem.” They pushed through the door together. “There’s one.”

Around the ceiling light flew a large fly, a September fly, fat from a summer of waste food, spilled soft drinks, and whatever other unmentionable things flies feed on.

Maureen pointed at it, sighting down her arm like a pheasant hunter and said “Bang.” It caught fire, fell to the floor, smoldered for a second, and then was just a tiny pile of ash.

Leslie sidled over to it cautiously and stared down for a moment.

“Shit.” She looked at Maureen. “Can you do that every time?” She looked down. “Shit.”

“No, I can’t.” Maureen’s face was a portrait of grief. “Sometimes they don’t even die. They used to go up like firecrackers. When I was eight, there wasn’t a fly within a mile of our house. I went out back, said ‘bang’ and it would sound like the Fourth of July. I didn’t need to see them; I didn’t even have to know they were there, but now—this.” She pointed at the ash.

“You killed that fly. Do you know how incredible that is? You’re a phenomenon. People will want to study you. We can make lots of money. We’ll be more famous than rock stars.” Leslie whirled gleefully.

“No! Why do you think you’re the first to know? Sit down for a second and figure this out. Do you think I want to be a freak? No way! It’s a secret. Only you and I can know.” They moved to the window seat. The bottom panes were frosted to prevent people from looking into the second story bathroom, but the upper panes provided a good view of the commons area. “Besides, at this rate in a few months I won’t be able to do it at all.”

“So what’s the problem? Most people I know can’t kill flies that way and they’re happy. Black Flag works fine for them.”

“Very funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. You have a strange skill and it’s going away. People live all over who can’t point their fingers at things and make them die. I don’t see the big fuss.”

“The fuss is that I used to be able to do it. It made me different. Some girls can sing. You can play the piano; some are good at English or Math; some are great dancers. This is what made me unique. It gave me power that no one else had.” She put her head down again. “And now it’s going away. I’ll just be a stupid twelve-year-old at this stupid finishing school.”

Another fly, blissfully unaware, buzzed like an airborn rollercoaster in front of them.

“Bang.” It stuttered in the air and fell stunned, on its back, to the floor. Seconds later it started spiraling its legs. Maureen pointed and concentrated mightily.

“Bang.”

This time it puffed into a tiny cloud making a discernable pop, like someone snapping a bubble of chewing gum.

“I don’t suppose you could teach me to do that?”

Leslie gazed at Maureen, who stared back blankly.

“I suppose not. Oh well. Let’s take a walk. Maybe something will occur to us. If you want, we can go down to Dairy Queen, and I’ll buy us chocolate malts.”

They cracked open the bathroom door, checked both ways to make sure it was clear, particularly of Mr. Haverson, who constantly wandered the hallways, and dashed for the front doors. Ten minutes later the two young ladies were seated with malts in front of them. A group of boys from the junior high were in a back booth joking about football practice. The rest of the store was empty so they had chosen a table on the other side of them.

“What are you going to do if you can’t kill them any more?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Like Mrs. Fennimore says ‘You must put things in perspective.’ But its just not that, Leslie. Everything is changing. Can’t you feel it?” Maureen shrugged her shoulders together as if in the grip of a sudden chill. “I mean you and me, and all the girls in the school. We’re going apart. We’re coming apart. I don’t know what it is but I don’t feel good any more. Losing this thing . . .” She held up her pointed finger like it wasn’t really a part of her—like it was an alien artifact whose function she didn’t understand. “. . . is only a side of it. What is happening?”

She sucked up an inch of malt. “I need perspective. Does this mean I’m dying? Will my health go next?”

Leslie looked at Maureen’s drink. “Your appetite seems good.” Leslie laughed, inviting Maureen to join her.

For a moment she held it in, but then she laughed too. “Do you have a temperature?”

“No.” She wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Have you had any hallucinations? Imagined you were Joan of Arc or Queen Victoria?”

“No, of course not.”

“Have you felt an urge to steal dresses off the racks or wear your underwear outside your clothes?”

“Ugh.”

“All right then. You’re not physically sick, and mentally you seem fine. What you need to do then is count up what you’ve got going for you.”

“Like?”

“You’re rich, right?”

“Not really. Dad owns a couple of Mercedes dealerships.”

“Come on.”

“Okay. I’m rich.”

“You’re going to graduate from this dump at the end of this year, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably going to a really nice private junior high like Kingshill, right?”

“Actually, no. Chivingsworth.” Maureen looked much better now, her composure restored as she got caught in her friend’s natural good humor.

“Ooh. I’m impressed.” Leslie took a swallow from her own drink. The boys brayed explosively at some obsenity and she cast a disgusted glance in their direction. “That’s plenty nice enough. So your future is set, right?”

“Right.”

“Besides, has it occurred to you that this one power may be going away so that a better one can come along? Say, an ability to fly, or be invisible, or something really awesome?”

Maureen turned the idea over in her mind momentarily. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Leslie leaned over the table, locked eyes with her friend and said, “There’s power, and then there’s power. Not all changes have to be bad. Maybe you ought to just wait and see what pops up.”

Maureen contemplated this concept for a bit as they finished off their malts.

Just as they were standing, two of the boys sauntered away from their group and positioned themselves at the end of the girl’s table. One was quite a bit shorter than the other, and both were wearing blue T-shirts with “Knights Football Team” in white on them.

“Excuse me. You’re from the finishing school aren’t you?” said the taller one as he pushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead.

Leslie looked him over coolly. “Yes. Who would like to know?”

The shorter one glanced up at the taller one with an ‘I told you so’ kind of expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry. My name’s Jeff and this is Mark.”

Jeff rushed through his next words. His buddies were all staring at them from their booth across the way, snickering. “Um, we’re on the football team. At the junior high, you know, and we’re sponsoring a dance to raise money—for helmets—and like, we were wondering if you two would like to go.” Leslie and Maureen looked at them expectantly. “To the dance I mean, with us. It’s Saturday in the gymnasium.”

Neither young woman said a word. They sat primly, backs straight, expressions severe, judgmental, as if they were dealing with a lower life form.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, and this is probably a surprise since you don’t know us or anything.”

Maureen said, “Thank you. We’ll talk about it.”

The boys looked disappointed for a second, then the short one said, “If you want to go, Jeff and I will be in here tomorrow after school and you can meet us for a coke or fries or something.”

“Perhaps.”

Leslie added, “We might, and then we might not. We’ll have to think about it for a while.”

“Fine. We’ll see you tomorrow then maybe.” They backed up a step each, turned, and marched deliberately to their friends. When they sat down they all began to talk in a low buzz.

“God, do you believe that, Maureen?” Leslie’s eyes were glittering.

“No way am I going to a dance with those guys.”

“The tall one was kind of cute.”

“You really think so, Leslie? He was so sweaty.”