Unpossible (45 page)

I rushed back to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt that pulled down over flange and bag. I grabbed my crutches and lurched outside, bare toes scuffing the pavement as I crossed the two driveways.

I mashed the doorbell, then without waiting for an answer, banged on the wooden door and yelled. "Open the door! Now! Open the door!"

No one answered. I could still hear William screaming. I twisted the doorknob, but it was locked. "Mr. Spero! Where are you? Where’s the baby?"

The door flew open. Mr. Spero’s skin under his robe was fish white. "What the hell do you want?" he said, shocked.

I pushed forward, and got inside the frame of the door. "Show me the baby."

"Get the hell out of my house!"

"Show me William."

He started to close the door, but I lunged forward, got another leg inside. Mr. Spero raised his right fist.

"What are you going to do, Mr. Spero. Hit me?"

I wanted it. Local Man Hits Crippled Neighbor. I wasn’t worried about being hurt—this body’s only a vehicle, after all.

He slammed the door back against the wall. "Get out of my fucking house."

"Not until you show me the baby."

Mrs. Spero came into the room, wearing a green nightgown, holding William on her shoulder. He was quiet now.

She frowned at me. "Tim? It’s two A.M."

"I know, I just—"

I couldn’t say, what was he doing on the floor? Did Mr. Spero drop him? Throw him on the ground?

"I heard him screaming."

"Babies do that," Mr. Spero said.

I ignored him, and looked only at Mrs. Spero. "He’s all right? Are you sure?"

She turned slightly, so I could see William’s face. His eyes were screwed up tight, and he was sobbing, but he didn’t look bruised or hurt.

"Is he all right?"

"He had a stomach cramp," she said. "He’s fine."

My memory is a series of still images, squared off by the viewfinder.

Stevie on the first rung of the ladder, knee raised, hands gripping the rails.

Higher, a dark look over his shoulder—not toward me, but toward some point in the distance, perhaps the enemy troops flying in.

At the top, the lid of the cockpit open like a beetle’s wing, and Stevie gazing into the crowded compartment.

From my desk I watched her place the baby in his crib. He had fallen asleep in her arms, and barely stirred as she laid him on the mattress. Mr. and Mrs. Spero exchanged only a few words, then disappeared into their bedroom.

I sat in front of the PC for an hour, watching and listening. William’s face was dimly lit from his nightlight. The house was absolutely still except for the sound of his breathing.

I went into the living room, too wired to sleep myself. I picked up the can of film I’d set aside for tomorrow night’s viewing. It was the last can from Stevie’s boxes, the last reel before the never-developed Last Reel.

I checked the film, going slow because it was heavily edited, spliced every dozen frames. He’d worked hard on this one. Eventually I threaded it into the projector and flicked on the lamp.

No sound except the clack of sprockets in the brittle film. The titles came up: a hand-stenciled sign. "The NovaWeapon Chronicles." Flick, and the sign changed. "Final Chapter."

I frowned. So far, Stevie had never made a chapter that spanned two reels. The movie couldn’t be complete without the scene I’d filmed.

The screen flashed—sun glare on the lens—and out of the white a tiny silhouette plummeted out of the sky. The camera cut to another angle: the same figure, still far away, falling and tumbling, arms and legs outstretched. Then another cut, and another, each shot from a slightly different angle, and the figure fell closer and closer.

I saw a flash of rocks in the background. It was the quarry. I remembered filming it, shooting up from the bottom of the pit, staring into the sun.

And then there were new images, things that Stevie had filmed himself.

I finished the reel, rewound it, watched it again.

A dark shape in the Plexiglas bubble like the pupil of an eye, his hand lifted in a StarForce salute.

I answered the door still wearing the sweats and T-shirt I’d pulled on the night before.

She held a squirming William on one hip. She turned toward the door as it opened, and smiled in a way that seemed rehearsed.

"Tim, I wanted—are you all right?"

"I’m fine." My eyes felt raw. I probably looked like hell.

She paused, and then nodded. William pulled at her shoulders. "I’d like to talk about last night."

"Sure."

She smiled again, nervous. "Let’s not do this on the front step. This boy is heavy."

William bent backwards over her arm, sure that it was impossible for his mother to drop him. He looked fine. Absolutely fine.

Mrs. Spero had never come into my yard before, much less my house. I glanced behind me. The drapes were pulled, and the room was dim. The box full of films and tapes sat in plain sight on the floor. The projector was next to the couch, aimed at the wall.

"It’s kind of a mess."

"I promise not to tell your mom," she said. A thin smile.

I didn’t open the door. "I’m sorry if I upset you," I said.

"I know what you’re doing, Tim."

My face went hot, and I smiled automatically. "Yeah?"

"You’re looking out for me. For the baby. But you don’t have to do that."

"I don’t? That’s what neighbors do for each other."

"John’s different now. He’s good with William."

"Hey, that’s great," I said. "That’s really good."

"You don’t believe me."

"I’d like to believe you. Does it matter? I hope you’re right."

William squawked at me, excited but serious, frowning like Alfred Hitchcock. I held my hands out to him, and he grabbed my fingers, hard. I laughed.

"He stopped drinking, Tim." She waited until I looked at her. "You know he used to drink?"

I shrugged, still holding William’s hands. I’d only figured this out later, after college, after I’d met a few people who were in recovery. When I was a kid, I’d noticed Mr. Spero always had a drink in his hand. But he wasn’t a drunk. That was Otis on the Andy Griffith Show. "I guess that’s a pretty good excuse," I said lightly.

"It’s not an excuse!"

I dropped William’s hands, and he leaned toward me. Mrs. Spero shifted him higher on her hip.

"That’s not what I’m saying," she said, her calm voice back again. "But you have to understand, he was a different person then. He shouldn’t have been so hard on Stevie, but—"

I stared at her. Hard on him? Did she not know? Hadn’t she seen the bruises?

No, of course not. She hadn’t seen a thing. None of us had.

"Tim, people can change. There are second chances. I know you may not want to believe this, but after Steven’s suicide—"

"It wasn’t suicide." I struggled to keep my voice level.

"What?"

"He showed me the storyboards. It wasn’t a suicide. It was a plan, in two stages, like—"

"Tim, stop ... "

"It was a launch. The starfighter is destroyed, but Rocket Boy ejects. The pilot is intact."

Mrs. Spero shook her head, her eyes wet. "Oh, Tim." Her voice was full of pity. For me.

"There’s something you need to see," I said.

The ship, splintered with light. In the middle distance, the hint of bright metal and wooden shards, blurred by speed and spin, slicing toward the lens.

We sat on the couch like a little family, William between us, sitting up by himself and obviously pleased. Mrs. Spero regarded the blank wall, her face composed. She hadn’t commented on the projector, or the box full of videotapes and film cans. She must have recognized them.

I turned on the projector lamp and the light hit the white wall, askew. I adjusted one of the legs and the image straightened. The machine chattered through the blank leader tape.

William ignored the light and sound. He abruptly threw himself forward, making for the floor, and Mrs. Spero automatically put out a hand.

"Could I hold him?" I asked.

She nodded, her attention already on the flickering wall, and I moved my hands under his arms. I was surprised how heavy he was. I sat him on my lap, facing me. He was unimpressed.

The opening titles appeared. The final chapter. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. I might have been showing her the dense data tables I worked with.