As Easy As Falling Off The Face Of The Earth Part 10

AIRPLANE DAY.

Everything seems more normal in the morning. This time only for about a minute, though. Ry opened his eyes and registered his surroundings. He was on another couch. That was okay. It was a glider, actually; an old-fas.h.i.+oned piece of furniture that moved backward and forward a little. The glider was on a screened-in porch. The air wafted balmy over his skin. It was nice.

Ry thought he could hear the sound of the surf and sat up to find out whether he could see the ocean. The sound turned out to be coming from a blowtorch. Everett, in a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt, his skinny legs, and flip-flops, was weeding his patio. With some kind of blowtorch-flamethrower device. It seemed to be effective: ahead of him weeds surged from between the patio stones in c.o.c.ky throngs. Behind him they shriveled, scorched and defeated. At least for now. The stones were scorched, too.

As Ry watched in fascination, Everett switched the blowtorch to his left hand, so that he could reach into the pocket of his shorts with his right and pull out a cell phone. As he held it to his ear, his attention drifted to what he was hearing, his glance turned upward, and the aim of the flame strayed within igniting distance of a crumpled paper plate that Ry hadn't noticed until it burst into flame. The burning wad scooted away, propelled by the flame jet, toward a loose coil of twine. Which also ignited.

Ry's gaze sought out the other end of the twine. He was sitting up straight now. The twine burned along like a fuse. In a way, it was a fuse. Everett hadn't seen the plate or the twine ignite. He was listening intently, his eyes once again looking down toward his patio weeding task. The twine fuse burned along behind and away from him. Ry pulled his shoes on. He would go trample it out.

About fifteen feet from the house, a large metal oil drum stood in scrubby gra.s.s, with a smaller oil drum nestled upside down inside the top of it. A plastic hose looped its way from the top drum over into the side of the house. A few coils of the twine had wedged between the plastic hose and the patio. The ball of twine itself sat just beyond that, in a rat's nest of tools and sc.r.a.ps, next to some rusted contraptions that resembled extinct mechanical livestock, grazing on an un-mowed island of meadow.

Ry hurried out the door. He wanted to trample the burning twine before it got to the rat's nest. It had already reached the coils under the plastic hose.

Suddenly Everett whooshed past in a few leaping strides. He yanked the plastic hose out from the house and tossed it to the ground, then leaped toward Ry in a few more uber-strides. He grabbed Ry's shoulders to push him away. The burning twine melted a hole in the plastic hose. Almost instantly there was a mighty WHOMP! and the smaller oil drum flew high into the air with a brilliant flash of fire. It hovered up there for a second or so before it came clanging back down. Meanwhile, the twine fuse burned over to the sc.r.a.p heap. It ignited some sc.r.a.ps of cardboard, then a heap of wood chips and before long, a lively bonfire was under way.

"d.a.m.n!" said Everett. He bolted around the corner of the house and returned with a garden hose to soak down the sc.r.a.p heap. The hose he had yanked from the house lay smoldering and smoking on the patio, partially melted, and cooling into a new shape.

"What happened?" asked Del, appearing barefoot in the doorway. The patio stones and the weeds Everett had scorched on purpose made the scene look even more dramatic.

"My methane digester exploded," said Everett. Aside from that one "d.a.m.n," he didn't seem too perturbed. Then he said, "Jeez, I bet that scared Lulu. She hates explosions." Now he did seem worried, and he headed around the house, looking around and calling for the dog.

THE LONGEST BREAKFAST.

Everett returned shortly, carrying the quivering Lulu in his arms. He set her down on a nest of blankets and wiped his hands on his shorts. Because the stove was out of commission, thanks to the explosion, he dug out an electric skillet.

"Eggs?" he asked. "Pancakes? Both?"

He proceeded to mix up a batch of pancake batter, throwing in a little of this, a lot of that. He scooped and dumped with a carefree flair, as if he had done this many times and knew exactly how to do it. Or else he was completely oblivious to the idea that amounts might matter. It was hard to tell which.

He asked Del to start cooking the pancakes while he, Everett, got Ry started on the squeezing of the orange juice. The orange juice squeezer was old-fas.h.i.+oned, with a handle that went up and down. Everett dragged a crate of oranges over from the corner and found a sharp knife for Ry to cut them in half with.

"This batter looks like cement," observed Del.

"You might want to turn the heat down on the skillet," Everett observed back at him. Mainly because he had observed the column of smoke rising from the hot oil. Maybe he felt one fire-related incident per morning, per house, was enough.

"I always do it this way," said Del. "They come out just right."

He poured four sizzling circles of batter, PSSsssh, PSsssshw, PSSSshw, Psshw. Everett glanced over from where he was scooping coffee into a paper filter.

"The insides won't get cooked," he said. "And the outsides will burn."

Del ignored this. Instead, he said to Ry, "See if you can find a sieve to pour that through and get the pulp out."

"The pulp is the best part," said Everett. "It's the fiber.

"I do have a sieve, though," he said. "I even know where it is. I used it yesterday, to get the ants out of the syrup."

He fished it out of the sink, tapped it to knock out the remaining ant carca.s.ses, gave it a rinse, and set it on the counter near Ry. Del flipped the pancakes. The cooked sides were dark. Very, very dark. Ry kept chopping and squeezing. And now, straining.

Lulu had recovered. She wandered over and sat next to the crate of oranges, watching Ry. He reached down for another orange and gave her a scratch, forgetting that his hand was sticky with juice and pulp. When he brought his hand away, it was covered with dog hair.

"Interesting," said Everett, cutting into the crispy pancakes with the side of his fork. Moist batter oozed out, glistening. He sc.r.a.ped up the gooey part with the crispy part and put it in his mouth.

He didn't say, "Mmm." No one did.

"I don't know what happened," said Del. "Maybe the coils in your skillet aren't heating evenly."

"Could be," said Everett. Graciously, Ry thought.

"The batter was pretty thick, too," said Del. "Do you ever measure anything?"

"Measuring is for sissies," said Everett. Not quite as graciously.

"Or the thermostat might be off," said Del. "It can be off just a little and it will make a big difference." Okay, Del, you can shut up now, thought Ry.

"You don't go by the thermostat," said Everett. "You go by what's happening with the oil in the pan." With an unspoken any idiot knows that.

Jeez, Ry thought. It's just pancakes.

He took a crispy, gooey bite, slathered in b.u.t.ter and syrup. It wasn't exactly pancakes.

"Mmm," he said. "Calories. I love calories."

Ry decided a new topic would be good.

"Hey," he said. "What was the coolest thing you guys ever did together?" He felt like a kindergarten teacher. Play nice, everyone.

At first it seemed his ploy had worked. Del and Everett agreed immediately on a particular climbing trip, in the Rockies. They waxed poetic: starting the climb in the dark, the first glow in the east. The huge quiet of the mountains, with only the sc.r.a.ping of the crampons and the slight sound of the ropes whispering into knots. Looking out from the top to see one peak after another.

Before long, they were remembering a particular cave in the side of a mountain, where they had taken shelter one cold and stormy night. They decided to try to build something of a wall, to keep the howling winds out, using the ready supply of rocks all around them.

Sitting inside their sleeping bags for warmth, they would reach around for a rock, then lean forward to place it carefully on their wall. They could not agree now on which one of them had chosen the rock that was too large, too irregular, and too sharp, and who had set that rock on top of the wall. They couldn't agree on who had said, "That's going to fall and rip holes in our bags." Which it then did. Not big holes. Just big enough to argue about.

Ry watched them bat it back and forth across the table for about twenty minutes. What is it with these guys, he thought. Who even cares who picked the bad rock? It was a mistake. He couldn't quite believe how...stubborn Del was being. Everett was being stubborn, too.

Ry broke in. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, "but do you think I could use your phone, Everett?"

"Oh, sure," said Everett amiably. He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Ry.

"I'll go outside," said Ry. As he left the kitchen, Everett and Del resumed their argument.

No one answered at the house. No surprise, though he had hoped. He pushed the b.u.t.tons to retrieve messages. There was only one, from the police: Had he heard anything? He called the number and left his own message: "No."

Del and Everett walked past, talking and laughing, on their way to the big pole barn where Everett kept the airplane.

Okay, he thought. So maybe they won't kill each other.

HERE WE GO, THEN.

Except for being so small and for missing one wing, it looked like a regular airplane. Until you got close, and then especially when you looked inside and saw the duct tape everywhere. Then it looked like a refrigerator-box s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p made by a six-year-old. Only less roomy. The dashboard instruments appeared to be authentic. But, Ry thought, how would I know?

"I know duct tape is really great," he said, "but I didn't know it could hold airplanes together."

"The duct tape isn't holding anything together," Everett rea.s.sured him. "It just reduces some of the vibration. Sort of. Well, I don't know if it actually does that, but that's what I wanted it to do. It gets pretty loud up there. Sometimes I can't hear for days."

A person might think it would take quite a while to attach a wing to an airplane, roll it out the door, and take off. That is, if you could even do it at all. Some part of a person might be secretly hoping you couldn't. But it seemed to happen zipzapzoop, just like that. Before Ry knew it.

Even in that short time, Del and Everett found a lot to disagree about. For example, every little thing.

"Four-inch bolt?" Del would ask.

"No, I think a three-inch will do it," Everett would answer. You could reverse who said what; it happened both ways.

"You sure?" asked Del.

"Yup," answered Everett.

"It's your life," said Del.

"It's our life, too," said Ry. Everett chuckled. Ry felt more nervous.

He was starting to get that the arguing might not mean that much. It made him nervous anyway.

Or maybe that had more to do with this little airplane.

Ry couldn't decide whether it was good that the three of them could lift the wing up into position, because that meant it was lightweight and would be more likely to stay up in the air, or if it was bad, because that meant it was flimsy, not trustworthy.

He had flown before, in big commercial aircraft, without giving it much thought. But the metal of Everett's airplane was not all curved and aerodynamic. The bends were angular, as if they had been folded along some giant dotted line. Who knows, maybe they were. Maybe that was how it was actually done.

He asked Everett. Who laughed.

"Yes," said Everett. "It's an origami airplane."

He moved around the plane, checking, tugging, tightening, in such a matter-of-fact way. It was calming. But then, there they were, strapped into the tiny silvery cubbyhole c.o.c.kpit, barreling down the runway, which was just a field, really, with some orange cones and a wind sock on the far side of the pole barn. Ry wished they could just drive the whole way.

They had liftoff. The earth fell away.

"Here we go, then," said Everett.

"Up, up, and away," said Del.

Once they were aloft and vibrating, Everett mentioned that the forecast in the newspaper yesterday had been for good flying weather.

"We're flying an airplane on a forecast from yesterday's newspaper?" asked Del.

"They usually come pretty close," said Everett. "Not always, of course."

They motored through the air, inching along above the glittering seas in their d.i.n.ky aluminum husk. Ry could see their insignificant shadow on the water way down below. The noise seemed more solid than the plane itself.

Lulu was along for the ride, squished in next to Ry. She wore specially designed dog ear protectors, on stretchy fabric that went around her head. She might be freaked out by explosions, but she seemed unfazed by flying in small airplanes. She seemed calm. But she was a dog. What did she know?

Everett shouted, over the noise of the engine, that the last time he flew over to Yulia's, the air had been really b.u.mpy.

"And the time before that," he said, "I was running just ahead of a thunderstorm. So today is just great. Picture-perfect."

"Do you go there pretty often?" asked Del. He shouted it in an offhanded way. But Yulia was his old girlfriend. Who he still liked. Was smitten with. Ry leaned forward slightly to hear what Everett might say.

"Well, I go there once a week or so for work," he said. "I have a sort of a job there. And I usually stop in at Yulia's to say h.e.l.lo."

That seemed like an okay answer to Ry. His attention s.h.i.+fted to his stomach, where uncooked pancake batter was swiftly expanding, or creating CO2 molecules or whatever baking powder and raw eggs do when they ripen together.

It occurred to Ry that there did not seem to be enough air in there for them all to be breathing. He knew this was all in his head, because he could breathe more easily by burying his face in Lulu's fur, which made no sense at all. Unless dog fur had hidden air pockets, like the ones seals have, to help them float. He kept his face in there for a while.

He lifted his head when Everett started banging on the dashboard, or whatever it was called.

"I thought I fixed that," Everett said in mild surprise.

"What is it?" asked Del.

"The dial isn't moving," said Everett, pointing. "I think it's just a loose connection. Can you pry that panel off and take a look? There's a screwdriver in that box under your seat."

This did not sound so good to Ry. He didn't think it would sound so good to Del, the meticulous craftsman,* either. He could almost hear Del spitting out the word shoddy.

But if there was anything Del liked better than fixing things, it was fixing things while in a precarious situation. Rising to the occasion. Being more than a pa.s.sive pa.s.senger. He was happy as a clam.

Ry, on the other hand, noticed that red itchy b.u.mps were appearing on his skin. Hives. All over. He sat, cramped, sweaty, waiting, and now, itching.

Glancing out the window reminded him that things could be worse.

At least the plane is still in the air, he thought to himself. At least I'm not sick to my stomach. Though when he thought that, he realized he easily could be, so he tried to think a different thought as soon as he could.

At least...at least I don't have any broken bones.

At least Lulu is here.

At least I'm not hungry. Though hungry might be better.

At least-at least I'm not-like, a political prisoner.

Okay, he didn't want to play that game anymore. He was hot. He was itchy. He fixed his gaze on a toggle switch that vibrated a few feet directly ahead of him. The plane was still noisy, but the steadiness of the loud droning was lulling. After a while, his mind wandered, and his gaze followed. For an hour or more, he forgot where he was, at least in a concrete way, even though he was watching islands of various sizes mosey by, far below, out the window. They were abstract islands.

Then the plane dipped down. The bottom fell out from under them. They fell into a layer of b.u.mpy air that bounced them around like a shoe in a clothes dryer. Oh, good, Ry thought. Even better. He looked at Lulu, strapped in beside him. She tried to lick his face, as well as she could between ricochets, with the healing spit of dogs. Her breath was not that great. But she was his favorite part of what was happening.

It was hard to ignore that what was happening could include, at any second, something pretty bad.

"Rough patch of air," Del said to Everett.

"Like driving down a rocky road," said Everett. "Makes you realize that air is a real thing."