Jim Shepard - Flights

Most of the time, the task of flying a light aeroplane is easier than driving a car, less strenuous than riding a horse, and requires less skill than fishing for trout.

And a final sentence, next to which he soberly drew a thick, double line:

It does, however, require constant alertness, and any lapses of concentration can be serious.

He sat alone watching Louis and some other members of the team horse around in the wide, empty practice field. He’d come to watch the practice and had stayed despite learning it had been canceled, unhappy with the idea of returning so soon after arriving. He had come on the bus, and had sat next to a black couple who had argued all the way out. The woman had been holding the man’s cassette deck while he tucked in his shirt, and he’d said, “Shit, you ain’t nothing but a nickel-diving bitch anyway,” and she’d hit him so hard with the cassette deck that the batteries had fallen out. The image and sudden violence had stayed in his head and he considered it from his perch on the dark green bleachers.

While most of the team had left, some had stayed around, waiting for rides and making fun of each other’s girlfriends. They started a pickup game of touch out of boredom and moved away from where he was sitting, but he didn’t follow, content to watch from where he was. An odd boy about his age, his hair sticking out at spiky angles, came up and sat near him.

In the game across the field, Louis tumbled backward over a pileup with his legs spread, someone else landing on top of him. When he got up, something shook between his legs and Biddy leaned forward.

“That kid’s pecker is hangin’ out,” the boy next to him said.

Louis had split his pants up the leg and was wearing nothing underneath.

No one he was playing with told him. The game continued. Whenever he ran it hung out, jiggling around. Tacklers made an elaborate display of getting out of the way.

Finally, with everyone stricken with laughter, someone pointed it out to Louis, who looked down and clapped both hands over his crotch, causing the laughter to intensify. They followed him to the bleachers and sat below Biddy.

“Nice secret weapon, Louis,” one of them said.

“Here I’m tackling the guy and I’m face to face with his nine-inch worm.”

Biddy reddened, Cindy’s phrase defining itself. Louis was smiling sheepishly.

“He’s tryin’ to distract you out there, Moretti.”

“He’s gotta do better than that.”

“Why? Not your size?”

“It’s your mother’s size.”

They kept after each other, everyone pitching in except Louis, who grinned and kept both hands on his crotch. The talk turned to girlfriends.

“Nice chick, Moretti. What an operator. He gets her drunk and she throws up in the back of his car.”

“Your mother threw up in the back of my car.”

“And then he gets so pissed he leaves her there and comes back to the party. Class act.”

“Maybe you oughta give up girls.”

“Or find somebody younger.”

“What was this one, junior high?”

“Maybe you should give up girls,” Louis said, rocking forward into the conversation.

“Shut up, Louis,” Moretti said. “You can’t even keep your dick in your pants.”

Louis sat back and his grin disappeared. When they left, he stayed and Biddy went down and sat next to him.

The field was deserted now except for the boy with the spiky hair, running patterns for an imaginary pass. Biddy put his hand on Louis’s back. “He wasn’t that mad,” he said. “He was just ranking you.”

Louis looked at his hands on his crotch.

“I don’t think he expected you to make fun of him.”

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” Louis said. The spiky kid loped into the end zone, hands cradling an invisible ball. “I make everybody do that.”

“No you don’t.”

“C’mon.” Louis got up. “Let’s go home.”

All the way home Biddy tried to cheer him up, talking about odd, unrelated subjects in bursts and giving up and surrendering to the silence for ten to fifteen minutes at a time before trying again.

When they reached his house, Louis turned and said he’d see him later and disappeared, leaving Biddy to walk the last few blocks alone and unhappy with everything.

Up in his room he opened all the drawers of his desk for no reason and stood before them, gazing at the mess.

His father came softly up the stairs and stood behind him. “What’re you doing?” he said.

“Nothing,” Biddy said.

“Where’d you go?”

“To watch Louis practice.”

His father crossed to the window and shut it. “That’s nice. It’s November and you got the windows open. When your mother sees the oil bill she’ll scream.”

Biddy stood in front of the open desk, unenthusiastic about doing anything else.

“Why’s Mickey mad at you? Dom says he pretty much threw you out of the house the other day.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let it bother you. He’s a little off the wall for extra bases, that kid.”

Biddy took his jacket off.

“What’s on the agenda now? A little dice baseball?”

He shrugged and his father came over to the desk alongside him. “Get a load of this.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a sheaf of box scores. “How many games do you play? Baltimore-Oakland, Baltimore-Oakland, Baltimore-New York … What is this, a whole season?”

“A whole season,” Biddy said.

“Jesus Christ. If you’d been reading all this time, you’d be a Ph.D.” He sat on the bed, leafing through the pile. “What are these K’s? Strikeouts?” Biddy nodded. “And what does this mean?”

He looked over. “Out stealing third.”

“Well, I gotta hand it to you, guy. Biddy Siebert and his magic violin. Some imagination. Look at this: batting averages, half-year statistical leaders — is there anything you don’t have in here? When you want to, you can make things up with the best of them. But listen: think maybe we can cut back the number of games eventually, Commissioner?”

“I’m not playing now.”

“No, I mean when the season starts.”

“It doesn’t bother anybody.”

“It bothers me. Jesus Christ, there’s a thousand things you could be doing in the summer and you’re up here throwing Doug DeCinces out at second base.”

Biddy looked down.

“C’mon. This next year let’s give it a rest, okay? I bought you the book about airplanes. Learn about airplanes. Or find another interest. At least cut back on this stuff. Otherwise I’ll flush every pair of dice in the house.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, the reason I came up here was to tell you I got a surprise for you. So keep tomorrow after supper free.”

“Okay.”

His father made a face and sat farther back on the bed, dissatisfied.

Biddy sat at the desk and put the box scores away. He sharpened a pencil.

“How do you like that book?” his father said.

“I like it a lot.”

“You sound like it.” He lay back with a noisy intake of breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Gettin’ old.” He remained in that position for some few minutes, annoying Biddy for some reason, and finally said, “You seen Ronnie lately?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason. He’s just never around. Poor Cindy’s always looking for him.” He stretched, Biddy watching. “He’s always going somewhere. Probably got something going on the side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.” He got up, rubbing his eye, and stopped by the door. “Listen, forget I said that.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He started down the stairs only to lean back into view. “Your mother’s making hot dogs again for supper. C’mon down.” He straightened up out of sight and continued down the stairs. “Don’t start any trouble. All your mother needs to hear is more of this ‘I’m not hungry’ stuff.”