Jim Shepard - Flights

He waited until his father reached the bottom and then pulled the heavy Flight book over, intending to open it but losing interest and settling, finally, on resting his chin on top of it, and staring out the window at the Frasers’ house next door.

He called Teddy Bell and told him to come over that night and bring his gun. Teddy owned a Winchester Special Edition BB gun and snuck out of the house periodically late at night to shoot out streetlamps or torment cats.

One o’clock, Biddy said. Wait for him in the driveway at one o’clock.

He went to bed at ten — he had school the next day — and crept down the stairs at one, easing out the front door. Teddy was wandering nervously back and forth beneath the kitchen window.

“Where’s the gun?” Biddy whispered.

“It’s in the bush,” Teddy said. “What do you want to do?”

“C’mon.” Biddy crossed to the garage, reaching down for the door handle and pausing before edging it up a foot and a half.

“What’re you doin’?” Teddy whispered.

“It’s too loud. It’ll wake everyone up.” Biddy crouched at the black opening and gestured through it. “Get in.”

Teddy slithered under and Biddy followed.

“Grab that end,” he said in the darkness, holding part of the ladder. The moonlight flooded through the garage-door windows. “Set it by the door. I’ll slide out and you hand it to me.” Teddy nodded, impressed by the amount of planning, and together they edged the long aluminum ladder under the door and straightened up.

“Get the gun,” Biddy said, and carried the ladder, swaying back and forth with the danger of a huge noise if it struck anything, around to the back of the garage, and set it gently against the roof.

Teddy returned with the gun. “What’re we doin’?”

“Shh,” Biddy said, climbing.

From the roof much of the surrounding area opened up, became visible. The big maple blocked the view in one direction, its branches reaching to touch the shingles, but they could see clearly in all other directions, and between the Frasers’ house and another they had an unencumbered shot at Prospect Drive.

“How’s your wrist?” Biddy said.

“All right,” Teddy said. “This is cool.”

“Let me see.” Biddy took the gun. “Is it pumped up?”

Teddy shook his head. Biddy pumped it up. He leveled it toward Prospect Drive and sighted along the barrel. A car went by, flashing over the gunsight in the distance.

“Whaddaya gonna do?” Teddy said.

Another went by and he squeezed firmly, the sound an echoing burst of air. There was a sharp metallic pang in the distance.

“Oh, God.” Teddy flattened against the rooftop. “Did they stop? You’re nuts.” He giggled.

Biddy pumped it again.

“Don’t pump it up too much,” Teddy said. “You’ll bust it.”

He leveled at the sound of another approaching car and fired when it crossed the barrel. The sound of the impact on the door rang off the houses in the darkness and the car pulled over immediately.

“Oh, God,” Teddy said. “Get down.”

They waited, chilly against the rough surface, but the car remained silent. Finally, Biddy poked his head over the edge. The driver had come all the way down the Frasers’ driveway. He ducked back and put his finger hard to his lips.

“Goddamn kids,” they heard, and Teddy’s eyes widened at the proximity of the voice.

Biddy edged the barrel up again. The driver was walking back to the car. He leveled the barrel, sighting along the spur of the gunsight into the man’s black back, and whispered, “Pow.” The man turned off the driveway, got into the car, and drove away.

“What were you going to do if he came after us?” Teddy said. “You’re a maniac.”

“Someone’s coming out,” Biddy said. Teddy rolled closer and peered over the roof beside him. Mr. Fraser appeared on his back porch, in a bright yellow fisherman’s raincoat and hat, with a garbage can in his hands.

“What’s he doin’?” Teddy whispered.

“Taking out the garbage.”

“At one in the morning?”

They watched him cross the lawn.

“He had the can in the house?” Teddy whispered.

“Looks like it.”

Mr. Fraser stopped to rest halfway down the driveway. The can was apparently heavy.

“What’s he doing in a raincoat?” Teddy said.

Biddy looked up at the sky. It was absolutely clear.

Teddy shook his head. “This whole neighborhood is nuts.”

“Get down,” Biddy said. He lifted the barrel over the top of the roof and squeezed off a shot at the garbage can.

Mr. Fraser shrieked and dropped it on the pavement.

They both shook in their efforts to prevent the laughter from bursting out, making little nasal noises. Mr. Fraser circled the can in his raincoat and gingerly picked it up by the handles again.

Biddy aimed swiftly and squeezed off another shot and again the can rang supernaturally and again Mr. Fraser dropped it with a cry. He backed away as if something dangerous were inside about to get out. He stood eyeing it for a few moments and then looked around, wiped his mouth, and swept the can up, hustling it over to the garage, his hat lofting off in the exertion. The hat lay like a piece of litter on the lawn in the moonlight.

Biddy sighted on Mr. Fraser’s rear end as he walked back to retrieve the hat. “Pow,” he whispered.

Fraser went into the house. Biddy lifted the rifle barrel away.

“God,” Teddy breathed, relieved, turning over on the roof to face the stars. “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him.”

“Can I borrow this again sometime?” Biddy whispered, still facing the Frasers’ house.

“Sure,” Teddy said. “Keep it over here.” He looked at the wrist he’d reinjured playing football. “I can’t use it anyhow.”

Biddy remained in the car with his mother, and his father slammed the door and climbed the slight rise to the adjoining parking lot.

“You guys stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned with a little black puppy, furry and curling awkwardly in his arms.

“Well, come on out,” he said. “Look at him.”

Biddy scrambled out, surprised and excited by how pleased this puppy, squirming and twisting to get at him, made him feel.

“He’s great.”

His father grinned. “Were you surprised?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Here, take him. I’m gonna go thank Al.”

He took the dog from his father’s arms like a baby, feeling enormously grateful. It arched its back and tried to twist around, licking in all directions.

His mother got out of the car. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.

“He’s so tiny.”

“Oh, he’ll get big, don’t worry. Besides, we can’t have a horse with our yard.”

Across the street his father and Al waved. He felt uncomfortable, his happiness diluted by being on display.

“There’s a box in the trunk,” his mother said. “Let’s put him in that.”

His father returned and they put the box on the floor of the front seat, where Biddy could watch it.

“What’re you going to name him?” his mother asked from the back on the way home. It was a very bright day and the grass still showed green in patches beneath the fallen leaves as they passed the park.

“I don’t know,” he said. The dog made tiny cries and scraped around the bottom of the box. “Thanks,” he added, turning around so his mother was included.

“Don’t thank us,” his father said. “Thank Al Greaves.”

“I’ll thank you,” he said. “And you can thank Al Greaves.”

Upon their return Kristi, playing on the back porch, stood up, saw the box, heard the scrapings, and pushed over a potted palm. It tumbled heavily to the carpet, spilling dirt.