Full Spectrum 3 Part 62

The figure bounced down, once, twice. The landscape bobbed with him. Andrew fidgeted, glancing at Howell. The old man's hands twisted in his lap as though strangling something, pulling at the hem of his robe. His eyes were riveted to the television. He was crying.

The boy quickly looked back at the screen. After another minute the tape ended. Angry hissing from the television. Andrew stood and turned down the volume, avoiding Howell's face.

"That's it, huh?" he remarked with hollow cheerfulness, hitting the rewind b.u.t.ton.

Howell stared at him. "Did you see?"

Andrew sat back on his heels. "Yeah, sure. That's real interesting. The moon. Them landing on the moon."

"You never saw it before?"

He shook his head. "No. I like that stuff, though. Science fiction. You know."

"But this really happened."

Andrew nodded defensively. "I know. I mean, I don't remember, but I know it happened."

Howell coughed into a handkerchief, glaring at the boy. "Pretty boring to you, I guess." He stepped to the machine and removed the tape, shoving it back into its case. "No lights. Nothing exciting. Man lands on moon."

Embarra.s.sed, Andrew stared at him. Howell returned his gaze fiercely, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Who cares," he coughed; then looked suddenly, helplessly at the boy.

"That's all I ever wanted to do, you know. Fly. And walk on the moon."

"But you did. You went. You just told me." Andrew gestured at the walls, the photographs. "All this-" He hesitated. "Stuff, all this stuff you got here-"

Howell stroked the videotape, gnawed fingertips catching on its plastic lip, and shook his head, shameless of tears that fell now like a disappointed child's. Andrew stared, horrified, waiting for the old man to stop, to apologize. But he went on crying. Finally the boy stood and crossed the room, turned to shut the bathroom door behind him, ran the water so as not to hear or think of him out there: an old man with a dog at his ankles, rocking back and forth with an old videotape in his hand, heedless of the flickering empty screen before him.

Andrew made dinner that night, a couple of meals on plastic trays slid into the microwave. He ended up eating both of them.

"I'll bring in some wood tomorrow," he said, pausing in the kitchen doorway to hitch up his pants. Howell had insisted on him wearing something other than the old hospital robe. Andrew had rummaged around in a bureau until he found faded corduroy trousers and a flannel shirt, both too big for him. Even with the pants cuffed they flopped around his inkles, and he had to keep pushing back his sleeves as he ran the dinner plates under the tap. When he finished the dishes he poured Howell a gla.s.s of scotch and joined him in the other room. The old man sipped noisily as the two of them sat in front of the cold, fireplace, Andrew pulling at his frayed shirt cuffs. In the kitchen he'd swallowed a mouthful of scotch when Howell wasn't looking. Now he wished he'd taken more. "I could bring in some wood tonight, I guess," he said at last.

Howell shook his head. "Tomorrow'll be fine. I'll be going to bed soon anyway. I haven't had a fire here since Christmas. Peter built it." He gestured at the half-burned spruce. "As you can see. My son can't build a fire worth a tinker's d.a.m.n."

Andrew pushed a long lock of hair from his eyes. "I don't know if I can either."

"That's okay. I'll teach you." Howell took another sip of scotch, placed the gla.s.s on the floor. Festus stood and flopped beside Andrew, mumbling contentedly. The boy scratched the dog's head. He wondered how soon Howell would go to sleep, and glanced at the back door before turning to the old man. In the dim light, Howell's cheeks glowed rosily, and he looked more like the man on the magazine cover. Andrew tugged at the dog's ears and leaned back in his chair.

"You got Man of the Year," he said at last.

"We all got Man of the Year. Peter was just a kid. Not impressed." Howell grimaced. "I guess it comes with the territory."

Andrew looked away. "I was impressed," he said after a moment. "I just didn't remember. They don't have any of that stuff now."

Howell nodded. For a few minutes they sat, the silence broken only by the battering of wind at the roof.

Then, "You're a runaway," said Howell.

Andrew stared fixedly at the dog at his feet. "Yeah."

Howell rubbed his chin. "Well, I guess that's not so bad. At least in Kamensic it's safe enough. You found one of the abandoned cabins down there."

Andrew sighed and locked his hands behind his head. "Yeah. We used to go there when I was a kid. My mother and I. Up until a few years ago." He tousled Festus's ears with elaborate casualness. "You gonna call the police?"

Howell peered at him. "Do you want me to?"

"No." The boy drew back his hand, and Festus yawned loudly. "There's no one to go to. My mom died last summer. She killed herself. My father died before I was born. n.o.body cares."

"n.o.body looked for you?"

Andrew shrugged. "Who's to look? My aunt, I guess. They have their own kids. I did okay."

Howell nodded. "Until the first snow." He coughed. "Well, you must be a d.a.m.ned resourceful kid, that's all I can say. I won't call the police. But I can't let you go back out there alone. It'll snow again, and I won't be around to find you."

Andrew shook his head. "Just leave me alone." He rubbed his stinging eyes. "No one ever cared except her, and she-"

"That's okay," Howell said softly. He coughed again, then asked, "What happened to your father?"

"Dead. He disappeared one day. They never found him."

"The war?"

Andrew shook his head. "Up here-he was up here. Visiting. We had family. He-my mother said he died here in the woods." He stared at the floor, silent.

He wants to leave, thought Howell. In the dimness the boy looked very young. Howell recalled other nights, another boy. His heart ached so suddenly that he shuddered, gasping for breath. Andrew stood in alarm.

"Nothing-nothing-" Howell whispered, motioning him away. His head sank back onto his chest. After a few minutes he looked up. "Guess I'll go to bed now."

Andrew helped him into the bedroom. Not much bigger than the room in Andrew's abandoned cottage, but scrupulously neat, and almost all windows except for the wall above the double bed. Howell slipped from his robe, leaving Andrew holding it awkwardly while the old man eased himself into bed, grunting from the effort.

"Just put it there-" Howell pointed to the door. Andrew hung the robe on a hook. He tried to avoid looking directly at Howell, but there was little else: the black windows, a bureau, a closet door. Above the bed a framed NASA photo of the moon. Andrew pretended interest in this and leaned over Howell to stare at it. In the white margin beneath the moon's gray curve someone had written in a calligraphic hand: Come on all you Lets get busy for the speedy trips to all Planets and back to earth again.

"Huh," said Andrew. Behind him, Festus shambled into the room and, grumbling, settled himself on a braided rug.

The old man winced, twisting to stare up at the photograph. "You like that?" he said.

"Sure," said Andrew, shrugging. "What's it mean? That poem or whatever. You write that?"

Howell smiled. He was so thin that it was hard to believe there was a body there beneath all the smooth quilts and blankets. "No, I didn't write that. I'll show you where it came from, though; tomorrow maybe. If you want. Remind me."

"Okay." Andrew waited: to see if Howell needed anything; to see if he would be dismissed. But the old man just lay there, eyes fluttering shut and then open again. Finally the boy said, "Good night," and left the room.

It took Andrew a long time to fall asleep that night. He sat on the widow seat, staring out at the snow-covered fields as he fingered the amulet around his neck. He didn't know why he'd stayed this long. He should have left as soon as he could that morning, waited for the old man to fall asleep (he slept all day: he must be really sick, to sleep so much) and then crept out the back door and disappeared into the woods.

Even now... He pulled at the amulet, holding it so tightly it bit into the ball of his thumb. He should leave now.

But he didn't. The wrinkled white face staring up from the double bed reminded him of his mother in the coffin. He had never noticed how many lines were in her face; she really hadn't been that old. He wondered how long Howell had been sick. He remembered the astronaut he'd seen in the library that summer, a disappointment, really. Andrew had been expecting a s.p.a.cesuit and something else: not ray guns, that would be dumb, but some kind of instruments, or moon rocks maybe. Instead there'd been an old man in Izod shirt and chinos talking about how the country had failed the s.p.a.ce program. Andrew had fidgeted until his mother let him go outside.

It must have been the same man, he thought now. Major Howell, not really any more interesting now than he'd been then. He hadn't even walked on the moon. Andrew dropped the amulet onto his chest and pulled a blanket about his knees, stared out the window. Clouds drifted in front of the rising moon. At the edge of the woods there would be rabbit tracks, fox scat. A p.r.i.c.kle of excitement ran through him at the thought, and he lay back upon the narrow bed. He would leave tomorrow, early, before Howell got up to let the dog out.

He didn't leave. He woke to Howell calling hoa.r.s.ely from the bedroom. Andrew found him half-sitting on the side of the bed, his hand reaching pathetically for the nightstand where a gla.s.s of water had been knocked over, spilling pill bottles and inhalers and soggy tissues onto the floor.

"Could you-please-"

Andrew found Howell's inhaler and gave it to him. Then he straightened out the mess, put more water in the gla.s.s and watched as Howell took his pills, seven of them. He waited to see if Howell wanted anything else, then let Festus outside. When the boy returned to the bedroom, Howell was still sitting there, eyes shut as he breathed heavily through his nose. His eyes flickered open to stare at Andrew: a terrified expression that made the boy's heart tumble. But then he closed them again and just sat there.

Finally Andrew said, "I'll help you get dressed." Howell nodded without opening his eyes.

It didn't take Andrew long to help him into a flannel robe and slippers, and into the bathroom. Andrew swore silently and waited outside the door, listening to the groan of water in the taps, the old man's wheezing and shambling footsteps. Outside, Festus scratched at the back door and whined to be let in. Sighing, Andrew took care of the dog, went back to the bathroom and waited until Howell came out again.

"Thank you," the old man said. His voice was faint, and he trembled as he supported himself with one hand on the sink, the other against the door frame.

"It's okay, Major Howell," said Andrew. He took Howell's elbow and guided him into the living room. The old man was heavy, no matter that he was so thin; Andrew was terrified that he'd fall on the flagstone floor. "Here, sit here and I'll get you something. Breakfast?"

He made instant coffee and English m.u.f.fins with scrambled eggs. The eggs were burned, but it didn't really matter: Howell took only a bite of the m.u.f.fin and sipped at his tepid coffee. Andrew gave the rest to Festus. He would eat later, outside.

Afterward, as Howell sat dozing in the armchair by the fireplace, Andrew made a fire. The room filled with smoke before he figured out how to open the damper, but after that it burned okay, and he brought in more wood. Then he took Festus outside for a walk. He wore Howell's parka and heavy black mittens with NASA stenciled on the cuffs. The sunlight on the snow made his eyes ache as he tried to see where Festus ran up the first slope of Sugar Mountain. He took off one glove, unzipped the neck of the parka and stuck his hand inside. The amulet was still there, safe against his chest. He stopped, hearing Festus crashing through the underbrush. Would the dog follow him? Probably not: he was an old dog, and Andrew knew how fast a fox could run, knew that even though he had never hunted this spot it would be easy to find his way to a safe haven.

Then the wind shifted, bringing with it the tang of wood smoke. Festus ambled out of the woods, shaking snow from his ears, and ran up to Andrew. The boy let the amulet drop back inside his flannel shirt and zipped up the parka. He turned and walked back to the house.

"Have a nice walk?" Howell's voice was still weak but his eyes shone brightly, and he smiled at the boy stomping the snow from boots too big for him.

"Oh yeah, it was great." Andrew hung up the parka and snorted, then turning back to Howell tried to smile. "No, it was nice. Is all that your property back there?" He strode to the fireplace and crouched in front of it feeding it twigs and another damp log.

"Just about all of it." Howell pulled a lap blanket up closer to his chin. "This side of Sugar Mountain and most of the lakefront."

"Wow." Andrew settled back, already sweating from the heat. "It's really nice back there by the lake. We used to go there in the summer, my mom and me. I love it up here."

Howell nodded. "I do too. Did you live in the city?"

Andrew shook his head. "Yonkers. It sucks there now; like living in the Bronx." He opened the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt and traced the string against his chest. "Once, when I was a kid, we heard an astronaut talk here. At the library. Was that you?"

Howell smiled. "Yup. I wondered if you might have been one of those kids, one of those times. So many kids, I must have talked to a thousand kids at the school here. You want to be an astronaut when you were little?"

"Nah." Andrew poked at the log, reached to pet Festus. "I never wanted to be anything, really. School's really boring, and like where I lived sucks, and..." He gestured at the fire, the room and the door leading outside. "The only thing I ever really liked was being up here, in the woods. Living in The Fallows this year, that was great."

"It's the only thing I liked, too. After I stopped working." Howell sighed and glanced over at the pictures covering the wall, the sagging bookcases. He had never really been good with kids. The times he had spoken at the school he'd had films to back him up, and later, videotapes and videodiscs. He had never been able to entertain his son here, or his friends, or the occasional visiting niece or nephew. The pictures were just pictures to them, not even colorful. The tapes were boring. When Peter and his friends were older, high school or college, sometimes Howell would show them the Nut File, a manila envelope crammed with letters from Rubber Man Lord of Jupiter and articles clipped from tabloids, a lifetime of NASA correspondence with cranks and earnest kooks who had developed faster-than-light drives in their garages. Peter and his friends had laughed at the letters, and Howell had laughed too, reading them again. But none of his visitors had ever been touched, the way Howell had. None of them had ever wondered why a retired NASA astronaut would have a drawer full of letters from nuts.

"Andrew," he said softly; then, "Andrew," as loud as he could. The boy drew back guiltily from the fire. Festus started awake and stared up, alarmed.

"Sorry-"

Howell drew a clawed hand from beneath the blanket and waved it weakly. "No, no-that's all right-just..."

He coughed; it took him a minute to catch his breath. Andrew stood and waited next to him, staring back at the fire. "Okay, I'm okay now," Howell wheezed at last. "Just: remember last night? That picture with the poem?"

Andrew looked at him blankly.

"In my room-the moon, you wanted to know if I wrote it-"

The boy nodded. "Oh yeah. The moon poem, right. Sure."

Howell smiled and pointed to the bookcase. "Well here, go look over there-"

Andrew watched him for a moment before turning to the bookcase and looking purposefully at the t.i.tles. Sighing, Festus moved closer to the old astronaut's feet. Howell stroked his back, regarding Andrew thoughtfully. He coughed, inclining his head toward the wall.

"Andrew." Howell took a long breath, then leaned forward, pointing. "That's it, there."

Beneath some magazines, Andrew found a narrow pamphlet bound with tape. "This?" he wondered. He removed it gingerly and blew dust from its cover.

Howell settled back in his chair. "Right. Bring it here. I want to show you something."

Andrew settled into the chair beside Howell. A paperbound notebook, gray with age. On the cover swirled meticulous writing in Greek characters, and beneath them the same hand, in English.

Return address: Mr. Nicholas Margalis 116 Argau Dimitrou Apt No. 3 Salonika, Greece "Read it," said Howell. "I found that in the NASA library. He sent it to Colonel Somebody right after the war. It floated around for forty years, sat in NASA's Nut File before I finally took it."

He paused. "I used to collect stuff like that. Letters from crackpots. People who thought they could fly. UFOs, moonmen. Outer s.p.a.ce. I try to keep an open mind." He gestured at the little book in Andrew's hand. "I don't think anyone else has ever read that one. Go ahead."

Carefully Andrew opened the booklet. On lined paper tipsy block letters spelled PLANES, PLANETS, PLANS. Following this were pages of numerical equations, sketches, a crude drawing labeled THE AIR DIGGER ROCKET SHAPE.

"They're plans for a rocket ship," said Howell. He craned his neck so he could see.

"You're kidding." Andrew turned the brittle pages. "Did they build it?"

"Christ, no! I worked it out once. If you were to build the Margalis Planets Plane it would be seven miles long." He laughed silently.

Andrew turned to a page covered with zeros.

"Math," said Howell.

More calculations. Near the end Andrew read, Forty years of continuous flying will cover the following s.p.a.ce below, 40 years, 14,610 days, 216,000,000,000,000 x 14610-equals 3,155,750,000,000,000,000 miles. That is about the mean distance to the farthest of the Planets, Ura.n.u.s.

Trillions, Quatrillions, Billions and Millions of miles all can be reached with this Plan.

Andrew shook his head. "This is so sad! He really thought it would fly?"

"They all thought they could fly," said Howell. "Read me the end."

" 'Experimenting of thirty-five years with levers, and compounds of,'" read Andrew. " 'I have had made a patent model of wooden material and proved a very successful work.

" 'My Invention had been approved by every body in the last year 1944, 1946 in my native village Panorma, Crevens, Greece. Every body stated it will be a future great success in Mechanics.

" 'Yours truly." "