The Corps of the Bare-Boned Plane (21 page)

“So,” I said, “I read somewhere that someone predicted the end of the world in 2010.”

“People are always predicting the end of the world, Meline,” said Uncle Marten without looking up from his book.

“But they have it all charted. Don't you think that the world would end slowly, not, as they predict, in one big quick bang, so I mean it wouldn't really end over a year but over a period of years, wouldn't it?”

“The world is not going to end, Meline. It's been around for billions and billions of years. Mankind is a mere blip in its existence. Man might end, but there will be other life-forms. Most likely cockroaches.”

“Cockroaches live a long time, don't they?”

“It's not that cockroaches live a long time; it's that they've been around for billions of years before man and will probably be around billions of years after. If anything survives, it will probably be the cockroaches. We'll all probably come back as cockroaches in our next lives. Learn to scuttle.”

Mrs. Mendelbaum didn't seem to be recovering from her bout with flu and stayed in her room. I could hear her busy stockinged feet waltzing now and then. It was a sad, macabre sound. The cat had never been good company for anyone but Uncle. The puppy followed Humdinger about or went tearing around the island on his own, coming back for dinner or naps by the fire. Humdinger, as I said, had a lot of conversations with Dr. Houseman. So I was on my own. It was okay, I guess. I read quite a bit; there were a lot of books certainly; and I searched for airplane parts and finally admitted to Uncle the kind of dolly I wanted. I went up to his room. It was a conversation I did not want Humdinger to overhear. Uncle was sitting hunched over his desk.

“You see,” I began after he had waved me wordlessly into the sanctum. “I meant a dolly like the kind used to transport things. A small flatbed on wheels.”

“I see, I see,” he said briskly with none of his usual opinions and spirit. It was obvious that he was still embarrassed about Christmas and didn't wish to impose on any of us again. “Well, then see that Humdinger gets one for you. He knows how to use the Internet now and I've hooked him up downstairs, so there should be no problem.”

“I'd rather he didn't know about it,” I said.

“Why?” asked Uncle Marten, pulling his half glasses down to his nose tip and looking at me sharply.

“I'd just rather he didn't. He … prowls,” I said.

“I see. One of your games, no doubt. Well, never mind. I'll order it for you, only please don't bother me any more right now. I'm most busy with hydrochloric acid and titanium.”

“Thanks,” I said and backed out. I felt curiously deflated. Here I'd been avoiding Uncle Marten, and when I finally went to see him I found he wanted to avoid me even more. And I wanted to tell him that I knew he had tried his best at Christmas. It wasn't his fault it had been such a disaster. It was no one's fault. How could it have been otherwise when we all missed our old lives and knew so little really about each other. But to tell him any of this would be the first step to connecting to someone since my parents' death. Even this feeling of compassion, wanting him to feel better, was treacherous. It was a slippery slope to forming a bond and I couldn't start that again. So I said nothing.

The dolly was dropped the following week. I knew Uncle was always as good as his word, so after he said he'd order it, I kept a sharp eye and ear out for Sam and every time I heard the helicopter I raced out to find his drop before Humdinger could. I picked up a lot of late-arriving Christmas things and groceries until the dolly was finally dropped in a huge crate. I had a time uncrating it, but after that it was easy to wheel to the barn. The next night I maneuvered the cockpit out of the tree with only slight breakage on one end, onto the dolly, and into the barn, and then I went to visit Jocelyn.

“Well, I did it,” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed. She was staring glassy-eyed at a magazine and seemed to have no interest in what I had or hadn't done.

“The dolly. I got a real one and uncrated and moved it and got the cockpit and moved
that
into the barn. But it wasn't easy, Jocelyn. You know I'm not a whiner, but your fever is gone and you're really going to have to concentrate on getting better and getting out of bed because I'm going to need help soon. I can't fit pieces together alone. Someone, for instance, has to hold up ends while I solder and bolt things together. Ideally, we'd have a whole crew but we need at least two.”

“Why don't you ask Humdinger?” asked Jocelyn in the queer little spaced-out voice she always used now.

“Why don't I ask HUMDINGER?” I roared. “What is the matter with you anyway?” I spied the almost empty bottle of black cough syrup on her bedside table. It had been full the week before. I picked it up and said, “How much of this stuff are you drinking these days?”

“None,” she said, sitting up suddenly and snatching it out of my hands.

“Jocelyn, you're hardly coughing anymore. Should you even be drinking this stuff ? What has Dr. Houseman said about it?”

“She says it's good for me, take lots,” said Jocelyn, putting the bottle back on the table but keeping one hand resting close to it.

“You haven't told her you're taking it, have you? Where did you get it? Did Humdinger give it to you?” And suddenly I saw him as an evil figure. Lurking in his big shoes and Frankenstein-monster body. A giver of strange potions. Perhaps the mints were poisoned. A snoop.

“No, the doctor did,” said Jocelyn, her hand snaking slowly back toward the bottle.

“The doctor prescribed it? Or did Humdinger just tell you the doctor prescribed it?”

Jocelyn looked at me blankly as if she couldn't decipher such a difficult question.

“Oh, for God's sake, are you even sick anymore or are you just stoned? Tell Humdinger you can't take this medicine. He's trying to poison us, Jocelyn, and he knows about the airplane building. He snoops.”

“Didn't get it from Humdinger,” said Jocelyn in a tiny, listless voice, putting her magazine down on her stomach, closing her eyes, and not too subtly dismissing me.

“Well, I don't suppose you'd tell me if you did,” I said. “Listen, you've got to pull it together and help me build the plane now. Or have you lost interest in that, too?”

“Tired,” said Jocelyn, and that was all I could get her to say, so I left her, to work on the plane. I had given myself a schedule. A schedule and a lot of airplane chores. I found keeping exactly to the schedule worked best. I made notes to myself. I tried not to deviate from it by a minute. When I did I kept track of it in a notebook I labeled, “Deviated Minutes.” Busy, I muttered to myself, busy.

I began to work at night in the barn with the big flashlights set up that I had asked Uncle to get me for Christmas. It was quiet and peaceful in the barn. I wasn't afraid of the bats anymore or the dark or things getting me. The only thing I occasionally thought about was the bull. No one but Humdinger had seen it, and I was inclined to think he was mistaken, but there was hay in the hayloft and that seemed to give some credence to its existence. On the other hand, Uncle had mentioned that the barn and some of the outbuildings had been here when he bought the island. That people had a farm here long before the Corps used it. Perhaps they had bulls and some of them had escaped and become feral. How long did bulls live?

Putting together the airplane was concentrated work and it absorbed me completely, trying to fit things together, being careful with the tools and the soldering. Trying to imagine which piece I would find next and how it would fit in place. More and more I was beginning to realize that I would not be building an exact replica of a plane but rather a kind of flying machine. But that's all we needed. Something that could get aloft.

 

JOCELYN

I
SAT BY MY BED
. I had heard Meline go out. It was safe now. I had only a bit of cough medicine left in the bottle. I didn't know if it would be enough for tonight. I doubted it. I seemed to need more and more to get to the place where I fell first into a lovely, relaxed state of oblivion, past caring, where my body felt good, where I wondered why I had ever felt so wretched anyway. Everything was fine. Everything was as it should be. I wanted to go tell everyone about it, but truthfully there was no one to tell. Then I'd be sleepy, terribly, heavily sleepy and lie down, thankfully falling into a deep, drugged sleep, and then I'd be on the train again. On the train with my mother. Riding, riding, and everything was fine most nights. Sometimes I got to the part where there was a jolt and screaming and light, but usually I awoke before this and, even when I dreamed it, often forgot this part upon waking, so it didn't matter. I took the last little bit of the cough medicine. But I wasn't feeling euphoric. I felt only mildly relaxed and I was afraid it would wear off before I fell asleep. It was the middle of the night. I couldn't wake Mrs. Mendelbaum up to ask for more, could I? I really didn't want to bother her, but she wouldn't care if I just slipped in if her door happened to be unlocked. As long as I didn't wake her.

I went into the hall, grabbing the wall for support now and again. I'd been sick, so of course I was wobbly. The floor was cold on my bare feet, but I didn't want to disturb anyone with slipper sounds. Shoe sounds. Noisy. Maybe Mrs. Mendelbaum's door was unlocked. Well, probably there weren't locks on any of the bedroom doors. If there had been one on mine, I would have locked out Meline. But if I'd locked out Meline, Mrs. Mendelbaum wouldn't have come in with the medicine. I'd never have had the medicine. No. She knocked. I would have let her in. It would all have worked out. Whew. Why wouldn't you put locks on bedroom doors? It made people use desks in front of them. Why
would
Uncle have put locks on when he planned to live alone? Yes, but if he planned to live alone, why so many doors? Probably he was prescient. That's probably what he was. Oh, the universe was a vastly mysterious thing and Uncle was the most mysterious thing in it. I laughed. I found I was much funnier after I took the medicine. No, I was always as funny as I wanted to be, but I wanted to be more when I took the medicine. No, I appreciated my humor more. Was always funny. Very humorous sort, really. That was the problem with most people. They didn't appreciate themselves enough. They certainly didn't appreciate
me
enough. Meline didn't. What was the deal with Meline? She didn't get me at all. I would tell her this when the medicine wore off. Which it was going to do soon if I didn't hurry.

I put my finger to my lips. A little reminder. Shh, shh, as I turn door handle. My mother never said “Shh.” She said “Hush.” Hush hush. Uh-oh, that makes me want to cry. Hush hush. That's what she would say to me probably most nights now if she saw me in such a state. Why do I say “Shh” if she said “Hush?” Shouldn't I have picked up “hush?” Why choose “shh?” Difference between people who were shhers or hushers? Oh well, hardly matters.

The door creaked open. Mrs. Mendelbaum was dead. Gasp. No, not dead, just lying on bed with all her clothes on. Still, better make sure. Don't want to be accused of stealing from dead person. No, but live person stealing perfectly okay. Ha ha. Told you was funny. Drag self over to bed to check. Yep. Still breathing. Not dead. Only resting. Mrs. Mendelbaum snorted and I jumped. Stop that, silly snorting woman. All right, where is darned cough medicine? “Okay, medicine, where are you?” Then I cover my mouth. What do I think am doing, talking out loud? Going to wake poor dead Mrs. Mendelbaum. Shh shh, must differentiate thinking thoughts from saying thoughts. Not to mention dead person from resting person. No thoughts out loud. Be quiet. So exhausting having to control mind like errant pet. Who called a dog Aileron? Stupid name for a dog. Stupider name for an airplane part. No one picked good names anymore. What kind of name was Meline? Cruel Meline, that's what she was. No mercy. No feeling. She must be Canadian. Ha ha. No, American. Well, she wasn't British, that was for sure. Not like us. Mummy called us Brits at heart. No doubt. Try dresser drawer. I have hidden things in underwear drawer when little. Chocolate bars. Bad for teeth. Maybe medicine there. Nope. Just underwear. Ugh. Horrible underwear. Must wear ugly underwear when get old? Why bother getting old? Only thing to look forward to, ugly underwear. No. Choose better underwear, is all. Where else? Closet. Ugly shoes here, too. Why so much ugliness in world? Not enough cough medicine, that was why. Oh no, falling asleep. Can't do that here. Big scandal. Must find bed.

Creep back down hall, but forget to close door to ole Mendelhoffer's room, but my room close, so no matter. Wow. Surprised such big wallop from such small dose of medicine. Must keep that in mind. Thought had to take more. Maybe just impatient. Don't be impatient. Haven't enough to last. Have none left actually. Have to get more. Maybe stop looking airplane parts, start looking for shtetl. Don't know what shtetl is. Serious impediment. Don't tell Meline. Thinks she knows everything. Oh well, tomorrow is other day. Is that Humdinger closing Mrs. Mendelbaum's door? Strange, Humdinger. Think is nice but what's with mints? Little mint obsession, ask me. Anyone tell him chocolate bad for teeth? Or
Uncle?
All that chocolate. Still have some left. What's with men and chocolate? Like it so much, maybe should marry it. Ha ha. Joke. Weak joke. Feeling weak. Well, at least Humdinger doesn't see me. Swing into room and bang door closed. Accident. But big noise. Whoops. Oh well. Got mice. Probably think mice did it. If think at all. Nobody in house thinks. That's problem. Canadians again. Seem to be everywhere. Fall on bed. Feels so nice to fall, going down, down, down. Effortless. No longer have to work so hard. Just let go. Nice. Oh, there it is, click clacking of train. Oh, Mother. Oh, Mother, here she comes, here she comes. All okay now.