Corcovado, Or Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars

Three months later he turned fourteen.

That afternoon his grandfather took him up in the Mustang...

"What's a Mustang?" Brigit Sullivan asked.

"Hmm? Oh, back in the Second World War there was this fighter. Some say it was the airplane that turned the tide in the air war. It was designed to escort the bombers that flew missions over Germany. My dad flew one in the war."

"And your grandfather had one?"

"Not just one. He had the exact plane my dad flew over there."

"How'd he...?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. My dad used to say that Pops knew people."

"Pops?"

He laughed a little at the memory. "Yeah, when we really wanted to get under his skin, we'd call him Pops, but deep down I think he loved being called that."

"So, he took you up in the airplane your father flew in the war? Why didn't your father take you up?"

"Dad, well, stopped flying after the war. He loved it, I guess, but he just quit. Flying, I mean, because, I think, the war killed that love. He wouldn't even fly on an airliner. Always drove, or took the train."

"Did he talk about it?"

He nodded. Something about Dresden, the bombings. He came home after that, back to Vermont. Mom said he could hardly talk about the war, what he'd seen, and didn't for years. Some kind of shut-down, I guess, but when he got back to the hardware store she said it was like he'd never been gone. He just got to work and kept at it - like twenty hours a day."

"So, your grandfather took you up in this Mustang? What was that like?"

"Weird. I knew some of the details about the war by then, the things my father did, and it was really strange touching this machine my father had flown. In a way, it made some of his stories, maybe even his grief, seem more real."

"I can't imagine what your father felt..."

"He wouldn't go anywhere near the hangers, wanted nothing to do with those feelings."

"Feelings? You mean flyings?"

"Yup. My grandfather taught me to fly out there. The basics, all the way through instrument training."

"In a World War II fighter?"

"Oh, no, he had a bunch of planes. A few military aircraft, like a B-25, but he also had a few civilian aircraft too. A Cessna 210 and a Beech Baron, those kinds of planes. He taught me in a small Cessna, then, when it was time to do my cross-countries, he'd follow me while I flew this old Waco..."

"A Waco?"

"Yup, a YMF, not that that means anything. It's a bi-plane, a real screamer, and one of the first long flights we took together was in that old thing. Took off, flew up to Farmington then west, out to the Grand Canyon. We gassed up at the airport there then flew down into the canyon, followed the river almost all the way to Vegas. Then he landed the thing and grabbed a cab, and we went to the Sand's Hotel and saw Frank Sinatra that night. I'll never forget that..." he said, looking up at the stars.

"Sinatra? Really? What a neat memory to have..."

"Pops was alright. He was in his seventies then, I think, but no one really seemed to know how old he was. He looked like my dad's older brother...like almost the same age. I guess the hard thing about it...my father died before Pops did, by about six months."

"When was that?"

"Oh...I seems like just a few years ago."

"Did you ever fly that...what did you call it? That Mustang?"

"Oh, yeah, all the time, actually. I did two summers ago, anyway."

"What? But you said he died...?"

"Yeah, well, he left the ranch to me."

"What?"

"The ranch. You know, yeah, it's mine now?"

"You mean you could move there? Not stay on the boat?"

"I suppose so, but not really. I've been leasing out the land to a grazing company, and one of their foremen lives in one of houses with his family."

"How many houses are there?"

"I don't know. Five or six, anyway, mainly for ranch-hands that come up during round-ups. It gets kind of busy out there."

"I don't understand...?"

"Well, grazing companies move whole herds around the country to the best grass. Usually from South Texas, down around Corpus, in the winter, up to New Mexico in the Spring, then alpine pasture in Colorado. It's expensive, but herds that are pre-sold to the big steak-houses demand the best beef, and they're willing to pay a premium for it. The part of New Mexico, where Pops bought all that land, has consistently good grass, and we make a pretty penny this way."

"I'm just trying to think of one good reason why you don't move there right this instant. Or, really, why you didn't twenty years ago."

"Because I love what I do. Well, loved. I guess that's all over now, really."

"What about Atlanta...?"

He felt the air beside his ear rippling before he heard the first gunshot, and in that instant he grabbed Brigit by the waist and pushed her down the companionway steps - just as several bullets slammed into his right arm. Lights were coming on all over the marina moments later, and he remembered hearing a car peeling out of the parking garage, then the pulsing wail of sirens. He saw Ted and Susan for a moment, but they disappeared in a hot, blinding white haze. He felt himself swallow once, and thought he tasted blood.

"That can't be good," he said - to no one in particular.

Chapter 9

Ellis Patterson was sitting behind his grandson - feeling the boy's movements as he followed-through with him on the controls.

They were flying lazy arcs over the ranch, about 1500 feet over the grass and piñon, and he could hear Jimmy's breath over the intercom. He smiled when he remembered teaching James the very same maneuvers - nearly thirty years before - while flying over the Connecticut River towards White River Junction. If anything, he thought, this boy was even better than his father was. Fearless, less tentative. Dangerous.

He'd have to temper that, and soon, before the boy got himself in real trouble.

Jimmy broke off and flew towards the escarpment, flew towards the break in the wall. Flew back to the encounter with the cat, and it was as if he could read the boy's mind...

"What's on your mind, Jim?" he asked.

"Just thinking, Pops. Maybe there are more of 'em. Maybe she had cubs."

"Kittens."

"Kittens?"

"Yup. Cats have kittens, bears have cubs."

"And dogs? Puppies, right?"

"Mostly diarrhea, if I recall correctly."

They both laughed.

"Antelope!" Jimmy cried, and he pushed the nose over and settled into a shallow dive. Ellis poked his head out into the slipstream and saw about a dozen on the prairie perhaps a mile ahead, and he marveled at the boy's eyesight.

"Watch your airspeed, Jim. Throttle back some. They're not going anywhere."

"Yessir."

Obedient. No question, no doubt, and no hurt pride, just willingness to listen, and learn. And the boy's mind didn't wander off, didn't fall into daydreaming.

He felt small corrections through the rudder pedals, then a little right stick to correct for the crosswind, then he looked off the right wingtip and saw they were - at most - twenty feet off the ground...and doing at least 140. And still the boy's concentration was rock solid.

He barely caught a glimpse of the startled antelope as they roared past, then Jim had the Waco in an easy climbing turn to the west.

"Think you can find your way back to the strip?"

"Yessir, no problem."

Dead certain, pure self-confidence. The kid was a natural born pilot.

Now, he knew, came the hard part. He'd have to talk to Elizabeth about all this, because she'd have to sign off on his teaching the boy. Because, after all that nonsense back in Vermont, James was still withdrawn. Still fighting his demons. Only now, he was drinking again - and Elizabeth had her hands full - again. So he'd have to tread carefully, wouldn't he...?

"Pops? You with me back there?"

"Yup. So, what do you think? Want me to talk to your mother?"

"I can do it, Pops. I think she'll just shoot you down, but she'll listen to me."

"Let me know. You ready to try landing this thing?"

He was.

And he did.

She drove him into town most days, drove him to school and dropped him off, then she went to "the office..." - wherever that was. He still had no idea what she did for a living, and most mornings his father could be found sitting on the porch, staring at the mountains across the valley.

No, life had changed in drastic, important ways, and James Patterson had come undone.

Jim would wake up at six, head out to the barn with his grandfather and hay the horses, muck the stalls, then he'd shower and get ready for school while Pops cooked breakfast. After school their rituals were as rigid, too: Mom picked him up at 3:15 and some days they stopped off for groceries but usually straight back to the ranch. Pops would be waiting by the Waco, and within minutes he'd have pre-flighted the old bi-plane and started her up. Most days they flew out west, but some afternoons they flew south, to Albuquerque, and they'd land and sneak in a burger and fries, then head back to the ranch in time for supper.

His father would still be on the porch, still staring at the mountains, as he and Pops walked up to the house, and he'd look at his father, then his grandfather, wondering how two people could possibly be so different.

One evening, as they walked up the little hill to the house, he could see a tall glass in his father's hand, and he could see Pop's jaw clenching overtime as they walked up walk to the porch. Then they both saw a pitcher on the table by his father's side, lemon wedges gathered along the rim.

"Want some tea?" his father asked.

"Sure would," Pops replied. "How 'bout you, boy?"

He'd nodded, wondering what the punch line was.

And his father had poured two glasses.

"I'm headed back to Vermont in the morning," his father stated - and rather defiantly too, Jim thought.

"Oh?" Pops said, looking over his son in the amber twilight. "Something happen back there?"

"Got a letter from Rebecca. Business is falling apart; that Roscoe fella is robbing the till. I've got to get back and set things right or we'll lose it."

"Maybe it's time to sell?" Pops sighed, and the change that came over his father was instantaneous, and withering.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You and Elizabeth. You'd like nothing more than to take away the one thing I have left in this world."

And Pops had looked at his son for a moment, then just shook his head and walked into the house...

And again, the change that came over his father was instant, and complete. "So, how was flying today?"

And Jim was a little taken aback - because his father never asked about his flying.

"Pretty good. We flew up to Los Alamos, worked on crosswind landings."

"Oh? Good breeze today...bet that was some kind of fun."

"Yessir."

"Your grandfather is a good teacher. Maybe the best I ever saw. Listen to him and you'll do good."

"How long will you be gone, Dad?"

"I won't be coming back, son. Too many bad memories for me here. I need to get away from him, and I think your mother and I need some time apart...to think about...things."

"Things?" he said, and for the first time in his life he felt cold, hollow fear in his gut. "What kind of things, Dad?"

And his father had turned and looked him in the eye: "Sit down, Jim. We need to have a talk."

+++++

He heard a voice, far away, like someone on the shore of a lake, in fog...

"Mr Patterson?"

Then pressure. Someone pressing on his forehead, almost right between his eyes.

"You can stop that now," he said.

"Can you open your eyes, Mr Patterson?"

"Jim," he said, trying to open his eyes - but they only opened in narrow, slit-like slashes, and they were full of, what? Vaseline. "My name's Jim. What's yours?"

"I'm Jill, one of the nurses here in the ICU."

"Where's here, and why am I not on my boat?"

"You're at Virginia Mason, and you were shot."

"Shot?"

"Yes, but we can talk about all that later. Let me get those eyes," the nurse said, then he felt cool terry-cloth swabbing his eyelids, then his forehead.

"Shot? Where?" he mumbled.

"Once in the leg, three rounds in your right arm. The left femoral artery was nicked, so it was kind of touch and go there for a while."

"What time is it? How long have I been out?" he asked, as awareness came back in a flood.

"It's eight in the morning. They brought you in a little after midnight."

"My son?"

"There's a small mob in the waiting room. They claim to be friends of yours, so I assume your son might be out there too."

"His name is Ted. Has anyone talked to him? And Brigit...Doctor Sullivan. I need to talk to them both."

"It'll be a few more minutes. The surgeon will need to okay that."

He closed his eyes, shook his head. "Yeah...sure."

"We've got Vancomycin running in case that bug in your leg makes a comeback, so if you feel nauseous, let me know."

"I feel nauseous."

"Would you like something for it?"

"Coke."

"What?"

"Coca-Cola works best for me."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. And I know: you'll have to ask the surgeon first. I know the drill."

There was a commotion outside the room and a moment later an impossibly young kid in green scrubs walked into the room, followed by - Ted and Brigit.

"Good, you're awake," the kid in the green scrubs said. "I'm Doc Stuart, your surgeon..."

"That's not possible," Jim said.

"Pardon?" the kid said.

"You couldn't possibly be older than twelve. How could you even remotely be qualified to be a surgeon."

The kid laughed.

"You even laugh like a twelve year old."

"Thanks, I think. Anyway, we've repaired your left femoral artery and the other wounds, and we have infectious diseases working on that fungal issue...but right now it looks like you're out of the woods. It was touch and go there, for a while. The paramedics did a great job stabilizing you..."

He listened to the infant, because the more he looked at the kid the more like an infant, maybe a very young Dennis the Menace, he seemed. Then again, Ted looked like he remembered him - ten years ago...

"Something's wrong," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Perception. The right side of my face feels..."

And he fell into the light - again -.

Adrift on blinding currents, like a moth to the flame.

+++++

He was in the barn, raking out the stalls again when he heard something almost like thunder - but this was close. Real close.

He ran out into the little corral off the side of the barn - just in time to see his mother, down on the ground, adjusting the sights on a hideous looking rifle. He watched, curious now, as she chambered a round, and his eyes followed the line of the barrel across the dry creek-bed on the far side of the runway...and he saw several pumpkins set up there...and he put his fingers in his ears just in time...

He felt the concussion in his chest, saw the gout of blossoming flame erupt from the end of the barrel - then one of the pumpkins downrange simply exploded, leaving nothing but a cloud of settling vapor...

"Holy fucking shit!" he cried...

And his mother rolled over, stood up in a hurried rush. "What are you doing here? I thought you were up flying?"

"No, Pops had to go into town, says he has a doctors appointment. Mom? What are you doing with that thing?"

"Oh? This? It's a new deer rifle. I'm giving it to your father, for Christmas."

"Mom? Dad doesn't like hunting, remember?"

"Well, I thought if maybe he had a nice rifle maybe he'd like to take it up again."

"Oh. How far away..."

"You know, I've done enough today. You ready for dinner?"

"Yeah...soon as I finish up in the barn."

She looked at her wristwatch, seemed to come to a decision. "What say you and I head into town, go to Bert's for a cherry-lime-aid."

Yup, she thought, that always works. She watched as he went back to the barn - while she cursed herself for not checking the barn first, then she put the new H&K sniper rifle back inside it's hard case and carried it to the back of the Ford. Then Pops drove up to the house, just as Jim walked from the barn up the hill to the house.

"You ready to go up for a quick flight," Pops asked.

"Mom's taking me in to Bert's. Wanna come?"

"You're welcome to join us, Ellis," Liz added...but Ellis looked at the expression on her face - kind of a 'Please, no, don't come...' look in her eyes.

"No, you two go on. I've got a few things to tend to..."

They drove into city, turned on Guadalupe and pulled into Bert's a half hour later. Several green-chili cheeseburgers and lime-aids later, she came to the point of the exercise. "Your father isn't doing well," she said, in what was an unsettling, out of the blue comment. "I need to go back to Vermont for a while," she lied, "and check-up on him. Will it be okay if I leave you here with Pops for a few weeks?"

"What's wrong with Dad?"

"I'm not sure, but I can't handle it over the telephone."

"Do you need me to come with you? Maybe I could help?"

"Not this time, Jim," she said, now almost in a panic. "I've got to stop off and do a few things for work, too. I need you to stay here with Pops, but if I change my mind, if I think you can help, I'll call. Okay? Is that a deal?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, clearly hurt.

"What are you and Pops working on now?"

"Instrument approaches."

"Oh? Is it hard?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

"Don't be mad at me, Jim. Okay?"

"I'm not mad at you, Mom. I just think you're not telling me everything, and I don't understand."

She nodded, looked away. "Maybe someday I'll be able to, Jim. Just not now."

"Who do you work for, Mom?"

She shook her head. "Someday, Jim. I promise."

He looked at her, looked at this latest deception and knew she'd never talk about this stuff. Neither would his father. "When are you leaving," he asked, giving up - again.

"In the morning, early. I'll be gone before you get up."

He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded, then looked out at a low-rider that had just pulled into the parking lot. Some of the locals, he saw; Native Americans - or "the Natives" - as Pops called them. His mother called them Trouble, and she was doing her best to ignore them right now. Two more Chevies pulled into the lot, then a dozen Harley-Davidsons - Choppers, she called them - filed into the lot, parking next to a turquoise and red chopped Impala.

The group talked in the lot for a while, then turned and walked for the entry.

"Be quiet now, Jim," she said quietly, almost under her breath. "Don't look anyone in the eye, and don't say a word."

He saw the riders were wearing identical leather jackets, big "Hell's Angels" emblems embroidered on their backs, and he had heard of them and suddenly understood the tone in his mother's voice. Not fear. Not even curiosity. No, her voice was full of malice, like she wanted to pick a fight. He did too, but he didn't know why.

Other patrons were getting up and walking out to their cars as the bikers walked up to the counter, and soon he and his mom were the only people left inside. He turned, saw another dozen or so motorcycles pulling into the parking lot, then he felt someone walking up to their booth.

He turned and looked up and saw a burly man standing there, then the man sat down next to his mother.

"How's it going, Liz?" the biker asked.

"Not bad. You?"

He reached inside his jacket and handed her a piece of paper.

She took an envelope from her purse and handed it to the biker.

"So. We're cool?" the biker asked, his voice full of respect.

"Yeah, we're good. Tell Hank to stay low for a while, and for God's sake, to keep out of Texas."

The biker nodded as he digested that information, then he looked at Jim. "How's the grub here," he asked Jim.

"Have you ever had the green-chili burger?"

"No. Any good?"

"Yeah, pretty good."

The biker nodded and stood, then looked at Elizabeth. "Take care," he said, then, after a pause: "Watch your six." Then the biker walked off to join his compadres and his mother stood, took Jim in hand and they walked from the diner - leaving a million unanswered questions in their trail.