The Indestructible Man (16 page)

       
V. Bud Stiller has deemed Henry’s flight the most momentous event since Jesus walked on water in Galilee. We reserve judgment in this respect, but we remain hopeful. Henry Middleton, our childhood friend, is going to the moon.

       
Conditions are perfect come launch night
—a purple but clear sky, a cool and dewy evening. Henry would have preferred the moon be full, but it is almost full as it is, still relatively low in the sky, at the most perfect angle for Henry’s flight.

       
We sit on the cold sloped cabins of our pickup trucks, legs dangling over into the bed, feet resting on the coarse plastic of our beer coolers. And we are not alone—people from all over the county have come to witness the event. V. Bud Stiller has invited other journalists to come and witness the launch. Most are skeptical; a few take him up on it, indistinguishable from the rest but for their cameras resting on blankets beside them, waiting for the fireworks to pass and the real event to begin. The rest of the onlookers sit cross-legged on quilts or towels on the damp grass by the river.

       
Henry is absent when the pyrotechnics begin and we hear whispers from the crouching masses that he has somehow balked, or has finally come to his senses, even that the contraption is a fraud. Those whose houses have been pummeled, whose lawns have been gutted by test-fired projectiles know better. We silence those we can with glares; we know Henry will come through. We have seen the machine, touched it, witnessed its workings, and we assure those around us that he will come.

       
The fireworks are even more impressive than last year, but we watch without passion, and each new explosion goes without hooting or howling. We feel a vague guilt over this, as we are denying Sheriff Tomkins the appreciation he deserves, but even
he
must understand that his pyrotechnics are not what we have come to see. When the grand finale comes—a single glowing missile erupting into a red, white, and blue eagle before fading and sinking slowly below the tree line—we are almost relieved. Except for one elderly man who rises to his feet and shouts “God Bless America,” we are strangely somber, reacting only with polite applause. Then someone spots headlights coming toward us on the gravel road.

       
We hear the scrunch of gravel as Henry’s truck approaches, loaded up with heavy wood, the disassembled components of the device. The crowd parts as he inches onto the grass and into the midst of the field. Henry looks out at the people gathered around him, sighs, and climbs down from the cabin. He is wearing goggles, a stocking cap, and a thick, tight leather overcoat which, he explains to Bud, will not only protect him from the bitter cold of space, but also help shield him from the friction of re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere. Strapped to his back is a heavy parachute to ease his descent. And affixed to his jacket sleeves and trouser legs are bicycle reflectors so we may trace his path through space.

       
When he motions for us to come help him we rest our beers on our truck hoods and jump from our perches like children leaping from a jungle gym. Working quickly, we help him reassemble the catapult, bolting wood to wood, raising the arm to its full, grand height, angling the arm to the proper firing position. Some are impatient, but no one leaves. Finally, after an hour or so, the device is complete, and Henry allows the crowd to come forward. All gather round the gigantic arm raised to the heavens.

       
He points to the giant crank that will lower the throwing arm and we scramble for a spot at the handle. It takes three of us to turn the crank, the muscles in our backs overstretching and tearing. We listen to the metal-on-metal crunch as the chains tense, watch as the gigantic wooden shaft is drawn back into firing position. Finally, when the arm seems about to snap and we can pull no more, Henry pushes the firing lever in place and we release the crank.

       
Henry looks at all of us, smiles, throws himself into the circle of handshakes and hugs. Then he slowly backs away, climbs up the giant wheel spokes to the thick wooden platform. He looks to the moon, still low but rising, and a great cheer goes up from the crowd. The few gasps are mostly drowned out by the applause. Then he raises his hand and all fall silent.

       
Henry lowers himself into the ejection chair and subtly shifts in the seat. We gather round the catapult, hold our breath as we wait for the launch. He takes the trigger cord in hand. Even now it is not too late to back out, but we know he will not and would be sad for him if he did. Eyes fixed on the soft white glow of the moon, Henry pulls the cord.

       
The drums drop, and then there is only the familiar brief
ka-
thunk
of the catapult arm. Before we can process what we have witnessed the arm snaps with a mighty crack and showers us with tiny sharp splinters.

       
As soon as we realize what has happened our eyes frantically search the dark purple sky for any sign of Henry, seeing only a few inky clouds. Then someone points and we all see him, a tiny shining speck rising up, up toward the clouds, silhouetted against the dusky purple. His angle of approach seems perfect, and we stare in awe, thinking, yes, he
will
make it to the moon, he will bask in the green sandy soil, we always knew he would make it.

       
Then Henry’s ascent slows, his graceful trajectory fading to an arc. The parachute releases and trails behind him but his fall is wrong and it catches no air, becomes a useless streamer. Some around us gasp, some turn away, children’s heads are buried in blankets or against their mothers’ breasts. V. Bud Stiller begins to cry, droplets glistening under his wire-rimmed glasses. We merely stand and watch as Henry sinks toward the horizon and gracefully drops behind the wall of pines bordering the river. As he finally disappears from view we sigh, our shoulders droop, and for the first time we feel the true pull of gravity upon us.

Seven

       
There are seven of us
—brothers, we think, though none of us knows for sure and we have been together far too long to remember exact designations. We range in height from three-foot-five to five-foot-six, but we are
men
, not children or dancing pixies who chant in the forest and commune with animals.

       
We have moved in and out of each other’s lives for more years than any of us can count; by chance or injury or disillusionment we leave, wander across empty fields at night, hitch rides on passing semi’s to start new and less frustrating lives as circus performers or migrant farmers. But we always come back to the refuge of the moment, and the seven, and the girl.

       
We loved her from the beginning, though none of us had the courage to admit it. When she was taken from us, alive and breathing but still absent, it was as if our hearts had been blasted from our chests. We have had others; there are still a few women unafraid to touch us. In our loneliest moments we even pay for such comfort, taking what pleasures we can in alleys or gas station restrooms. But these meetings are brief and mechanical, empty, devoid of passion. We chide ourselves for our faithlessness and, heads bowed to our sunken chests, we begin our journey back to the girl. We return for
her
, though this goes unmentioned except in moments of drunken vulnerability, which have become increasingly rare as we grow older and more guarded. It is simply understood.

       
We searched a long time
for the old woman after we discovered the half-eaten apple beside the girl’s limp body, hoping to make her undo the curse. We bludgeoned her with hoes and rake-handles, venting frustration and loss and rage with each stroke, trying to force her to reveal the antidote for the poison.

       
This much we learned: the girl had fallen into a deep and timeless sleep, and a kiss would wake her. But—and the old woman smiled, though blood and bile clogged her throat and streamed down her chin—none of us could be the one to break the curse.

       
We do not know whose blow finally killed her, and for that we are grateful. But even at the last we pleaded with her to undo what she had done.

       
When we returned to the girl we stared at one another over her sleeping form, tried to decide what to do next. After much debate we agreed not to take the old woman at her word, that we should try to break the spell in case she had lied.

       
One by one we kissed her, several times over, varying the duration and pressure and level of intimacy, the others watching in fear and awe that she might wake before their chance came. Each of us hoped above all else that his kiss would be the one to wake her, that her eyes would flutter and peer into our gray whiskery faces, that her small ivory hand would reach up and touch our wrinkled cheeks, scrunched like cauliflower buds. It was not to be, and we finally agreed it was hopeless. We were saddened, to be sure, but none of us knew how the seven would continue if one were to break the spell. Our failure was, perhaps, for the best.

       
In our desperation we consulted experts, rail-thin men with eyes black as beetle shells who examined the girl, the old woman’s body, even the apple. It was a
special
kiss she required, they said, our role to simply care for her and wait for the one who could administer it. As far as we know they are all dead now, their bodies merged with ancient earth, and we are still here, waiting for the promised stranger to come.

       
We have moved
about frequently since the old woman came, every few years packing our belongings into tattered, overstuffed canvas bags, laying the girl gently in our trailer to continue her ageless sleep while we move to each new refuge. Our motives are not altruistic; we cannot say we wait only for the one who will end her sleep. We cannot wake her ourselves—that honor belongs to another—but it would not break our hearts if he did not come at all. Until then, though she sleeps, she is ours.

       
But in our constant moving we delude ourselves; when the time comes, he will find us no matter how we try to evade detection. We cannot deny this, and though we do not speak of it openly we know that, eventually, we will have to ignore our selfishness and step aside.

       
For the last nine or ten months we have lived in a small wooden shack near the turnpike. Its foundation has begun to sink into the earth and its thatched roof dips; only a few patches of faded purple paint remain on its walls. We are blocked from the view of passing eyes by the steep grassy hill of an overpass and surrounded by a sea of cornfields so vast that at first glance it seems impossible to traverse. We have chosen this place carefully. During the growing season the corn is hostile and
unnavigable
, and after the harvest the fields are a barren no-man’s land, any possible intruder visible to us long before he reaches the shack. We have ample room to hide in the tunnels we have dug underneath, canned foods and powdered milk enough to sustain us for months. A mile up the road is a rest stop with a Bobcat Bob’s convenience mart and gas station. Some nights, when the moon is dim and there are few cars, we wander, spreading out among the aisles like guerrillas gathering necessary items—shaving cream, bar soap, cheap Scotch whiskey, the best ladies’ musk one can find at a convenience mart to scent her bathing water. The store clerks have come to expect our visits, seem to find the spectacle of us entertaining. Inevitably, one of us encounters an item too high to reach, and one of the clerks—usually a gangly teenager in a green baseball hat and shirt emblazoned with the smiling bobcat logo—must assist us with a condescending snicker. When we are finished we file out and disappear into the night, warily clutching our supplies to our chests.

       
We wake before dawn with the first wave of tractor-trailers; their passing often causes the roof of our little shack to shake and shed small wood shavings that find their way into our nostrils and eyes. The girl is protected, of course, a wide sturdy vinyl canopy over her bed sparing her from any falling debris. We stretch our arms and backs in unison, and in turn we each kiss her parted sleeping lips. We have long since given up on waking her ourselves, but it has become an old and comfortable ritual we are loath to give up. We change her bedclothes, trim and brush her straight black hair. When drifting dust begins to coat her skin we bathe her, each of us stroking an arm, a leg, a breast, with lathery sponges, rinsing every part of her with damp cloths. We feel a giddy confusion at these moments, our implements sometimes slip from our trembling hands, our fingers free themselves from the moist barrier of the cloths and find themselves running over the soft skin of her hip, the smooth white junction between neck and shoulder, the wiry blackish-brown hairs at the base of her abdomen. These are accidents, and we do not mock one another, since we have all at some point committed them. Every few nights, when the rest are asleep, we each in turn tiptoe around the snoring lumps of our brothers, wander into her room, pull back the sheets and her nightgown. We feel the lines of her ribs with our thumbs, marvel at the two tiny moles just under her left breast, trace circles around her soft flat nipples with our fingertips. But we all understand that to take her this way would be empty, meaningless. Instead we creep outside and stroke our withered members until we spurt onto the grass, and then return, shamed, to our beds.