Surely, thatâs just a legal thing .
What was it?
If heâd doubted the kidâs effect on Cedric and Tura, heâd seen it plainly with his lawyer friend Charley, who wanted no part of black-market passports until he shook hands with Ian, and who then helped Frank obtain one anyway. Once or twice, Frank could have put it down to Ianâs waifish charm, a kid being little and cute and alone and blond as a dandelion. But it had happened with Glory Bee. Little and cute and charming didnât count with a horse.
Patrick was now motioning urgently to Frank, who realized he was thinking slowly, woozy from the cocktail of ibuprofen, prescription painkiller, and Benadryl heâd stuffed down in order to try to sleep in his pod. He must have heard the boom of the lightning slash with the inturned ear of sleep, at the moment in his dream when Natalie stepped into the steep shaft of boiling water.
Settle down, he lectured himself. Breathe.
Lightning veined the clouds outside the window again, and Frank thought of his grandmother saying, âThe bad ones are struck by lightning . . .â which was no more than another ladle of Irish fantasy. If lightning really struck down bad-deed doers, the prison guards at the big maximum-security prison at Joliet would report each morning for work with shovels and dumpsters to dispose of the previous nightâs crispy corpses.
The kid didnât seem fazed at all.
Glory Bee, Frank thought then.
His senses switched on, one by one. Fear had heightened all the body smells in the cabin, as it will, from cologne to digestive disruptions. The flight attendants were carrying around cups of water and tea and a few ice packs. Francie handed Ian a tiny box of chocolates.
âHeâs doing just great,â Frank said to the woman, and watched as Ian abstractedly touched the sleeve of every flight attendant who passed. He is being careful to spread it, Frank thought. What the hell was he seeing?
He told the kid, âYou stay here. Unless you need to go to the bathroom? I do.â If everyone else was having the same reaction to the lightning strike as Frank was, the bathroom should be a hellhole. He thanked again the last-minute purchase of business-class seats. High-priced shit was still shit, but there would be less of it.
When Frank came back, after using a dozen tiny, antiseptic towels to bathe his face, he stretched, massaged his leg, and took the drawing pad Ian was holding up for him to see. There was Glory Beeâs dark face, the slabs of her cheeks skillfully sketched, her lashed, side-seeing eyes flicked forward. It was primitive, but clearly sketched by someone who could see things the way artists see things.
âWho made that?â Frank said.
The boyâs face said clearly that he had. How could a kid three years old draw like that? The doctor put him at just three and a half, maybe not quite, and Frank, saying he was the boyâs uncle, the kidâs parents having been victims of the flood, gave him an arbitrary birthday.
How did the real Glory Bee look right now? She would not just be shivering and shaking, as was her custom, but fighting with all her considerable might. She would snap her leg.
Frankâs father had told him how, back in 1960, before Frank was born, the great Olympic jumping horse Markham had to be shot just for this reason, when he went berserk, probably because he couldnât tolerate the confinement of the quarters on the flight to the games in Rome.
Planes were better now.
Horses, however, hadnât changed much.
Frank didnât like to think about how much heâd paid to get Glory Bee on the airplane in the first place. The passage had cost him the equivalent of what a good used car (a very good used car) would have cost in Madison, and the whole setup had a shaky ad hoc feeling (not unlike everything else about Frankâs current cosmology) that would never have passed muster in the absence of
What was it?
If heâd doubted the kidâs effect on Cedric and Tura, heâd seen it plainly with his lawyer friend Charley, who wanted no part of black-market passports until he shook hands with Ian, and who then helped Frank obtain one anyway. Once or twice, Frank could have put it down to Ianâs waifish charm, a kid being little and cute and alone and blond as a dandelion. But it had happened with Glory Bee. Little and cute and charming didnât count with a horse.
Patrick was now motioning urgently to Frank, who realized he was thinking slowly, woozy from the cocktail of ibuprofen, prescription painkiller, and Benadryl heâd stuffed down in order to try to sleep in his pod. He must have heard the boom of the lightning slash with the inturned ear of sleep, at the moment in his dream when Natalie stepped into the steep shaft of boiling water.
Settle down, he lectured himself. Breathe.
Lightning veined the clouds outside the window again, and Frank thought of his grandmother saying, âThe bad ones are struck by lightning . . .â which was no more than another ladle of Irish fantasy. If lightning really struck down bad-deed doers, the prison guards at the big maximum-security prison at Joliet would report each morning for work with shovels and dumpsters to dispose of the previous nightâs crispy corpses.
The kid didnât seem fazed at all.
Glory Bee, Frank thought then.
His senses switched on, one by one. Fear had heightened all the body smells in the cabin, as it will, from cologne to digestive disruptions. The flight attendants were carrying around cups of water and tea and a few ice packs. Francie handed Ian a tiny box of chocolates.
âHeâs doing just great,â Frank said to the woman, and watched as Ian abstractedly touched the sleeve of every flight attendant who passed. He is being careful to spread it, Frank thought. What the hell was he seeing?
He told the kid, âYou stay here. Unless you need to go to the bathroom? I do.â If everyone else was having the same reaction to the lightning strike as Frank was, the bathroom should be a hellhole. He thanked again the last-minute purchase of business-class seats. High-priced shit was still shit, but there would be less of it.
When Frank came back, after using a dozen tiny, antiseptic towels to bathe his face, he stretched, massaged his leg, and took the drawing pad Ian was holding up for him to see. There was Glory Beeâs dark face, the slabs of her cheeks skillfully sketched, her lashed, side-seeing eyes flicked forward. It was primitive, but clearly sketched by someone who could see things the way artists see things.
âWho made that?â Frank said.
The boyâs face said clearly that he had. How could a kid three years old draw like that? The doctor put him at just three and a half, maybe not quite, and Frank, saying he was the boyâs uncle, the kidâs parents having been victims of the flood, gave him an arbitrary birthday.
How did the real Glory Bee look right now? She would not just be shivering and shaking, as was her custom, but fighting with all her considerable might. She would snap her leg.
Frankâs father had told him how, back in 1960, before Frank was born, the great Olympic jumping horse Markham had to be shot just for this reason, when he went berserk, probably because he couldnât tolerate the confinement of the quarters on the flight to the games in Rome.
Planes were better now.
Horses, however, hadnât changed much.
Frank didnât like to think about how much heâd paid to get Glory Bee on the airplane in the first place. The passage had cost him the equivalent of what a good used car (a very good used car) would have cost in Madison, and the whole setup had a shaky ad hoc feeling (not unlike everything else about Frankâs current cosmology) that would never have passed muster in the absence of
Similar Books
