The Indestructible Man Page 11

  We try to keep the gossip to a minimum; we do not talk of Henry openly in places he frequents, and shush one another when he is within earshot. His privacy does not become an issue until V. Bud Stiller, Outdoors Editor and Editor-in-Chief of the Gazette, writes an editorial speculating on what, exactly, Henry might be doing back there. He claims it is a surprise, one that he is privy to but cannot reveal until it is ready. Bud is a liar and we know it. He knows nothing of Henry.

  Henry is somewhat unnerved by the publicity, especially when strangers start poking around his backyard trying to glimpse his creation. He complains during the few minutes he sets aside each week to talk with us outside the market. Our faces redden and we stare at our shoes as we listen, unsure whether he knows we have been there. Despite our guilt we continue to sneak looks at the machine, parking well out of sight of the house, tiptoeing in twos and threes through the grass until we see the partially-assembled mass of wood and metal. It bears no resemblance to anything we have ever seen, and if it is going to send Henry to the moon we do not know how. As a favor to Henry we run off any curious strangers we encounter while prowling around his house. It is only fair; unlike them, we can be trusted.

  Just before four a.m. on a night near the end of June, Henry’s phonecalls jar us from sleep. He is ready to put the finishing touches on the device and welcomes our help. For the last few nights we have stayed far away; rumor has it that neighbors have heard shotgun blasts coming from his backyard. Friend or not, we are not curious enough to risk death. But once he has finished the final touch-up work to the machine and is ready to stain and finish the wood, he finally invites us to see it up close.

  Henry comes for each of us just after five, signaling us from our driveways with three quick honks. Our wives and girlfriends object at first, then begin hurrying us along, demanding a full report when we return. We pull on old jeans and flannel shirts, grab partial six-packs to contribute to the occasion, and pile into the back of Henry’s rusty pickup. None of us has missed any rest. We are far too excited to be tired, and as we cling to the sides of Henry’s truck bed we silently wonder what he is about to show us, how we will keep from laughing or finally telling Henry he has flipped. To do so would be rude and would undermine Henry’s confidence. And—while none of us will admit it—though we all believe Henry’s plan is ludicrous, a very small voice whispering in our thoughts tells us to give him a chance.

  Henry apologizes for his timing, but insists the only way to appreciate the machine’s grandeur is in the subtle pre-dawn light. As he swings into the driveway and the tires crunch gravel we smell the odor of rotting corn, but say nothing. We try to see behind the house, but glimpse only the vague, dark silhouette of something rising above the roof, challenging even the height of the trees.

  He tells us to wait, disappears behind the house. A few minutes later we hear his “okay,” which seems to be coming from above and behind the house, and we follow. Even before we reach the lot we see it, though it takes us almost a full minute to comprehend it. We can at first only focus on Henry, perched atop the gigantic arm thirty or forty feet above our heads, in a torn-out Volkswagen seat bolted to the end, raising a beer can into the air.

  “So what do you think?” he asks us, but we can only stare at him sitting atop the tower of pale, unstained pine.

  The device is framed by two wooden pillars thick as telephone poles, resting on a T-shaped base ten, perhaps fifteen feet wide, held in place by metal supports. In between, resting on a fulcrum and rising high above the treetops, the arm—an impossibly long, slender but sturdy wooden shaft. Beside it, close to ground level, is the crank, a circle of wood like a ship’s steering wheel, as wide as we are tall and holding a coil of heavy steel cable. Weighing the arm down are two steel drums filled with cement fastened to the wood with heavy chains, and high above us, at the end, is the Volkswagen seat, and Henry. It has a grace and power we cannot fully articulate. It seems somehow alive; with the arm extended it resembles a giant long-necked dinosaur balancing on its powerful haunches, reaching into the trees for a bite of leaves. We are awed, and when he finally invites us to touch it we approach with cautious hesitation.

  The tannish wood is smooth and well-sanded and we caress every inch of the machine, examining its design, its delicate balance, the clockwork of the magnificent thing he has built and wishes to share with us. We are mesmerized by its design until we hear the metallic clunk of cans of mahogany stain and paintbrushes hitting the ground in front of us.

  With all of us working together it takes just under three hours to stain and glaze the wood. We are so transfixed by the work that we fail to notice the sun rise, and by the time we are finished we are hot, covered in mahogany sweat, and very late to our jobs. From inside Henry’s house we hear the phone ring time and again, but we ignore it, lean our sore backs against the heavy wood frame, peel open the pop-tops of the beer cans, their contents warm from the sun. The suds pour over our hands and into the crabgrass and we drink a warm foamy toast to the machine before us. Henry lies on his back on the ground and smiles, pours beer into his open mouth and over his face and neck. We have not seen him this happy since before Cora died, and we are moved that we are able to share his happiness, if only a little.

  We go inside and splash water on our flushed faces, and when we come back out Henry is at the crank, turning with all his might and calling us to help. We rush to his aid, pull the heavy arm back slowly. The steel cable grows taut, the wood creaks with tension as the heavy cement-filled drums rise into the air. Finally the arm is fully cocked, and our heaving muscles relax.

  “Now, watch this,” Henry says, and, huffing, heaves a cinder block onto his shoulder and places it on the Volkswagen seat. He examines the angle, pushes down on the seat, centers the block. “Okay now,” he says. “Stand back.” He takes hold of a length of cable attached to the crank, and pulls.

  We watch as the steel drums fall and the arm lurches forward. The ground beneath us shakes, and we shudder as the mighty ka-thunk of the catapult arm rings in our ears. The cinder block is hurled high into the air, spinning and spinning like a football until it grows so tiny that it passes from sight. We hoot and howl in unison, jump up and down like children, hug one another in drunken triumph. Henry says nothing, following the cinder block’s trajectory though he can no longer see it. “All wrong,” he says. “The angle’s all wrong. I’ll need to adjust it more.” But we do not listen, we continue to jump and wrestle in the sparse grass. We finally still ourselves and look at the machine as it towers above us, and for this one moment Henry is not unhinged or depressed or deluded; he is a genius, and though some muffled instinct tells us otherwise, for the first time the thought enters our minds that he might actually do it. We continue to stare in reverence until Henry waves us away. Henry shakes his head, throws up his hands. “Go on,” he says. “Get out of here. I have more work to do.”

  We call our wives and girlfriends to come collect us, climb red-faced and numb into our cars, try to explain why we are drunk and not at work. As Henry’s house slowly recedes we stare out our back windows at the long slender catapult arm, rising once more above his brown thatched roof.

  Through no fault of our own news of Henry’s creation and his intentions for it have leaked out. For the past week or so V. Bud Stiller has been running a daily feature on Henry and his catapult in the Gazette, having proclaimed it the noblest undertaking ever attempted by one of our town’s own. Over the past few days Bud has run Henry’s blueprints, pictures of him standing next to the machine or perched in the car seat, scientific information about the moon, its orbit and the possibility of life upon it. Rumor has it that Bud came too close to Henry’s property for his own good, that Henry tackled him in the grass, that Bud finally eked his way out of a beating by convincing Henry he’d invite fewer intrusions by cooperating. This would not surprise us, though we cannot know for certain; Henry has not returned our calls since last we saw him. If he requires space we are more than happy to give
it to him.

  This morning it is an essay by Henry himself, explaining in detail how the mechanism will work and the scientific principles that will allow his moon launch to occur. When the catapult fires him off into the empty void, the moon’s gravity will catch him. Once captured in the moon’s gravitational field he will be swung about in orbit three or four times, descending farther with each revolution until, on the final orbit, he is deposited gently onto the lunar soil, a green sandy substance smoother than any sand on an earthly beach. And since the moon’s gravity is so much weaker, to return home he will merely have to ascend a high lunar peak and leap back out into space, lowered gingerly to the ground by means of a small parachute. Though we feel a lingering doubt over this explanation, we merely nod and pretend it makes perfect sense.

  For the past few days cinder blocks and heavy sandbags have been spotted landing in town, leaving ruts in people’s yards, punching through car roofs, even crashing through a picture window or two. For a time we feel menaced, unsettled by the prospect of Henry raining heavy missiles down on our houses. He insists we have nothing to fear, that these are only accidents caused by the test-firings, but each night we reassure ourselves that we have not recently offended him, search our memories for any past personal slights or injuries that might have resulted in a grudge, devise subtle ways of apologizing. On Henry’s behalf, V. Bud Stiller asks us to be patient; these small accidents are part of a greater good. Sheriff Tomkins quietly agrees to give Henry some leeway based on the ambitiousness of the project, so long as he does not kill or injure anyone. We listen carefully to the police frequency on our scanners and when a report comes in we speed to the scene, remove the offending missiles, sweep away the broken glass, and cover ruts in the grass as best we can.

  Cliff Jennings has a pool going at the pharmacy, the winner whoever picks the spot closest to where Henry will hit the ground. Most seem to favor spots in or around the river; we have always suspected Henry would meet his end in the river, carried away by the roiling water and coming to rest on the rocky bottom. Nonetheless, we find Cliff’s comments distasteful and offensive, and resolve to boycott the place until after Henry’s launch.

  Henry finally sets the Fourth of July as his planned launch date. He claims it is a perfect follow-up to Sheriff Tomkins’ annual fireworks display, when the mood will already be festive. We suspect he also wishes to one-up Sheriff Tomkins, a feat that until now seemed impossible. Sheriff Tomkins is a master of pyrotechnics, each year putting on a more fantastic display than the last—arcing trails of reds and blues visible over every pasture and cornfield in and around town, culminating in fiery red, white and blue plumes like peacock fans, stretched out across the sky. But we all know Henry stands a good chance of topping it.

  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.