Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [115]
The biplane shrunk in the sky then, rising lazily away. Again the engine noise faded and we turned back to the grave, prepared to pray. But back in the distance the motor modulated up a half-pitch. We turned to look, and the sun flashed from the left wingtip as the opposite wingtip dipped, and now the plane was curling back toward us, dropping swiftly. The downward arc steepened to a plummet, and looked precipitous to the point of danger—surely he was falling too fast—but still the plane descended, drifting sideways until it was approaching over the farm buildings to the south and still dropping, now nearly straight at us, and just when you thought No, too low, the wings fixed themselves dead square to the earth and now the noise came on flat and furious, the plane over the corn tassel-top high and distorted behind a heat mirage, and the roar grew and grew and the plane blasted through the shimmer to bellow toward us terribly vivid now, flat-out thunder on a rope, and when it was nearly upon us a gloved fist shot from the cockpit in a rock-solid salute, and in that split second the plane twisted steeply up and left and up and left, the fist still high, and then the plane just rising up, and up, and silently up, and then nothing and with it our hearts into the white-hot sky.
CHAPTER 9
One summer evening when the other kids got to go swimming, I had to stay home in bed. There had been some infraction. I no longer recall the offense, but I can summon with absolute clarity the sand-crackle sound of car tires departing the driveway, the soft swell of acceleration, and the fade to distance. Staring at the ceiling from beneath one thin blanket, I felt starkly alone as the sun lowered and I imagined my siblings boisterously en route to Fish Lake, their beach towels slung brightly across the seats.
Tonight Amy is living her own version of my past. The evening before Anneliese and I were married, we held a yard dance. A string band called Duck for the Oyster provided the music, and their caller Karen led us through the quadrilles and contras with such verve and simplicity that even an arrhythmic clomper such as I had a delightful time. We have attended several of their events since, and Amy especially loves them. This weekend they played up north, and it was our plan to attend as a family.
This did not come to pass.
A sweet girl, our Amy, but as with any developing child, there are low-level intransigencies, the cumulative effect being that the dictatorship must intervene. In the matter of gathering hay for the guinea pig, there was slumpage unabated; piano practice had become a weeping sit-down strike interspersed with spates of enervated tinkling; spelling lessons began to feel as if they were being conducted in a room stripped of everything but a chair and one naked lightbulb. Sensing that Anneliese was nearing the end of her rope (I pick up on this sort of thing, especially if she writes a note and tapes it to the toilet seat), I intervened with a series of expostulatory disquisitions blending themes of personal responsibility, the virtues of alacrity, respect for one’s elders, the long-term benefits of good posture at the piano bench, and a general review of all-American gumption. Once I actually harrumphed. I truly believed I was getting somewhere until—just as I was hitting my stride on the delayed gratification of hard work and a job well done—Amy looked up at me through her tears, stamped her foot, and howled, “But I only want to do the FUN stuff!”
I found her logic impeccable and wished I could cut to commercial.
Despite my one-man Chautauqua act, there was no improvement. Anneliese and I talked and agreed it was time to implement measurable standards backed by that euphemistic woodshed, consequences. A family meeting followed, the chore and school list was reviewed, and standards of performance were clearly set. We