Tilt - Alan Cumyn [42]
Feldon the airplane continued to circle as if out of radio contact.
How badly was it raining? Nothing like last night. His mother couldn’t possibly stay mad at him if he took the kid out. And if they left, his mother would say what she needed to say to Ron, who would realize this wasn’t his house anymore. Even if he did replace the toilet.
Stan headed down to the basement to gather the gear. The rods were on shelves behind several boxes of Christmas ornaments. It was a matter of moving a few things . . .
“The new one won’t fit,” Stan heard his father say to his mother on the main floor.
The heating vent was right over his head. They might as well have been using a loudspeaker.
“I don’t believe this,” his mother said.
“It’s a standard size, but the pipes here aren’t standard.”
“I don’t believe this,” his mother said again.
“There is an adapter. But I have to go back to the store.”
“Did you call her?”
“I think it’ll be all right.”
“Did you call her?”
There were the fishing rods. Stan had no reason to stay under the vent, but he lingered, anyway.
“She’s pretty adamant,” Ron said.
“About what? Leaving you? What about Feldon?”
Maybe Stan could just get Feldon out quietly. He wouldn’t have to say where they were going.
“Ron! Say something!”
He could just leave a note, maybe.
“What did you do to get her so angry at you? Did she really leave you, or did you leave her and take Feldon with you?”
If Ron was explaining, Stan couldn’t hear it. Feet moved over his head.
“It’s just a simple adapter,” said Ron. Heavy footsteps down the hall. Then the front door opened and shut.
Stan got the tackle box and silently climbed the stairs again. Feldon wasn’t buzzing around anymore. He didn’t seem to be anywhere. Stan quietly called for him in the kitchen. Ron had gone — probably to the hardware to get the adapter. Did he take Feldon?
“Where are you going?” His mother stood blocking the passage to the front door, her hands on her hips. The rims of her eyes were dangerously red.
“I’m sorry,” Stan said.
“Yesterday you just walked out! You dragged yourself back in the middle of the night . . .” If she grimaced any further her jaw was going to crack.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He felt pretty foolish standing in the kitchen with a couple of fishing rods. Especially if Feldon was gone.
“You just disappeared! Do you have any idea — ?”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Bits of dust fell from the spin-caster onto the kitchen floor. Stan watched the clumps fall, then wondered if he should pick them up or if that would make things worse.
“Where did you go?”
Stan’s eyes went down to the dust clumps anyway. Just for a second. The counter door was slightly open. And there was Feldon cowering with his eyes closed and his hands over his ears.
The sight of the boy drained all the counter-punch from him.
“I told you I was going to a dance,” Stan said. “I should have called. I’m sorry. I didn’t think —”
He was going to say he didn’t think she’d miss him, but of course that wasn’t true.
“You didn’t think!” she said. “You didn’t think! Now look!” She gestured toward the bathroom as if somehow, if he’d been there, Stan would have prevented the whole disaster. “He’s getting me to spend two hundred dollars on a new toilet that doesn’t fit and I don’t bloody well need!”
Stan wanted to just take Feldon by the hand and pull him out.
“I went to the dance and I got home a little late,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Lily came down the stairs clutching Mr. Strawberry.
“Fishing!” she cried.
“I was going to take Feldon down to the river,” Stan said.
“What about me!” Lily said, like her mouth was spring-loaded.
Lily, who hated fishing.
Feldon closed the cupboard door a little farther on himself.
Light rain fell on the window.
“I never get to go fishing!” Lily wailed.
—
“Did you ever do this with your dad?” Stan asked as they headed down the sidewalk toward the river. He was holding Feldon’s hand. Feldon had the tackle box and Lily had Mr. Strawberry and the smaller rod, which she kept swishing dangerously.