My mother did most of the talking. We picked up the luggage and rode the conveyor belt back to the car. She still didn't say anything about Ireland. She went on and on about the stewardesses and the pilot and the food on the aircraft and the drinks and the movies and the headset with eleven different channels playing all kinds of music and educational programs. I was falling asleep. It was getting dark outside.
"And they told us we weren't supposed to bother the pilot, but Bill went up anyway and talked to him."
"Actually," said my father, "the copilot did most of the talking."
"Did you play the slot machines in Dublin?" asked Aunt Speed.
"A little," said my mother. "And the pilot offered your father some coffee."
"The copilot," said my father.
"And explained the cockpit. And when he came back to our seat, I said to him, We'll have to tell Brian all about it--he'll be thrilled."
I hid a yawn behind my hand.
"Your friend Callie would have liked it," said my father. "A computer controls everything. The pilot and copilot sit around drinking coffee. Meanwhile the plane's computer ties into an international flight control computer. The computers do all the work. The pilot just takes off and lands. They make about ten times as much as I do. The copilot told me they were sitting pretty."
It sounded like a boring life.
"Did you win any money on the one-armed bandits?" asked Aunt Speed.
"I can understand compulsive gamblers," said my mother. "Something takes over and you just can't stop."
"But did you win anything?"
"I want Brian to understand that a few pennies wasted on vacation do not amount to approval of gambling. In fact, I feel less lenient about it than I used to."
"Did you hit the jackpot?"
"Once she did," said my father. "But she didn't know what to do. The bell rang and she didn't call the manager."
"I was only playing for pence."
"She kept on playing so she lost the prize."
"Glory be," said Aunt Speed. You could tell she found my mother's ignorance frustrating. She forgot herself so completely that for a minute she accelerated to the minimum speed of 40 miles per hour.
It was a mistake for my mother to start talking about Ireland. She had quite a few complaints, and Aunt Speed didn't like to hear the old country criticized.
"It's like a police state," my mother said. "Don't get me wrong. We really enjoyed it."
"They have to be careful," my father said. "Because of the recent bombings and assassinations."
"They search you when you leave the hotel, and they search you when you come back. They want to follow you everywhere. You can't go out by yourself. A so-called guide goes along to steer you to the government shops where everything costs twice as much."
"The government takes a cut," my father said. "So they have to charge higher prices."
"And the food," my mother said. "Not a fresh green salad in the country. All the vegetables boiled to a putty. Your father wanted a hamburger, and they go: How do you want your egg? He goes: I don't want an egg, I want a hamburger. The waiter goes: But how do you want your egg? Can't I have a hamburger without an egg? So they bring him a hamburger on the bottom half of the bun. You can't get the top half without an egg to go with it."
"That was the least of our troubles," said my father. "Not that I'm complaining."
Aunt Speed wasn't saying anything, but I could almost see the steam coming out of her ears.
"You can't get a Coke after eight or nine o'clock. The pubs close and you can't get anything to drink. I mean not even soda water."
"The coffee's terrible," said my father.
"And they won't give you just coffee," said my mother. "You have to order a whole breakfast. Your father pleaded with them, but they refused."
"I'm not hungry when I first get up," he said. "I just like a cup of coffee."
"Is that too much to ask?" my mother said. "And once I ordered Irish Stew. It sure wasn't what I expected."
"All white looking," said my father.
"With gristle and sheep's knuckles floating around in it."
Aunt Speed was slowing down so much that a passing car blew its horn. She got mad and accelerated until she could pass it. As soon as she got in front of it, she slowed down again to her customary 30 miles an hour. It passed her once more. "Americans," said Aunt Speed. "Always in a hurry."
"And at one point," said my mother, "we came upon these picture-book Irish children selling purple heather. Of course we bought some. Then the bus turns the corner and the whole hillside is covered with heather free for the taking."
"The government gets a kickback," said my father.
The way Aunt Speed drove, it took a long time to get home. In spite of the tension I could feel in the car, I fell asleep. I didn't wake up until Aunt Speed dropped us off and abruptly drove away. "I wonder what's the matter with her," said my mother.
My grandmother still had my sister and our car. I had left the autogyro in the garage. I was rubbing my eyes when I heard my father say, "What in the world?"
I could see that both of them had gone through the door into the garage. He's looking at the autogyro, I thought.
Meeko was straining at the end of his rope, jumping on my mother in a fit of joy.
I heard my mother say, "Here, Catty!"
Squirrel was keeping his distance from the dog. He had a dead snake in his teeth.
The autogyro was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Pizza wanted to be a beauty operator. Sometimes she gave my mother a home permanent. She must have seen us drive up. Before we could settle anything, she appeared at the door of the garage.
"Hello Mrs. O'Brien. Hello Mr. O'Brien. Welcome home."
"Hello Theresa," said my mother. "We just now walked in the door."
"What is this cat doing in the garage?" asked my father.
"Would you like some lemonade?" asked my mother.
"No thanks," said Pizza. "I was just wondering if you need a permanent after your trip."
I felt numb.
"Maybe Catty would like a bowl of milk," said my mother.
"Brian," said my father. "Do you know anything about this cat?"
"Yes sir," I said. "It's Callie's cat, but her parents wouldn't let her keep it any more. I thought maybe we could, you know, take care of it."
"I always wanted a cat," my mother said.
"Absolutely not," my father said.
"Here Catty," my mother said. Squirrel wouldn't come any closer. Meeko was still scampering back and forth, wiggling his backside. He always goes nuts when my mother comes home.
"My mother says not to disturb you," said Pizza.
"We had a cat when I was a kid," my father said. "Lazy animals. They just snooze behind the stove all day long."
"Not all cats," I said.
"Look," said my mother. "Catty killed a snake." She walked beyond the end of Meeko's rope. "I didn't even know we had snakes in our garage." She picked Squirrel up. "I think we need a cat to keep the snakes down." The snake was dangling from Squirrel's mouth.
"I just came over to find out if you want your hair done," said Pizza.
"She's a nice kitty," said my mother.
"It's a he," I said.
"You can't train them," said my father.
"Pardon me?" said Pizza.
"You can train a dog but you can't train a cat."
"When's Timo coming home?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," said my mother. "Why?"
"No special reason." I didn't really think Timo had stolen the autogyro. I recognized the snake.
"Come on in and have some lemonade," my mother said. "I have to give Catty a bowl of milk."
As soon as we went in the house, Meeko started jumping against the screen door. "Let the dog in," my mother said.
"He'll chase the cat," I said.
"They have to learn to get along sometime," said my mother. "It might as well be now."
My father went to the bathroom. When my father comes home from a trip, he goes to the bathroom. Then he walks around the yard and looks at the flower beds. Then he mows the lawn.
"I just cut it the other day," I told my mother.
"Grows fast in the summer."
"Hardly anything to cut," I said. I always feel guilty when my father cuts the grass.
Pizza was drinking lemonade. Squirrel had dropped the dead snake. I threw it in the garbage. Meeko kept following Squirrel around, sniffing his fur. He kept arching his back and hissing at Meeko.
"Meeko," said my mother. "Be nice."
Meeko growled. He always growls when you tell him to be nice.
Squirrel jumped up on the dining-room table. Meeko balanced on his hind legs and sniffed the air.
"Where's the cat?" said Pizza.
Meeko barked.
I lived through all this nonsense in a trance. I couldn't think of anything but the autogyro.
"I have to do something," I said.
"You're not going out in the dark, are you? It's bad enough your father has to mow the lawn in the dark."
"That's why he put the headlight on the lawnmower," I said. "Don't worry. My bike has a light and lots of reflectors."
"What's so important you have to do it now?"
"I'm not a kid any more."
"I want you back here within half an hour," she said.
"O.K.," I said.
"Now," said Pizza. "How about a hair-do?"
First I rode to Zubov's house. His garage was open--no autogyro anywhere in sight. I thought about ringing the doorbell, but decided to wait. I wanted to talk to Zubov, not to his parents.
I rode aimlessly around the neighborhood wondering what he could have done with it. I was beginning to worry about the time. I wasn't wearing a watch. Then I saw a familiar shadow, a giant mantis--in the parking lot behind the police station.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I went straight home and told my parents the whole story. My father had never sent me any autogyro for my birthday. He called the police. A couple of uniformed officers came over in a squad car. They listened politely to my father's version of the story. then they told him he'd have to go to the station and talk to the sergeant. I went along.
The police knew about a stolen autogyro kit. Somebody in the area had been stealing things by fiddling with the computers of various companies. Anyone who had a computer, a modem, a telephone, and the necessary knowledge could do it. Mostly the thief took things related to an interest in computers, but some software of interest to amateur radio operators was also on the list. So was the autogyro.
"Brian's a ham," my father said helpfully.
The police had been looking for autogyros. When two of them saw Thomas Zubov towing one down the street, they picked him up and brought him in for questioning. He convinced them that he wasn't any genius. But he wouldn't give the names of his co- conspirators.
"Brian doesn't know anything about computers," said my father.
The sergeant in charge had a desk in the middle of the station. Everyone in the station could hear our conversation. We sat on old wooden chairs. The sergeant had a dark green padded swivel chair. He rocked back in it as he asked questions. "Do you know any computer buffs, Brian?"
I wasn't going to rat on a friend.
"Callie Clemson," said my father.
"Thank you," said the sergeant.
We waited for the Clemsons to join us. Callie's parents said they didn't want a lawyer. They blamed everything on me. With the two of them and Callie all crowded around the sergeant's desk, I felt I couldn't get enough air to breathe. I couldn't even squirm without bumping into somebody.
"Callie never would have done it if Brian hadn't egged her on," said Mr. Clemson.
"I thought gambling was illegal," said Mrs. Clemson. She was getting a little incoherent. She had been emphasizing the low moral tone of the O'Brien household. She made Aunt Speed sound like a countess of organized crime. "Why don't you police do what you're paid to do?"
Callie was crying, but she stuck to the truth. Her father tried to bully her into blaming me. She wouldn't do it.
The station had flourescent lights, and one of them kept buzzing. I hate flourescent lights.
Callie said she didn't exactly consider it stealing. She preferred to think of it as mathematical manipulation. She didn't break any windows.
"Will she go to jail?" asked Mr. Clemson.
"If Callie goes to prison, Brian should too," said Mrs. Clemson.
"Brian didn't do anything," said Callie.
"It all depends on the attitude of her victims," said the sergeant. "I won't give you any bull. I'm hoping they press charges." He leaned forward in his chair. "She won't go to prison, though. Reformatory. The State Correctional Facility for Female Juvenile Offenders."
"Do they allow computers there?" asked Callie.
The sergeant ignored her. "She might even get probation. She doesn't have a record like this Zubov kid."
"Zubov had nothing to do with it," said Callie.
"He did take the autogyro from our garage." I wonder if you can steal something that's already stolen.
Finally the sergeant let us all go home. He trusted the Clemsons with custody of their daughter. I couldn't understand, as we drove home, why the neighborhood hadn't changed at all. The strain of sitting in the police station distracted me. But now I realized that I would probably never get to fly the autogyro. The street lamps didn't seem to care. The stop signs looked the way they always look. A car full of teenagers screeched past us. One of the passengers yelled something out the window. I couldn't make out the words, but they sounded insulting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I hadn't used the tree house all summer. But now Timo had come home, and my grandmother had brought my sister back and was staying over night. I couldn't find a quiet place to think. When I was sitting in the basement, Timo kept interrupting me. My mother and grandmother were talking loud enough to penetrate all the rooms above the basement. In the garage my father had a dozen little chores to keep him going. So I took to the tree house.
I couldn't enjoy the quiet there. It was about 88 degrees outside and way up in the nineties in the box. I still had company: a couple of flies practiced aeronautics around my head. I've heard that it used to get pretty hot in the early submarines. For a while I imagined myself sweating in the engine room of an underwater yacht. I bought it at an army surplus store. Then I modified it so that one person could operate it. I took it on a trial run--a voyage to Hawaii by way of the Panama Canal. First I had to use inland waterways, of course. I couldn't concentrate on this fantasy very well. Birds were arguing outside. You don't hear many birds on a submarine.
I wanted to keep my mind off flying. I started thinking about the tree house itself. Before we built it, I imagined that it would make me completely happy. Never mind the heat. Never mind the flies. Never mind the flu or the measles or the common cold. Nothing could bother a boy with a tree house. I could climb right out of the ordinary world. I felt the same way now about the autogyro. Its rotor blades would lift my spirit with my body.
But after the first summer, the tree house itself became ordinary. An autogyro would also become a common thing. Like Timo in search of a new hobby, I would start dreaming about some other machine to leave my gloomy moods behind. Maybe I'd let the autogyro rust in the back yard. Maybe I wouldn't care about flying any more. Then what difference did it make that the police were returning my aircraft to its proper owner? Everything I ever had I lost one way or another.
I didn't convince myself. I still wanted that autogyro more than anything I could imagine. You could have offered me a supersonic transport, two turboprops, and a space shuttle, and I wouldn't have agreed to trade my autogyro. My machine, a thing I put together with my own ingenuity, outsmarting the instructions, could never belong to anybody else. The company could take back the kit, but the autogyro itself belonged to me.
I tried making something out of that notion. Brian, I said, think of what an educational experience you've had. This second attempt to con myself didn't work either.
My father called me: "Brian! Some people here to see you." People? I didn't know any people.
I heard my father tell them, "Let's go inside and get some lemonade."
I met the people in the living room. One of them, who looked Japanese, stood up when I appeared in the doorway. The other one, who looked like a television anchorman, was sitting in my father's easy chair.
"Brian," said my father. "This is Mr. Whitney." He meant the anchorman. "And this is Mr. Obata. My son."
"We're from Edo International," said Mr. Obata. The company that made the autogyro kit belonged to Edo International. Mr. Obata didn't have a Japanese accent. Stupid, I thought to myself. Do you have an Irish accent? Why should he have a Japanese accent just because his old country is Japan?
"Now Billy," said Mr. Whitney. He meant me. I hate it when people look at my first name, William, and try to get friendly by calling me Bill. "I want you to tell me who helped you build the autogyro." Mr. Whitney wore a business suit. Mr. Obata wore jeans and a windbreaker.
"Only Callie Clemson. Otherwise, I did it all by myself."
"Callie?" said Mr. Whitney.
"The computer kid," said Mr. Obata.
"No," said Mr. Whitney. "I mean what adult helped you build it? Your father mentioned an uncle of yours who's handy at that sort of thing."
For a moment I didn't realize that he was calling me a liar.
"Just tell the truth, son," Whitney said. "We know two kids couldn't have built it by themselves."
"Why don't you give him a pat on the head?" asked Obata. "Nice little boy. Then you can bring out the polygraph." A polygraph is a lie detector.
Whitney ignored him. "We'll know if you're lying. So why not tell the truth?"
I felt my face get hot. Why didn't my father get mad at him for saying that? Why didn't my mother get mad?
My grandmother said, "Brian don't tell lies."
"Brian?" said Whitney. "Who is Brian?"
"Brian," said Obata, "you'll have to excuse Mr. Whitney for assuming that you're a liar. He expects people to lie. He's a business executive."
"Listen, Obata," said Whitney. "You're here on sufferance. I could cancel your ticket any time."
"It's a little stuffy in here," said Obata. "Come on, Brian. Let's get some air."
I looked at my father. He gave me the nod.
"This is grossly insubordinate behavior," said Whitney.
Obata said to me, "He has an excellent vocabulary."
Whitney said that he would be forced to include an account of Obata's actions in his report to the president.
Next Section of Brian's Story.