then Gurley and the sun coming up, and some tundra spirit seeking me out, and then Father Pabich-nothing about the boy.
What happened next seemed to be the boy's decision more than mine. Or perhaps it was Lily's. As I was sitting there, staring at my own hands, the boy, eyes closed, reached out. I put a hand in the way of his, and he caught up two or three of my fingers in a tight grasp. It reminds me, now, of what infants will sometimes do, at the hospital or after a baptism. And the parents smile and laugh: such strength, such affection!
But I didn't smile then. His hand was a boy's hand, but it was dry and cracked. I found myself checking the tips of his fingers for gangrene-some telltale sign of Gurley's black death settling in. But they were just a boy's fingers, the dirt ringed beneath his nails the only black to be found. The feel of his hand, though, that surprised me: rough, callused. I wanted to turn his hand over, examine it more closely as Lily might have, or must have. But he held on tight, and I didn't move, and a story seeped through-a small boy, who'd been pressed into service in a wartime factory because all the able-bodied men were at war. The balloons he was helping build were more wonderful than anything he'd ever made for himself, and he wanted so much to fly in one.
They were experimenting with a new, larger model. They flew it on a short tether, overnight, to test a new mixture of gases. He'd watched from outside the fence. It was so close, so tempting. He crawled under the fence, and then, before he realized what he was doing, he was climbing up the rope. Climbing up, hand over hand, just like they'd been doing in school, all of them training to be strong young warriors, ready to fight when the last stand began. And then he was inside. It was impossible that this was happening, of course, impossible to any adult in particular, impossible to anyone who was not a boy who wanted to fly. He took out a knife, a little one. This they hadn't taught in school; this was what his father gave to him before his father left on a train that took him to a ship that took him to what his mother said was a tiny island, surrounded by a wide ocean, far away, so far that the boy was still waiting for an answer to the letters he'd written his dad, telling him how careful he'd been with the knife, how skilled he'd become with it.
He cut the first tether, the rope he'd climbed up on, and the knife worked beautifully, the rope helping him, each strand shattering as he drew the blade across it. When the rope snapped free, the balloon lurched, and he almost fell out, almost dropped the knife. But he was okay now, he was okay, a little scared, maybe, but okay, and his hand-saving the knife caused him to get a little cut. Was it bad? He held it up; he couldn't see it well, it was dark. It felt moist, sticky, but it didn't hurt, not yet. He licked it, and then it started to hurt, so he made a fist and sat back for a moment. It wasn't much of a cut, but it was in the same place he'd gotten scratched by that cat. That cat! She'd cornered the mouse he'd been keeping-these men had been keeping the mice in these little cages, outside, but he'd gone and gotten one, just for himself, he'd take care of it, and then that cat. He'd like to have his little mouse with him now, he'd like to see this: look, he was cutting the second tether. There were three. Snap. The balloon lurched again, but this time he was ready, braced, the balloon now rocking, angry or excited, he couldn't tell. If he were a balloon, he'd want to fly, he wouldn't want to stay tied to the ground. Now for the last cord. His hand was bleeding again, not badly. He wiped it on his coveralls, the little worker coveralls they gave him when he started at the factory. “So grown up!” his mother had said, crying for some reason, when she saw him for the first time in the coveralls. She should have been happy: he was helping now. Helping Father. Helping Mother, who was working in the same factory. If only he had had brothers, sisters, they all could have worked, all could have helped. All of them lined up in their uniforms.
He put his knife to the last strand and paused. The ground looked funny from the balloon. Really close one minute, really far away the next. He wondered how far the balloon would fly. Would someone come after him? Would his mother be angry? Would he get hungry? Thirsty? He had a stick of gum in his pocket. How long would this take? How long before he saw his dad, down on the beach, on an island, just like this one, but smaller? The boy could see him there. Dad! Up here! I'm coming! He sawed and sawed at this last rope, but it was tougher than the others, took a while, and now he was nervous. He was late. He was expected. He worked faster. His dad was right: it was a good knife, but even with a good knife, this took time. His hand started bleeding again, the same hand that held the knife. Sawing, sawing. The knife was getting dirty, getting bloody, and he thought of his father's stern face. He stopped sawing for a moment to clean it off, and the knife fell away.
His father's knife! It took forever to fall, and when it did, he had to strain to hear it land. He could see it, glinting there in some far-off light. He checked the rope. Could he climb back down, back up? He gave it a tug. He was almost done! Dad! The knife! The rope didn't understand what was happening. The knife was gone, but the rope kept splitting, shredding, tearing, the sound just like that first day at the factory, when he'd slipped and fallen and hurt his leg, torn his uniform. The older boys around him, teasing, yelling, and then his mother there, scooping him up, shrieking at the bleeding, at the boys yelling, then setting him down, taking the cloth from her hair, and tearing it slowly-it was hard to tear-crying as she did, yelling at the boys, and then at the boss when he came, she was crying and yelling while she tied the cloth around his leg, the blood seeping through and then stopping. And then snap, the rope broke, and he was gone, the balloon vaulting up like the moon had been waiting for it, impatiently, and finally just yanked it free like a flower.
It was incredible, wonderful, more wonderful than he could have imagined. His hand didn't hurt anymore. He wasn't crying anymore. (When had he started crying? He touched his cheek, wet.) And now he was flying, really flying, just him. Not a sound. Up over the factory, over the town. Where was his house? There? He waved. Bye, Mom! He looked out over the ocean. Where was Dad? How did you steer? Oh, but these were army balloons; they would know where to go.
It grew cold. While he was looking out over the town, for that cat, his mouse, looking out over the houses of all those friends who would be so jealous, a sudden gust of wind pulled the balloon so violently, he almost fell out-again!-and when he finally caught his breath and looked out, looked down-it was all gone. The town was gone. It was somewhere back there, a dark shape, no lights, of course, but the ocean now beneath, dark, too, and invisible. It was like the sky just stretched dark in every direction, above, below, before, behind. It made it hard to breathe, just to think of it, all that dark, all that night. Was the balloon moving? Going higher? Lower? How long would this take?
In the morning, he was frozen. Couldn't move. His hands curled up tight, little fists, his hair crunchy with frost. He had some trouble opening his eyes, but he did. And he pounded his fists together, pounded and pounded, and they opened up, slowly, like they were made of metal. They hurt, his fingers were stiff, numb, but he was still there. This was wrong, though. His father had gone to an island, where Mother said it was hot. The sun all day long, the heat continuing through the night. And the boy, he was cold, freezing. He pulled his arms inside the coverall, looked around.
But what a world! The sun so bright, you had to squint wherever you looked, even at the clear blue sky. Down below, something green. An island? The island? Or ocean? It stretched for miles. He was sleepy. He'd just woken up, but was sleepy. The sun was everywhere, crowding things out so there wasn't room for anything-no clouds, no islands, no air. It was hard to breathe, unless you took little breaths, teeny little breaths, like you were sleeping. Little breaths. Little breaths.
Now he was always hungry. Always cold. His feet felt funny-like they weren't there at all. And his eyes hurt. From the squinting? Just from the air. Just opening them hurt, and he didn't even look anymore. His father would have to see him first. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it. His father, looking up, and him, looking down, just drifting down, like a cloud. He could see it, just like that. Eyes closed. Little breaths.
He was a cloud, a little cloud, and he was wet, always wet, and all around him was gray, other clouds, and no matter how the wind blew, he still felt wet and cold. But warmer now, somehow the wet made it warmer, and the ocean looked closer. The island! He must be getting close to his father's island. But it was so hard to see now, and all he could see was a mottled green scab on the ocean. It stretched along the horizon. And the next day, he looked down, and saw he was above the scab. Now closer and closer. And there were trees, little trees. In the middle of the ocean. And patches of grass. But where was Father? And water, of course, everywhere, a spider's web of rivers. A fire! There was a fire! And people! Where was Father? It was so hard to see. Little breaths. Father!
He dreamed he'd fallen again, was running in the factory again, his mother running after him, warning him, reminding him what had happened before, but he wasn't listening, he was running, across the roof, and then leaping, flying, until the ground rushed up at him and he'd landed with a
