closing for emphasis. His stories always ended the same way: with him setting his teeth together
and bracing himself for some act of insane bravery, only to be saved at the last moment by an unnatural act of luck or serendipity.
He was in the Australian outback, for instance, and almost crashed into a desert mountain—until an unexpected gust of wind
lifted his airplane over the ledge. He was in Vietnam and crash-landed a helicopter in the middle of a strange, unknown jungle—only
to discover he had landed directly on top of a secret American CIA base. I had heard every one of my father’s stories by that
time in my life but hadn’t tired of any of them. And I still believed them, every single word. “Come over here,” he said to
me now.
I went to his side and leaned onto his lap and looked up at his large muscly face—the face Eric would later grow into.
“That’s a hell of a story, Jim,” one of the people standing around him said. “Too bad it isn’t true.”
Everyone laughed.
“It’s true,” I said. “It’s totally true.” I shook my head at these people.
“I was only kidding, Pilot,” the man said. “Of course it’s true. Of course it is.”
They all smiled at me like I was an idiot.
“Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
“Go into the kitchen,” Dad said. “There’s all kinds of stuff in there. Just help yourself.”
“Can I have another sip of your drink?”
Hilarity all around.
“Get out of here.”
I weaseled my way through the party once more toward the kitchen, just off the sliding doors on the patio. Hannah was putting
her arms around some man’s shoulders. He wore a white office shirt that was totally open, revealing his entire chest. They
were dancing. It was only joking, I could tell. But it was dancing.
“Mom?” I said.
She kept dancing.
“Mom?”
She stopped. “What?”
“I’m getting something to eat. Is that all right?”
“Yes, it’s all right.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Get something for your sister, too,” she said. “Make sure Fiona
gets something to eat, too. Okay?”
I nodded and went into the kitchen.
There were soda and liquor bottles on every counter. There were bags of potato chips and boxes of pretzels. There was a fondue
pot, yellowy cheese bubbling over. There were raw slices of crisp vegetables. There were various dips. Some guy was dancing
around and pouring all kinds of different drinks. He wore a blue shirt and tie, like he had come here directly from work.
But there was a big spot on his shirt where he’d spilled something.
“Are you Eric?” he asked.
“I’m Pilot.”
“A very interesting name. Can you fly?”
“Someday I’ll fly. But now I’m too young.”
“What can I get for you, young Pilot? A gin and tonic? A whiskey and soda?”
“Are you kidding?”
He eyed me with mock suspicion. “What do you mean? You don’t drink?” he said. “A drinking problem at your age?”
“You’re an idiot,” I said.
He just looked at me.
I shrugged and left the room. Maybe I wasn’t so hungry. “Fiona?” I yelled. Where the heck was my sister?
Often, if I found myself alone in the house, I’d go into Eric’s room, even though he had explicitly told me not to. I wanted
to look at his trophies, which he kept in a tall bookcase our mother had painted sea-green. I’d run my fingers over the swimming
ribbons and the gold statues of football players, their bodies caught in motion. I’d read again and again the certificates
of achievement he’d received in the Thomas Edison Junior High School and the Albert Einstein High athletic departments. On
the top shelf of the bookcase, all the way up, was the New York State Junior Scientist cup, a large silver bowl with his name,
Eric Richard Airie, etched in scrolly letters. It was way too high for me to reach, of course, so I would pull Eric’s desk
chair over and stand on it just so I could run my fingers along the silver rim.
and bracing himself for some act of insane bravery, only to be saved at the last moment by an unnatural act of luck or serendipity.
He was in the Australian outback, for instance, and almost crashed into a desert mountain—until an unexpected gust of wind
lifted his airplane over the ledge. He was in Vietnam and crash-landed a helicopter in the middle of a strange, unknown jungle—only
to discover he had landed directly on top of a secret American CIA base. I had heard every one of my father’s stories by that
time in my life but hadn’t tired of any of them. And I still believed them, every single word. “Come over here,” he said to
me now.
I went to his side and leaned onto his lap and looked up at his large muscly face—the face Eric would later grow into.
“That’s a hell of a story, Jim,” one of the people standing around him said. “Too bad it isn’t true.”
Everyone laughed.
“It’s true,” I said. “It’s totally true.” I shook my head at these people.
“I was only kidding, Pilot,” the man said. “Of course it’s true. Of course it is.”
They all smiled at me like I was an idiot.
“Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
“Go into the kitchen,” Dad said. “There’s all kinds of stuff in there. Just help yourself.”
“Can I have another sip of your drink?”
Hilarity all around.
“Get out of here.”
I weaseled my way through the party once more toward the kitchen, just off the sliding doors on the patio. Hannah was putting
her arms around some man’s shoulders. He wore a white office shirt that was totally open, revealing his entire chest. They
were dancing. It was only joking, I could tell. But it was dancing.
“Mom?” I said.
She kept dancing.
“Mom?”
She stopped. “What?”
“I’m getting something to eat. Is that all right?”
“Yes, it’s all right.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Get something for your sister, too,” she said. “Make sure Fiona
gets something to eat, too. Okay?”
I nodded and went into the kitchen.
There were soda and liquor bottles on every counter. There were bags of potato chips and boxes of pretzels. There was a fondue
pot, yellowy cheese bubbling over. There were raw slices of crisp vegetables. There were various dips. Some guy was dancing
around and pouring all kinds of different drinks. He wore a blue shirt and tie, like he had come here directly from work.
But there was a big spot on his shirt where he’d spilled something.
“Are you Eric?” he asked.
“I’m Pilot.”
“A very interesting name. Can you fly?”
“Someday I’ll fly. But now I’m too young.”
“What can I get for you, young Pilot? A gin and tonic? A whiskey and soda?”
“Are you kidding?”
He eyed me with mock suspicion. “What do you mean? You don’t drink?” he said. “A drinking problem at your age?”
“You’re an idiot,” I said.
He just looked at me.
I shrugged and left the room. Maybe I wasn’t so hungry. “Fiona?” I yelled. Where the heck was my sister?
Often, if I found myself alone in the house, I’d go into Eric’s room, even though he had explicitly told me not to. I wanted
to look at his trophies, which he kept in a tall bookcase our mother had painted sea-green. I’d run my fingers over the swimming
ribbons and the gold statues of football players, their bodies caught in motion. I’d read again and again the certificates
of achievement he’d received in the Thomas Edison Junior High School and the Albert Einstein High athletic departments. On
the top shelf of the bookcase, all the way up, was the New York State Junior Scientist cup, a large silver bowl with his name,
Eric Richard Airie, etched in scrolly letters. It was way too high for me to reach, of course, so I would pull Eric’s desk
chair over and stand on it just so I could run my fingers along the silver rim.
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