Flying

Dad thought it'd be a good idea to bring us along.

            "You boys will like it. Mr. and Mrs. Bailey have three girls about the same age as you."

            Jeff and I looked at each other, silently agreeing between us that it would be fun, but, of course, we couldn't let our parents know that.

            I complained, "Aw, no way. I don't want to go. Jeff and I were going to go to the creek and hunt carp with our bow and arrows."

            Dad's eyes turned steely under thick black eyebrows. He gave us each a look only he was capable of, "I don't care. You're both coming with your mom and me. No arguments." Then he turned to our little brother, Brian, pointed a long index finger at him and said, "You, too."

            So we went.

            Mr. and Mrs. Bailey lived ten miles south of us on a bluff overlooking the Minnesota River. For our parents, the view was spectacular. For me and Jeff, well, all we carried about were the girls. Especially me. I was thirteen that summer with wild hormones running out of control. A lot of times I had no idea what was going on with me, often wondering, "Who's this guy that's taken over my body? What has he done with the mild mannered kid I used to be? Why did he make me do some of the things I did and fill my brain all those crazy thoughts?" I had no clue, but I was doing my best to hang on for the crazy ride. Jeff, two years younger, was not only my brother, but also a pretty good friend. We did a lot of stuff together, so if I wanted to check out the Bailey's daughters he'd be right on board. Younger brother Brian? Well, at seven years old, he was hardly a passing thought. Really, who cared about him, anyway?

            After a half hour on the road, Dad pulled into the driveway of the Bailey's sprawling rambler. I'd never in my life seen a house so big and long and, well, rambling. It went on forever. Mr. Bailey, like Dad, was an airline pilot. But he must have been better at his job than Dad or something because it was obvious the guy was wealthy. He had three cars parked in the huge garage, one of them a shining dark green Jaguar. The huge front yard was shady, lush and green, almost like a jungle, and landscaped with shrubs and trees and gardens outlined with big, smooth, rounded stones. There was even a fountain in the middle of a pool in a rock garden with a beguiling naked lady shooting a ten foot stream of water out of her mouth. It was liking being in another world.

            Mr. Bailey came out to greet us as we were getting out of our old Chevrolet station wagon. "Hey there, Fred," he grinned, shaking hands with my dad. "Mary, nice to see you." He gave my mom a brief hug and peck on the cheek. Then he turned to us, "And you must be Fred's boys," he exclaimed, pasting that fake smile on his face every parent is so good at. "How are you doing, young fellas?"

            We had been raised to be polite, so we all dutifully smiled and shook his proffered hand. He then turned and yelled at the top of his voice, "Girls! Get out here! The boys have arrived!!"

            Jesus, could this be anymore embarrassing? I could feel my face turning beet red. I was at an age where parents drawing attention to me was the last thing I wanted. Just shut up, Mr. Bailey, please, just shut up.

            Right then the girls appeared, strutting out through a door at the back of the garage like they were on a fashion runway. Three of them. Each pretty close to the age of me and Jeff and Brian. That's where any resemblance of similarity ended and ended fast. We were obviously in a different league out here on the Minnesota River than back home in Minneapolis. It was summer time. I was dressed in pressed Bermuda shorts, and a white JCrew short sleeve shirt. On my feet were topsiders with no socks. It was a very preppy look, one encouraged by my dad and one I went along with just to keep peace in the family. Also, and this is more to the point, it was the type of clothes my friends wore, with only the slightest room for any variation (pattern on the Bermudas and color of shirt being the only two worth mentioning.)

            Mr. Bailey said, "Boys, these are my daughters, Sara, Kate and Jackie. Girls, say hello to Mr. Jacobson's boys."

            Oh, my god. I'd never expected anything like his three girls, especially the oldest, Sara. She was probably close to my thirteen years, except that she looked like she was twenty. She wore a dark purple halter top falling off of one shoulder and the shortest, tightest, cutoff blue jeans I'd ever seen. Her auburn hair was tinged with red highlights and it fell in long ringlets over her bare shoulders. Her eyes were big and brown and covered in dark makeup, her lips painted deep lavender. Around her neck she wore a choker necklace on a chain with a peace symbol on it. A musky scent emanated from her that was strangely attractive. (I found out a few years later it was patchouli oil.) She had a henna hummingbird tattooed on one shoulder and a red heart with an arrow through it on the other. I was speechless.

            She confidently walked right up to me and said, "So, like, hi. What was your name again?"

            My mouth was so dry, I could barely get my name out. "John," I squeaked because, I swear to god, my voice broke right then and there. I felt my face turn a deeper shade of red, if that were possible, maybe crimson.

            She stood not more than two feet away and she gave me a long, slow, once over. I'm sure I quit breathing while she scrutinized me. After what seemed like forever but was probably only three seconds, she smirked, took a step back, smacked the gum she was chewing, turned to her father and said, "I can't stay. Randy's picking me up in a few minutes." Then she turned and sauntered back through the garage, her two sisters trailing behind.

            Well, I never.

            I was mesmerized. I couldn't help it, my eyes were glued to her, my heart was running away with me. Perspiration beaded up on my forehead. I think I fell in love for the first time in my life right then and there. Too bad for me. The feeling was definitely not reciprocated. I never saw her again. But maybe seeing Sara and knowing that I was out of my league out there on the Minnesota River at the home of my Dad's rich friend, lead me to do what I did later that day. I don't know. But what I did was sure out of character for me, that was for sure.

            After Sara left with Randy, her sisters took off down the road to play with some of their girl friends. We weren't invited. That left me and Jeff and Brian to our own devices. The parents were inside have drinks. "You boys go outside and play," Mr. Bailey said. "Just watch out for the backyard," he laughed, "It's very steep, and it's a real bitch."

            "Okay, thanks for the warning." I waved at the Baileys and Mom and Dad and led Jeff and Brian out the front door and immediately around to the backyard. Why not? 'It's steep and it's a bitch,' rang in my ear. Sounded like fun to me.

            The Bailey's home had been built at the top of a high ridge that ran a couple of hundred feet above the Minnesota River Valley. It offered spectacular views: the river, forests, swamps, backwaters, the whole nine yards. The back slope was in the process of being landscaped and terraced from the top of the ridge all the way down to the valley floor. The first terrace was in place. The second yet to be completed. We goofed around on the first terrace for about a minute. It was boring. Then we slid down to the top of the second terrace and peered over the edge. It was cut away like a cliff and there was a sloping drop-off of one hundred feet to the bottom, all of it made up of sand and debris from the work done on the house and the rest of the backyard.

            "Cool," Jeff said in awe, standing at the edge.

            "No kidding," I replied, looking out into the tops of the trees in the dense woods below. I picked up a fist sized stone, "Let's throw some rocks."

            So were pitched rocks over the edge, the bigger the better, and watched them roll all the way to the bottom. It was fun, a nice diversion, and helped me to pretty much forget about the dark and dusky Sara.

            After fifteen minutes Jeff and I had worked up a sweat, so we took a break in our rock throwing game and sat down to catch to our breath. Brian wasn't tired. He picked up some small pebbles and began to carefully toss them over. I watched him; my skinny little brother, seven years old, so sweet and innocent. Almost loveable. Then I had an idea.

            "Hey, Brian," I said, "I've got a really good idea. We're up so high. How about if Jeff and I throw you over the edge of the cliff? It'd be fun, almost like flying."

            I couldn't believe that those words had actually come out of my mouth. I knew it'd be dangerous, tossing him off a cliff. What was I thinking? I was the oldest and supposed to be in charge for Pete's sake. I was about to laugh it off and make a joke of it, when Brian said, without hesitation, "Sure. If you think It'll be okay."

            The trust of a younger brother. What an amazing thing, is what I thought to myself. To him I said, "Sure. No sweat. You'll be fine." I had no idea what I was talking about.

            Jeff and I stood up and made ourselves ready. I had Brian lay down on his back next to the edge of the cliff. I grabbed his hands, Jeff grabbed his feet. We lifted him up and swung him back and forth a few times to get the feel of him. He was very light. It was like swinging a teddy bear. We began to swing him over the edge, out into space. I counted off, "One. Two."

            In the middle of the third swing, Brian said, "You sure I'll be okay?"

            I said, "Absolutely. No problem." And at the end of that swing I said to Jeff, "Let him go."

            And we did.

            My god, to this day, I'll never forget how he flew out of our hands, Brian's small body framed against the blue sky, hanging suspended in space. For a poetic instant anyway. Then he dropped like a bag of wet cement and fell out of sight. Amazingly, he never screamed, flying through the air like he did. I certainly would have. He did, however, land with a soft thud thirty feet below us. Jeff and I both peered over the edge. The sloop was gentle enough, and the sand soft enough that the landing wasn't too hard. Fortunately, he wasn't injured. He did, however, roll all the way to the bottom of the ravine, a hundred feet below.

            I was aghast at what I'd done. My little brother had trusted me and here I went ahead and threw him off a cliff. What an idiotic thing to do. He could have been killed. I jumped off the edge and scurried down the sandy incline as fast as I could, Jeff following behind. I needed to make sure Brain was all right. Fortunately, he was. In fact, he even laughed a little as we cleaned the sand off of him. But he did make it a point of telling me he didn't want to do it again. Well, no kidding.

            Did me tossing my little brother off that cliff have anything to do with my conflicted feelings about Sara? I don't know. Maybe. I was definitely caught in the world between being a kid and being an adult, with the obvious conclusion that I really didn't fit into each. At least not on that particular day.

            After we dusted Brian off, we three brothers climbed back to the top of the terrace and threw some more rocks over the edge. As we did, I felt that something had changed between Brian and me. The fact that he had trusted me...I don't know. It was touching, really. The fact that I betrayed that trust, well, that was something that made me feel like a jerk. I vowed to try to be a better brother to him. In the years to come, I wasn't always successful, but at least I tried. One thing was for sure, though, on that day I began to feel a little closer to him. He didn't seem like an annoying little kid anymore. We even threw a couple of big rocks together that required both of us to lift them. It was fun.

            We stayed on the back terrace until Dad yelled at us to get ready to go home. We climbed back up to the sprawling house, got in the car and left. We never saw Mr. Bailey's daughters again. That was probably a good thing.

            Jeff and I and Brian stayed close the rest of our lives, we even still laugh about what we'd done to Brian out there on the cliff.

             And Brian, to his credit, has never held a grudge against me and Jeff. At least that's what he says. I admire him for that because if the roles were reversed, I certainly would have. In fact, he's always quick to point out, when we tell the story, that he was only a little scared. Mostly, though, he remembers that it really did feel like flying, falling through space like he did on that summer day so many years ago. He also tells me he was glad that it happened. I don't know if I really believe him or not, but, if it's true, maybe it's one reason way he became a pilot later in life and flew airplanes for a living, just like our Dad had done. Oh, his whole life he's also only lived in houses that have a flat backyard. No terraces for him. Not ever again. I don't blame him at all.