Gravity, Restraint, and the Reason Icarus Fell Read online

have dropped like a rock. They would've had to bury him in a mop bucket."

  "How do you know that? If he really could fly, but you never saw him do it, you'd still think he was loony. Right?"

  "Sure," I said, irritated. "Because he still would be loony. Nobody ignores gravity, not without mechanical help. Can't be done."

  "Some Hindu fakirs can levitate..." Doug made a yin-yang of lint. "...and that's a documented fact."

  I flipped a hot butt up under an eave; it provoked some frantic flapping and cooing. "They're faking. If we went downstairs and untied the old man, do you really think he'd hop onto the window sill and flap away?"

  "That's not what I said. I just said, 'he might'. Anything and everything is possible."

  I declared it time for an other coffee break. We wandered downstairs and pulled a couple of cups. I was all clammed up, and Doug was smug like he always was when he got in the last word. The clock buzzed for a while, made a few sharp clicks. Finally, I drained my cup, and set it down hard. "Okay, Doug. Let's go talk to Harris. See if he believes in fakirs." I stood up, half expecting him to give me a finger and start laughing.

  "All right," was all he said.

  We let ourselves into the old man's room and found him asleep. He woke up when the lights came on.

  Harris coughed twice, but it might've been his best excuse for a laugh. "Had to come back and find out, eh, boy?" He winked at me, looked at Doug, and said, "You his bodyguard, or just a witness? Loosen up these belts and you'll witness something." He strained his head forward until the tendons in his neck stood taut.

  "Neither," Doug said. "I'm a government agent. NASA sent me to confirm or deny your purported powers of unassisted

  flight." I stifled a snicker.

  "Bull." Harris grinned like a gargoyle. "But if you really want a demonstration, you gotta take me outside. I won't run away. I promise not to run."

  Doug grabbed my arm and dragged me out to the hall. "Well?" He had a strange mischievous glint in his eye. "Still want to find out for sure? We'd be in pretty big trouble if he flew off..."

  "What? Get serious." I spat on the floor. "We could run him up to the roof, untie him for a minute or two, then put him back to bed. Nobody'd ever know, if you don't tell them. Lucille's probably got her hands full, right now."

  "Okay," said Doug. "But we gotta be real careful not to let him jump."

  So we wheeled the old buzzard onto the elevator, and trundled him up a few steps, and rolled him out onto the tarpaper roof. The moon was up, and fairly gibbous. Harris had stayed quiet the whole ride, but with the stars above him, he came to life. "Oh, that's it, boys. Yes, yes. You'll see, this time I'm ready. Damned ready, I am."

  Doug fired up a smoke. He leaned against a stone parapet. "Don't you need some kind of chant, old man? Ointments? A broom?"

  I was sure that would piss the poor old guy off, but he just

  sighed. "Nope. Finally got that part figured. Least I think

  so. Haven't really had much chance to try her out, yet."

  Doug bent towards me and whispered behind his hand. "You still completely sure he's not going to flutter away? Don't you half expect him to?" He walked back to Harris before I could answer.

  "Ready, are you?" Doug stood with both hands on his hips.

  "Son, I never been readier."

  "Okay, pops." Doug released the two straps holding Harris' chest. Harris just lay there. The other straps fell loose; Doug took one long step back. He placed his bulky self squarely between Harris and roof's edge. "Okay, dad. You're free. Free as a bird."

  Old Harris split his face open in a monstrous grin. His eyes, lit white by the moon, glowed like UFOs. "Well, boys, this is it." He stared right up through me, at the stars. "The law of gravity's a fine thing for holding people down, but it just don't apply to me."

  My legs felt as if they were growing roots deep into the Earth. It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't expect him to fly, but I sure wanted him to. I wanted him to fly, and I wanted him to teach me. I wanted to soar with the pigeons. Peter Pan, Superman, and me. "Teach me the secret," I tried to say, but my tongue was slower to faith than my soul. All that came out was a

  frantic, "Wait!" Doug's face burst with triumphant laughter. He clutched at his sides, and every time he looked at me, his face

  got redder. My face was redder than his. I shuffled my feet, bit my lower lip and looked away.

  A cold little breeze climbed my spine and made me look back with a shudder. Doug's victory laugh had frozen onto his face. His eyes widened, filled with moonglow, tracked slowly upwards. The cold breeze entered my bloodstream. I turned to look at Harris, but by God, he was gone. I lifted my gaze, just in time to watch a tiny sheeted figure make a beeline for the stars.

  We stood there staring into the empty sky for a long, cold hour. Neither of us said a word, nor heard a single coo, nor noticed the pastel stain of sunrise. I left Doug there. I uprooted my legs. I flew down the stairs, dived into my street clothes, walked away from that place, and never looked back. Lucille tried to give me a hard time at the desk, but I just flipped her the finger and walked on.

  Doug sent me a postcard from California some years later, with a soaring condor on the front, and a short message on the back. "Back in school," it said, "studying theology. Would you believe it?"

  And me, well, I believe I must be crazy. I joined a Hindu cult for a while and learned to walk barefoot through hot coals. I meditate daily from four to sunrise, and I believe I may have levitated once, just a little. But I still can't fly. Not yet.

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