Chapter 4

"Bumpy Landings"

ACROSS THE EXPANSE OF SCRUB BRUSH AND LEAF-LITTERED SAND WE STOOD AND APPRAISED EACH OTHER.

THE TAXI DRIVER HAD DUMPED MY TWO SUITCASES … AND ME … AS SOON AS HE SAW THE YELLOW SINGLE-ENGINE PLANE BEGIN TO CIRCLE FOR A LANDING. I STEADIED THE CANE BENEATH ME AND WATCHED THE TAXI AS IT HEAVED OUT OF SIGHT DOWN THE BEACH IN A CLOUD OF OILY SMOKE. THE DRIVER WAS A SURLY ASSHOLE WHO HAD SNICKERED WHEN HE SAW MY CANE. I DIDN'T TIP HIM.

I TURNED MY ATTENTION TO THE SMALL PLANE AS IT DESCENDED, BUCKING CROSSWINDS FOR A FEW MOMENTS, AND THEN KISSING THE WATER LIKE A SWAN CARESSING A POND. THE PILOT BANKED AND KILLED HIS ENGINE AS THE BIG PONTOONS CUT THROUGH THE BREAKWATER, GLIDING TO A LONG, SMOOTH STANDSTILL THROUGH THE LAPPING OF THE SMALL WAVELETS ITS LANDING HAD CREATED.

UNLESS I MISSED MY GUESS, THE PLANE WAS A PIPER SOMETHING, PROBABLY MADE IN PENNSYLVANIA SOON AFTER THE WAR. IT WAS OLD. THE PONTOONS WERE GIGANTIC: HOME-MADE FROM SHEET METAL, NO DOUBT.

I COULD SEE THE OUTLINE OF A MAN'S SCRUFFY FACE BEHIND THE YOKE AT THE PILOT'S SEAT. HE WAS FRAMED IN THE BACKLIGHT OF THE EVENING SUN, AND I COULDN'T MAKE OUT HIS FEATURES. I WAS LEANING HARD ON MY CANE; ACHING, WEAK AND TOTTERY. I SQUINTED ACROSS AT HIM AS HE THREW OPEN THE COCKPIT DOOR, STEPPED OUT ONTO THE WING STRUT AND MADE HIS WAY DOWN THE LADDER TO THE PONTOON, THEN JUMPED TO THE WET SAND WITH A SPLASH.

I WONDERED HOW THE LIVING HELL I WAS SUPPOSED TO GET MYSELF UP THERE AND INTO THAT THING. I WOULD NEED AN ELEVATOR OR A MARK LIFT. OR A SKYHOOK …

MEANWHILE, I STARED AT HIM AND HE STARED AT ME. HIS WEATHERED FACE REMINDED ME OF CROODILE DUNDEE, EXCEPT OLDER AND WHITER. HE WORE A RAGGED DENIM VEST OVER A SHIRT THAT HAD ONCE BEEN BLUE, AND WHOSE SLEEVES HAD LONG AGO FRAYED AWAY. TAN CARGO SHORTS WITH POCKETS THAT WERE SHREDDED AT THE BOTTOMS, HUNG OFF HIS SKINNY HIPS. DILAPIDATED SANDALS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN THROWN TOGETHER FROM STRIPS OF RUBBER AND HUNKS OF BULL ROPE COMPLETED HIS OUTFIT. I WONDERED IF HE HAD EVER BEEN ON 'SURVIVOR'. BUT I GUESSED NOT. HE LOOKED MORE INTELLIGENT THAN THAT.

Some things, however, didn't quite fit the profile. His beard and mustache were meticulously trimmed. His fingernails were white and smooth; not dirt-encrusted and jagged from hard manual work. His hair was well groomed, though windblown … and his eyes were filled with merriment and curiosity … and were even bluer than mine.

I had the thought that he resembled a character in an adventure novel: paid to play to the tourist trade and fly a dilapidated airplane to give 'em a thrill and continue playing that character until he took leave of the tourists. At night he would probably change into casual clothes and have cocktails with a bevy of beautiful women at his elbow … something like that ... probably what I would do if I were him …

As I watched him, he was watching me also; legs splayed, both hands occupied, coiling up a considerable length of strong, reinforced rope, hand-to-elbow, 'round and 'round. He was studying me closely with an eye of mounting appraisal and assessment. He'd seen the cane. Saw me leaning into it, little or no weight on my right side. I needed to get the hell out of there and away from the searing heat of a late afternoon sun.

I saw him place the coil of rope on the point of the near pontoon and begin to walk in my direction. We didn't speak for a few moments, but when he finally said something; I knew exactly what it was going to be. Or at least pretty damn close.

"How much weight can you actually put on that?" He asked, pointing to my bum leg.

"Enough to get me where I want to go," I answered. "If I don't want to go too far …"

" … what I thought. Barbados, right?"

"Yeah."

"Got the money?"

"Yeah." I dug in my pocket and pulled out three wrinkled hundreds, held them out toward him as he came closer.

He reached out, took them, stuffed them into his own pocket … which actually did have a bottom to it. "Thanks. They call me 'Packy'. And you are … ?"

"I'm … ah … K-Kyle Calloway." I almost bit my lip. I'd come very close to saying: 'Greg House'."

He looked up at me with a snicker of derision. "If you're gonna be callin' yourself 'Kyle Calloway', you should burn the name into your brain with a running iron so you can say it as soon as somebody asks. Otherwise they know you aint no more 'Kyle Calloway' than I am. Y'see what I'm sayin'?"

Somehow I found the humility to look embarrassed. He had called my bluff within ten seconds. "Yeah, I see exactly what you're saying. I won't screw it up again. Nice to meet you, Packy."

He grinned. "Same here, Kyle. Now let's see about getting you onto the damn plane and out of here."

He lugged my suitcases across to the Piper, walking slow enough to ensure that I could keep up with him. The storage compartment was behind the seats and its access door was low enough that Packy could hoist both bags aboard without much trouble.

I'd been leaning against the near pontoon, holding onto the bottom rung of the ladder. I'd dropped the backpack on the sand beside me, and it was close to getting sloshed with the water of an incoming tide. Packy came back to where I stood then, picked up the backpack and asked me if there was anything breakable in it.

*Yeah, my laptop.* But I shook my head, *No.* He flung it up through the plane's open cockpit door onto the seat. "Do you have any issues with your other leg?" He asked, pointing.

I shook my head. "No, just the right."

"Good. Now here's how I figure we can get you up there." He reached for the coil of rope and drew it down from the pontoon. "The other end of this is attached to a winch behind the passenger seat. I'm going to make a loop and knot it close to the end. You step into it with your good foot, and as the rope tightens, it will lift you into the cockpit. Maneuver up the ladder with both hands and let your bad leg hang loose. When you're even with the seat, holler. I'll stop the winch and give you time to get inside and over to the passenger seat. Can you do that okay?"

I grinned. "I can," I said.

He was already tying a loop in the rope, holding it down low enough that I could grab the ladder and fit my left shoe into it.

The rope tightened as the winch engaged, and thirty seconds later, hand over hand, I was perched in the pilot's chair looking down at Packy, who stood below looking back with a smug expression on his face. I removed my shoe from the loop and pulled myself across to the passenger's seat, hefting the backpack across in front of me. By the time I got settled and the seat belt hooked around my waist, Packy had tossed the coil of rope into the back, settled himself in, slammed the cockpit door and hit the magneto that set the old engine into smoky, vibrating motion.

We skimmed along on top of the water, outward bound, with Packy dragging back on the yoke until I thought the vibration would tear the thing apart. Then she lifted. Freed from the drag of water, this little albatross became an eagle; lighter than air, strong as a B-52. We rose like a kite riding the wind. Packy banked to the north, giving a full view of the huge San Juan airport where I had debarked two hours before; then leveled out in a south-easterly direction. Below us the ocean was blue and green and turquoise and teal and aqua by nature's delineation; the area still unspoiled by the hands of man. Looking down from the cockpit, I was no doubt wide-eyed and open-mouthed as we flew over St. Barts on the path to Barbados.

The world from this height was transformed in a way I'd only witnessed once before in my lifetime. When I was quite small, my dad rented a small plane near one of the marine bases where he was stationed, and he took me up to show me 'the world through the wrong end of a telescope', by his definition.

We flew over towns and farmlands, dirt roads and highways, race tracks and railroad tracks, back yards and junkyards. He pointed out the house where we lived, and flew by (not over,) the big Marine base where he tested the newest aircraft for the armed forces. It had been one of the best days I could ever remember spending with my dad.

Coming back to the moment, I tilted my head upward and blinked away moisture at the strong memories. If only John and I hadn't taken that wrong turn when I was twelve. My dad was, after all, the only Dad I would ever get. At this late date all the biology crap that had bittered me and changed the course of my life so long ago didn't amount to a tinker's damn now.

My hand clutched my thigh suddenly as the muscle grabbed tight and didn't let go. I massaged it vigorously and hitched a tight breath of pain. A moment later I felt Packy's fingers brush my upper arm and my eyes flew to him in panic. Too late. He had heard me gasp and saw me wince, and there was concern riding in the look he gave me. I smiled, but it was more a grimace than anything else.

"What's going on?" He asked. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes I get spasms in what's left of the muscle. It hurts like hell, but it's usually temporary. Sorry you had to see me squirm …"

"Why are you apologizing for something you have no control over?"

"Because some people get grossed out by it. Unfortunately, up here I can't open a door and go hide in the next room until it passes."

"That's ridiculous. What do you mean … 'what's-left-of-the-muscle'?"

*Oh here we go again …*

"I had a blood clot that clogged the artery in my thigh. They tried to bypass it, but it didn't work. The surrounding tissue developed what's called 'muscle death'. So they opened up my leg again and scraped away the dead muscle. Sewed me back up. My nerve bundles were truncated and sometimes they misfire. When it finally healed I became what's known in the genteel vernacular, as 'physically disabled'.

"So now I make an ass of myself in public on a regular basis because when the muscle goes into spasm, the pain is so bad that it turns my brain to jelly. Gamblers have been known to make book on how long I'll last through 'em before I scream … and what time it will be when I flatline."

His look of disgust was scathing. "Why do you say stuff like that? That's almost as bad as the guff you handed me about 'Kyle Calloway'. I know you're in pain. It was obvious from the minute I first set eyes on you. I'm not that stupid. You act like you're ashamed of your disability, and that's dumb. Do you have medication with you that will help? If not, there are doctors …"

I was already reaching for the backpack and my meds. The first problem was the fact that the bandages under my pant leg were becoming too tight. Another thing was that I had waited too long to take my Vicodin. I had put it off and put it off, and now …

I held up my free hand to stop him. "I don't need a doctor, Packy. I AM a doctor. The problem is, the medical profession isn't advanced enough to heal nerves and body parts that have been ripped out by the roots. The surgical team thought I might croak before they finished the procedure. They didn't want a dead patient on their watch, so they hurried … and this leg is the result.

"I say stuff like that because it's a defense mechanism, I guess. I hate what my life has become, and even more, I hate the looks of disgust and pity that I keep getting day after day after day. So I turned into an asshole to keep people away from me. Only thing is, it worked too well. Nobody wants anything to do with me anymore. Two weeks ago I had to have another surgery. Therefore, 'Kyle Calloway' is going to hide out on Barbados so my leg will have a chance to heal better than this, and I'll be able to rest and take care of it. I'm trying like hell to change my life and get out of 'asshole' mode. It isn't easy … so … I apologize for my lousy attitude and the sarcastic crap awhile ago. I have to remember that there are still some people who do give a damn, and who didn't come to the circus just to see the freak show. I'm sorry."

"Apology noted and accepted," he said. "Let me know if I can help …"

I fished around in the backpack until I found the Vicodin. I drew it out, spilled two pills into my palm and took them dry. The usual procedure.

Packy looked at me warily for a moment, and then I noticed that the plane was descending. The conversation ended when I turned to look out the cockpit window. The island of Barbados was approaching fast. Dead ahead. It was a B-I-G island. The plane dipped to starboard and the sound of the engine went down a notch.

Packy swung her around in a wide loop, dropping quickly now, and suddenly I saw trees and buildings rushing past. Then there was a jungle of coconut palms and palmetto trees; thick bushes with bright flowers. Ground vines and scrub brush fought for dominion in the sandy soil.

We were low, gliding down along the beach. I could see people looking up and watching the little yellow airplane as it settled onto the water with twin wakes appearing on the surface behind it. Packy cut the engine and guided the Piper gently onto a sandbar almost directly in front of what looked like a miniature restaurant-bar-dance club. The natives probably called it a Tiki Bar. It had a cement slab-dance floor in front with cocktail tables lining the sides, bright colored lights hung from surrounding trees, casting brightness onto the area that harbored a small crowd of what looked like tourists. After watching the plane glide to a stop on the beach, their attention returned to business, and I decided that Packy and his little plane were probably a common sight. My leg, fortunately, had begun to calm down under the influence of the Vicodin, and I watched Packy for a clue as to what would happen next.

I grabbed my backpack and stepped into the loop of the rope as he took me off the plane in the same manner he'd used to winch me on. My feet touched the sand and I got my cane under me. I leaned on the pontoon to get my bearings. I was stiff from sitting in the uncomfortable cockpit seat for so long, and my bladder was screaming to be emptied. My leg was weak from the spasm and I was aware of Packy's scrutiny … probably making sure I didn't collapse before we made it over to the bar.

Leaving my suitcases on the plane for now, he walked beside me across the expanse of sand and onto the cement patio of the strange little two-car-garage-size building. Calypso music, laughter and loud conversation emanated outward as we moved through the small crowd of people at the outside tables.

Inside, people paused to stare as Packy pointed the way to a hallway where he said the men's room was located. I gathered myself in an effort to minimize my limp, and headed down there. Behind me I heard Packy tell somebody behind the bar: "Call Hooley …"

The steady ache I was feeling indicated that the time was long past for a loosening of the elastic bandage that was making my gait a stiff-legged shamble. I sat in the stall and relieved myself, pushed the jeans down around my ankles and unrolled the bunched elastic. The wound's edges were still pinked up and in healing mode, as it should have been. I would have to deal with the pulled stitches later when we arrived at the beach shack I had rented for a year … wherever-the-hell it was located in relation to here.

I rolled the second elastic bandage, stuffed it in my backpak with the other one and stopped at the sink to wash up. I felt lightheaded and unsteady when I turned off the water and looked in the mirror at my gaunt face. Couldn't be helped. The cleanup job I had done in San Juan had worn off completely, and I looked like death warmed over. My sports jacket and shirt were both wrinkled beyond redemption, and the jeans looked as though I'd slept in them, which I had.

I started back down the hallway toward the bar. The misery in my leg ramped up to the point that I had to clench the cane in my right hand while the fingers of my left scrabbled for purchase on the wall at the left. Moscha's 'thunder therapy' had completely worn off and the persistent pain was back.

I wondered if I would make it all the way out there before I went on my ass …

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