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Chapter 17:
Sunday, July 31, 1966 Conrad’s big brother Caldwell came back from the army that summer. The parents had a basement apartment all set for Caldwell in the new Virginia house. He was a tall, lanky guy, with small eyes and a wide mouth. Everyone was excited the day Caldwell came back, but after a few minutes, he just went down to the basement and lay on his bed. Kid brother Conrad tagged along to ask questions.
“What’s the matter, Caldwell? Aren’t you glad to be home?”
Caldwell groaned softly. He was facing the wall. “I just want togo .”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere. I want to get a fast car and go.”
“What kind of car are you going to get?”
“I had a Porsche over there. I should have brought it back.”
“Do you have a lot of money saved up?”
“Get serious.” Caldwell rolled over and looked at Conrad. “How come your hair’s so long?”
“That’s the new thing. It makes old people mad.”
“Jesus. You’re going to be a senior this year?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a girlfriend and everything. I even took peyote.”
“It’s all changed out from under me.”
“But you must have had fun in the army. You were lucky to be in Germany. If I get drafted, they’ll send me to Vietnam.”
“You should get married.”
“I probably will. But they’re getting rid of the marriage deferment. Graduate school still works, though.”
“My baby brother in graduate school? Studying what?”
“Math, I guess.”
“You like math?” “It’s easier than physics or chemistry. There’s nothing to memorize. It all follows logically.” “I thought you wanted to major in philosophy. That’s what you and Larsen used to say. How is old Hank, anyway?”
“Oh, he’s the same as ever. I saw him up at Columbia this winter one time when I was visiting Audrey.”
“Audrey.”Caldwell smiled wickedly. “Does she put out?”
“How many girls did you fuck in Germany?”
“Why aren’t you majoring in philosophy?”
“Philosophy teachers don’t talk about anything interesting. It’s just words. Nothing’s true, nothing’s false, it’s all a matter of opinion. But math ... math is clean. Like a game of pool. Perfect spheres clicking and bouncing just so. Do you want to go to a bar and shoot some pool, Caldwell?”
“You’re not old enough.” “The drinking age is eighteen in D.C.”
“Ahhh, I don’t feel like it. I want to look through my old stuff. Did the movers just throw everything in a box?” “I think Mom went through your stuff first.”
“God.” Caldwell groaned again and struggled to his feet.
His room was equipped with a built-in bookcase, a dresser, a bed, a Danish armchair, and a battered old desk. Some of Caldwell’s stuff was in his desk and bookcase, the rest was in a big cardboard movers’ box.
“I don’t suppose they saved myHot Rod magazines,” grumbled Caldwell, poking through the box.
“Jesus. Here’s my old cuckoo clock. And the piston from my Model A. My NRA certificates, the bullwhip, Pop’s football jersey, the Alcatraz pe
Caldwell frowned and shook his head. “Some people shouldn’t own guns, Conrad, and you’re one of them. Here’s some old pictures. I took these myself.” Caldwell began flipping through the stack of black-and-white photographs. “I took these the day we moved to Louisville. I was fifteen and you were ten. Pop took us out and bought a camera for your birthday. Remember?”
“You know how I am, Caldwell. I’ve got a great memory now, but I can’t remember much before Louisville. I think it was those hay-fever pills Mom made me take every morning.”
“That’s true, you used to be really out of it. We were already in Louisville on your birthday. It was the day we moved in. Your tenth birthday.” Caldwell continued thumbing absently through the old photos.
“Look atthis picture. It’s the flying wing!”
Gray and black stipple of lawn, a stark tree ramifying up, faint cloud patterns, and there, floating in the sky, a sliver-black aircraft. It has no fuselage or tail-gear ... it is simply a wing, a stubby boomerang, a fat, warped pancake. Windows dot its leading edge ... scores of windows. “Do you remember, Conrad? You were with me. I tried to tell Pop about it, but he ... Damn! I’d forgotten I took a picture of it! Let me see that again!”
“I’ve still never heard of a plane like that,” said Caldwell wonderingly. “I know they built somesmall flying wings, but never anything like ... You know, I bet I could sell this picture toAviation Magazine !”
“Don’t do that,” said Conrad. His voice came out flat and strange.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s my picture.”
“Hell it is.”
“Give it to me!” Conrad snatched the picture away from Caldwell and ran upstairs. Caldwell didn’t bother chasing him.
Alone in his room, Conrad studied the flying-wing photo for a long time. It could easily be a flying saucer.
The flying saucer that beamed me down. The day the Bungers moved to Louisville. The flame-people beamed me down in Skelton’s hog pen and hypnotized the Bungers, new in town, and with no living relatives. When I came “home,” the Bungers threw a tenth birthday party for me. The saucer hung around for a while, and Caldwell took its picture.
Conrad’s mother was tapping on his door. He put the picture in his wallet.
“What is it, Mom?”
“Di
The three others were sitting at the dining table, exactly as they had been sitting the first time Conrad saw them, March 22, 1956.
The saucer makes a terrible noise, a deep slow flutter. The whole house is shaking, but no one cries out. The mind-rays have frozen them in place. It is a Norman Rockwell tableau. Pop is at one end of the oval table. He is carving a roast beef. Light glares off his glasses. Mom is at the other end of the table. She is pouring coffee and smiling at Caldwell. She wears pearls. Caldwell holds his plate out for the red meat. He is gangly, with a wide, gri
“Conrad! Are you with us, my boy?” Pop was staring at him, a half-smile on his face.
“He’s probably stoned,” chortled Caldwell. “Don’t you think Conrad should get a haircut, Pop?” He helped himself to some gravy.
Mr. Bunger proudly took in the sight of his big sons. “Look at these two birds, Lucy! Our boys! How was it in Germany, Caldwell? How was it on the ramparts of the Free World?”
“It was a blast. We only had to work a few hours a day—listening to East German radio broadcasts, and the rest of the time ...”
“You drank booze and chased women. I shudder to think. This is what my taxes go for, Lucy. A strong national defense. I have some of thesecareer men in my congregation—colonels and generals—and they’re always moaning about all the lazy people on welfare. ‘You’re on welfare, too,’ I tell them. ‘The army is a huge middle-class welfare system.’ ” “Pop’s turned into a real radical,” Conrad told Caldwell. Mr. Bunger’s good humor was contagious. “He wants to go picket the White House.”
“Hey, hey, LBJ,” chanted their father in his cracked old voice. “How many kids did you kill today?” “Really, Caldwell,” protested Mrs. Bunger. “That’s enough. Stop this nonsense and let the children eat.”
“Great food, Mom,” said young Caldwell, taking another baked potato. “Isn’t Mom a good cook, Conrad?” “Shore is,” agreed Conrad. This was reality, too. One way or another, these were his people. “I’ve been toNew York, and to Paris, France, and I ain’t never et vittles the like of these.” “Did you know Conrad’s getting married, Mom?”