Dan Versus Nature (15 page)

It’s turned into a beautiful day. The clouds have cleared. The sky is Twitter-icon blue. All of the trees surrounding us have that lush green after-rain glow. I take a deep breath and catch the scent of Christmas tree pine and a hint of a campfire somewhere off in the distance.

“
Evanescence
seems to have gone off without a hitch,” Charlie murmurs as we hump our backpacks toward the lake behind the farm. “Just remember to play up your horrified reaction when you finally realize the doll’s gone missing.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” I say, glancing down at my ID bracelet. Baby Robbie has been crying for the last fifteen minutes, and guilt gnaws away at my gut.

We step from the tree-lined path and catch up with the others by the shore. The soft ripples on the lake reflect the sunshine, a thousand sparkling gems dancing across the water.

A banged and battered white float plane bobs gently at the end of a long dock.

“There she is,” Clint pronounces as we approach the aircraft. “Put this honey together from parts I got off the interweb. Took me three years to complete. I call her the Keatley Kiwi.”

Charlie’s got his camera out and is clicking away.

Barbara nods at the plane. “Very impressive, Clint.”

“Yes,” Penelope says. “Quite the achievement. Though I find it interesting that you’d name your plane after a flightless bird. Were you trying to be ironic? Or just tempting fate?”

Clint laughs. “Neither. As it happens, my great-grandparents were from New Zealand. Trust me”— he pats the plane’s wing — “this bird flies like a dream.”

“All right, then.” Max swings his backpack from his shoulders. “Let’s get her loaded.”

Clint opens the luggage compartment door, and we all drop our bags beside him.

Charlie breathes deep and says, “Don’t you just love the natural world, Daniel?”

“Uhh, yeah,” I say, looking at him sideways. “It’s great.”

“It gives one a certain sense of, oh, I don’t know,
liberation,
don’t you think?”

“What? Really?” I glance over at Hank, who’s helping Clint load the baggage. “Right now?”

Charlie nods. “Yes, right this moment I’m feeling a great sense of
liberation.
”

“I don’t know, Charlie,” I say, keeping my voice low. “He loves that thing so much. It seems sort of . . . mean.”

Charlie crosses his arms. “As mean as breaking your mother’s heart? As mean as making you move away from your best friend and the girl of your dreams?”

“OK, fine.” I trudge over to Hank as he hoists up a backpack and hands it to Clint.

“Can I borrow your phone a sec, Hank?” I ask. “I want to text Mom a picture of our plane. Make her feel like she’s part of the experience.”

“Oh.” Hank bends down, grabs another bag, and passes it to Clint. “Sure, bud. But, uh, why don’t I take it? I’ll get a shot of you and Charlie climbing in. She’ll like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, scratching my cheek. “That’d be cool. It’s just that . . . I kind of wanted to send her a message, too. Tell her how much fun I’m having and all.”

“Great.” Hank nods. “Tell me what you want to say and I’ll add it to the photo.”

“I sort of wanted to make it personal. You know, from me . . . personally. Seems weird you typing that for me. ‘Thanks for the present’ and ‘I love you’ and everything.”

Hank clears his throat. “Right. OK.” He reaches to his belt clip and removes the supersize smartphone. “Just be careful, OK?” He holds the immaculately clean phablet out to me, his fingers gripping the edges, real hesitation in his eyes.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” I say, grabbing the phone from him. “Thanks.”

I swipe my finger across the screen. Find the camera app and tap it. Frame the plane. Penelope and Barbara climbing into the back of the cabin. Max getting into the copilot seat.

I pretend to snap a couple of pictures and study them critically. Really, though, I use the time to scroll through Hank’s texts, e-mails, and photo albums, looking for anything incriminating. Sexts to and from his buxom, birthday-present-meddling receptionist, Sally, maybe? An active Tinder or Grindr account?

But the only offensive thing on his phone is a text thread from Mom with a bunch of lovey-dovey Boogabear messages. Eww.

I start walking back toward Hank, pretending to type out a message to Mom.

I glance up from the phone to check the distance to the water and then —

I “accidentally” trip, falling forward and hitting the dock hard. I let go of the phone, and it skitters toward the lake.

“Noooo!”
Hank shouts, diving toward his beloved phablet.

The huge phone slides across the wooden slats, stopping just short of the edge.

Crap. My stupid luck today.

“I’ve got it!” I bellow, scrabbling to my feet and leaping for Hank’s cell before he can get to it. But instead of grabbing the phablet, I bat it with my knuckles.

The phone sails over the edge and —
bloop!
— falls into the water.

“Oh no!” I say as I watch the gleaming device spiral down until it completely disappears. I look up at Hank, whose face is Hellboy red. “I’m so sorry, Hank!” I wince. “I am
such
a klutz.” I push myself to my feet and brush myself off. “I’m OK, though. So, that’s good at least, right?”

Hank says nothing. Just stares down at the lake, blinking into the dark abyss.

The plane rocks softly on the water. It feels more like I’m sitting on a boat than in an aircraft.

Seating is tight in the Kiwi. It’s not like a regular plane. There are no tray tables. No seat-back pockets. No reading lights or twistable airflow nozzles or window shades or toilets. It’s a bare-bones affair, like you see in the movies — paratroopers headed out to storm a bunker.

Besides the pilot’s and copilot’s seats, there are two padded benches in the cabin with three sets of lap belts on each, a couple of doors, a few tiny windows. And that’s about it.

I wanted to sit in the back row next to Penelope and Barbara so as not to end up beside Hank, who is still silently steaming over the incident with his phone. But when I got to the plane, Charlie had already commandeered that spot — a choice that I found odd, considering the fact that I no longer smell
and
how much he seems to despise Penelope. I gave him a look, but he just shrugged at me before slipping on his surgeon’s mask and rubber gloves.

So now here I am, stuck in the middle row with Hank, who is staring out the window at the dock where his phone took a swim, his jaw twitching like crazy, as though he’s one breath away from going full “HULK SMASH!” on me.

“All right,” Clint says from the pilot’s seat, flipping switches and checking various gauges. “Just a quick hop over the mountains, and the world as you know it will be a distant memory.”

Clint pumps a handle, presses a button, shifts a lever, and the engine snarls to life. The propeller stutter-spins a few times before finally catching. A puff of smoke belches from the front of the plane, wisping off into the air and dissipating like steamed breath on a cold day.

My whole body vibrates in time with the engine, my cheeks trembling, my eardrums buzzing. A slick metallic smell of gasoline and oil drifts through the tiny cabin.

Clint grips the throttle to his right and slides it forward. The propeller whirs at a higher pitch, like an empty blender on liquefy. The plane starts to move forward, pulling away from the dock.

“Hold ’em if you got ’em!” Clint shouts as the plane starts to pick up speed. Water splashes up the pontoons, droplets speckling the side windows.

We hurtle faster and faster across the lake, the plane skipping along the tiny waves like a speedboat. It seems impossible that we will ever take flight. But then the engine gets louder and the bush plane races ahead until, finally, Clint pulls back on the yoke and we lift from the water. My stomach drops as we sail into the sky.

I lean over, press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, and watch the world turn miniature below us.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” Hank calls out over the engine.

I turn my head and see him smiling at me, all the anger gone.

“Yeah. Cool,” I say.

I can’t believe he’s actually talking to me again —
smiling
at me. What is this guy, Gandhi or something?

I turn back to the window and watch as we climb higher, putting more and more distance between us and civilization. The land gets thick and dense with trees. Rock formations and rivers appear in the distance. Misty, snowcapped mountains own the horizon.

I feel big and small all at the same time.

“That’s where we’re headed, bud,” Hank says, pointing out my window. “Into the wild. No cell phones needed there, for sure.”

My throat suddenly gets tight. There’s a twinge in my chest. Some . . .
feeling
is ambushing me. I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t like it. I clench my eyes shut and take a breath, stuffing the emotions back down inside.

Someone sneezes behind me.

“Uh-oh,” Penelope says, sniffling. “I think I might have contracted an upper respiratory infection.”

I twist around and see a masked Charlie leaning away from Penelope.

She turns toward him and sneezes hard into his lap. “Oh, God. I’m
so
sorry,” she says, her voice all nasal. “This must be a real challenge for you, what with your paralyzing fear of germs and the incredible close quarters of this plane. It’s a shame there’s no evidence that respirators protect people from airborne pathogens.”

Charlie rolls his eyes but remains pressed against the side of the plane. “First, your information about respirators is outrageously inaccurate. Second, I don’t for a moment think you’re infected with rhinovirus, coronavirus, pneumovirus, enterovirus, or any of the other two hundred – plus viral genera that can cause nasopharyngitis.” His face mask pulses in and out with his breath.

Penelope wipes her nose with her hand. “Well, it certainly
feels
like a cold.” She coughs loudly without covering her mouth.

“You’re immaturity is astounding,” Charlie says. “Contrary to accepted wisdom, cough and nasal discharge are
not
initial symptoms of the common cold. It’s actually dryness and irritation that herald an infection. But then, I wouldn’t expect someone of your subpar intellectual stature to have known that.”

Penelope laughs. “I guess you have nothing to worry about, in that case.” She slaps his thigh and drags her snotty hand up his leg.

Charlie stares down at his lap, his eyes wide with revulsion. He looks at me for help, but this time it’s me who shrugs.

“Excellent choice of seats,” I say, before turning back to the front.

Our plane crests a mountain, revealing a majestic valley below. The colors are something out of a freshly cracked crayon box: brilliant blues, vibrant greens, fiery yellows.

“It never fails to blow my mind,” Max exclaims.

“She’s a stunner, ain’t she?” Clint replies. “Hard to look up the ass of things when you’ve got a view like that to gawk at.”

Max looks back over his shoulder. “You picked a good time to visit. Last month this was all blanketed in snow. It was a real long winter up here in the Frank.”

“Cold as a witch’s titty, too,” Clint chimes in. “Been tough on the wildlife, that’s for damn sure. Lots of hungry animals out there, I’d imagine.”

The plane bucks a little.

“Whoa,” Clint says. “Steady there, girl.”

We lurch again.

Hank leans forward. “Is that normal, Clint?” he asks.

“She’s just clearing her throat,” Clint says, adjusting something on the dash. “Been a few weeks since I’ve flown her. We’re almost there. Nothing to worry ’bout.”

The plane’s engine sputters. Coughs. Squeals.

And shuts off completely.

We are gliding.

It is sickeningly quiet.

So quiet that I can hear my pulse shooshing a million miles a minute in my ears, the blood forcing its way through my constricted veins.

“What the hell’s going on, Clint?” Max shouts.

“Give me a sec.” Clint’s hands are flying around the cockpit, pushing levers, turning dials, pulling knobs. “Everything’s fine!”

“You and I have a very different definition of fine,” Max says. “The engine’s failed.”