The Indestructible Man (15 page)

       
We inch closer, trying to remain hidden behind the protective wall of blue spruces that separates Henry’s backyard from the field, until we are close enough to see Henry sitting cross-legged in the unplowed dirt and weeds, to hear his occasional grunts and coughs. Around him the lumber and steel and other plunder lie sprawled in the grass, carefully arranged, more like the fossilized remains of a mammoth than unassembled machine parts. He rises painfully and, rubbing the small of his back, looks over the components spread out around him. He seems to straighten up with pride, and we smile, grateful that he is at least happy. Then he shuffles toward the house and we run through the damp grass, tear away down the gravel road before he steps through his back door. If we have in any way revealed ourselves, he does not say. We tell only our wives and girlfriends about what we have seen, certain Henry’s privacy will remain intact.

       
It does not, of course. Within a day or two everyone at the market or the barbershop seems to know Henry is building something. We glare accusingly at one another over bar tables or across shopping carts, for we cannot be certain whose slip of the tongue betrayed Henry. There are many stories, though the exact details seem to grow more muddled with each telling. Some say he is building a rocket-ship, others a cannon. A few claim he is building a gallows to hang himself. This we find silly and even amusing. If Henry wished to commit suicide he could find simpler methods. We decide that, while Henry’s pursuit is not normal, it is still a harmless distraction and the worst that can come of it is wasted sweat and lost sleep.

       
We try to keep the gossip to a minimum; we do not talk of Henry openly in places he frequents, and shush one another when he is within earshot. His privacy does not become an issue until V. Bud Stiller, Outdoors Editor and Editor-in-Chief of the
Gazette
, writes an editorial speculating on what, exactly, Henry might be doing back there. He claims it is a surprise, one that he is privy to but cannot reveal until it is ready. Bud is a liar and we know it. He knows nothing of Henry.

       
Henry is somewhat unnerved by the publicity, especially when strangers start poking around his backyard trying to glimpse his creation. He complains during the few minutes he sets aside each week to talk with us outside the market. Our faces redden and we stare at our shoes as we listen, unsure whether he knows we have been there. Despite our guilt we continue to sneak looks at the machine, parking well out of sight of the house, tiptoeing in twos and threes through the grass until we see the partially-assembled mass of wood and metal. It bears no resemblance to anything we have ever seen, and if it is going to send Henry to the moon we do not know how. As a favor to Henry we run off any curious strangers we encounter while prowling around his house. It is only fair; unlike them, we can be trusted.

       
Just before four a.m.
on a night near the end of June, Henry’s
phonecalls
jar us from sleep. He is ready to put the finishing touches on the device and welcomes our help. For the last few nights we have stayed far away; rumor has it that neighbors have heard shotgun blasts coming from his backyard. Friend or not, we are not curious enough to risk death. But once he has finished the final touch-up work to the machine and is ready to stain and finish the wood, he finally invites us to see it up close.

       
Henry comes for each of us just after five, signaling us from our driveways with three quick honks. Our wives and girlfriends object at first, then begin hurrying us along, demanding a full report when we return. We pull on old jeans and flannel shirts, grab partial six-packs to contribute to the occasion, and pile into the back of Henry’s rusty pickup. None of us has missed any rest. We are far too excited to be tired, and as we cling to the sides of Henry’s truck bed we silently wonder what he is about to show us, how we will keep from laughing or finally telling Henry he has flipped. To do so would be rude and would undermine Henry’s confidence. And—while none of us will admit it—though we all believe Henry’s plan is ludicrous, a very small voice whispering in our thoughts tells us to give him a chance.

       
Henry apologizes for his timing, but insists the only way to appreciate the machine’s grandeur is in the subtle pre-dawn light. As he swings into the driveway and the tires crunch gravel we smell the odor of rotting corn, but say nothing. We try to see behind the house, but glimpse only the vague, dark silhouette of something rising above the roof, challenging even the height of the trees.

       
He tells us to wait, disappears behind the house. A few minutes later we hear his “okay,” which seems to be coming from above and behind the house, and we follow. Even before we reach the lot we see it, though it takes us almost a full minute to comprehend it. We can at first only focus on Henry, perched atop the gigantic arm thirty or forty feet above our heads, in a torn-out Volkswagen seat bolted to the end, raising a beer can into the air.

       
“So what do you think?” he asks us, but we can only stare at him sitting atop the tower of pale, unstained pine.

       
The device is framed by two wooden pillars thick as telephone poles, resting on a T-shaped base ten, perhaps fifteen feet wide, held in place by metal supports. In between, resting on a fulcrum and rising high above the treetops, the arm—an impossibly long, slender but sturdy wooden shaft. Beside it, close to ground level, is the crank, a circle of wood like a ship’s steering wheel, as wide as we are tall and holding a coil of heavy steel cable. Weighing the arm down are two steel drums filled with cement fastened to the wood with heavy chains, and high above us, at the end, is the Volkswagen seat, and Henry. It has a grace and power we cannot fully articulate. It seems somehow alive; with the arm extended it resembles a giant long-necked dinosaur balancing on its powerful haunches, reaching into the trees for a bite of leaves. We are awed, and when he finally invites us to touch it we approach with cautious hesitation.

       
The
tannish
wood is smooth and well-sanded and we caress every inch of the machine, examining its design, its delicate balance, the clockwork of the magnificent thing he has built and wishes to share with us. We are mesmerized by its design until we hear the metallic clunk of cans of mahogany stain and paintbrushes hitting the ground in front of us.

       
With all of us working together it takes just under three hours to stain and glaze the wood. We are so transfixed by the work that we fail to notice the sun rise, and by the time we are finished we are hot, covered in mahogany sweat, and very late to our jobs. From inside Henry’s house we hear the phone ring time and again, but we ignore it, lean our sore backs against the heavy wood frame, peel open the pop-tops of the beer cans, their contents warm from the sun. The suds pour over our hands and into the crabgrass and we drink a warm foamy toast to the machine before us. Henry lies on his back on the ground and smiles, pours beer into his open mouth and over his face and neck. We have not seen him this happy since before Cora died, and we are moved that we are able to share his happiness, if only a little.

       
We go inside and splash water on our flushed faces, and when we come back out Henry is at the crank, turning with all his might and calling us to help. We rush to his aid, pull the heavy arm back slowly. The steel cable grows taut, the wood creaks with tension as the heavy cement-filled drums rise into the air. Finally the arm is fully cocked, and our heaving muscles relax.

       
“Now, watch this,” Henry says, and, huffing, heaves a cinder block onto his shoulder and places it on the Volkswagen seat. He examines the angle, pushes down on the seat, centers the block. “Okay now,” he says. “Stand back.” He takes hold of a length of cable attached to the crank, and pulls.

       
We watch as the steel drums fall and the arm lurches forward. The ground beneath us shakes, and we shudder as the mighty
ka-
thunk
of the catapult arm rings in our ears. The cinder block is hurled high into the air, spinning and spinning like a football until it grows so tiny that it passes from sight. We hoot and howl in unison, jump up and down like children, hug one another in drunken triumph. Henry says nothing, following the cinder block’s trajectory though he can no longer see it. “All wrong,” he says. “The angle’s all wrong. I’ll need to adjust it more.” But we do not listen, we continue to jump and wrestle in the sparse grass. We finally still ourselves and look at the machine as it towers above us, and for this one moment Henry is not unhinged or depressed or deluded; he is a genius, and though some muffled instinct tells us otherwise, for the first time the thought enters our minds that he might actually
do
it. We continue to stare in reverence until Henry waves us away. Henry shakes his head, throws up his hands. “Go on,” he says. “Get out of here. I have more work to do.”

       
We call our wives and girlfriends to come collect us, climb red-faced and numb into our cars, try to explain why we are drunk and not at work. As Henry’s house slowly recedes we stare out our back windows at the long slender catapult arm, rising once more above his brown thatched roof.

       
Through no fault
of our own news of Henry’s creation and his intentions for it have leaked out. For the past week or so V. Bud Stiller has been running a daily feature on Henry and his catapult in the
Gazette
, having proclaimed it the noblest undertaking ever attempted by one of our town’s own. Over the past few days Bud has run Henry’s blueprints, pictures of him standing next to the machine or perched in the car seat, scientific information about the moon, its orbit and the possibility of life upon it. Rumor has it that Bud came too close to Henry’s property for his own good, that Henry tackled him in the grass, that Bud finally eked his way out of a beating by convincing Henry he’d invite fewer intrusions by cooperating. This would not surprise us, though we cannot know for certain; Henry has not returned our calls since last we saw him. If he requires space we are more than happy to give it to him.

       
This morning it is an essay by Henry himself, explaining in detail how the mechanism will work and the scientific principles that will allow his moon launch to occur. When the catapult fires him off into the empty void, the moon’s gravity will catch him. Once captured in the moon’s gravitational field he will be swung about in orbit three or four times, descending farther with each revolution until, on the final orbit, he is deposited gently onto the lunar soil, a green sandy substance smoother than any sand on an earthly beach. And since the moon’s gravity is so much weaker, to return home he will merely have to ascend a high lunar peak and leap back out into space, lowered gingerly to the ground by means of a small parachute. Though we feel a lingering doubt over this explanation, we merely nod and pretend it makes perfect sense.

       
For the past few days cinder blocks and heavy sandbags have been spotted landing in town, leaving ruts in people’s yards, punching through car roofs, even crashing through a picture window or two. For a time we feel menaced, unsettled by the prospect of Henry raining heavy missiles down on our houses. He insists we have nothing to fear, that these are only accidents caused by the test-firings, but each night we reassure ourselves that we have not recently offended him, search our memories for any past personal slights or injuries that might have resulted in a grudge, devise subtle ways of apologizing. On Henry’s behalf, V. Bud Stiller asks us to be patient; these small accidents are part of a greater good. Sheriff Tomkins quietly agrees to give Henry some leeway based on the ambitiousness of the project, so long as he does not kill or injure anyone. We listen carefully to the police frequency on our scanners and when a report comes in we speed to the scene, remove the offending missiles, sweep away the broken glass, and cover ruts in the grass as best we can.

       
Cliff Jennings has a pool going at the pharmacy, the winner whoever picks the spot closest to where Henry will hit the ground. Most seem to favor spots in or around the river; we have always suspected Henry would meet his end in the river, carried away by the roiling water and coming to rest on the rocky bottom. Nonetheless, we find Cliff’s comments distasteful and offensive, and resolve to boycott the place until after Henry’s launch.

       
Henry finally sets the Fourth of July as his planned launch date. He claims it is a perfect follow-up to Sheriff Tomkins’ annual fireworks display, when the mood will already be festive. We suspect he also wishes to one-up Sheriff Tomkins, a feat that until now seemed impossible. Sheriff Tomkins is a master of pyrotechnics, each year putting on a more fantastic display than the last—arcing trails of reds and blues visible over every pasture and cornfield in and around town, culminating in fiery red, white and blue plumes like peacock fans, stretched out across the sky. But we all know Henry stands a good chance of topping it.