Eleven-year-old
Zack Goodspeed curled a baseball in his hand behind his back. He loved this
moment at the end of close games. The score was seven-seven. Runners on first
and third. Bottom of the ninth. And he was pitching.
Zack looked at the boy at home plate. Tommy Johnson. Tommy was
one of those boys kids called “runt” on the playground. It should be easy to
sneak a slider by him, Zack thought. Between his unusual height for his age and
his position atop the pitcher’s mound, Zack had gained a lot of confidence as
the team’s starting pitcher. He had won so many Little League games that by now
he usually threw the entire game and, more often than not, won.
Zack checked the runners on the corners. They glanced back at
him, both leading well off their bases. No matter, Zack thought. This game will
be over in three pitches. Zack pulled off his cap, ran a hand through his mess
of blond hair, and wiped his brow. Then, he pulled the cap back on, positioning
the brim just above his eyes.
Zack kicked his leg in the air as his grandfather had shown him.
He wound back. But the moment before he released the ball, a bright flash
blinded him.
Zack twisted as he threw, trying awkwardly to shield his eyes
with his glove-hand. He stumbled on the mound. The ball slipped from his hand.
Zack gasped.
He squinted at home plate as the ball arced toward Tommy. The
pitch was too slow and right over the plate. Tommy pulled the bat back and
walloped the ball. Zack shot upright as the baseball spun into the heavens. For
a second, it looked like it might touch the midday moon just on the horizon.
But the ball descended and landed – just beyond the fences.
“Home run!” shouted the away team’s coach. His squad leapt from
the benches. Several of them threw their hats in the air.
Zack was furious. He whipped around to home plate to search for
the source of the flash and saw something flicker in the sky. Zack looked to
see if anyone else saw it. The away team was too busy watching their runners
round the bases. Most of Zack’s team had their heads hung in shame.
Zack looked back. It was gone. There was nothing in the sky but
blue.
Zack’s close friend Andy Lee strode by him.
“You see that flash?” Zack asked.
“What flash?”
“The one in the sky. Just now.”
“Is that your excuse? Zack, that pitch was awful.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“Sure. Hey, don’t worry about it. It was only a semi-final. I
didn’t really want to go to the finals anyway. Now, there’s more time for my
kid brother to annoy me all summer. Yippee.”
Andy strode off. Zack’s coach walked up to him and gave him a
pep talk about the difference between winners and losers. Zack half-listened.
He wanted to be home. Finally, his coach walked away. Zack packed his glove
into his backpack and grabbed his bike. A couple of his teammates shot him
accusatory glances as he rode away. Zack was embarrassed. He rode faster.
The baseball field was only a few blocks from home. So, before
long, he was outside his house. Zack’s house was a two-story brick building
similar to all the other houses on the street. Well, similar to every one, that
was, except his grandfather Fyodor’s house next door.
Professor Goodspeed’s house stood out like a sore thumb that had
been hammered on several times. In fact, many neighbors would have nodded if
you referred to it as a “sore house.” Although its structure was similar to the
other houses on the street, Grandfather’s domicile had an unusual amount of
gizmos attached to it.
A gigantic wind turbine stood in the front yard mounted on a
towering white pillar. Grandfather had once told Zack this powered the entire
house and detached garage. Large trenches extended from the roof and funneled
into an intricate system of drainage pipes. These pipes wound around the house,
like multi-colored party streamers, until they ended in a yellow silo on the
front lawn. A series of black lights surrounded the silo and beamed ultraviolet
light into the yellow basin. Zack had helped his grandfather design this
system. So, he knew it could capture rainwater and sterilize it for use in
bathing, dishwashing, gargling - anything. The roof of Fyodor’s house was also
quite a sight. It had an exaggerated sloping shape with gigantic flanges
sweeping in all directions. Professor Goodspeed told Zack this roof saved him
considerable energy by shading his house all day long. Zack thought it looked
like a gigantic pancake had fallen out of the sky.
To the Zoning Board of the town, Grandfather Goodspeed’s house
was simultaneously something to be marveled at and feared, like a dinosaur
trapped in a glassware convention. And with equal caution, they avoided it, despite
the complaints.
Zack however was used to the house. It almost seemed normal to
him. Besides baseball, inventing was Zack’s favorite pastime, and he looked at
his grandfather’s house as most kids might look at a waterslide park: an
opportunity for fun and adventure.
Zack dismounted his bike and walked toward his garage. His
father was outside watering his prized rose bushes. He waved as Zack stepped
onto the driveway.
As Zack passed the fence separating his yard from his
grandfather’s, he noticed something strange. The Professor’s garbage bins
peeked around the side of the fence. Zack thought this was unusual given it was
Saturday. Since one of his chores was taking out the trash, Zack knew the
garbage trucks only came on Tuesday.
Zack strode around the fence with his bike. Suddenly, it was
like the sun had slipped behind a cloud, even though it was a cloudless day.
Zack found himself dwarfed by a massive airplane wing shooting into the sky,
like a skyscraper, yet jammed into Professor Goodspeed’s crushed garbage can.
Zack stepped back. What was his grandfather up to now? A bloom
of curiosity sprouted in his chest. Zack leaned his bike against the fence. He
had to go next door and find out. Before he could leave though, his father
called him.
“Don’t bother, Zack. He’s not home.”
“Really?” Zack called back. “Again?”
“Yep,” his father sighed. “I just knocked. Haven’t seen him for
about a week. Must be off ‘inventing’ something again.”
The way Zack’s father said ‘inventing’ it sounded like a sin.
Zack had long known his father and grandfather didn’t get along. Professor
Goodspeed was a wild train-wreck of emotion and energy, while Zack’s father was
just…dad. Mr. Goodspeed stood about five-foot eleven, had fair skin, and
possessed a well-maintained mat of brown hair. Each weekday, he worked at
McKinley Bank & Trust downtown, at the corner of Main Street and First
Avenue. He had no time for inventions or flights of fantasy. He was focused on
things like profit margins, stock options, and compound annual interest –
none of which Zack understood. Not because he couldn’t, but because no matter
how many times Mr. Goodspeed explained these concepts, Zack fell asleep.
Mr. Goodspeed grunted to himself. He pulled a handkerchief from
his pocket and cleaned his wire-framed glasses, which already looked
meticulously clean to Zack.
Zack plucked his bike from the fence and walked it toward the
garage. A rumbling boom sounded overhead.
“Sounds like thunder,” Mr. Goodspeed said.
Zack looked up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky still. How could
it be thunder?
Just then, Zack heard a loud whistling noise. It grew louder.
Mr. Goodspeed looked up from his roses.
“What the heck is that-“
Before Mr. Goodspeed could finish his sentence, a gigantic jet
engine slammed onto his rosebushes, inches away from his toes. For a second, Mr. Goodspeed stood there, mouth
open, sprinkling the smoking motor with the water hose. Then, he stumbled back,
grunting several times nervously. He dropped the hose and called for Zack’s
mother.
“Jen! Something incredible
just happened!”
When she didn’t appear, Mr.
Goodspeed leapt up the front steps and into the house.
“Jen, you’ll never believe this!
I think an airliner just crashed. Turn on the TV. Call the police!”
Zack stepped up to the
engine. He had never seen one like this before. While most engines Zack had
seen on planes were round, this one was wide and flat. It had a grill on the
front and a tapered exhaust in the back. It looked much more…modern…to Zack.
“Zack Goodspeed, get inside,”
yelled his mother. “There’s no telling what else might fall from the sky. Up to
your room young man, until we figure out what’s going on.”
Zack thought about arguing
with his mother but knew when she used that tone of voice there was no
negotiation. He dropped his bike in the front yard and walked up to his room.
He showered and changed, then lay on his bed tossing a baseball in the air.
Zack left his door open so he could hear his parents downstairs. They called
the police, the fire department, the hospital, even the National Guard.
After twenty minutes, Zack
heard sirens approaching. He stood up and went to his door. The downstairs was
bathed in flickering red and blue light. Zack snuck down a few stairs so he
could see what was going on. Someone knocked on the front door. He saw his
mother scurry to open it.
“Yeah, someone called in a
plane crash?” the policeman at the door said.
“Yes, sir, we did,” his mother
replied.
Zack’s father emerged from
the kitchen looking a little pale.
“I saw it myself, officer.
Part of a plane fell straight out of the sky.”
The police officer looked
back and forth at Mr. and Mrs. Goodspeed. He looked doubtful and a little
perturbed.
“Sir, where did it land?”
“Right in my front yard!” Mr.
Goodspeed said. “Didn’t you see it?”
“No sir.”
“What? That’s not possible,”
Mr. Goodspeed said. He pushed the officer and Mrs. Goodspeed aside as he darted
from the house. The policeman and Mrs. Goodspeed followed him into the front
yard. Zack slipped down the stairs and leaned out the front door. The front
yard was full of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances but no jet engine.
Where the engine had landed nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Mr. Goodspeed’s
rosebushes stood there, as if nothing had happened.
Mr. Goodspeed glanced up at Zack and squealed, “Zack saw it
too!”
“Honey, did you see a plane crash?” Mrs. Goodspeed asked.
Zack felt conflicted. He had clearly seen an engine fall from
the sky and almost crush his father. But now, there was no evidence that had
happened. Everything looked as it had before the event, except for the dozen or
so police and firemen scratching their heads on his front lawn. Some were
laughing at his father. Zack felt embarrassed.
“I’m not sure what I saw,” Zack said. Mr. Goodspeed looked
crestfallen so Zack hastily added, “But there was something there.”
“I don’t believe it,” Mr. Goodspeed whispered, staring at his
bushes. Then, he cocked his head to the side.
“Wait a second,” he said. He walked up to the bushes. He grabbed
one bud and rolled it around in his hand. He smelled it. Then, his eyes shot
open.
“Wait. These aren’t my roses!”
“All right. I’ve had enough of this,” the policeman said.
“No, really. I’d know my roses anywhere. They got top prize at
the Rose Parade last year.”
“Do you know misreporting an emergency is a crime?” the
policeman said. “They can put you away for something like this.”
“But I didn’t do anything. An engine fell out of the sky and
landed-“
“I know, on your bushes,” the policeman said, pulling a tablet
from his shirt pocket. He started writing on it. He tore off a sheet and handed
it to Mrs. Goodspeed.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A ticket for disturbing the peace. You can show up to contest
it in court or pay it. Trust me. Pay it. I’m being easy on you. Night.”
The policeman strode off the porch and signaled for the fire
trucks and police cars in the yard to back out.
Mr. Goodspeed looked thunderstruck. Mrs. Goodspeed gently put
her arm around him and guided him into the house.
“Jen, I swear. I saw it.”
“I know honey. Let’s just go inside.”
“Zack saw it too.”
“Jack, the neighbors are watching,” Mrs. Goodspeed said, her
voice strained. She forced a smile and waved to Mrs. Cavendish next door who
did not wave back. Mrs. Goodspeed led her husband inside.
Zack let them pass then stepped onto the yard. He watched the
emergency vehicles leave and the neighbors head back into their houses. Once
things were relatively calm, he walked up to the rosebushes. They looked just
like Mr. Goodspeed’s bushes, but Zack thought all roses looked the same.
Zack felt something cold and wet touch his bare feet. He
squatted down and looked at the sidewalk bordering the bushes. A dark, wet
liquid seeped from the ground. Zack touched it and rolled it around in his fingers.
It felt slippery, like oil. Zack leaned in closer to the bushes. Even though
night was falling, Zack thought the mulch around the rosebushes looked newer
than the mulch around the rest of the plants. Zack grabbed a handful under the
roses. It was damp. He touched the mulch under another bush. Bone-dry.
Zack caught a flicker out of the corner of his eye. He turned to
his right and for the briefest second thought he saw something in the top story
window of his grandfather’s house.
“Zack, come inside. It’s getting late,” called his mother.
Zack stood and brushed his hands off. Something wasn’t right
here. He looked at his grandfather’s house, but he saw nothing else. The house
looked derelict, as it usually did. Zack thought his father was right. His grandfather
was probably off on one of his inventing adventures again. Maybe he had
imagined the movement in Grandfather’s house, Zack thought, but the mulch was
real.
“Zack. Inside. Now,” his mother said coming to the door.
Zack opened his mouth to tell his mother about what he’d found,
but he could instantly tell she was still in no mood for discussions. He walked
up the stairs. Zack looked around one last time before he went inside.
Everything looked normal. It felt anything but.
* * *
The next morning, Zack sat at the kitchen table observing his
family.
Zack’s mother was busy pan-frying eggs, which she did every
Sunday. Zack’s father reclined in a chair opposite Zack, reading the local
newspaper which he also did every Sunday. Mr. Goodspeed grunted to himself.
“Strange. No articles on nearby airplane crashes,” he mumbled
between page turns.
Zack huffed as he slumped over the kitchen table, brushing his
hands in wide wipes across its surface. Boring, he thought.Would things ever change around here? Zack wondered.
He knew if his grandfather were around he would be entertained by Fyodor’s
strange inventions and wild imagination. Grandfather Goodspeed was a
rollercoaster of energy and emotion. Zack seldom found his company boring as he
concocted daring plans to build bigger and better inventions. Zack was sure his
grandfather would have all kinds of abstract theories about last night’s
events.
The only problem, Zack thought, huffing again, was that
Grandfather often left him for long periods of time. One moment, Zack and
Grandfather would be inventing crazy machines in Grandfather’s garage
laboratory; the next, Zack would be knocking on his front door for hours to no
response. It was a mystery to Zack how Grandfather could so easily whisk
himself in and out of his life. Zack found himself increasingly baffled and
frustrated each time Grandfather vanished.
Zack was about to go to his room when the kitchen door burst
open and a ridiculously tall man, dressed entirely in white, stumbled inside.
Zack shot upright in his seat. The familiar sensations of joy and frustration
welled in his stomach, as he realized his grandfather was back.
Fyodor Confucius Goodspeed, as
an adult, looked like a stork that had been stretched and, five minutes later,
stretched again. He towered over most people at six feet, six inches tall. He
was a stringy man built “thin as a rail,” as they say. The abnormality of his
figure was emphasized by the fact Fyodor Goodspeed wore only white. He wore
white trousers and white shoes. He had white socks and a white button-down
shirt. Over this, he donned a white vest and matching white sport coat. He
still had a single tuft of white hair that clung to his scalp like a wild bush
to a cliff. He resembled a stork that had been washed in bleach and then, five
minutes later, bleached again. People often commented on Grandfather Goodspeed
during the rare occasion when he ambled through town. They pointed and laughed,
while looking for a pair of sunglasses to put on. He was a bright alabaster
pillar, but he moved like a man who had just learned to walk.
Grandfather Goodspeed slammed into the door, as he tried to shut
it. Stumbling backwards, he caught his balance long enough to throw it closed
and whirl around to face his family.
Neither Mr. Goodspeed nor Mrs. Goodspeed looked up. Mr.
Goodspeed grunted and slowly turned the page of his newspaper. Mrs. Goodspeed
continued frying eggs. Zack, however, smiled at his grandfather, suppressing
his momentary frustrations.
“Well Kalamazoo,” Grandfather Goodspeed said, adjusting his
rectangular spectacles, which held two cracked lenses. “Glad to see nothing’s
changed around here.”
Fyodor winked at Zack and ruffled his wild, blond hair. Zack had
to cover his mouth to avoid laughing aloud. Grandfather’s joke eased some of
Zack’s tension. Fyodor jittered over to a chair at the breakfast table.
“What’s news son?” he said
slapping Mr. Goodspeed on the back.
Mr. Goodspeed looked stunned at being addressed in this manner.
The back slap had caused a strand of hair to fall across his forehead, and he
used a slow gesture to return it to its proper place.
“Father,” Mr. Goodspeed said. “Was there something wrong with
the door, or is it still a convention you have not mastered?”
“Ah,” Grandfather Goodspeed said, leaning back in his chair and crossing
his long twig legs. “See, a door is built with two purposes: to open and to
close. As long as my efforts achieve one of those two results, then I believe I
have successfully operated the door.” He pointed at the closed door. “Exhibit
A.”
“Intriguing,” Mr. Goodspeed replied, wrinkling his lips and
pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Some people think a certain
form should be maintained in the process.”
Grandfather Goodspeed rolled his eyes, spun a finger around his
ear, and then pointed at Mr. Goodspeed. Zack laughed. Mr. Goodspeed, catching
this motion out of the corner of his eye, scowled. He turned a page in his
paper with a crinkle and a grunt. Grandfather shot out of his chair, crossed
the kitchen in one giant step, and gave Mrs. Goodspeed a big kiss on her cheek.
“And how is my favorite daughter-in-law?” he said.
Mrs. Goodspeed squirmed away from him, smiling weakly. She
scurried to the table, dumping two undercooked eggs on Mr. Goodspeed’s plate.
“Fine, thank you,” she said.
Grandfather beamed at her. Then, sensing her indifference, he
threw his hands in the air and shook his head at Zack.
Mr. Goodspeed neatly folded his paper and set it aside. Picking
up a fork, he pushed his undercooked eggs around his plate. He frowned at them.
Looking up and putting down his fork, he said, “What brings you over this
morning, Father?”
“As opposed to any other morning? Why, to see my family of
course.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Goodspeed shot him doubtful glances.
“All right,” Grandfather said. “I came over to see if my
grandson would like to play a game of baseball.”
“Yes! Can I Dad?” Zack exclaimed.
“You just played ball yesterday, Zack. Maybe you should sit with
your Mom and me and enjoy breakfast.”
“Come on, Dad,” Zack said. He didn’t know what else to say, but
sitting around for another Sunday breakfast sounded like torture.
“Look son,” Fyodor said to Mr. Goodspeed. “Young boys love
baseball. They simply can’t get enough. Remember how much you used to enjoy
playing with me?”
Mr. Goodspeed shot him another doubtful glance over the rim of
his glasses.
“Ok. Maybe not,” Grandfather said. “But Zack loves it. He’s got
quite an arm. Come on, son. It’s the summer.”
Mr. Goodspeed looked at his wife. She frowned back clearly
indicating she thought this was an abnormal occurrence for a Sunday morning,
even during the summer.
“All right,” Mr. Goodspeed said finally. “But bring him to the
shopping mall in an hour. We’ll meet you there. We have to run some errands.”
Zack jumped up, opened the door, and raced outside. Grandfather
followed him, ricocheting off the doorframe.
