“That’s what I mean by brave.”
And again the contraction, the cramp of shame from Ava beside him, though they were not even touching. But he resented her reaction now, like an intrusion into his serenity.
“I’m working on a book.”
“That means everything,” Styron said.
They taxied, the small plane’s wheels bumping; they took off, as though suddenly caught and lifted by a sling of wind, and the aircraft twisted and vibrated, the engine noise filling the compartment until they were well aloft and cruising, bumped by hidden angles of clouds and gulps of air.
“I could fly this thing.”
“Sure you could,” Styron said, with magnanimous authority and a little chuckle.
Steadman threw off his seat belt. He hoisted himself from his seat and walked to the cockpit door, which was propped open.
“Hi, Captain.”
The noise was loudest here, the pile-driver racket of pistons and propellers, but one of the pilots sensed him standing at the door. He smiled when he saw the white slender cane and the dark glasses, the Panama hat, the elbows out, head upright, face forward, ears cocked, in a blind man’s alert posture, a listening animal.
“Why are you flying along the canal? That’s not your usual flight path.”
“Incoming traffic’s stacked up to the west because of weather. We’ve been given a slot on the south-facing runway, so we’ll make an easterly approach. Hey, how did you know our bearing?”
“Sunshine,” Steadman said. “The canal entrance is down there. The Sandwich power plant. The harbor. The marsh. The dunes to the east. Scusset to the west — and now we’re banking toward Plymouth. Duxbury coming up, and we’re hitting the headwind, northwesterly today—”
“Better take your seat, sir.”
“Let me spell you at the controls.”
Shortening his neck in apprehension, one pilot hunched forward, gripping his wheel protectively, while the other pilot kept his gaze on Steadman, looking alarmed at this smiling talkative blind man offering to fly the plane.
“Move over,” Steadman said, nudging the man with his cane.
“I’m going to have to insist that you return to your assigned seat and fasten your seat belt,” the man said, seeing himself and the copilot reflected on the mirror lenses of Steadman’s glasses.
“You think I can’t fly blind? I can fly better blind.”
“We’ll be landing in just a few minutes, sir,” the pilot said, as though to a madman.
“I knew that,” Steadman said, and tapped his cane again. “Marshfield, North River—”
“Step away from the controls!”
At last, Ava touched his arm and said, “Please, Slade.”
Returning to his seat, he brushed the terrified and anxious body of the flight attendant, who asked Ava in a murmur whether he was all right.
Ava was too embarrassed to mention any of this in front of Bill Styron, and was relieved when they had landed and said their goodbyes and were in a cab a few minutes later. She was about to raise the subject of his bizarre behavior in the cockpit when, going through the Sumner Tunnel, Steadman took charge, saying, “Take a hard right after the exit. We’re going to Quincy Market. I’ll tell you where.”
“Nothing wrong with your eyes, sir,” the cab driver said. His own dark eyes and big nose and part of his smile filled the smeared oblong of the rearview mirror.
“Right here,” Steadman said, and then, as if reading the signs but without looking at them, “Martignetti Liquors. La Rosa Deli. Mama’s Pizza. The Big Dig labyrinth.”
Silenced by Steadman’s talk, the cab driver began to frown, as though he were being mocked.
“Stop here. We’ll walk.”
“You said Quincy Market.”
“But you’re not moving. The Union Oyster House is on a one-way street. It’s quicker to walk.”
Then he was out of the car and Ava was paying the fare. The driver was nodding at the side mirror and saying, “Where’s the fire?” Steadman had hurried ahead, and when Ava caught up with him he was striding, slashing his cane at the sidewalk.
“Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer, he walked ahead of her, whipping his cane, scattering the other strollers, who, noticing that he was blind, seemed to regard him with a mixture of fear and awe. Farther on, he reached toward the bow window of the Union Oyster House and felt along the single panes, the thick cracked paint, and tapped his way into the entrance.
A man and woman leaving the restaurant stepped back at the sight of this tall blind man — dark glasses, one arm outstretched, the other swishing a white cane, digging its ferrule into the threshold. A young waiter swept by him and bowed, almost genuflected, and said, “Right this way, sir.” Steadman followed the ingratiating voice to a side booth. A dangerous-looking man was always “sir.”
Ava was sliding into the seat as Steadman said, “Too near the bar.”
“The bar is empty, sir.”
“I don’t want all those stools and bottles in my face.”
The waiter was probably thinking, But you’re blind!
“What about there?” Steadman’s white cane swung like a compass needle to indicate an empty table.
“Reserved, I’m afraid.”
Steadman peered at him and said, “Has it escaped your notice that I’m blind?”
“I think we can accommodate you, sir,” the young man said, clearing two of the four place settings from the table in a clatter of silverware. “I’m Kevin. I’ll be your waiter today. May I offer you a cocktail?”
Ava was tense, silent, fearful of what Steadman might say next, for he had an unsettling habit of joshing waiters, being amiable and ironic and overfriendly, which was worse than being stern, for it threw them off and sometimes insulted them. But he tapped the menu without looking at it.
“No cocktails,” he said. “I’ll have a dozen oysters and a bowl of chowder.”
“The lobster chowder is my personal favorite.”
“Then why don’t you order it, Kevin? I’m having the clam chowder.”
Ava said, “Lobster salad and a glass of iced tea,” and when the waiter had gone, “Slade, I wish you would calm down.”
“I’m blind. I’m in another world from you. Maybe you shouldn’t have come.”
She considered this. It was true that he had noticed things she had missed, but he seemed not to notice much that was obvious. He was especially sensitive to textures, odors, and voices.
“I hate it when people talk on cell phones in restaurants.”
After scanning the room, Ava finally located a man holding a cell phone to his ear at a far table; but she could not hear him.
“And those people in that booth are whispering about me.”
As soon as the oysters on the half shell were served, Steadman ran his fingers around the plate, counting the shells, and without hesitating selected the bottle of Tabasco sauce from the cluster of condiments and sauces at the side of the table. He shook drops on each oyster and then, squeezing a lemon wedge, passed it over the plate in a circular motion. His hands, held high, fussing a little, exaggerated the act, calling attention — and it was true, those women in the nearby booth (how did he know they were in a booth?) were whispering and commenting on Steadman’s precise gestures.
“You’re showing off,” Ava said.
“I’m in Boston.”
“I like you better at home.”
“Do you really?”
He could tell she was trying to humor him. She ate quickly and nervously, feeling observed, apprehensive because of Steadman’s impulsive behavior. His blindness made him an extrovert, excited him, gave him a look of stealth and adroitness. He glided like an animal with night vision, even sniffed and held his head like a hypersensitive animal. Blindness sharpened his senses, but it also seemed to change his manner of walking and moving. He had a clear recollection of seeing a Secoya man emerge from the jungle on the banks of the Aguarico and thinking: I have never seen a man walk like that. Then, he had not been able to say what made the man’s walk so unusual, but now he knew it was a gait of total alertness.