Mrs. Spero had never come into my yard before, much less my house. I glanced behind me. The drapes were pulled, and the room was dim. The box full of films and tapes sat in plain sight on the floor. The projector was next to the couch, aimed at the wall.
“It’s kind of a mess.”
“I promise not to tell your mom,” she said. A thin smile.
I didn’t open the door. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” I said.
“I know what you’re doing, Tim.”
My face went hot, and I smiled automatically. “Yeah?”
“You’re looking out for me. For the baby. But you don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t? That’s what neighbors do for each other.”
“John’s different now. He’s good with William.”
“Hey, that’s great,” I said. “That’s really good.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I’d like to believe you. Does it matter? I hope you’re right.”
William squawked at me, excited but serious, frowning like Alfred Hitchcock. I held my hands out to him, and he grabbed my fingers, hard. I laughed.
“He stopped drinking, Tim.” She waited until I looked at her. “You know he used to drink?”
I shrugged, still holding William’s hands. I’d only figured this out later, after college, after I’d met a few people who were in recovery. When I was a kid, I’d noticed Mr. Spero always had a drink in his hand. But he wasn’t a drunk. That was Otis on the Andy Griffith Show. “I guess that’s a pretty good excuse,” I said lightly.
“It’s not an excuse!”
I dropped William’s hands, and he leaned toward me. Mrs. Spero shifted him higher on her hip.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she said, her calm voice back again. “But you have to understand, he was a different person then. He shouldn’t have been so hard on Stevie, but—”
I stared at her. Hard on him? Did she not know? Hadn’t she seen the bruises?
No, of course not. She hadn’t seen a thing. None of us had.
“Tim, people can change. There are second chances. I know you may not want to believe this, but after Steven’s suicide—”
“It wasn’t suicide.” I struggled to keep my voice level.
“What?”
“He showed me the storyboards. It wasn’t a suicide. It was a plan, in two stages, like—”
“Tim, stop…”
“It was a launch. The starfighter is destroyed, but Rocket Boy ejects. The pilot is intact.”
Mrs. Spero shook her head, her eyes wet. “Oh, Tim.” Her voice was full of pity. For me.
“There’s something you need to see,” I said.
The ship, splintered with light. In the middle distance, the hint of bright metal and wooden shards, blurred by speed and spin, slicing toward the lens.
We sat on the couch like a little family, William between us, sitting up by himself and obviously pleased. Mrs. Spero regarded the blank wall, her face composed. She hadn’t commented on the projector, or the box full of videotapes and film cans. She must have recognized them.
I turned on the projector lamp and the light hit the white wall, askew. I adjusted one of the legs and the image straightened. The machine chattered through the blank leader tape.
William ignored the light and sound. He abruptly threw himself forward, making for the floor, and Mrs. Spero automatically put out a hand.
“Could I hold him?” I asked.
She nodded, her attention already on the flickering wall, and I moved my hands under his arms. I was surprised how heavy he was. I sat him on my lap, facing me. He was unimpressed.
The opening titles appeared. The final chapter. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. I might have been showing her the dense data tables I worked with.
In silence we watched the tiny figure falling out of the sky, falling out of the light. Reentry. The figure drew closer, until finally the rock walls flashed up and Rocket Boy hit the ground.
The camera switched to a point just above the pit floor, tilted slightly down. The sheet—the parachute—settled over the ground and covered a man-shaped lump. Touch down.
Mrs. Spero looked at me.
“Just watch,” I said. “He filmed this himself.” Before the explosion, before the Death of Rocket Boy.
Nobody films in sequence.
William twisted around, looking for his mother. “Don’t worry,” I said. “She’s right there. I got you.” I jiggled him on my good knee, wondering at what frequency and duration his stomach became unstable.
The screen darkened. It was night, and the camera looked down from the top of the quarry. At the bottom, the sheet reflected the moonlight. It was too big to be our handkerchief, and the lump it covered too long to be G.I. Joe.
The camera switched to the floor of the pit, tripod level. The “parachute” glowed prettily, but it was obviously just an ordinary cotton sheet, with none of the sheen of silk.
The sheet moved, and a naked arm reached out, fingers twitching. I had to smile, imagining the melodramatic background music Stevie would have wanted. The arm was streaked with fake-looking blood. Too pale, too shiny. He should have used Karo.
William pulled at my t-shirt, trying to get his feet under him. On screen, Rocket Boy tossed back the sheet.
“Oh God,” Mrs. Spero said.
Stevie was curled into a fetal position, naked. The blood described rivulets across his arms and neck. His back was covered with dark blotches—bruises. On film, they were too flat, too black, like holes through his pale skin, as unconvincing as the blood.
Stevie slowly got to his feet, facing the camera. Naked, pale skin shining. He looked up to the stars.
“The Return of Rocket Boy,” I said to her.
Rocket Boy raised his arms in triumph, held them there. The screen went black.
Mrs. Spero sobbed almost silently, her shoulders jerking with ragged breaths.
The last of the film ejected. The reel continued to spin, the tail of film slapping the body of the projector. Mrs. Spero stared at the square of empty light.
William yanked at the collar of my shirt. I lifted him in the air, and his face cracked open into a wild grin. His eyes were bright.
I recognized that look.
I tilted him left, right, flying him in my arms, and he cackled. Hey there, little man. Can you see me in there? I’m waving at you.