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She stamped her foot. "We're not bad people!" she cried. "We're trying to do the right thing, we're trying not to hurt anybody!"
"We're doing the wrong thing," said Homer Wells. "It's time to do everything right."
In a panic, Candy looked out the window; Wally was gone from his position at the far corner of the deep end of the pool. "We'll talk later," she whispered to Homer. She grabbed an ice cube out of someone's drinking glass; she held the cube to her lower lip. "I'll see you by the pool."
"We can't talk about this around the pool," he told her.
"I'll meet you at the cider house," she said; she was looking everywhere for Wally, wondering what door he'd come in--any second.
"That's not a good idea, to meet there," said Homer Wells.
"Just take a walk!" she snapped at him. "You walk there your way, I'll walk there my way--I'll meet you, Goddamn it," she said. She made it into the bathroom before Homer heard Wally at the terrace door.
Candy was grateful for the special bathroom equipment--especially the sink at wheelchair level, like a sink for children in a kindergarten, like the sinks at St. Cloud's (she remembered). She knelt on the bathroom floor and hung her head in the sink; she turned her face under a faucet; the cold water was continuous against her lip.
"How are the dishes coming?" Wally asked Homer, who was still laboring over the broiler rack.
"Kind of messy tonight," Homer said.
"I'm sorry," Wally said genuinely. "Where's Candy?" he asked.
"I think she's in the bathroom."
"Oh," said Wally. He wheeled himself over to the corner of the kitchen where the serving tongs and a few broken bits of asparagus were on the floor. He leaned down and picked up the tongs, which he delivered to Homer at the sink. "Want to see the last couple of innings of the ball game?" he asked Homer. "Let Candy do the fucking dishes." Wally wheeled himself out of the kitchen; he waited in the driveway for Homer Wells to bring the car around.
They took Candy's Jeep, keeping the top down. It wasn't necessary to take the wheelchair; it was just a Little League game, and Homer could drive the Jeep right up to the foul line and they could watch the game from the car seats. The town was thrilled to have a lighted field, although it was stupid to play Little League games after dark; it kept the little kids up later than was necessary, and the field wasn't that well lit--home runs and long foul balls were always lost. The tiny infielders seemed to lose the high pop-ups. But Wally loved watching the kids play; when Angel had played, Wally had never missed a game. Angel was too old for Little League now, and he found watching the games the depths of boredom.
The game was nearly over when they arrived, which relieved Homer Wells (who hated baseball). A worried fat boy was pitching; he took the longest time between pitches, as if he were waiting for it to grow so dark (or for the lights to fail so completely) that the batter could no longer see the ball at all.
"You know what I miss?" Wally asked Homer Wells.
"What's that?" said Homer, who dreaded the answer. Maybe walking, Homer thought--or maybe he's going to say, "Loving my wife; that's what I miss."
But Wally said, "Flying. I really miss flying. I miss being up there." Wally was not watching the ball game but looking above the tall field lights at some point high in the darkness. "Above everything," he said. "That's how it was."
"I never did it," said Homer Wells.
"My God, that's true!" Wally said, genuinely shocked. "That's right, you've never flown! My God, you'd love it. We've got to arrange that, somehow. And Angel would really find it exciting," Wally added. "It's the thing I miss most."
When the game was over and they were driving home, Wally reached across to the gearshift and popped the Jeep into neutral. "Cut the engine just a second," he said to Homer. "Let's just coast." Homer turned off the key and the Jeep ambled silently along. "Cut the headlights, too," Wally said. "Just for a second." And Homer Wells cut the lights. They could see the lights from the Ocean View house ahead of them, and both of them knew the road so well that they felt fairly secure just freewheeling in the darkness, but then the trees rose up and cut their view of the lighted house, and there was an unfamiliar dip in the road. For just a moment they seemed to be completely lost, possibly plunging off the road into the dark trees, and Homer Wells turned the headlights back on.
"That was flying," Wally said, when they pulled into the driveway--ahead of them, gleaming in the headlights, the wheelchair was parked in waiting. When Homer carried Wally from the Jeep to the wheelchair, Wally let both his arms lock around Homer's neck. "Don't ever think I'm not grateful to you, for all you've done, old boy," Wally told Homer, who put him very gently in the chair.
"Come on," Homer said.
"No, I mean it. I know how much you've done for me, and I don't usually get the opportunity to say how grateful I really am," Wally said. He kissed Homer smack between the eyes, then, and Homer straightened up, clearly embarrassed.
"You've certainly done everything for me, Wally," Homer said, but Wally dismissed this with a wave; he was already wheeling himself toward the house.
"It's not the same, old boy," Wally said, and Homer went to park the Jeep.
That night when Homer put Angel to bed, Angel said, "You know, you really don't have to put me to bed anymore."
"I don't do it because I have to," Homer said. "I like to."
"You know what I think?" Angel said.
"What's that?" asked Homer, who dreaded the answer.
