Sparta by Roxana Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

dim light. The men’s boots rang on the metal floor as they filed past the tarpaulined mounds of equipment, snaking their way to the steep, ladderlike staircase. The passenger capsule was set high against the side of the plane, narrow seats and no windows. The metal seatback hit at the base of his head, and on the floor there wasn’t enough room to put his feet side by side. When the engines started, the noise drowned out everything. Conrad sat beside the thrumming metal wall, motionless and solitary as the sky roared past outside.
    Sealed and sightless, high inside the plane, he was cargo. Roaring toward the unknown, fear was with all of them, he knew. Not exactly fear of death—that was a blackout, an abstraction. No one could imagine it. What they feared was mutilation. The exploded body, the missing limbs, the horribly scarred face. The wheelchair beside the Christmas tree. The C-5 roared through the dark sky; they put in earbuds and listened to music; they slept, cramped in the narrow seats.
    â€œChartered! That’s good,” said Lydia.
    â€œIt was great,” Conrad said. “Real seats, real flight attendants, and real meals. And a movie.”
    â€œWhat did you see?” asked Lydia.
    â€œThe Aviator,” Conrad said.
    â€œWhat is it? We didn’t see it,” Lydia said.
    â€œMartin Scorsese, Leonardo DiCaprio,” Conrad said. “It’s about Howard Hughes.”
    â€œAny good?” Marshall asked.
    Before he could answer, Lydia broke in. “I’ll tell you what you have to see,” she said, “ Sideways . It’s wonderful. It’s so funny. About two guys going to the wine country in California and drinking too much. Red wine, it’s all about red wine.”
    He hadn’t seen it, of course. The last four years had been a cultural blank. Everyone here had been watching movies and reading books, and he had not. He was Rip Van Winkle. He’d never catch up with the things he missed while he’d been living in the alternate universe. Even if he saw them, he’d see them in a different context, part of a different year.
    When they left the base, they headed into Oceanside. The road was flanked by a bright lineup of national chains—motels and gas stations and fast-food restaurants—but there was a holiday air to it all. The low horizon, the moist air, the palm trees all suggested the presence of the coast. Between the buildings were glimpses of a wild, majestic sunset, scarlet banners melting into the sea, the sea a molten pewter.
    The hotel was Spanish Mission–style, two stories high, pink adobe. Heavy wooden beams framed the doorways, with clusters of red chili peppers hanging in the corners. The lobby was pinkish beige: rug, chairs, the hard-looking sofa, the high counter at reception. The girl behind the counter didn’t fit in with the Spanish colonial theme. She was Eastern Bloc, with pale skin, heavy eye shadow, and a scary smile. Her dry bleached-white hair was teased back in a rooster tail.
    â€œWelcome,” she said to Conrad, baring a row of little gray teeth. “Welcome home. Here’s your key.” She slid him the envelope with his computerized plastic card.
    â€œThanks,” he said.
    They were on the second floor. Conrad’s room was next to his parents’. He slotted his key card into the lock and it flashed green. He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
    He was alone in the room.
    He hadn’t been alone for a long time. He stood still, feeling the air settle around him, hearing the faint singing sound of silence. The room was stuffy, smelling slightly of cleaning fluid.
    Against one wall were two double beds with carved and painted wooden headboards. Against another wall stood a painted wooden armoire with double doors. A wide mirror hung over a low bureau: he saw himself standing against the white curtains, the festive headboards. The sunburned face was familiar, but