The Boy Who Could Fly

by Robert Newman

Overview

Joey has always been a special kid, but his brother, Mark, is worried that the people in their new town won’t understand his odd behavior

Mark has always known that his brother, Joey, was special. The problem is, Joey has always been a little too special for most people to understand. When the brothers move to rural upstate New York to live with their aunt and uncle, Mark is worried that Joey will have a hard time fitting into their new town—especially since Joey has a habit of speaking his thoughts inside people’s minds instead of out loud.
 
Mark believes that Joey can do anything he sets his mind to—if he wanted to, he could probably even fly. But when a local politician dares Joey to prove his talents, Mark worries that by accepting the challenge, Joey is keeping himself from ever being able to live a regular life again. And in a town like Westfield, not being normal can be dangerous.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781497685956
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	12/30/2014
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	125
File size:	1 MB
Age Range:	8 - 12 Years

About the Author

Born in New York City, Robert Newman (1909–1988) was among the pioneers of early radio and was chief writer for the Inner Sanctum Mysteries and Murder at Midnight—forerunners of The Twilight Zone that remain cult favorites to this day. In 1944 Newman was put in charge of the radio campaign to reelect Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was also one of the founding members of the Radio Writers Guild, which became the Writers Guild of America.

In 1973 Newman began writing books for children, most notably the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt mysteries. The series takes place in Victorian London and follows the adventures of two teenage amateur detectives who begin as Baker Street Irregulars. Newman has also written books of fantasy, among them Merlin’s Mistake and The Testing of Tertius. His books based on myths and folklore include Grettirthe Strong, and he has published two adult novels.

Newman was married to the writer Dorothy Crayder. Their daughter, Hila Feil, has also published novels for children and young adults. Newman lived his last days in Stonington, Connecticut.
Born in New York City, Robert Newman (1909–1988) was among the pioneers of early radio and was chief writer for the Inner Sanctum Mysteries and Murder at Midnight—forerunners of The Twilight Zone that remain cult favorites to this day. In 1944 Newman was put in charge of the radio campaign to reelect Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was also one of the founding members of the Radio Writers Guild, which became the Writers Guild of America.

In 1973 Newman began writing books for children, most notably the Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt mysteries. The series takes place in Victorian London and follows the adventures of two teenage amateur detectives who begin as Baker Street Irregulars. Newman has also written books of fantasy, among them Merlin’s Mistake and The Testing of Tertius. His books based on myths and folklore include Grettirthe Strong, and he has published two adult novels.
Newman was married to the writer Dorothy Crayder. Their daughter, Hila Feil, has also published novels for children and young adults. Newman lived his last days in Stonington, Connecticut.

Read an Excerpt

The Boy Who Could Fly

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By Robert Newman

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 1967 Robert Newman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8595-6

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CHAPTER 1

"Wait here," said Grandfather. "I'll be right back."

We were in Grand Central station, standing at the bottom of the marble stairs that led up to one of the balconies. I watched him go over to the ticket window, then looked around. When we had first come in, walking through the waiting room, Joey and I had paused. I had expected everything in New York to be big. But somehow—maybe because the building wasn't as tall as lots of others and had looked kind of old-fashioned on the outside—its size inside had surprised me. As usual, however, Grandfather had been in a hurry, and we had had to hurry, too, as we followed him over to the information booth.

But now that he had checked on the train and relaxed a bit, we could relax, too. The part of the station that we were in was huge. The ceiling was several stories up and it was vaulted and painted blue and had all the signs of the zodiac on it. Opposite us was an advertisement: a color photograph of flamingoes that was bigger than a billboard. There were shops everywhere. And besides the regular stairs and the ramps there was a wide moving stairway that was taking people up into the Pan Am building and bringing others down into the station.

I glanced at Joey. His eyes were very bright, the way they usually get when he's interested in something. But he wasn't looking at any of the things I was looking at. He was watching a man trying to open one of the metal lockers near the stairs. The man was apparently in a hurry, like almost everyone around us, because he kept looking at the clock over the information booth and swearing under his breath as he twisted the key. But it wouldn't turn.

"Not 5241," said Joey finally. "5244."

"What?" The man scowled at Joey over his shoulder, but he took out the key and looked at the number on it, then tried it in the locker to the right. It turned easily, and the door opened. He took out a suitcase and swung around.

"How did you know that?" he asked. "How did you know I was at the wrong locker?"

Joey didn't answer, and I moved over to stand closer to him. I knew how he knew, but I couldn't tell the man because he wouldn't have believed me. That's one of the troubles with having a kid brother like Joey—you have to keep coming up with explanations for things he's done that people will believe. But before I could say anything, the man said, "It doesn't matter. Thanks anyway." And he went trotting off toward one of the gates.

I sighed.

"Joey ..." I said.

"I know," he said. "But he only had three minutes, and he was afraid he was going to miss his train. I'm sorry." But he didn't look sorry. He looked as if he thought it was funny. And since in a way it was, I grinned and so did he.

By this time Grandfather was walking back toward us with the tickets, and, while I'm not Joey, this was once when even I knew what someone was going to say before he said it.

"Look, your grandmother and I don't have to take that flight this afternoon, you know. I mean ... are you sure you'll be all right? That you can manage?"

It was the third time he had asked that since we had left the airport.

"Yes, Grandfather," I said, trying not to sound impatient. "I'm sure."

He frowned down at us, but it was a worried frown, and suddenly I didn't feel impatient anymore. I knew how he felt. Even though it would mean losing a whole day if he came with us, he was concerned about letting us go the rest of the way by ourselves. On the other hand, he didn't seem to understand how Joey and I felt. That we were looking forward to the train trip, and looking forward to it all the more because we would be making it alone. But finally he must have realized it because—

"All right," he said abruptly. "The track's over there."

"Come on, Joey," I said.

We picked up our flight bags and went to the gate. There was a sign there listing the stations at which the train stopped. Westfield was about two-thirds of the way down. I hoped Grandfather would say goodbye to us before we went any farther, but of course he didn't. He went through the gate with us, down the ramp, and on board the train. It was an old train and rather dirty. He settled us in one of the coaches, gave me our tickets, and then said, "You know when we're due back, don't you?"

"In March."

He nodded. "Even your grandmother should have had enough of Europe by then. We'll come up and see you first thing and, if you're not happy for any reason and want to come back home with us, you know you can."

"We know, Grandfather," I said.

He stood there for a moment. He wasn't frowning, but he still looked fierce—the way he did when he was upset about something. I knew he didn't like saying good-bye and leaving us, but at least he wasn't going to cry about it the way Grandmother had.

"Well," he said. "I guess I'd better run along. Good-bye."

He shook hands with me, patted Joey on the head, and left. There was a conductor outside on the platform, and when Grandfather went over and talked to him, the conductor looked through the window at us. Grandfather was evidently telling him to keep an eye on us, make sure we got off at Westfield. And while I didn't know why he had to, if it made him feel better it was all right with me. We were on our own at last, Joey and I, at least until we got to Westfield. And I was glad.

We sat there, looking around and enjoying the idea of being on a train, because with all the traveling we had done, we had never been on a train before. We had flown from New Mexico to Los Angeles, and of course we had just come East by plane, too.

There weren't many people in our coach to begin with, but more kept coming in, and by the time we left, about half the seats had been taken. We started with a jerk, moved slowly along the platform and into the darkness beyond. Almost everyone in our coach was either reading or just sitting there, not bothering to look out, as if there was nothing to see. But there was.

A shiny steel train went past us, going the same way. It was all lit up and there were lots of people in it, some sitting in the dining car, some in small rooms and some in the parlor cars. When it disappeared, we seemed to be the only thing that was moving in that mysterious underground world. We could see tracks running off into the distance with red, yellow, and green lights shining next to them, and several times we passed other trains, not moving but still and dark like herds of sleeping elephants. What made this part of the trip even more exciting was to know that we were traveling under the streets—streets that were busy and full of traffic with people walking on the sidewalks and, towering above them, all the tall buildings we had seen when we circled over the city before we landed at the airport.

Then suddenly we left the tunnel and were out in the sunlight. It was even more interesting now because the tracks were up above the street and there were houses on both sides of us, so close that you could see into them. We saw people eating, and a man standing at an open window and shaving with an old-fashioned straight razor, and several times we saw kids sitting out on the fire escapes or playing there as if they were on a terrace or a balcony. Joey was quiet, as usual, taking it all in. We stopped at a station that was high up over the street, and a few more people got on, and then we went on again.

A few minutes later, after we had gone over a bridge and were rattling along in a kind of open cut, the conductor came through. It was the same conductor Grandfather had talked to, and when he took our tickets, he said he'd tell us when we were getting to Westfield. He smiled at us, particularly at Joey, but he didn't look at him the way people do sometimes.

I've never been sure why people look at Joey that way, as if there was something odd about him. Of course, he is different—different from anyone I've ever known—but you can't tell just by looking at him. At least most people can't, because most people don't really look at other people, just as they don't really listen. He's about average height for his age and has reddish brown hair and freckles, but then so have I. Maybe it's because of his eyes. They're grey and very large, so large that they make his face seem small, and they change. Sometimes, when he's thinking about something, they get quite dark. And other times they're very clear and seem to have almost no color, like water.

I guess I've always known in a vague sort of way that Joey is different, but I still remember the first time I really thought about it, saw him through someone else's eyes. It was when he was not quite two years old and I was nine and we were still living in New Mexico. Dad was home—it was the last time they let him come home from the hospital, about a month before he died—and we were just about to have dinner. I remember how Dad looked, very pale and thin, and I remember that Mother was very quiet, probably because he did look that way. I sat down at the table, and Mother asked me where Joey was. I said I didn't know, and I didn't—I'd been over at a friend's house all afternoon. When I got up again a minute later, she asked me where I was going.

"I'm going to get Joey," I said. "He's down in the cellar."

"The cellar?"

"Yes."

"I thought you didn't know where he was."

"I didn't. But he just told me."

"What do you mean, he told you? I didn't hear anything. Did you, Paul?" she asked Dad.

Dad shook his head.

"I can't help it," I said. "That's where he is. He went in and the door blew shut and he can't open it. I'll be right back."

I went out and around to the back of the house and pushed open the cellar door—it always stuck—and there he was. He smiled at me, that slow smile of his, and I helped him up the steps and we went into the house together.

"Were you in the cellar?" Mother asked him as he climbed up on to his chair at the table. He nodded and she turned to me. "Did you lock him in there?"

"Of course not," I said.

"Then how did you know where he was?"

"I told you," I said. "He told me."

"That's ridiculous!" she said, starting to get angry.

"Easy, Marjorie," said Dad. He was looking at us rather strangely, first at Joey and then at me. "Maybe Joey did tell him."

"What do you mean?" Mother asked. "How could he?"

"I don't know," Dad said. "But I know Mark isn't a liar."

Of course, there had been other times before that—one time in particular that was a kind of family joke. That was when Joey was only a few months old. He had been crying, and no one seemed to know why until I went into his room and raised the window shade, so he could look out. And when he stopped crying, and Mother asked me how I knew that was what he wanted, I said the same thing: "He told me." She and Dad had both laughed about it then and whenever it came up afterwards.

But that later time, when Joey had been in the cellar, Dad didn't laugh. I think he may have known. I don't think he knew everything, just how different and special Joey was. I'm not sure I knew myself—it took a while for me to realize what it meant. But I think Dad knew then that there was something between us. That Joey could always tell what I was thinking—just as he could tell what anyone was thinking—and that I could tell what Joey was thinking. When he wanted me to know, that is. And I think it made Dad feel good to know that there was this thing between us and also to know how we felt about each other.

I came back to the present. Being Joey's brother had always meant problems for me and I had an idea that there were going to be even more of them in the future. But I decided not to think about that now. I wanted to enjoy the train ride.

We were well out of the city by this time, and the train was moving right along. In fact, we actually seemed to be traveling faster than when we were in the plane. I suppose that's because when you're in a plane, flying very high, you can see things a long way off and it takes a while to get to them and pass them. But here everything was very close—telegraph poles and houses and trees—and since we went past them quickly, we seemed to be traveling fast.

There was a highway running along beside the tracks, almost as wide as one of the Los Angeles freeways, but there didn't seem to be as much traffic on it as on the freeways. Then, off to the right, we saw water—very blue water—the Sound. There were lots of boats out, some with white sails and some with brightly colored ones, and once we even caught a glimpse of a lighthouse.

Shortly after we left the Sound and had started going inland, a man came through the train with sandwiches, candy, and drinks. He was short and kind of hunched up and kept blinking as if he was sleepy. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn't decide who.

"Mr. Mudge," thought Joey.

The things Joey thinks often make me laugh, and I started to laugh now, but I caught myself.

"Stop that!" I said, jabbing him with my elbow. Mr. Mudge was an old groundhog who lived up in the hills where Grandfather used to take us on picnics. Joey had named him Mr. Mudge, and he was right—that's who the man did look like. Because I felt awkward about it—almost laughing, I mean-I decided we ought to buy something. Joey doesn't like chocolate, in fact, he rarely eats anything sweet, but I got him a bag of nuts and bought orange drinks for both of us.

We were due to arrive at Westfield a few minutes after four. About three o'clock the train stopped and changed engines. We'd had an electric locomotive before, but now we had a diesel. We went on again, the locomotive whistling a good deal for crossings. It was a sound that might have seemed rather sad and lonesome if you were feeling that way yourself, but neither Joey nor I did feel that way, and we both liked it. The country had changed again and had become rather rolling. Though it was the end of summer, the grass was still quite green, and we began to see cows grazing in the fields or lying in the shade under the trees. Some of the trees, tall and spreading, were different from the kinds we were used to, but Joey knew they were elms and maples.

Since we were going to be spending at least a year in Westfield and maybe more, the nearer we got to it the more interested we became in the countryside. There was a river close to the tracks. It was wide and full of rocks and small islands. We crossed it several times, clattering over iron bridges, and it was still in sight when the train began slowing up for Westfield.

The conductor came into the car to tell us to get ready to get off, but by then we had already taken our flight bags down from the rack overhead. When the train stopped, we were the first ones off.

Joey and I saw Aunt Janet and Uncle George at the same time. We had come to know them quite well during the past few years. They had been out to visit us in our place in New Mexico, and again later on when we were living with Grandfather and Grandmother in Los Angeles. As a matter of fact, they'd made a special point of coming out the three summers after mother died. But, even if we had never seen Uncle George before, we would still have known him. He was a little taller than Dad and, since he was a few years older, his hair was getting gray, but he still looked very much like Dad. He had the same thin face and rather sharp nose, and he stooped a little just as Dad had. It had always seemed to me that he and Aunt Janet both looked a bit sad at times. Of course, there was good reason for them to look that way after two deaths in the family—first Dad and then Mother. But Joey thought that wasn't all. He thought that part of the reason they were sad was that they didn't have any children of their own.

But they didn't look sad now. They were standing on the platform of the station and, when the train stopped and they saw us coming down the steps, they came hurrying over. Aunt Janet hugged and kissed first Joey and then me, and Uncle George shook hands with us both.

"How was the trip?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

"No problems?"

"No. No problems."

"Good," he said.

Then Aunt Janet hugged us both again.

"We're very glad you're here," she said. "Terribly glad." When she let go of me, I caught a glimpse of Joey's face. He was looking around and his eyes were large and dark. I don't know about Joey, but when I want to know what he's thinking I have to kind of reach out. In other words, I don't follow what's going on in his head all the time; if I did, I'd never have a chance to think anything myself. And sometimes, if he's not actually trying to tell me something, what I get isn't too clear. That's the way it was now. He wasn't really thinking, but he seemed to have a feeling that something was going to happen here in Westfield—something he didn't like. And I found that a little upsetting-not because he was necessarily right-but because, as far as I knew, he'd never before had a feeling about something that was going to happen.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Boy Who Could Fly by Robert Newman. Copyright © 1967 Robert Newman. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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