Sundance by David Fuller

containerships, steamships, and uncountable smaller craft that slashed white between them. Farther out in the harbor was the statue. In letters, Etta had described her as something truly fine, and Longbaugh was glad she had not been disappointed. As a girl, Etta had collected pictures of the statue, published when it had been unpacked and constructed in the harbor in the 1880s. Her sister, Mina, after a visit East, had brought her a toy memento that Etta had graciously accepted, then placed high on a bookshelf, where only Liberty’s arm and the torch could be seen. She had found the toy ugly, the head too large, the face too square and masculine, a poor representation that did not come close to the magazine drawings of the real thing. But she had kept it and, as far as he knew, still had it as an adult. Mina wasn’t the only nostalgic one honoring a sister’s affection.
    The freight elevator stopped at the top of the main body of the building and men came aboard to unload it. One of them stared at his boots.
    He stepped off the elevator. He was higher off the ground than he had ever been. He took it all in, and his eye fell on a hatless welder. The imp rose inside him. He took off the cap and approached the man.
    â€œI think you lost this.”
    The welder looked at it. “Yeah, that’s mine—hey, how in the world—?”
    â€œI caught it for you.”
    The welder’s mouth fell open as he looked over the edge, where he had last seen his hat in free fall. He looked at the hat, then at Longbaugh, trying to picture him jumping after it and catching it in mid-drop. The welder suffered an inadvertent shudder.
    Longbaugh walked away, leaving the welder to contemplate the mystery.
    He climbed into the steel skeleton of construction. The sun made one side of the steel hot, while the back side stayed cool. He was aware of the height of his boot heels, and minded his step. He climbed and hung on to a vertical beam, and leaned out to look down. Far down. Thousands of buildings were lined along complex street patterns that uptown broke out into a grid. He was small, innocuous, anonymous. He found that fact both unnerving and comforting.
    Longbaugh spoke to a nearby worker.
    â€œHow far up are we?”
    The worker squinted. “You joking, pal? Fifty-seven stories.”
    â€œHow high is that?”
    â€œHow high does it look? The tallest thing in the world, taller’n the Eiffel Tower. Who’re you again?”
    â€œNo one in particular.”
    â€œâ€™Cause I know everyone here and you ain’t no sky boy.”
    â€œWould you believe if I said the new man?”
    â€œNew man with the plumb gang?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œNope. Not for a second.”
    Longbaugh was full of cheer. “Me neither.”
    The man glowered, picked up a basket of bolts, and walked away.
    Longbaugh watched a low cloud cover come directly at him, then surround him in a soup of gray. Everything above and below vanished. He floated on a steel beam that disappeared a few feet away, encircled by foggy nothing. He was alone. In the midst of more people than he could have imagined, he was unseen and anonymous. The city could not only hide him, but here he could slay his nickname and bury it. That idea had germinated when he saw the signs shouting for attention. He was in the right place. He could search for her and cause less than a ripple. He could even reclaim his real name.
    The cloud moved on, laying out the city below him as if a map unrolled, revealing the Statue of Liberty, the rest of the bay, the lower point of the island, buildings and streets, until he was looking straight down at tiny people and motorcars beneath his feet. He turned with the back of the cloud rushing away and watched the northern part of the island gradually revealed. Construction workers strolled on steel girders as sure as cats. They were intimate with the air and shared a fellowship in their work, knowing that