Chasing Fireflies: A Novel of Discovery Page 10

  He turned to me and flipped his glasses up. "That okay with you?"

  In one fell swoop, he'd done something that no man had ever done before: he asked me twice in the same minute what I liked. And he listened for the answer.

  We ate a sack of Krystals and then pulled into a convenience store for dessert. He left the truck running and reappeared a few minutes later carrying two brown bottles and two circular things that looked like huge hockey pucks wrapped in plastic.

  He popped the top on a bottle and handed it to me. "It's a Yoohoo." He swigged his own and said, "It's like chocolate milk ... only better." Then he broke open one of the hockey pucks and shoved about three bites' worth into his mouth. Barely able to talk, he motioned for me to do the same.

  I pulled on the bag, which broke and sent crumbs flying across the cab of the truck. I tried to catch them, but doing so spilled my drink. I looked at the crumbs and at the chocolate stain on the seat and braced for the backhand. And the U-turn.

  I'd seen it happen before. A couple picked up a little girl, and before they got out of the parking lot, they were back dropping her off.

  But he just took another bite and said, "It's called a MoonPie." He chuckled. "Don't really know why." He looked out the windshield in a moment of measured pleasure. "I guess if you ate enough of them, you'd get big as the moon."

  We rode three or four hours and then turned into Brunswick, Georgia. He glanced at me. "You want a tour?"

  I nodded.

  "You thirsty?"

  Another nod. Then I shook my head.

  He thought for a minute. "You got to pee?"

  I nodded several times.

  "If you pee, you think you'll be thirsty again?"

  I smiled and looked at the plastic wrapper on the floor.

  He stood outside the stall while I did my business, and then we bought two more Yoo-hoos and just as many MoonPies. We loaded up and stuffed our faces while he gave me a tour of the town that has been my home ever since.

  We drove past the funeral home, where there must have been a viewing going on, because he took his hat off. Next came the movie theater. "That there's the Fox. Run by two brothers named Ronald and Rupert. Ronald keeps the books while Rupert tears the tickets. Ronald ... he's pretty sharp, but Rupert ... well, the engine's running, but there ain't nobody home."

  I looked at him, a wrinkle above my brow.

  "Oh, he, uh ... he got kicked in the head by a horse when just a kid." He swirled his finger around his ear. "Sort of scrambled his thinker. But he's strong as an ox, and he's the smilingest kid I've ever seen.

  Further down the street we passed a house with a white sign out front that read SMITH AND SMITH. He pushed his hat down tighter and tipped it back just a bit. "Attorneys." He shook his head and spit out the window. "The Smith brothers died years back. Now it's run by a couple of Buddha-bellies who are all hat and no cattle."

  He peered into the window where a large man in a white shirt was leaning back in his chair, his feet on the desk, the phone pressed to his ear. "Uh-huh, there he is now, giving somebody a handful of howdy and a mouthful of much-obliged." We passed, and he tilted his hat further back. "He's probably talking to my brother."

  I looked at him.

  "Oh, yeah, I got a brother. Name's Jack. Year older. He doesn't claim me, but we're still blood." He laughed. "He thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow." He waved his hand across the dashboard. "Unfortunately, most folks around here tend to agree with him." He pointed at a big, huge castle-looking thing on our left. "He owns that bank, but"-he pointed at a large white church on our right-"folks over here say he's still tighter than the bark on a tree." He talked, to himself and to me. "I used to work at that bank, and ... I used to go to that church ... funny how life works."

  The confusion grew thicker across my face. He saw me and nodded again. "Yup ... my brother's taught me a couple things ... the first is that meanness don't just happen overnight, and the second ..." He got quiet and flipped his glasses back down over his eyes. "Well ... it don't take a very big person to carry a grudge ... so, forgive your enemies"-he chuckled-"it messes with their heads." Then he laughed louder and patted the seat. "Oh, and maybe there's one more." His laugh was deep, easy, and told me he did it a lot. He poked himself in the chest. "Never judge someone by their relatives." He looked at me. "You want to see where he lives?"

  I shrugged, and we turned east down the causeway. It would be my first time smelling the marsh.

  We drove through the security gate. He waved at the guard, the gate lifted, and we passed through. He tapped the windshield. "I got this sticker up here that lets me in whenever I want. Makes it easier for me to get to these people's horses. But, in truth, I'm about as welcome around here as a skunk at a lawn party."

  We drove past a huge country club, and I heard a strange sound on my right. After another mile or so we came upon a huge house, built up high and facing east. He pointed. "He lives there. Married to this woman who ... well, we've howdied but we ain't shook yet." He shook his head. "Word around the barn is that she's got enough tongue for ten rows of teeth." He nodded. "And they ate supper before they said grace."

  That one really stumped me.

  "Oh, um ... she moved into his house, stayed awhile, and then they got married. She's the second one to do that. And I doubt she'll be the last."

  I nodded.

  We U-turned, drove back south, and headed back toward the security gate. The sound, now to our left, kept drawing my attention. I couldn't place it.

  He noticed, studied me a minute, and then said, "Ohhhh." He slowed, turned left down a dead-end street, and parked in front of some tall grass and a sand dune that was taller than the top of the truck. We climbed the hill, pulling on the grass to get over, and when I looked up, the world got a lot bigger.

  That's one thing Unc did from the start-he made the world a lot bigger.

  I stood there, the ocean at my feet, and listened as the waves broke on the shore. Finally he sat down, pulled off his boots and his socks that had holes in one heel and one toe, and offered me his hand.

  "You don't really know what it's like 'til you step in it."

  He led me down the dune and into the water. I stood knee-deep as the waves crashed into my legs. I'll never forget the power. It took my breath away.

  Unc did that too. And then he gave it back.

  He reached down, cupped the water in his hand, and sipped it. He swished it in his mouth and then spat it out in a long stream out over the waves. "Go ahead. Won't hurt you. But you probably don't want to swallow it. 'Cept maybe a little."

  I did likewise. It was salty, swimming with sand and bubbles. I spat it out in more of a spray than a stream.

  He laughed. "Yeah, me either. But sometimes you need to be reminded."

  We stood in the water, nearly thigh deep. His pants were soaking wet, but he didn't seem to mind. And he didn't seem bothered that mine were wet too. We looked out across that expansive blue, and he pointed. Enormous black clouds moving fast from left to right climbed high into the sky with smaller clouds that looked like cats and dogs.

  Lightning flashed behind them. He nodded. "Gonna be a real frog-strangling turd-floater." Thunder clapped and spread out above us. He looked up, unafraid.

  I jerked, crossed my arms, and looked toward the sand.

  "Oh ... never mind that. It's just God moving the furniture."

  I smiled.

  "Besides"-he looked out over the water, talking to someone other than me-"once you've been dead, everything else is gravy."

  We jogged back through the water, up the sand, and through the grass just as the first few tablespoon-sized drops began to fall. He grabbed his boots and held my hand, and we slid down the back of the dune. When we reached the truck, he lifted his head high to heaven, took off his hat, and opened his mouth wide. The rain pelted his face and wet his tongue. He shook his head, opened my door, and smiled. "Free water. Never pass it up."

  We sat in the truck, d
rying off as the rain came down in sheets. It was the hardest rain I'd ever seen. The wipers made no difference. We could barely see the front of the truck through the glass. He smiled and leaned his head back against the glass. He had to speak above the roar of the rain on the roof. "It's raining like a cow peeing on a flat rock."

  Lightning flashed close to the truck, the thunder echoing inside. I jumped, grabbed the door handle, and my knuckles turned white. He stared out the window, studying the underside of the clouds, and whispered over his shoulder, "Sort of makes your butt feel likes it's dipping snuff."

  I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but his tone of voice and the laughter that followed told me what I needed to hear.

  Minutes later, as quickly as it had come, the rain let up and then stopped altogether, letting the sun out where it immediately burned the water off the road. We drove through the swirling steam, past the country club, out the gate, and back down the causeway.

  Twenty minutes later, we turned off the hard road and onto what would become the driveway of my life. It was dirt, patched with gravel, and lined with pecan trees that were draped in Spanish moss and chattering with territorial fox squirrels. Ryegrass-green as the ripe meat of an avocado-swayed in the breeze, forming the carpet that spread from the highway to the house. I counted six huge birds with long tails and more colors than the rainbow perched in the limbs of the trees.

  "Those are Lorna's peacocks." He shook his head. "They make more noise than a roomful of women."

  Beyond the trees was a pasture spotted with huge cows that had horns as big as an easy chair. We eased down the drive, skirting the potholes. Midway down, Unc stopped the truck, walked into the middle of the road, and picked something up. He walked it over to my side of the car, cracked it between his viselike hands, and handed me a piece. It was the first pecan I'd ever seen taken out of the shell. Until then, I thought they came in cellophane bags.

  It was sweet.

  I stepped out of the car and saw a white house with two stories, a porch that wrapped around the bottom, and enough room underneath for a dog to sleep.

  A tall, slender woman met us in the driveway. Her hair was jet black, combed straight, and hung down to her waist. She wiped her hands, knelt down, and kissed me on the cheek. I remember because her lip was fuzzy, and while her hair was black, her lip was blonde.

  "Hi ..." She looked at the man in denim, then back at me. "I'm Lorna."

  She held my hand and walked me into the kitchen. The table was covered with coupons and sweepstakes entries. She handed me a plate, led me over to the Crock-Pot, and picked up a big spoon. I held out the plate, and she covered it with brisket, mashed potatoes, field peas, and biscuits. We sat down, and she pointed at my plate with her fork.

  "I didn't know what you liked, so I asked Liam, and he said he thought maybe you'd like what he liked." She tapped her plate. "Which is this."

  I looked from her to him, unsure.

  "Him ... I call him Liam. Everybody else calls him Willee."

  He smiled, but his face looked pained and his eyes were wet. He reached both his hands out; she grabbed one, and I did likewise. Then they bowed their heads, but no words came. He tried several times, but couldn't get them out. His hand trembled, tears dripped off his nose, and his shoulders shook one time. Finally she said, "Amen."

  He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. Then he refolded it and slid it back into his pocket.

  It was the first time I'd ever seen a grown man cry.

  After dinner she slid a small bench up against the sink, where I stood with a towel and dried the dishes he washed. She led me out onto the porch, where we sat in rockers while he dug something out of the bottom of the fridge. He walked out on the porch carrying three cups of Jell-O chocolate pudding. He peeled off the lids and handed one to each of us. We rocked and ate chocolate pudding, and he showed me how to squeeze it through my teeth so it made your teeth look all brown and dead.

  Lorna said, "Liam ... that's gross. Don't teach him that."

  He laughed that deep laugh, tossed his head back, and began licking the inside of his cup.

  It was glorious fun.

  At bedtime they led me to my room on the second floor; it sat on the front of the house just across the hall from theirs. It had a small bed and one dresser. Above hung a ceiling fan, and you could see the underside of the tin roof.

  I didn't want to go to bed, but they tucked me in, turned out the light, and pulled my door half-shut. He must've known or talked to somebody at my last home. Us foundlings never slept much. You could get through the days okay, but nighttime was the hardest. It's when you remembered and wondered.

  I heard the front door shut, so I climbed over to the window and looked out. He walked out beneath the moonlight into the yard, grabbed the sprinkler, and connected it to the hose. Then he turned the water on and aimed the sprinkler at my corner of the house. The water rose in a high arc over the porch and above my window, and fell lightly on the tin roof above.

  Three minutes later I was asleep. And ten hours later, I woke up having slept like the dead.

  Chapter 12

  spent the rest of the afternoon tucked away in my office perch overlooking the courthouse steps, the phone glued to my ear, working my own sources. By suppertime I had enough for my column. Red eyeballed it, made three corrections, gave me the nod, and said, "Get back to work. I want part two next week."

  The following morning in the predawn darkness, I slipped out of my apartment where Tommye lay sleeping and walked across the yard and into the kitchen where Unc sat with Aunt Lorna, drinking coffee. He was dressed for work while she wore her slippers and a tired robe. The checkbook was open, Lorna was licking a stamp, and Unc was spreading cinnamon roll crumbs across the newspaper. He shoved the rest of a roll into his mouth, turned the paper 180 degrees, pushed it toward me, and raised his eyebrows.

  MUTED JOHN DOE: A MARVEL AND A MYSTERY

  Four days ago local fire department personnel found a young boy-now labeled John Doe #117-in a ditch off Highway 99 near the Thalmann railroad crossing. Naked except for a pair of cutoff jeans, he was disoriented and covered in ant bites.

  Hours before, the local fire department was called to the scene of a car fire caused when a southbound train T-boned a green 1972 Chevrolet Impala. Authorities are not citing the car wreck as a suicide, as no note has been found. The boy was found the following morning, standing in the middle of the highway. Apparently he had been thrown from the car only seconds before the driver drove in front of the train. Doctors believe he is between the ages of eight and ten.

  He has numerous body markings that would identify him, but his doctor states, "His most striking characteristic is that the boy cannot speak." To compensate for the inability to communicate, he utilizes a sketchpad, drawing pictures with a cartoonist's speed and an architect's detail. One nurse states, "He's a prodigy. The most remarkable thing I've ever seen. That kid can draw like DaVinci."

  The sheriff, working in conjunction with the district attorney's office, has determined that the woman driving the car was not his mother and is investigating her identity. Mandy Parker, who works with the DA, says national databases have produced nothing of note. "They tell us that no one has reported him missing. Which, after a week, tells us a lot." The Department of Children and Families, along with the DA's office, has filed an emergency petition to place the boy in temporary foster care.

  Scars, cigarette burns, and other markings cover the boy's body, suggesting years of severe and chronic abuse. That trauma has also apparently affected his memory, as the boy does not know his name, where he's from, or anything that might help authorities find his home or family. When asked his name, the boy scribbles in his pad, SNOOT.

  Medical tests confirm tracheal damage, suggesting his muted existence is not a choice. His doctor adds, "That further complicates any hope of ever recovering the ability to speak." A local law enforcement officer, speaking on condition of anonymity, states
, "Somebody's been beating the heck out of this kid. And it ain't been just once. It's been many times over a long period of time. I pity the fool if we ever find him, because prison ain't friendly to people that do stuff like this."

  Near the bottom of the page, Red had written an editor's note saying that the paper would continue to follow this story, and that part two would appear next week.

  Chapter 13

  'ighway 25/341 passes out of the northern tip of Brunswick, -through Sterling, and straight into Jesup-a drive of maybe thirty minutes. There's usually no traffic, other than logging trucks, heading either way. When Uncle Jack gained control of the Zuta and the bank, he built a house on the northern tip of the property-if you can call it a house. I've never been in it, but I'm told it has ten or fifteen bedrooms and enough space to house a small African tribe. Though he doesn't ride, he owns about fifteen horses and had a nice-enough stable built to board a Triple Crown winner. Case in point-the horses' stalls are air-conditioned.

  I downshifted at the light at Sterling, caught the green, and brought Vicky back up to sixty. Mandy didn't seem to mind. Only problem with a bikini-topped vehicle is that it makes it difficult to talk at highway speeds. So we drove in silence, letting the wind mess up her hair. We soon began passing the Zuta on the left. After twelve months of nonstop clear-cutting, the earth looked like it'd been napalmed. That monstrous thing Uncle Jack once called a house sat off on our left, a half mile off the road. Surrounded by nothing but burn piles, it stood out like a sore, opulent thumb.

  Mandy pointed. "Seems strange to have such a pretty house nestled in all those trees, and then cut the trees."

  I nodded but said nothing. The truth would take too long.

  Jesup Brothers Bottlers was a hole-in-the-wall place on the outskirts of town, hemmed in by chain link and razor wire. Several unwashed and unmaintained delivery trucks sat parked along the fence next to a long, nondescript warehouse. Sometime long ago the company name had been hung in large letters above the door to the office. Now all that remained was sup BOTTLERS. On the gate hung a sign that read FORGET DOG. BEw RE OF OWNER.