True Fires

by Susan Carol McCarthy

  “Well, jus’ for a minute or two,” Sissy says.

  Lila leans forward. “We got somethin’ important to talk about.” She reaches to the file folder and flips it open.

  Sissy’s eyes search Lila’s face.

  “I’m done here, Sissy. Finished. Leavin’ for Washington this afternoon.” Got a couple things left to do today, and then I’m gone. For good.”

  “But it’s Thanksgivin’ tomorrow. You can’t . . .” Lila’s look silences her.

  “It shouldn’t surprise you to hear me say that none of this”—the sweep of Lila’s hand takes in the Judge’s office, his house, his groves surrounding it—“means anything to me. Truth is, I lost interest in all of it the day we got word Louis was dead. These papers”—she lays her hand on the file— “transfer everything to you.”

  Sissy sits back like she’s seen a snake. “But, your mamma . . .”

  “Will be more than taken care of,” Lila snaps sharply, then, seeing Sissy’s face, softens. “Look, what I’m giving you is a choice. You’re a wealthy woman now. You can stay or go, retire in style to East Town, or move to West Atlanta, or, frankly, any damn place you please.”

  “But your . . .”

  “I spoke with Doc Ellis. At the rate Mamma’s going, her liver’s not long for this world. She ought to be committed. But Daddy didn’t have the heart to do that, and neither do I. So Doc Ellis has agreed to arrange round-the-clock nurse care. And Paine Marsh will serve as her legal guardian.”

  “But . . .”

  “Paine’s fixed it. You asked me to come back and keep Kyle from gettin’ everythin’ whole hog. I did. And now, I’ve given it all to you. And there’s nothing, not one damn thing, anybody can do about that.”

  “But she got a right . . .”

  “No, Sissy, she doesn’t. Far as I’m concerned, she gave up her right the night she chose to do Louis and Lynette wrong all those years ago.”

  Sissy’s eyes are troubled. “Law, Missy.” Her shoulders heave. “That was a terrible thing. You think doin’ this to your mamma, or to me, gonna make that right?”

  “Nothin’ in the world can make what she and Kyle did to Louis right. I know that now,” Lila tells her quietly. “But, with Louis and Daddy gone, the only other person in this house I care about, or who truly cares about me, is you.”

  “Oh, child, you got to lay this all by!”

  “I will. I am. Fact is, soon as I let Mamma know what’s what, I’m shed of all this forever.”

  “But, I ain’t ’bout to turn your mamma over to some strange nurses. You know that.” Sissy’s look is fierce.

  “Oh, Sissy. In spite of all she’s said and done over all these years—Well, like I said, it’s entirely your choice.” Lila points at the papers. “Paine is expecting you this afternoon to go through all this. Franklin Dare has agreed to stay on, manage the groves. And you may or may not have a cattle herd that you’ll probably want to sell. Any other questions, any problems, just ask Paine. He’s a good man, Paine is.”

  “Ah don’t care ’bout all that.”

  “Not now maybe, but you will.” Lila digs in the pocket of her slacks, fishes out the truck keys. “I’d appreciate it, after I speak with Mamma, if you’d give me a ride to the airport?”

  Sissy takes the keys, cradles them in her apron lap. Lila watches the feelings—sorrow, concern, love, hope?—that cross, like clouds, the familiar old face. Finally, her eyes brimming tears, Sissy looks up. “You mean this? This be the thing that’ll make you happy?”

  “It’s a start,” Lila answers softly. Tenderly, she plants a kiss on Sissy’s dark, cinnamon-scented cheek.

  Sissy stares at her, sadly. “Oh, girl.” She sighs. Her tone is resigned. Then, with a sudden wicked crinkling of crow’s feet, she suggests, “How ’bout we take the Cadillac instead?”

  51

  Mind racing, fingers flying, half-smoked Pall Mall hanging off her lower lip, Ruth is deep into the story of Sheriff DeLuth’s funeral, the coroner’s swift closing of the double-murder case, and the Governor’s dramatic announcement that, at the widow’s request, Fred Sykes has been named interim Sheriff until the next election.

  Whatever possessed Birdilee DeLuth to ask that her husband’s political rival become his replacement? Didn’t she claim, “Politics is Kyle’s cup of tea, not mine”? What changed her mind? And what prompted the Governor to grant such a thing? Both had refused interviews. But, in the back of her brain, Ruth believes the answer lies in the additional odd elements she’s sworn an oath not to tell.

  She recalls this morning’s phone call to the head of the Clark Christian Academy. Her purpose was to find a home for the nearly four hundred dollars she’d received from donors across the country on the Dare family’s behalf. “Franklin won’t take it,” she’d explained to Dr. Leighton. “I’d like to give it to you, to apply to the expenses of the children’s education.”

  “I’ll be happy to deposit it in our school’s scholarship fund, but I must admit that tuition for all four of the Dare children has been fully funded.”

  “By whom?” Ruth asked.

  “In part, by a most generous endowment from Miss Lila Hightower,” Dr. Leighton had told her cautiously.

  “In part? Who else, then?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly at liberty to say.”

  “Oh, please,” Ruth had pleaded, “I’ve worried over this family for weeks; lost almost a third of my business defending them against Sheriff DeLuth and the Klan. You must tell me!”

  “It’s a most surprising source. If I do reveal it, you’ll have to promise it will go no further.”

  “Off the record, you mean?” Jesus, who could it be?

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Ruth could hear the resolve in the old gentleman’s voice. “All right,” she’d agreed. “Who?”

  “Just yesterday, Mrs. Birdilee DeLuth appeared at my office to inquire after the Dare children.”

  “Birdilee DeLuth, the Sheriff’s—” Ruth had been dumb-struck.

  “Widow. Yes. I was surprised myself. Mrs. DeLuth said she was concerned that the children had been traumatized by this fall’s events and by witnessing her husband’s demise. She wanted to make sure their future was secure, with a significant, anonymous contribution on their behalf.”

  “And she handed you a big, fat check?”

  “It was cash, actually, in small, well-used bills.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “All she’d say was, ‘Those poor children, this entire community, has suffered enough.’ ”

  In the lobby, the receptionist’s voice cuts through Ruth’s musing on the mysteries of Birdilee DeLuth. “May I say who’s askin’, ma’am?”

  “Hightower, Lila.”

  “Oh, Miss Hightower, I didn’t . . . Sorry . . . Please, go right in!”

  Ruth looks up, curious, as Lila fills the doorway, trim and broad-shouldered, in full W.A.C. uniform—auburn hair tucked primly under flat-topped, small-brimmed hat, khaki shirt, knotted tie, crisply tailored olive drab jacket, matching skirt. So she owns a skirt after all!

  “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness!” Lila sweeps in, sets a good-size cardboard box in the middle of Ruth’s desk. “For they shall inherit the dirt!”

  “Good God . . .” Ruth bolts up. Her forgotten cigarette teeters on her lip. She grabs it, stabs it dead in the ashtray, and does a broad double take on Lila’s gold oak leaves. “You’re a—”

  Lila grins. “Major, ma’am.”

  “Jesus! Off to the V.F.W.? Give the local boys a thrill?”

  “Airport, actually.” Lila’s eyes brighten to the point of sparkle. “Back to the Capital.”

  Ruth’s attention is drawn, like a magnet, to the cardboard box between them. “What’s all this?”

  “As I recall, you said you enjoyed diggin’ in the dirt. There’s enough here”—Lila opens the box lid—“to keep you in mud pies for a month of Sundays.”

  The box i
s crammed with manila file folders. Ruth scans the tabs, some typed, some hand-scrawled with the names of a number of county and state luminaries.

  Lila continues. “The Judge had the goods on every bad boy around, here and in Tallahassee. Kept him on top of the heap for years. I figure these’ll help you keep Clive Cunningham and the rest of his crew in line. In case they try to stir up another hornet’s nest.”

  Ruth feels her fingers itch, actually tingle, in anticipation of digging through Judge How-High’s secret files. (Although, she remembers, she’s promised Hugh to “lay off the controversial stuff for a while.”) She smiles widely. “So, the prodigal daughter got what she came for?” she asks.

  Lila squints out the window. It’s a brilliant day, the sky a sharp, clear blue after the early-morning rain. Ruth notices, for the first time, the shiny Cadillac out front, with the tiny brown woman behind the wheel.

  “I believe I did, Ruth. I found out the truth.” Lila’s eyes dart back to Ruth’s. “The bare, unvarnished truth about a whole lot of things. And the funny thing is, it’s left me feeling . . . free, finally free of stuff I’ve been carryin’ ’round for years.” Fire and ice. Ruth remembers her first impression of the striking Miss Hightower. But this Lila’s lost her polar ice cap, she’s practically aglow with warmth and something else—purpose?

  “Congratulations.” Ruth reaches out her hand; Lila returns her grip, firm, businesslike. “So you’re off to rattle the Joint Chiefs?”

  “No.” Lila looks down, brushes invisible lint off her sleeve. “Something else, I think,” she says quietly, “out of uniform.”

  What? Why? When? Ruth wants to ask but Lila’s face— private, pained—stops her. Lila wavers, closed lips pressed tight against her teeth. As if she’s searching for words, or deciding whether to share a confidence. A sudden resolve softens her. She looks up. “Oh, hell, Ruth, I’ve got a shot at something, something pretty big, in H.E.W.”

  “Secretary Hobby’s staff ? Terrific!”

  “Of course, it’s only an interview at this point. But I do have a bit of an in.”

  “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

  “So,”—Lila favors Ruth with a wry smile—“if this thing works out, I’ll take on the monkeys’ backsides in Washington— try to knock ’em into building more and better schools instead of bombs—and you’ll keep the local illegitimus in line?” This time, it’s Lila who extends her hand across the desk.

  This time, Ruth notes, Lila’s clasp is personal, her palm surprisingly warm. In it, Ruth feels the quick, searing sense of impending loss.

  “Give the bastards hell,” Lila tells her softly.

  “Deal,” Ruth says, wondering, not for the first time, Where’s the goddamn good in good-bye?

  It is a day of mourning. The Old Ones and She Who Decides such things decreed it. But, long before Her word came ’round, they knew it was to be.

  At break of day, the Young One comes respectfully, bearing smoke. And, for hours on end, he toils alone, refusing the help of all who o fer.

  At last, when his solitary task is done, the others come, bearing the body to its resting place in the sacred center of the Colony’s circle.

  There are words and a song and a prayer in his language, then, once again, at the Young One’s insistence, the others leave and he toils alone. At last, when He Who Provides is finally at rest, the Young One erects a wooden symbol, crossed bars bearing, at the joint, the Colony’s own sacred six-sided shape.

  Among them, the Young One stands, weeping. Wiping tears, he stops to consider his palms. “God’s Eye,” he whispers in the language they cannot hear. “Means—” He struggles with memory. “Means—honor the Most High. And—” The Colony falls silent. “And protect the Least Low,” He says, in movements they recognize, have prayerfully watched for. At last, the dance begins, the hum of rejoicing. He Who Provides has provided them an Heir.

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to the following individuals who generously allowed their memories, experiences, and expertise to fuel a writer’s fires:

  Gail Morris of the Lake County Historical Society; Jim Reeves of the American Brahman Breeders Association; Virginia Mitchell of the Seminole Tribune, Voice of the Unconquered; Willy Martinez, former “Bolita man”; Madeline McClure, current editor of the Mount Dora Topic; and a handful of old-timers who gave me their stories but deferred public acknowledgment.

  Thanks are also due to my agent, Lane Zachary, an endless source of sound advice and well-timed “atta-girls”; to my editor, Kate Miciak, who, early on, promised to be my safety net and, with patience and good humor, never fails; and to Bantam’s first-rate managing editor Anna Forgione, flanked by copyeditor Robin Foster, and designer Glen Edelstein. It was my pleasure to work with each of you.

  To Cris Weatherby, Tricia Rowe, Julie Clark, and Joe Bear, who read the final draft: Your helpful comments both broadened my perspective and narrowed my focus onto overlooked details. To Joanne Martinez, best and most perceptive friend, who soldiered through many different versions of the manuscript: Your openhanded praise and accurate insights, especially into Lila and Ruth, were invaluable, every time. Finally, to my husband, Paul: You saw what this story could be in the earliest draft. Thanks beyond words for your unwavering faith in it, and in me.

  About the Author

  SUSAN CAROL MCCARTHY was born and raised in central Florida. Her first novel, Lay That Trumpet in Our Hands, received, among others, the Chautauqua South Fiction Award. She lives in California and is at work on her third novel.

  Visit the author’s website at www.SusanCarolMcCarthy.com.

  Also by Susan Carol McCarthy

  LAY THAT TRUMPET IN OUR HANDS

  TRUE FIRES

  A Bantam Book

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Mid-Florida Publications, for permission to use excerpts from the Mount Dora Topic.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2004 by Susan Carol McCarthy

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003070885

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-41867-8

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