The Fireman's Wife

by Jack Riggs

  Teddy coaxes Partee out, gives him a surfing lesson, then lets him use his board for a couple of attempts at riding a wave. He's awkward in the water, a little unsure of himself, and I think he notices the way people along the strand stare. He's the only black man on a white beach even though there's no law left that can keep people from coming out here. All that's been gone for a long time, but it takes more than changing the law to change people's minds. Partee's good at keeping it to himself. He's had a lifetime to learn. Everybody else just got started.

  He gives up sooner than Teddy wants him to, but the surface is mostly flat, so I don't blame him. The rest of us wait until a set rises high enough to bring us to life. We point the nose of our boards toward shore, paddle furiously to catch the tender top of a curl, the force downward just enough to push us across the front of the wave. Partee is in the shallows whistling and whooping it up as, for that brief moment in time, he watches us walk on water.

  The late afternoon rides along, drops into evening, the waves flattening out for good when the tide changes. We leave the beach, and I take Partee back to pick up his Mustang. He's had enough, as have others with children or those who don't care to keep it going. I say good- bye, thank him for all the good food, leave him in the deserted parking lot behind the station as the party rekindles itself, the changing shift from Surfside complaining that they didn't get in on any of the fun. Teddy thinks that's unfair and so he leads the charge, says they're all expecting me at Maggie's where the beers are free and there's another birthday cake waiting.

  We roll into Murrells Inlet where Maggie's is already hopping, listen to southern rock and roll, Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers, ZZ Top and Marshall Tucker covered by a local band. Teddy has no idea who the boys are on stage, but that doesn't stop him from running up there to sing along with “Fire on the Mountain.” He jumps around hogging the microphone, his voice so off-key that we laugh until our stomachs hurt, beg anyone who can hear us over the ruckus to please stop him before he makes everybody sick. A generous bouncer goes up there, tells him that the band needs to move on, convinces Teddy to jump off the stage.

  At eleven- thirty he goes to work. Teddy's so drunk that he can't walk straight. Earlier he had given me the keys to his car and I handed them straight to Lori. When he asks me for them back, I pull my pants pockets inside out and lie, tell him that I lost them.

  “Well goddammit, Peck,” he says. “I got to go to work in a taxi.”

  We all laughed, want to be there when he drives up to the Horry County Sheriff's Department in a cab, drunk out of his mind and ready to go out on patrol. He won't make it, but the idea's funny enough that even long after old Teddy's gone, he's still talked about. He remains the life of the party.

  After another round or two, J.D. leaves. He comes up before he goes and shakes my hand. “Happy Birthday, old man,” he says. I want to tell him he's a hell of a partner. I want him to understand that I think he has magic in his hands when it comes to saving people's lives, but I'm drunk. “You're a pussy for leaving so soon,” I say.

  He smiles at that, kisses me on the cheek. “I love you too, Chief.” He tells Lori to take good care of me, and then J.D.'s gone.

  Someone says “Let's cruise,” and I find myself in the back end of a truck flying out through the low country passing a joint around. These are firemen, responsible men most of the time, lighting up, whooping and hollering, singing to the eight- track music coming out the back window to fill up the bed where I sit with Lori. We end up in some field outside Conway where somebody brings out fireworks of all things, air bombs and Roman candles, to light up the sky.

  There's more beer and pot and everybody sings Happy Birthday again, and I get hit on the back more than I want to be hit, hugged and kissed on the cheek by men I stand shoulder to shoulder with when we are told to enter a burning building, our lives put on the line every day. I'm out here in a dried- up field in the middle of the night, drunk and stoned at the same time, dead tired and watching grown- up men act like little boys who've snuck out of their houses to party for the first time.

  It's the best birthday that I can remember, but one that comes to an abrupt end when a deputy shows up threatening arrest if we don't stop with the fireworks and go home. Someone asks him if he knows Teddy, but that just seems to make matters worse. He lectures us about some small hot spots already burning inland, tells us that they're expecting winds to shift, a bad sign. It looks like we're in big trouble here until Lori steps in. She's over by his car, talks the deputy out of doing anything to us, then comes over to the bed of the truck, says, “Everybody just shut up and leave, right now.”

  We're out of there, back on the road headed home. We don't talk about the fires inland. We just keep our eyes on the sky scanning for the light from growing flames. No one asked how far inland the fires were, but the deputy seemed tired, like he'd been up longer than he should have watching for foolish behavior like our own. I sniff the air like a dog looking for love, find nothing there but the musty smell of a low- tide marsh as we ride into Garden City Beach.

  There's nothing left of Hump Day but loose ends and smoldering grills when we pull back into the station. Everyone quickly scatters, talking quietly about the deputy's concerns, worrying what it might mean for all of us if the fires get out of hand. Inland fires and changing winds—which way they will go is a roll of the dice.

  Lori gets my truck and drives me home. I can smell her hair even when all the windows are rolled down and we're going fifty miles an hour. I tell her she smells good. She says, “That's because I take baths.”

  I laugh at that, tell her, “I'd take them more often, but I hate going home alone.” She's quiet like what I've just said is filled with poison. I can feel her turn left onto the sand road leading to the house even though I have my eyes closed to try and stop the spinning. When we get there, Lori turns the engine off and we sit in thick air, the marsh silent. Tree frogs chirp in the distance behind the house. Somewhere far away, I hear an owl haunting the dark. Out before us the marsh is undefined, nothing but a big black hole.

  “God, that was stupid out there tonight,” Lori says.

  “Which part?” I ask, rubbing my temples, pulling my hand through greasy hair.

  “All of it,” she says, “but the fireworks were the stupidest thing I've ever seen. We could have started a fire, and then what?”

  “We're firemen,” I tell her. “We'd have put it out.”

  “With what, Peck Johnson, your good looks?”

  We laugh when Lori says this. “I didn't think I was that pretty,” I say.

  “Well you are,” Lori says, her eyes turned away, “but I doubt that would've helped to put out a fire.”

  For fun, I pull the rearview mirror over to look at my silhouetted face, rub my jaw, the rough stubble reminding me I need a shave. “Let's stay out here,” I say, “make out all night.”

  Lori rolls her eyes, pulls the keys from the ignition, then opens her door. “Not with me, Peck Johnson. You're a married man.” She comes around and opens my door like we're going to a prom. I put out my hand to pull her back in, but she slaps it away. “Get out, Peck. It's late.”

  When I try to stand, I stumble into her arms. She holds me good, tells me I'm a sight. I don't remember the last time I got this wasted. It's bad and getting worse. We work our way around the house and onto the screened- in porch. I can't find my house key, so Lori has to search my pockets, her hand in places that should raise more than an eyebrow, but she isn't embarrassed. I'm too drunk to get into trouble like that. She finds it, keys the lock, and we fall inside. I'm on my knees, Lori about ready to give up when I ask her to stay.

  The moment is awkward because she can tell I'm serious. I crawl to the couch, pat the cushion for her to sit down next to me, my head spinning so fast it feels like I'm on the T ilt- A- Whirl down at the Pavilion in Myrtle Beach. “You can't drive yourself back tonight,” I tell her. “Just stay, I could use the company.”

  She'
s like stone when I lean over and kiss her on the lips, don't even know I'm going to do it until it's done. It feels odd kissing Lori like this. I try to hold her there, keep my balance, but I can't. And when I fall away, the spell is broken.

  “I can't,” she says. “I can't do it like this, Peck.”

  “Do what?” I say, a grin pushing at the corners of my mouth.

  “You know what I'm talking about. It's unfair to Cassie, even though—”

  “—even though she's off fucking Clay Taylor in Walhalla?” I say, finishing her sentence with the wrong words.

  “That's not what I was going to say,” Lori tells me. “But if you want to know what I think—” She stops there, the space abruptly empty when she gets up off the couch. “I'll make a pot of coffee.”

  I can hear her in the kitchen finding things, my head spinning the world crazy. “I guess you were right, then,” I say.

  “Right about what?” Lori asks from the kitchen.

  “About having a relationship at work. Won't work, no doubt about it.”

  There's nothing from her after that, my words stuck in the air, sarcasm gone sour. Lori busies herself with the coffee, and that's good for both of us. When she's finished, she finds me outside where I've managed to park myself on a bench on the floating dock. We sit there with steaming mugs saying nothing more, watching the light come back into the marsh. Lori lays her head on my shoulder. “I need sleep, Peck.”

  “I know you do,” I say. I tell her to go on in and take the bed, that I'll sleep on the couch.

  “You don't have to do that,” she says. She raises her head to look at me, the offer made with her eyes, that after all the innocent sparring tonight, she's ready to go the distance, give me what Cassie won't.

  “I need to be a good Boy Scout here,” I say.

  She watches me a bit longer, her hair falling across her face, loose strands that I pull back, my hand brushing against her cheek. I can tell she's thinking about it, holding me there with her eyes until they too give up. “You're a good man, Peck Johnson.”

  Lori kisses my cheek, leaves to walk up the yard. I can hear the screen door popping against the frame as she enters the house. When she's gone, I sit alone watching the marsh come to life, the sun yet to break across the water along the beaches. I close my eyes, imagining that I'm in bed with her, my hands moving across flesh I have never touched before, the draw incredibly strong. I rub my hands through hair that feels wet. I need a bath and a few hours of sleep. I'm beat up, thirty- five and two days old, too old to be staying up all night and partying like this. When we were surfing earlier in the afternoon, Teddy told me to be glad I wasn't a dog. He said in dog years, I'd be dead. I don't know why, but for some reason, that makes me feel a little bit better. Right now, I don't mind being compared to a dog.

  Cassie

  I WAS SICK this morning when I woke up. It came over me while I sat with Momma in the kitchen. She stood by the stove poaching eggs and frying bacon. There was bread in the toaster, and I was doing just fine until she brought out the sweet butter and a jar of homemade sorghum. She set it there on the table right in front of me, and it sent a current pulsing into my throat, a burning sensation that raised me off my chair. Momma knew immediately what was happening. A dishcloth across my mouth, she helped me run to the bathroom. I knelt at the toilet, my body shivering against the cold floor. I threw up what little was in my stomach, Momma's hand on my back rubbing slowly to help calm me down.

  Afterward, nothing smelled good. Every time I tried to leave the bathroom, the nausea hit again, the smells so rancid that the air seemed poisoned. I stayed there on the floor for I don't know how long while Momma opened doors and windows to let cool mountain air in. She helped me back to bed where I slept until noon. And then, it was as if nothing had ever happened. I woke up hungry, feeling no ill effects at all.

  I lay in bed for a while longer with my windows opened, the sounds of the summer birds chirping, a breeze light and cool holding back the heat of the afternoon. Momma made lunch, sweet tea, fresh cucumber and tomato sandwiches. She asked that I join her on the front porch, where we sit now. I'm still in pajamas, the afternoon beginning to push light up against the face of White-side. When she lifts herself out of the chair to water her flowers, I ask if she would like my help, but she declines, says this is her exercise. So I sit quietly watching her lift the can on tiptoes to pour fresh well water into the soil. “Besides,” she says, “you're pregnant again.”

  The water overflows the hanging pots, splashing onto the worn planks below like a sudden outburst of tears. “No I'm not,” I say.

  “Yes, I believe you are.” Her voice is more stern this time, like I should know better than to doubt her. “How late are you?”

  She won't turn around to look at me after her question, and I know what this means. I have to answer, though I don't want to because I know that I am; late I mean—maybe six weeks, maybe a little more. Looking back, I realize I didn't have my period in May—I figured then it was stress that delayed it, but now it's pushing the middle of June. “I don't see that I need to talk to you about this,” I tell her. My denial, the avoidance of saying more, is not enough for her, but she lets it go, remains silent while finishing her watering, and then leaves the porch when the phone rings.

  From where I sit, I cannot see Whiteside Mountain, but I feel its presence on the land as I feel my father's presence in this house. When I was pregnant with Kelly, Momma knew the trouble it would mean. “This is going to kill your father,” she said as we sat in the car that day. There was little hope in any of it. My father walked off after being told, didn't come home by the time the dew settled across the fields. I stood with Momma watching from the kitchen window, waiting for him to return that night, my chances for college vanished.

  You're pregnant. The words hang in the air like one of Momma's dripping baskets. If it is true, if I am pregnant, I cannot say if it is Clay's or Peck's. Either way it's not what I want because to have a baby right now is to resume my old life, and all I want is to leave that behind.

  When she is finished on the phone, Momma returns to the porch. “You'll need to get dressed,” she says. “John Boyd just called to say he would like to talk to you today. He's coming by in about an hour.” I look at Momma, her face expressionless. I know this conversation is not over, not yet.

  The morning sickness is a distraction that slows me down. When John Boyd arrives, I am still in my room dressing, fretting about what I should wear when I talk to him. The man is so intertwined in my past that I don't remember growing up in Whiteside Cove without him somehow being here. He helped my father lower me into the Cullasaja when I was baptized. I used his car for my driver's- license test because we didn't own one when I turned sixteen. He was the one, ten years ago, who found my father at the foot of Whiteside Mountain on his knees, head bowed, dead. He carried him home in his arms, told Momma that it was as if God had come down in the middle of his prayer to take him. He was at peace.

  For a time after that, Momma was not capable of living alone. She stayed in bed refusing to eat, sat for hours on her porch forgetting to take care of her flowers. John Boyd was there. And even when she told him to leave her alone, that she would just as soon lay there and die, he came to the house day after day until the pall passed and Momma found her feet. Now he is coming to talk about the land and how best to save it—John Boyd in our lives still.

  When I come into the room, he is standing by the door, his hand extended. Momma smiles from her seat. She seems so small sitting there, so vulnerable that I walk over ignoring John Boyd's hand and lean down to kiss her cheek. “You two go have a good talk,” she says.

  “No,” I say, “I thought we would all sit down and discuss this together?” I look at her concerned that she so willingly excludes herself from what will be said.

  Momma takes a Kleenex from the waistband of her dress. “Your father never talked to me about such things and I don't want to tread on his grave by starting now. Y
ou and John Boyd can do all of that. He'll tell us what we need to do.” With that Momma is up and out of the chair, her small frame walking so softly that she seems to float off the ground. She touches John Boyd on the shoulder as if anointing him her caretaker, and that worries me even more.

  It's obvious from the way I am silently led down the steps and into the front yard that I am only here to listen, to follow John Boyd's direction and do as I am told. “I thought we'd take a walk out over the fields,” he says, pointing in the direction of my father's daily retreats toward Whiteside.

  “That's fine,” I say.

  When we pass the gate, I look for the old narrow pathway that is no longer visible. In the ten years since my father's death the cove has reclaimed any evidence of his presence. Momma remains in the house, her small figure diminished in the kitchen window by a single lightbulb wrapping a halo around her gathered hair.

  “I want to thank you for taking care of Momma,” I say.

  John Boyd smiles at that. “She can be set in her ways. But we get along. She's been a good neighbor.”

  We walk through wild fields, carefully navigating large growths of blackberry and thorny bush, our clothing caught and pulled. The mountain's massive rock face rises nearly two thousand feet from this point in the cove, high enough that it forces you to look straight up to see sky. I cannot look at its sheer face and not think of my father. To me it is his immortality, his spirit that will never leave this place, though there have been times I wished for that whole of the mountain to disappear into the earth's core. We walk at a brisk pace toward the tree line, sweat beading in the small of my back. I am about to tell John Boyd that I cannot go any farther, that I did not intend to return to where my father died, when he stops and turns to look back over the land we have just covered.