by Jack Riggs
In all our arguing, we have failed to notice the storm. It's odd when one blows onto Whiteside and you're still on top. It can come up and over or stay below and leave you alone. This one hasn't made up its mind where it will land yet. We watch as towering thunderheads climb along the cliffs, push upward on the draft of wind. It's like being in an airplane watching lightning ignite and run throughout the dark clouds below, no doubt pushing powerful bolts toward ground we cannot see.
The storm silences our differences and we move hurriedly back along the trail, expecting the worst to push up and over the walls of Whiteside. Peck pulls me into an old run-down structure off of the parking area. The makeshift shelter is a small building with fading words painted on its side claiming it's the world's smallest post office, remnants of when the top of Whiteside was a tourist trap. We climb over debris, pushing aside rotted boards to huddle in the small space, waiting for the storm that never comes. To the north, the air is clear, above us the sky blue. It's the southern face that is taking all the beating. “We need to leave,” I say. “Momma is in all of this.”
“Let's wait it out,” Peck says quietly, his arm hovering above me holding on to the small roof we squat beneath. “It'll be over soon enough.” I'm drawn to think about any other time that this might have occurred. Peck would have held me. But in the close quarters of this shelter, I sense he is holding back, keeping his distance as we wait for the storm to clear.
When it is over, we walk back to the car, slipping and sliding, my feet thick with mud and Peck not offering me his back this time. I let him drive us home in silence and do not offer anything more. There is nothing that I can say.
On Whiteside Cove Road, it is apparent the storm has caused damage. Downed trees and a few electric lines straddle the road. Men are already out with chain saws and axes clearing the fallen timber. We turn off pavement to find the road to Momma's house rutted and soft, Peck slipping and sliding when traction falters. He guides us past the earthmovers that have gone silent, the land lying in huge heaps and piles where the earth has been cleared away. We pass John Boyd's house, a few trucks sitting in his yard, a station wagon there with some realty company's sign painted on its side.
“I've got to find that deed,” I say, but Peck is not listening to me. When I look at him, he is just watching the road, and I feel distinctly that he has already left, gone back to the low country where his world is flat and understandable to him. “When are you leaving?” I ask.
“Soon,” he says. “Tonight.”
Before us, Momma's house comes into view. There is a tree down in the front yard, a large one that has come up by its roots. Momma is walking out of the house. “It would be nice if you could stay long enough to make sure she's all right,” I say, but Peck is silent.
I look out the window to Whiteside Mountain, the face dark gray now that the sun is moving behind its peak. It stands there like it always has, a sentinel, angry and hostile one moment, forgiving and soft the next. Its paradox is as ancient as its beauty. I look at Peck and ache for him. I want it all to be different, but it can't be anything more than it is. I know that.
When I get out of the car, Momma is already in the yard surveying the damage. I can tell she is glad to see us, glad that Peck is here to take care of things, to take care of both of us. And for the moment, at least, I am happy about this too.
Before we can join her at the downed tree, John Boyd is turning into our drive. There are several other men in the car with him, and though I could be wrong, I don't believe they are coming here to help with the tree. Peck walks up beside me, looks out at the drive. “You know these guys?” he asks.
“It's John Boyd Carter,” I say.
The car pulls up behind Peck's truck, doors opening before the wheels have even settled. John Boyd gets out, waves, a friendly smile on his face that makes me think he's going to try and sell us something. The other men wait by the car. They are talking among themselves, lighting cigarettes. One man has a large roll of paper under his arm, blueprints for Arnold Palmer's golf course, no doubt. They are all dressed in suits but wear boots like they might be planning a little walk around Momma's land.
“Mavis, you all right?” John Boyd asks, his smile drawn down into concern. He stands in front of her, ignoring me and Peck for the moment.
“I'm fine,” she says. “I was all right the whole time, John Boyd.”
“That storm sure hugged onto the mountain,” he says. “It just hit it straight on and stayed there. Haven't seen one like that in quite a while.” He looks at me then, keeps the charade of concern going. “I wanted to come on up here in the middle of it to check on her, but it was just too bad,” he says. “Martha wouldn't let me near the door. But I'm glad you were here for her. I'm sure that helped.”
“I wish we would've been here,” I say, looking at Peck. “We were up on top. It never came over, just wind and sunshine up there. We came down here as soon as it passed.” I hear thunder rolling along some distant ridge, too early to know if there will be more for the cove. “John Boyd, I don't know if you remember my husband, Peck.”
He looks to Peck finally, smiles. “I do,” he says, “but it's been a while.”
Peck reaches out to shake his hand. “Time slips,” he says. “Hard to get away from work.”
“I know that,” John Boyd says, looking back to the men standing around his car. “How long you going to be up?”
“Not long,” Peck says, turning his eyes on me. “Maybe until tomorrow now, until I can help get this out of here.”
Peck's words draw John Boyd's attention to the fallen tree. “Mavis, you just lost a red oak here.”
“Is that a red oak?” Momma asks. A worried look shadows her face as if she has just been told of the death of a good friend.
“I'm afraid so,” he says. “This'll take some time to cut apart, Peck. I can have some men over here this evening, if you need the help.”
“I think I'll be all right,” Peck says.
“There's a bow saw around here somewhere, but you'll need a chain saw to cut it up. I can help out there.” John Boyd looks back to the men standing by his car, then up to Whiteside, the shadows darkening, painting the air deep blue. “You ain't getting this cut up tonight though,” he says. “I'll bring the saw by first thing in the morning.”
Peck looks at me then. “You want me to stay and cut this?” he asks.
I watch his eyes. He's not going to do it if I don't want him to. He'd leave if I said go. “If you got the time, it would be helpful,” I say.
Peck looks back to John Boyd. “I'll find the bow saw and start cutting these limbs back tonight, look for the chain saw tomorrow.”
“Bright and early,” he says before glancing at Momma. “Now Mavis, I'll drop that saw off before dawn tomorrow, so don't go shooting me full of rock salt, you hear?” He laughs at his joke, but Momma is more confused than anything else. She has lost a red oak, part of herself here on this land.
“I don't own a gun, John Boyd.” She turns in a huff to go back inside.
“Momma, he was joking,” I say.
“I know he was,” she says, her back to us. “I don't want to look at it no more, just makes me sick.” She turns at the top of the steps like she's forgotten to tell us something, points out to John Boyd's car where the men wait smoking their cigarettes. “These men want to walk the land,” Momma says. “I thought that would be all right.”
I glance toward the men, who have not moved from the car, and then back at John Boyd. It's hard to hold back anger, not tell him I've seen the deed. “I hope Martha doesn't mind you staying out after dark,” I say.
He smiles, but it's not all that friendly this time. “She'll hold dinner for us. But thanks for asking.” He winks at Peck like he's in on the joke, reaches out to shake his hand again. “Peck, it was good to see you. I'll have that saw here in the morning.”
We stand by the fallen tree watching John Boyd walk away. Thunder is getting closer, though the sky above us
is azure blue, nightfall approaching. The men gather at the car, huddle momentarily, and then traipse off through the opening in the fence, walking briskly like they have an intended direction.
“What was that all about?” Peck asks.
“He's an asshole, that's all,” I say.
“Think you can find the deed?” he asks.
“I don't know if there's time,” I say. “I looked some, but no luck. I just have no idea where it could be.”
Peck turns to me then, the fading light finding its way into the blue of his eyes so they shine. “Try again, Cassie, you find that deed,” he says. He walks off then, heading toward the outbuilding behind Momma's house to find the bow saw.
I stay and watch John Boyd lead the men out into the fields. Just off the fence line, the men flush a covey of quail, the sudden explosion of wings startling the men. At first they seemed stunned, but then raise arms like young boys carrying invisible guns. The man with the rolled- up paper aims it at the lifting birds, pretending to fire. They laugh, pat each other on the back, and move on, John Boyd leading the way, pointing off in the distance toward the line of trees. Someone in the group says, “This is incredible land.”
“Of course it is,” John Boyd says. The laughter that follows feels poisonous to me. It hovers, abrasive, refusing to leave even as the men become silhouettes against the dying light.
Peck
CASSIE CAME TO MY ROOM last night after we had all gone to bed, quietly asking if she could crawl in beside me. “I'm empty,” she said. “I don't know what to do anymore.”
She stood in the dark waiting, nervous at the silence that followed. “God, Peck, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you like this.”
Hours earlier, I had cut most of the big limbs off the trunk of the red oak before it got too dark. Meemaw cooked dinner, went to bed early so Cassie and I could talk. We sat on the front porch and smoked cigarettes, tried to figure out what Kelly was feeling about our separation, how her running away was some kind of acting out against us both. We talked calmly about Clay and the baby and what it might mean if the child was ours, and if it wasn't. We kept our voices low, sat close, and spoke without hurting each other. When we came inside, Cassie told me she missed Kelly and me, that her life was unraveling in front of her.
“I don't know if I can do anything about that,” I said. “What if Kelly hadn't run away? I wouldn't be up here, and we wouldn't be talking. Would you still feel the same way?”
She stood in the living room, her arms wrapped against the chill that followed us in off the porch. “I don't know,” she said. “It's hard for me to know that, Peck. That's what scares me.”
“It scares me too, Cassie.” I went into the bedroom then, closed my door wondering if I had accomplished anything over the past two days other than bringing Kelly back to the mountains and finding out that Cassie was carrying a child that might be someone else's. I can't explain why she came into my room, no more than I can explain why I let her in my bed, but I lifted the covers and extended the offer. We touched, but there was nothing expected from it, just Cassie's familiar body next to mine.
IT'S EARLY, BARELY ANY light in the sky, as I push myself up and out of bed. I slip into my pants and then out of the room not wanting to wake Cassie. She's on her back, legs bent, tenting the covers with her knees, lightly snoring. It's like there might be another chance now. Fifteen years have given way to this moment. Maybe, if we want to, we can find a way to start all over.
Meemaw's sitting at the kitchen table, smiles when I walk in.
“Did you sleep well?” she asks.
“Like a dead horse,” I say. “I need some aspirin if you've got any.” I pour a hot cup of coffee while Meemaw rummages around in a drawer and comes up with a small tin of Bayer. I take four, hoping they'll work fast and help me get through the rest of the wood that's waiting for me out in the yard.
“John Boyd left the saw for you,” Meemaw says, “some oil and gas too.”
“Thank you, John Boyd,” I say, washing down the aspirin with the coffee.
“You want something to eat?” Meemaw asks.
“Only if you're going to fix something for yourself,” I say. “I don't want to be any trouble.”
“I'll wait until Cassie's up. If she's feeling like something, I'll eat with her. But if you're hungry now.”
“I can wait,” I say. “Let me get a good piece of that trunk cut, then I'll be ready for something hot and greasy.”
Meemaw smiles at that, touches my hand. “Peck, you're a good man,” she says, then gets up to walk to the sink. She washes a few dishes from last night, carefully drying each one with a towel before replacing it in the cabinet.
“I'm afraid those are mine,” I say. “I needed something more before I went to bed.”
“It's good to eat,” she says, “but I'll need to go to the store if you plan on staying around.”
I take a sip of coffee, the bitter taste of the aspirin still lingering in my mouth. “I wish I could,” I say. “But I need to get back. We got fires inland and I don't know what's going on right now.”
“Well, it would be nice,” she says. I can tell she's worried about me and Cassie from the way she stays longer at the sink twisting the extra water from the dishrag, but she won't bring it up. Pain is plentiful in all of this, carried in different ways by each of us. Mavis and I stay together in the kitchen, remain quiet while I finish my coffee.
Before I go out and look at the tree, I call the station to check on things. Partee answers, and even though it's early, he sounds awake like he's been up for a while.
“What do you hear?” I ask.
“Not good,” he says. “Depends on the winds. Right now, it's coming our way. They've put us on alert, Peck. It'd be best if you got on back home.”
“I'm working on it,” I say.
“How's the weather up there?” he asks.
“You don't want to know,” I tell him. “The place is soaked to the bone.”
“Jesus.” I can hear him sigh on the other end, frustration and fatigue for always coming up short on the rain. Then Partee tells me about the makeup of the fire. There were actually three small ones at first. One was a campfire that escaped out of its pit; the second was alongside a road, a cigarette or something thrown into dry grass. “The third looks just plain stupid,” Partee says. “Some guy pulled a trailer with a chain sparking along the shoulder of the road for miles. They just started investigating it, but it's getting too big to be worrying about its source just now. Plenty of time for that later.”
“I'll be home today,” I say, “but it might be late.”
“Late works,” Partee says. “They're holding all of us on call, but nothing's happening until the fires join up and cross county lines, or they call us in to support Georgetown. You get home tonight, and you'll have plenty of time to play fireman with the rest of us.”
I smile at Partee's humor, tell him to hold the place together. “I will,” he says, “if you promise to bring back some of that rain.”
“Loading it up as we speak, partner.” When I hang up, I see Mavis has been listening. She's standing at the doorway to the kitchen, a worried look on her face. “Guess I better take a look at that tree,” I say.
She points through the hall toward the front porch. “John Boyd's saw and gas are out there,” she says. “You better get busy if you're driving back today.”
The fog is thicker than I imagined, the air so wet that when I walk off the porch with the chain saw, I can feel my face dampen like rain is still falling. I haven't felt this kind of weather in over a year. I want to believe it's headed east, but nobody's saying anything about rain coming into the coast. We're just stuck in bad luck, that's all.
But out here, I need to be careful with the chain saw, cut with safety. I don't want to end up like Collie Walker, armless and spilling blood everywhere. John Boyd's saw is old, but it's sharp and well tuned. Still, it takes me into mid- morning to finish the tree. I section the trunk, then
quarter it, having found a maul in the shed alongside the bow saw. I stack the split wood while Meemaw and Cassie rake the bark and sawdust up into piles. “I'll get that later,” Meemaw says, looking at her watch. “You need to get on the road, Peck. It's getting late.”
Meemaw cooks up a breakfast while I shower and shave. I'm anxious to leave, so I don't wait around any longer than I have to. It's going to take me the rest of the day to get back to the low country, so I'm packed and in my truck by noon. “At least it's all downhill,” I say, joking with Cassie when she pushes the door to the truck closed, leans in like we're dating, like I'm her boyfriend all over again.
“You be careful going home,” she says.
“I will,” I say. “You be careful up here.”
She smiles at that, touches me on the arm, squeezes it to hold me there. “Peck, I'm sorry about all of this. Sometimes I wish I'd never—”
“You go on,” I say. “Figure it out. I'll just be at home.” I start the truck's engine, the cab feeling empty. “Tell Kelly I love her. Let me know how she does next week.”
“I wish we could go see her play,” Cassie says. “I know she'd love to see both of us there.”
“That'd be nice,” I say. “But you can let me know. That'll be enough this time.” Cassie sticks her head into the cab, kisses me lightly on the lips before whispering in my ear. “If it's ours, Peck, what then?”
I look into her eyes, hold her there, wanting Cassie to always be mine. “I could live with that,” I tell her. “After everything that's happened, I could live with that.”
She kisses my cheek before walking back to stand with Meemaw.
I put the truck in reverse to turn it around so I can head out, but instead I'm backing up until I am near the porch. I lean over the seat, yell out the window. “You find that deed, Cassie. Mavis, turn this house on its head, if you have to.”
Cassie smiles, puts her arm through Meemaw's. “Just waiting for you to get out of here so we can get to work.”
“Yes ma'am,” I say, dropping the truck into first. I watch the house through my side- view mirror, Meemaw and Cassie on the porch waving. When I take a curve, they're gone.