by Jack Riggs
“Clay,” I say, trying to feel surprised. My anger starts to grow because I think he is here for the wrong reasons, to expose us, to finally make me commit to the life he has planned in Walhalla. A life I know now will never happen. “What are you doing here?” I ask. I look at Momma, worry pushing against her face. I hold her hand to strengthen us both. “This is my mother, Clay. Momma, this is Clay Taylor.”
She is kind, cordial when she shakes his hand. “I'm sorry I haven't been back in touch,” I say. “It's just been one thing after another. Kelly ran away—” But then I stop because I realize we have already had this conversation.
He smiles, looks down at the floor when Coach Lambert turns to leave. “Take as much time you need,” he says, then closes the door behind him, leaving us in dim light, the smell of stale popcorn and spilt Coke spoiling the air.
When I turn back to Clay, I see something else in his eyes, a kind of hurt that I've never seen before. I want to ask again why he is here, but before I can find words, he tells me that Peck is gone.
At first, his comment is funny. I think he is asking if Peck is gone, and I tell him yes. “He left day before yesterday.”
But Clay just shakes his head, smiles nervously. He gets off the stool, stands nearer as if he needs to be close to deliver the news. “No, Cassie,” he says. “Peck is dead. There was an accident in the field and he didn't get out.”
I don't feel my legs give way with Clay's words nor his arms catching me when I fall. It is like my body understands what I have been told, but my mind won't allow it to be true. Peck gone? No. “It's not right,” I say. “He was a safe fireman. He wouldn't get himself into something he couldn't get out of.”
“He got separated and the fire turned back on him,” Clay says. “That's all I know right now. They're still trying to figure it out, put the pieces together. And no one can believe it, Cassie, the incredible coincidence of the timing.” I look at Clay, not understanding what he means, and then he tells me about Pops, that he is gone too—Peck lost within the hour of his father's passing—and then I feel my life empty out of my body.
HOW DO YOU tell a fifteen- year- old, so full of life, just ready to begin living in this world, that she will have to do it without a father? There's no good way, I know that now. But at the time, my thought was to pull myself together and let Kelly play the game, let her be a girl for one more afternoon before her life would change forever. Momma wasn't sure about that, whether I could keep up the appearance long enough, the burden of Peck's death so strong. “I'm good at appearances,” I promised her, and then we walked out from the concession stand into unforgiving light.
It was harder than I thought, though, to sit there and watch Kelly pitch, her arm tough against girls two, maybe three years older than she. But as I watched her on the mound or at the plate when she was batting, it was like I was watching Peck, the very image of him standing there, his strong shoulders and back, the sleekness in his legs. I gazed down at the shadow on the ground, Peck's image if I allowed myself to believe it, connected to Kelly by the sun and the ocean sky and the rich red dirt of the pitcher's mound and baseline paths. Always with her, I thought. Peck will always be with her.
After the game, when I told Kelly that Peck and Pops were dead, I lost my daughter too. She blamed me for it all, cried when she collapsed against the counter inside the concession stand, this the only place that afforded us the privacy we needed. She promised to hate me forever, never wanted to talk to me again. Momma helped Kelly gather her things from the dorm room while I walked with Clay out to his car. I told him I appreciated that he had been the one to bring the news.
He came closer, a hand on the small of my back that seemed misplaced. “I should never have left the station,” he said. “Maybe I could have done something to help.”
His words provoked me, my anger boiling up into tears. “I think we both did enough to Peck,” I told him. “Don't apologize like that.”
“That's crazy talk, Cassie.” he said. “We didn't cause him to die.”
“No,” I said, stopping him there. “If Peck had not been worried about me, about what I was doing with you, maybe he would have made better decisions, maybe he would have lived, Pops too for all I know.”
Then I told Clay that I wouldn't be coming back to live with him in Walhalla, that it was over. I asked him to leave so that I could go find Kelly, try to salvage what was left of my family. He started to get into his car, but stopped short, his eyes narrowing, his throat tight against his collar. “You tell me this then,” he said, wagging a cigarette in my face. “If Peck was still alive, would you feel the same way? Would you be telling me to leave?”
I could not in good conscience continue after that. I told Clay I was sorry, but that he needed to go. I never told him that I was pregnant.
DEATH AND ALL ITS DEMANDS surround me. Conway Funeral Home is taking care of Peck and Pops, both cremated, so it will be a few days—time enough to have pitiful little arguments about how and where they will be buried. Kelly wants to spread their ashes in the ocean, but I don't know about that. “I want to be near Peck,” I tell her, but she's not buying it.
“Last time I looked,” Kelly says, “you were trying to get away from him.”
I don't know how you explain such a thing to a child, the complications of a life rearranged. I want to hold her, but she won't come near me right now. I let Momma be there because I just don't have the strength to fight for her.
J.D. and Lori are with me most of the time, helping sort through the paperwork from the fire department. There's life insurance to file, forms the county requires. I let them push me through it, my hand signing papers that I don't even read. I could be signing away my life for all I know, but J.D. is thoughtful, Bob Strachen too. They all tell me how much they loved Peck, how he made sure Kelly and I would be taken care of. Lori is there to hold my hand all the way through. “Peck loved you, Cassie,” she says, trying not to cry, not to make it any harder on me. “No matter how much trouble you two were having, he loved you all the way through.”
And then as if God slaps me in the face, it starts to rain. By Thursday afternoon, the land that killed Peck is saturated, the fires gone. All in all nineteen thousand acres were burned, Partee says, five houses lost, a whole trailer park, a couple of cars, all the livestock in one barn. Seven firemen were injured, but only one lost to the fire, Peck Calhoun Johnson, thirty- five last week, a birthday I forgot about until I was asked to verify his age for the death certificate.
I am ashamed of myself, the way I am doted over, how my actions are excused, excused by everyone but Kelly. She holds my hand to the fire. When Conway Funeral Home calls to let us know the remains have been returned, she faces me defiant in her desire to put the ashes in the ocean. I tell her Pops will be buried in Con-way beside Grandma Cealy but she can make the decision about Peck. It is a fair compromise, I think, one that seems to soften her hatred for the moment.
Pops's funeral is first, a small, quiet graveside service. He never attended a church, never was baptized. Still, the funeral home found a preacher to help put him in the ground. We stand on earth that is trying to recover from deep drought and listen as a stranger offers encouraging words that we will find each other on the other side, that Pops is there already, waiting, watching us, smiling down now that he has completed the circle, his ashes the final sign of our short time here on earth.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I am on my knees near the edge of the grave. Kelly kneels beside me, our hands together holding the urn as we let Pops go, the ashes poured quietly into the grave. Most in attendance are from the fire station, Pops's friends having dwindled and passed on before him. Margaret, his nurse, is smiling, certain that Pops is standing right beside Peck today, knocking on Heaven's door, though it's hard to feel such assurance through all the pain. Someone in the small group begins to sing “Amazing Grace.” Not everyone knows the words, but they make it through well enough, and Pops is laid to rest next to Cealy
“Meemaw's all I have left,” Kelly says, kneeling at the grave while everyone sings.
“You still have me,” I tell her, but she won't take her eyes from Pops's ashes, which spread to whiten the dark black earth inside the hole.
Later that night, we are back on the marsh, Kelly sitting alone on the dock, Momma watching from the screened porch. “Why don't you go talk to her?” she pleads.
“What more can I say?” I ask in return. “She thinks I'm the cause of everything bad in her life.”
“She's fifteen, Cassie. That's what you told me not too long ago. Go, go talk to her. Even if she rejects you now, she'll remember that you tried. She'll come around.” Momma walks over to stand next to me, her hand wrapping into mine. “Go talk to your daughter.”
I walk barefoot through wet grass. At the edge of the yard, I stop and wait to see if Kelly will acknowledge me. When she doesn't, I look back, Momma standing on the porch, an encouraging wave to push me on. “Mind if I join you?” I ask.
Kelly turns then, her face dull, lifeless. “I don't care,” she says.
I walk to the end, sit on the edge of the floating pier, let my feet dangle in the black water of a high tide. “God, I can't believe the heat's broken down here,” I say. I look at Kelly. She's sitting on the small bench leaning against the rail, her eyes cast down, focused on nothing. “Peck always said that we just needed rain. I guess he was right.”
“I don't care what he said,” Kelly says, her voice no more than a whisper. “It's too late, it rained too late.”
“I think Peck would say that it wasn't too late,” I say, choosing my words cautiously. “It put the fires out and saved lives and property. I think he would feel good about that.”
“You think so?” Kelly says, her words snapped out, angrier now. “You really think Daddy's feeling good about things?”
“Yes I do, Kelly,” I say. “I think Peck is somewhere good and he's resting well with Pops because the fires are out, his crew safe. That's what he always worried about.”
“Well that's good, Momma,” Kelly says, “I'm glad you feel that way. We'll all sleep better now knowing Daddy's dead, but his crew is alive and safe.” She stands up then, looks at me hard, the anger in her eyes becoming hatred. She wants to hurt me. “Don't ever tell me what Daddy's thinking,” she says, the words spewing from her mouth. “What gives you the right to come back here and act like you actually cared about him, that his death is even important to you? It's embarrassing when I know how you really feel.”
I try to stay calm, remember like Momma that Kelly is just fifteen, probably the hardest age to deal with something as tragic as death. Her anger is no different than what I felt for my father when I was pregnant and kicked out of my own home. I think that's what Kelly is feeling right now, that somehow she is being denied something that she should never have to give up—a life with her father. “Kelly, you can't judge me like that,” I say. “It's too easy to just paint it all black and white. Your father and I struggled, and I know I made it hard on him. I won't deny that. But what I lost, the opportunity that I squandered so long ago, has sat heavy on my heart for years. It was suffocating. I had to leave your father to breathe again.”
“Well, I wish you were dead,” Kelly says. “That would make more sense to me.”
“That's unfair,” I tell her.
“What you did is unfair,” Kelly says.
“What I did, you'll understand one day” I say, “especially when it's your turn to do it.”
“I'll never do something like that,” Kelly says, her voice trembling with hate. “Clay Taylor is disgusting, you two dangling your feet in the water, running off and dragging me along with you.”
I stand up then like I've been caught, my legs wet to mid- shin, embarrassed that she remembers Clay being here that afternoon. “We didn't drag you anywhere,” I tell her. “You were given a great opportunity to play ball at a wonderful camp and Clay Taylor helped get that for you.”
“If I had to choose, I'd take the beach any day” Kelly says. “I never want to set foot in the mountains again. I hate the mountains.”
“No you don't,” I scream.
“Yes I do,” Kelly screams back at me.
“No, you hate me.” And then as if my words pull my feet from under me, I fall, crumbled against the pier weeping, my body shaking uncontrollably. “You hate me, you hate me,” my mind lost, the record broken. “You hate me.”
I can feel the warmth of arms, Momma's words, “No, no stop, both of you, just stop it.” When I look up, Kelly is running toward the house, Momma holding me. I weep in her arms. “I tried,” I say.
“I know you did,” Momma says. “I know.”
“There's nothing left,” I scream, my mouth wet with tears as I try to get loose.
“There's everything left, Cassie. You've got to fight for her.”
But I have so little left inside, that I just don't know if I can. My daughter hates me, blames me for Peck's death as I blame myself. There is nothing I can do to stop the grief, my sadness so complete that I can no longer breathe.
In the early hours of the morning after restless sleep, I find Peck in the room, his clothes fresh, face clean shaven, his hair back out of his eyes. “You need to stop all this now,” he says.
I sit up in bed, watch him, pray that he is real. “I can't help it,” I say. “I miss you.”
“I'm good,” he tells me. “No more fires. I'm with Mom and Pops. It's better You can go on.”
“Kelly's hurt by what I've done,” I tell him. “What can I do?”
Peck walks over, sits on the end of the bed, but I don't feel him there. I just see him, all white and clean, sweet. “Give her time,” he says. “Death's hard.”
“Are you sad?” I ask.
He smiles a little, shakes his head, “No, I'm not sad.” He lifts himself from the bed, walks over to where I sit, leans in close. “Go on, Cassie. You go on now.”
I touch him but feel nothing. “I can't feel you,” I tell him, tears filling my eyes.
“You will,” he says. “Now go on.”
And when he lowers his head to kiss me, I close my eyes, waiting to feel the warmth of his touch, but he is gone and I am there awake for the first time, straining in darkness.
A figure comes through the door, Kelly shuffling her feet to the edge of my bed. “Mommy” she says, her voice desperate, small.
I lift up, open my arms to take her in. “What is it, honey? Are you all right?”
She folds herself into me. I push over in the bed, make room for her warm body to lay next to me. “I dreamed I talked to Daddy,” she says, “but when I woke up, he wasn't there. God, I loved him so much.”
“I did too, sweetheart.”
“I know you did,” she says. “He said you loved him.” We hug tightly in the gray light of this morning. I kiss her on the cheek, spoon up next to her. “Do you think it was him or was I just dreaming?” she asks.
“I don't know honey, maybe a little of both.”
“It was a gift,” she declares. “I hope he does it again sometime. I want to talk to him always.”
“You will, if you want to,” I tell her. “Now go back to sleep. We have a lot to do later today.”
Kelly falls silent in my arms. I don't tell her that Peck was here with me too. I want to keep that for myself, but before I drift off, I thank him for giving me my daughter back. I thank him for being there for both of us. Always, his word still in my head when sleep takes a tight hold on me until late morning, the sun leaking in through turned- down shades to warm the room.
Momma comes in, surprised to see Kelly in my bed. She smiles at us, lifts the blinds to flood the room with good light. “It's time,” she says. “Folks are here. They're waiting to take Peck to the beach.”
Peck's funeral is a pretty big thing. We gather at the station, firemen from all over the state in attendance. The fire chaplain from Conyers is there to lead the service inside the Quonset. I don't rem
ember the station ever looking this nice, the way chairs are placed on the drive out front, the whole place draped in roses and magnolia. Everything is shiny and bright, Partee and J.D. wearing dress blues and white gloves.
I notice Clay standing near the back. I'm glad he's here to pay his respects, though I don't have anything else to say to him. I hold on to Kelly for support, Momma's arm over my shoulder as I slump in my chair, Peck's ashes on the back of the engine—the black urn sitting on sparkling chrome, waiting for the final journey to the water.
I make it through the eulogies, Bill Strachen and J.D. remembering Peck and his life as a fireman. The chaplain is kind with his words of everlasting light, a fireman's work done, his rest a just reward. At the end of the ceremony, J.D. carries a folded flag, leans down, his hands covering mine when he presents it to me. “Peck would have thought all this was too much,” I whisper.
J.D. smiles, his eyes red, tired. “No doubt about that,” he says, “but don't you think he would have liked the way we all cleaned up?”
The crowd around me chuckles, J.D. finding a way to heal us all. I reach up, kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, J.D. I think he would have been very proud.” I hug the flag to my chest, accept his salute, and then we are done.
I'm good until we move to the water, until Kelly and Teddy bring Peck to the edge, having shed their clothes for swimsuits, their boards ready to take him to sea. Partee joins them there as we all do. It's late afternoon, the crowds giving way for the moment, affording us all some time alone on the beach to say our good- byes. There is a huddle over the surfboards, Kelly and Teddy holding on to each other, crying over Peck's urn as if they are anointing the ashes with their tears. I walk to the water, hug Teddy, his grip on me strong and full of sorrow. And when Partee lifts his voice, Teddy has to hold me up because I have nothing left, the words sung by a man who literally walked through fire to try and save my husband.
The water is wide, I can't cross over,