Chasing Fireflies: A Novel of Discovery

by Charles Martin

  T.C. and I watched from the porch steps as William "Liam" McFarland stepped out of Sally and walked beneath the pecan trees to the mailbox. His boots were muddy, shirt stained with salt and manure, and his hat was tipped back, shading the falling sun off his neck. He reached the end of the drive, flipped open the door, pulled out the mail, and pitched the junk into the trash can. He flipped through the bills, slid them into his shirt pocket, and meandered back toward us.

  He climbed the steps, patted T.C. on the head, knocked my Braves cap on the floor, and sat between us, letting out a deep breath. "Phew, my dogs is tired." He tilted his hat back, leaned on his elbows, and stared out across the pasture. After a few minutes, he reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a small slip of paper.

  It was a picture yellowed and wrinkled from time. It looked like it was taken somewhere in the seventies. A small boy sat on a man's shoulders. The boy was smiling, pulling on the man's right ear. The man had sideburns, one leg in a cast, and was leaning on a single wooden crutch. The other hand supported the boy's foot, but also kept him from falling backward.

  I held up the picture and studied it. The boy wore a pair of cutoff jeans, cowboy boots, no shirt, and a summer tan. The man was a mixture of faded denim, snap cuffs, and a smile that spoke of contentedness.

  In the distant background, I saw a brick building with a dark shingled roof and clock tower. It stood at the end of a long drive lined with trees. I extended the picture at arm's length and compared it to the driveway that spread out before me.

  I flipped it over. On the back it read Liam and Me, 1979.

  Unc slid a dirty finger underneath his nose and wiped his hand on his jeans. He spoke out across the porch steps. "That's us just a few days after you got caught on the tracks and took fifteen years out of my life ... which I couldn't spare."

  T.C. laughed, pushing out a hoarse whisper.

  Dad calculated. "That's about six months before the storm hit, and we found we weren't in Kansas anymore."

  "You kept it all this time?"

  "Sometimes ... when I reached my bottom and felt lower than a snake's butt in a wagon rut ..."

  T.C. smiled. I just shook my head.

  "And needed to remind myself that I wasn't some hallucinating lunatic, I'd pull it out and imprint the image one more time onto the backs of my eyelids." He sucked through his teeth and twirled the brow of his hat through his hands. "That picture got me through a lot of bad times."

  "What's with the cast?"

  He rubbed his leg. "Trains ain't gentle. And they ain't quick to slow down neither."

  "The train actually hit you?"

  "Well, of course it hit me. How you think I got you off that track? I jumped off the platform thinking I was Superman, tried to drag you off with me, and when I did, the front of that thing nearly tore my leg off. Spun us both through the air like a helicopter."

  I studied the pictures in my head. "I have no memory of that."

  "Probably just as well. It wasn't too pretty."

  "The leg ever bother you?"

  "Not really, but I can predict the rain or a coming cold snap better than that fellow on Channel 11."

  I stared again at the picture. "What's the building?"

  "Oh, that ..." He laughed. "That was the train depot that used to sit at the end of our driveway."

  "Right down there?"

  "Yup. Once your mom heard about your little escape-which, by the way, was the third time I'd found you down there-she contacted the city, said it was some sort of rat-infested hazard, and petitioned to have it torn down. So ... no more depot."

  "That explains a lot."

  He smelled of manure, sweat, and honesty.

  "You got any more secrets?"

  He raised his eyebrows, the laughter rising up from his belly. "That's probably enough for one lifetime."

  There it was again. Laughter for pain.

  T.C.'s hands were blazing across his sketchpad, and the puppeteer was warming up for a tap dance. We leaned in and studied his sketch. From a track-level perspective, his picture depicted a train that had come and gone and was now fading off into the distance-a black trail of smoke dissipating in its wake.

  Dad put his hand on T.C.'s neck and patted his shoulders gently. T.C. shut his book, slid his pencil over his ear, and rested his head across the tops of his arms. If manhood is passed down, if it is a mantle cut from the cloth of one and draped across another, it is not done so using titles or accolades. Not hardly. It occurs there-in that spout now resting neck-high-pouring down the spine and into the belly in a language that has never been transcribed, but that every boy on the planet understands and has always understood.

  I tucked T.C. into bed and promised him we'd go fishing tomorrow. He whispered, "It's dark in here." I clicked on the closet light and pulled the door behind me.

  Because Vicky was sitting on blocks in the barn and weeks away from drivable, Dad let me drive Sally. Darkness blanketed the pasture, stars lit the atmosphere, and the first hint of a gentle and nearly-cool easterly breeze swept across my face. Headlights off, I idled down the drive, stopping in front of the mailbox. I cut the engine, folded the letter, stuck it in the box, and raised the red metal flag.

  I lifted my nose, smelled the marsh, and closed my eyes. I heard the distant sound of booted footsteps jumping off hollow porch boards. When I opened my eyes, I saw a man wearing pants and no shirt running figure eights through the pasture, waving his arms in the air. With every swipe, he'd pull down a star, place it in the jar, and then run wildly in search of another. Trailing not far behind him came a giggling, skinny boy, the moonlight bouncing off his glasses.

  I shook my head and slipped through the fence, where we spent the next hour filling up that mason jar-and the kid who would carry it.

  Oh, yeah, the letter read:

  Dear Dad,

  I was looking the wrong way.

  Your son,

  Liam

  It was the first time I'd ever written my name.

  On Uncle Willie

  was eight. Maybe nine. Still in that magical age where hope and sweat dripped from the same pores. My neighborhood was filled with rough and tumble boys. If we were not throwing a football, or hitting a baseball, then we were riding our bicycles, terrorizing the neighborhood. Everybody had a dirt bike. Everybody but me. My bike, if you can call it that, was a hand-me-down, via my sister, and about two sizes too small. It was yellow, had a banana seat, and little white plastic tassels hanging from the grips which, all total, made me the laughingstock of the neighborhood. Further, the crank arms were so short and it was geared so low, that I had to pedal twice for every one of my friends' revolutions. Riding around the neighborhood, my legs looked like a spinning blur of tennis shoe over tube sock.

  Over the next year, I saved my allowance and every penny that the tooth fairy brought in hopes that I could afford a new bike and throw my sister's in the river. The object of my lust was a Schwinn Mag Scrambler. I still get goose bumps. Chrome frame, black fivespoke mag wheels, it came decked out with a Bendix brake and knobby tires.

  Problem was I had sixty dollars to my name and the Scrambler cost $119. Easy math. One year down, one to go. But, a month before Christmas, dad surprised me and told me he'd match my savings. I could have kissed his feet.

  Dad drove me to the Schwinn store. We walked in and I pointed. We rolled her to the register, and the young guy at the counter upsold us into getting all the pads. By the time we walked out, I had promised the next four months of allowance to make up the difference.

  Dad loaded her into the car and we drove home. I wanted him to make a few loops around the neighborhood so all the guys could see the handlebars sticking out the trunk. We unloaded her and then he rolled it into the house and leaned her against the wall next to the tree-no self-respecting dirt bike came with a kickstand.

  A week later, Christmas daylight broke through my window. While my sisters were rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and shuffling down the ha
ll in their slippers, I came running out of my room wearing a football helmet and knee pads. Mom and Dad laughed, opened the front door and I rode across the threshold.

  Over the next several months, we built ramps, learned how to jump incredibly stupid distances, rode way too fast without helmets and traveled places our parents never knew about. If there is one word that described that bike, it was Freedom. Because that's what it gave me. I've often said I lived a Huck Finn childhood and that bike was a big part of that.

  I rode to the movie theater, to Peterson's Five-and-Dime, to the firehouse where the firemen let me slide down the brass pole, to Stand-n-Snack for a slaw dog, and when I needed air in the tires, I rode up to Mr. West's gas station and he'd fill them for free.

  Eventually, I learned to cat-walk-which is nothing more than an extended wheelie. We compared ourselves and measured our progress by counting the number of parking spaces we could pedal on one wheel. Anything over five was good. My number was forty-seven.

  Three years passed, I turned eleven and hit a bit of a rough period.

  I'd started picking on some of my friends, maybe bullying is a better word-and I couldn't quite tell you why other than I was a "tweener." In size, I found myself "between" the bullies and the runts, so when the bullies turned on me, I turned on the runts. I'm still sorry about that. Because of this, Mom and Dad had been working with me-if you can call it that-on sharing, and something about loving your neighbor as yourself because evidently I wasn't.

  The school bus dropped me off, I threw my books on the floor of my room, ate a snack, and then headed out for San Marco to hook up with my buddies. I made it down Arbor Lane, across Sorento Road, past the Saltmarsh's house, and onto Ballis Place that ran between the movie theater and Peterson's before intersecting San Marco Boulevard. Approaching the intersection of Ballis Place with the alley that ran behind the theater, a kid I did not know and had never seen, flagged me down. He was likable enough. Had a good smile, offered to tell me a few jokes, and his shoes were worn and had holes in them. He leaned on my bike, his hands gripping my handlebars, and we talked a minute. Then he asked to ride my bike.

  Somewhere in the prior week I'd bullied a buddy-I can't quite remember the details but my butt would if you asked it-and so when this guy leaned against my bike and asked if he could ride, a lightbulb went off, Hey! This is what Mom and Dad must be talking about. Here's a chance to share, and I don't even know this guy. This is probably worth double points. Why can't stuff like this ever happen to me when they're looking. So I hopped off and said, "Sure, but just"-I pointed with my finger-"right here."

  That kid hopped on my bike and started smiling like I'd given him a Moon Pie and an RC Cola all at the same time. He made a few feeble attempts to cat-walk, so I said, "Hey, I can teach you to do that." I just knew God was happy about me being all kind and unselfish. I had turned over a new leaf. Nothing but the straight and narrow for me. And I think my butt was happy about that.

  He swung another loop around me, which made four, and then arced a bit out into the dirt. He said something about liking the knobby tires and I said, "Yeah, they really grip." He looped again, smiling wider, white teeth brilliant-heaven smiling on us both-then he stood up, jumped on the pedals like a BMX racer, and I never saw him again.

  I stood there a few minutes, staring at an empty dirt road. Then I walked to the end of the alley, thinking his excitement just got the better of him. I don't know how long I stood there.

  I walked home crying. Afraid to show my face. How was I going to explain this? Mom saw me coming up the street and her eyes narrowed, "What happened?" I was crying so hard, I couldn't tell her. I walked inside, sat on a chair in my room, and cried an angry, bitter cry. I remember my shoulders shaking, rubbing my snotty nose on my shirtsleeve, and being unable to catch my breath for a long period of time.

  I just could not understand why.

  I sat in that chair, my feet dangling off the floor, and asked God to help me forgive that boy 'cause I knew I needed to, but I also knew I wasn't about to do it on my own. Then Mom prayed for his soul which I didn't care too much about but in hindsight was probably a good idea. Finally, she asked God for a new bike for me which was good 'cause I had a feeling he listened to her.

  That night, Dad got home, Mom told him, and I remember seeing pain on his face. Not anger pain, like he was mad at me or even that boy but deep-down parent pain. If you have kids, then you know what I'm talking about. That night, alone in my room, I prayed that God would kill the devil. And for all I cared, he could stay in hell and I hoped it was hot, too.

  A few weeks later, I was standing in the driveway, shooting hoops, bored to tears and growing in my hatred of the devil. Somewhere after five, Dad pulled into the drive. The trunk rested half-open, oddly canted. He stepped out of his car, smiling, tie loosened. It's almost like he knew. Boys at age eleven have graduated from jumps and cat-walks to pure, unadulterated speed. He untied the trunk and lifted out a polished, midnight-black, Schwinn 10-speed.

  It was after dark when I finally got home. Normally, I'd have been grounded. My eyes and the sweat pasted on my forehead told the story: the boundaries of my life had just widened exponentially.

  It may seem silly, but that bike was indicative of something much bigger going on.

  As I got older, grew taller and outgrew that 10-speed, I watched a lot of my friends rebel against their dads. Some fought and punched holes in the Sheetrock, others screamed and threw chairs or car keys, while still others shook their heads and cursed them behind their backs. That always struck me as odd. I'm not saying that Dad and I didn't have our disagreements, we did, but a disagreement is one thing. Hatred is another.

  Having been born one, and now trusted with three, I know this about boys: we are all born with a dad-sized hole drilled in the center of our chest. Our dad's either fill it with themselves, or as we grow into men and start to sense the emptiness, we medicate it with stuff. Usually addictions.

  Uncle Willie bubbled up and out of a place down inside me that my dad filled up. He filled it with that 10-speed, by baiting my hook, coaching my t-ball team, helping me crank the mower, shining his flashlight behind him, popping the tab on my first beer, finding me when I was lost in West Virginia, standing beside me the day I married, spending three weeks with me in Africa, anointing my head with oil ... I could go on.

  Last week, our youngest son Rives turned four. Until now, his bicycle has been the rusted, bald-tired, split-seat, hand-me-down that has survived eight years of punishment thrown at it by his two older brothers and the rear wheels of Christy's Suburban. A week before his party, I drove to my local bike shop, pointed at what I wanted and paid my friend, Scotty, $120 for a shiny chrome dirt bike and all the pads we could find to fit it. (By the way, if you bought this book then you paid for a portion of Rives bike, so thank you.) On the day of his party, I drove Rives to the bike shop, they rolled it out of layaway, and he lit up like a spark plug. Then, without pause, he jumped on me, pressed his face onto my thigh, and said, "Thanks, Dad."

  Listen. Did you hear that? There it is. That sound, that Thanks, Dad, that's the sound of me filling him up. In contrast, the boy who stole my bike thirty years ago, he was empty, running on fumes.

  There is a much larger conversation here and it has to do with the role of the father in the life of his son. Uncle Willie is my best attempt at joining that conversation. If I need to restate it then you weren't listening the first time, but I can sum it up in two words: nothing compares.

  Reading Group Guide

  1. What is your favorite Uncle Willee "ism"?

  2. What do you think is the significance of the title, Chasing Fireflies?

  3. How would you describe Chase's relationship with Unc? With Tommye?

  4. Each character in this story is, in some way, profoundly touched by abandonment. How does this affect Unc, Tommye, Chase, and Sketch?

  5. Though Lorna is often a silent character in the story, she plays a significant, nurturing
role in the lives of Unc, Tommye, Chase, and Sketch. How does she care for each of them?

  6. How do you think Mandy influences Chase's life and his search for the truth about Unc? Have you ever had someone come alongside you with encouragement and assistance in a difficult situation?

  7. The Sanctuary is an important place of refuge and peace for Unc, Tommye, and Chase. Do you have a place like it?

  8. Why do you think Willee took the fall for the crimes he didn't commit? Have you ever taken the blame for something to protect someone you loved?

  9. Unc says, "Kids are like a spring, or a Stretch Armstrong. No matter how many times they're passed around, passed off, and passed on ... they snap back. Hope ... it's the fuel that feeds them." Do you think this is true?

  10. Which character in the book do you most identify with? Why?

  11. In an article, Chase quotes a psychiatrist: "Adoptees suffer from a fear of loss. They see loss all over the place." How does this perspective affect Chase? How do you think it affects the way he sees and understands Unc's story?

  12. Why do you think that Willee continues to use his "prison name" after he's released?

  13. Unc says, "Words that sink into your heart are whispered, not yelled." What do you think he means? Have you found this to be true in your own life?

  14. Chase often refers to the "hole in his chest." What happens to that hole once he finally discovers his true identity?

  15. Discuss Unc's story of the firefly in Chapter 23. How does this story speak to you?

  16. What do you think is the significance of names and who gives (or doesn't give) them to you?

  17. There are many cases of mistaken identity in this story. What are they and how do they affect each character?