The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  I stopped and looked over at the undulating wall of the cave. The light from the fire and the shadows from the light made the curves and bumps of the wall come alive into seven stern old faces watching my every move. Seven elders sitting in judgment over my telling—all of them nodding with the pulsing fire, as if they understood perfectly but intended to pass judgment nonetheless.

  “You don’t have to tell me the rest. We can jus go if you want.”

  But I knew I couldn’t stop. I had to get it out of me. “He was holding up that gas can, the dummy, because he thought it might have been water or something. I yelled to Mom, but she couldn’t hear because the mower was so loud, and Josh, he just dropped the can like it was some poisoned toy or something, just dropped it right on the driveway. That’s when she looked up.”

  I stopped and swallowed on that Saturday afternoon memory as it rushed in from the edges of my mind. As it is rushing into me now, so many years later.

  “You know how when sunlight is really bright sometimes you can’t even see flames? Like the sun won’t let anything burn brighter than itself.”

  Buzzy nodded.

  “That’s what Josh was like. When he dropped the can it sparked and set all that gas on fire. The sun was so bright I couldn’t even tell that he was burning at first, except for his hair. His hair just shriveled up like it was being pulled back inside his head. He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn’t. He just looked at me all confused. Mom couldn’t see the flames either. Just his hair shriveling and Josh not even crying or anything, just standing there. After a second his clothes caught fire, and that’s when the flames came. They shot up in a whoosh about six feet in the air and became like a cocoon around him, and he was still just standing there with his mouth open, just looking at me all puzzled as he burned.” I took up Buzzy’s stick and pushed the coals around some more.

  “Everything moved in slow motion after that. I know I was on him in a second, but it seemed like the faster I ran, the farther away he got. I finally reached him, knocked him down in the grass, and smothered him until the flames went out. My father came out cause he heard my mom screaming. And man, was she screaming. She couldn’t even move, just stood there screaming as if she was the one burning. My dad knew it was bad and laid Josh in the backseat of the car and we took off for the hospital. I rode in the back with him the whole way there. And poor Josh wasn’t even crying. He was just looking up at me with his face all red and burned and he was shaking all over like the flames had taken all the heat out of him. He was so brave, he didn’t even cry. Didn’t even cry.” I paused and swallowed again to keep my own tears down.

  “Josh lived for three days in the hospital; then he died. That’s my secret.”

  We negotiated our way back to the tree house in the nearly full moon. At the great oak we stopped and leaned against the tree under light diffused by the branches. I felt as if my soul, scarred and leaden from lies and bitter truths, had been finally turned loose. It seemed even breathing was easier after the telling.

  “I’m gonna sleep up here tonight. You goin home still?” Buzzy asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry what happened to your brother, Kevin,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sorry about your brother too.”

  “What do you mean? He ain’t dead.”

  “Yeah, but now he’s got to figure out how to live with it.”

  Buzzy didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, unblinking.

  I continued, “Buzz, sometimes telling’s not a bad thing, you know.”

  “I know,” he said. Then after a few seconds, “You sure you don’t wanna sleep up here tonight?”

  “Naw, I’m going home.”

  “I’m gonna sleep up here tonight.”

  “All right, man. Later.”

  “Later,” he said and was halfway up the tree before the echo died in the night.

  The moon gave me enough light in which to walk back home. The town was quiet. In the distance I could see 22 Chisold looming iceberglike in the dark. The sky was pilloried in stucco clouds that occasionally blocked the stars. I eased up the front porch steps and opened the screen door. The front door was unlocked and the hallway table lamp was on. It worried me because Pops was always careful about locking down and turning things off at night. On the table under the lamp was a note: Kevin, I left the door open in case Rebah Deal chases you boys out of the Telling Cave. Please lock the door and turn off the light.—Pops.

  I did both and quieted to the second floor, pausing on every creaking step. I slid into my darkened bedroom. The smell of campfire on my clothes. The smell of burning hair in my head.

  Chapter 23

  THE AIR AROUND AN EMPTY PEDESTAL

  I stayed in bed most of the next day; the tellings pulled at me from so many different directions, I needed time to brood it all out. Finally talking about Josh’s death seemed to ease my mind in ways I could not have imagined. It was as if admitting it all opened a pressure valve in my head to bleed off much of the guilt and sorrow I’d been carrying for so many months. Not all of it, but just enough so I could actually imagine a future without the smother of what happened. My telling seemed to give me a new outlook on my prospects, but the revelation that it was Tilroy who killed Mr. Paul chipped at me. I just couldn’t understand how someone could turn on a friend so quickly, so viciously. Maybe Tilroy really was crazy. I feigned illness through dinner and took potato soup in my room to further ponder Tilroy and Cleo and the burden Buzzy carried. I fell asleep still pondering.

  The following day, Pops had office hours in the morning, so I walked with him from Chisold down Main Street to his clinic across from Biddle’s. After a quiet morning of filing and bookkeeping, we went over to Hivey’s for coffee and conversation. Since Paul’s funeral, the town seemed to be in a state of absolute denial, talking awkwardly about feed prices, corn crops, tractor wheels, anything but the horror of Paul Pierce’s murder.

  Bump, Bobby, Lo, and several others were by the old woodstove at the back. Grubby Mitchell was standing outside the circle, waiting for an excuse to join the group.

  “Who else was Cleo waitin on? I heard Tide an Gators were takin a good look,” Bump said, broom in hand, foot up on the seat of a wooden stool.

  “Them two, plus Dogs an Michigan, I think,” Grubby replied. “Paitsel would know.” He took two tentative steps into the group and sat down quickly before anyone could object.

  At the mention of Paitsel, everyone went quiet. It was generally acknowledged that he had “discovered” Cleo Fink when the boy had distinguished himself in a snowball fight at the 1978 Christmas tree lighting ceremony in downtown Medgar. Four inches of early snow hit the Saturday after Thanksgiving and Paitsel spotted Cleo whipping snowballs at the heads of other boys with dangerous speed and uncommon accuracy. Paitsel saw it as his duty to be vigilant in spotting middle school football and baseball talent. “Fink boy can throw a snowball,” he said to the boys at the back of Hivey’s a few days after the tree lighting. “Gonna call Ned for a look.”

  Ned Pike, the high school’s athletic director; basketball, football, and baseball coach; and history, social studies, and gym teacher drove with him and Jesper to Fink’s Hollow on a warming Saturday. The Finks didn’t have a football in the hollow (or many balls of any kind), so Ned brought his own. He tossed it to Cleo, who caught it easily but held it in his hands like an unfamiliar rock. His throw back was wobbly but blew through Ned’s open hands, hitting him square in the chest. He smiled at Paitsel and rubbed at the pain.

  Ned came out to the hollow every Saturday thereafter to work with Cleo on passing mechanics, arm strength, and footwork. Two years later, by eighth grade, Cleo was practicing with Ned’s varsity squad and set the Kentucky single-season high school passing record his freshman year. Sophomore year brought another record and the Class 1A state championship; by junior year he had broken every passing and scoring record on the Kentucky books.

  “He was never serious bout Mi
chigan,” Bump sniffed. “Wrong offense for him is what Paitsel says.”

  “Do we know if he’s gonna sign with Notre Dame? Once the others hear he got an offer, theys all gonna come courtin,” Lo said. “I think signin early is a mistake.”

  Bump cut in. “I think it’s decided. Esmer was in yesterday—man was cock walkin. ‘My granson’s goin to Notre Dame,’ he tells me. Showed me the letter an everthin. I think he’s gonna sign.”

  “Already did,” said Jesper, who had just come in the front door. “Talked to Esmer this morning. Folks from the Indiana papers comin down tomorra. Lexington, Louisville too.”

  I wanted to blurt out what I knew about Cleo, about Mr. Paul, but held my tongue out of respect for Buzzy. The obvious pain he was feeling from carrying the secret around these past weeks was palpable, and I didn’t want to add to his burden.

  We filled our coffee cups, then went over to the back stove. Pops cleared his throat and the men all looked over at once, then went silent in the face of complicit guilt and assumed reproach. Bump began to sweep at the immaculate floor; Jesper started working at a piece of breakfast bacon that had lodged in his teeth; Bobby Clinch tested the play of the blade on his utility knife.

  “Morning, boys,” Pops said in a tone as ordinary as the circumstances allowed. There were muted “mornin”s back, then awkward silence. “Sounds like Cleo has signed with the Irish. That’s a piece of good news for this town.”

  “That’s right,” said Jesper. “We was jus talkin bout that. Great day for this town, I say.” Nods all around.

  “Great day,” Bump agreed.

  “Certainly is,” Bobby Clinch said. “Banner day for Medgar.”

  “Tis,” someone else added.

  “I think we should all plan a big ole party for him,” Pops said. “Lord knows we need a reason to celebrate, don’t you think?”

  “Celebration is a great idea,” Jesper replied with unnecessary enthusiasm. He was just happy not to be talking about the Paul Pierce tragedy.

  “We’re gonna need someone to honcho the project. Someone with planning experience… Jesper, I think you should head up the planning committee,” Pops said with a slight smile.

  Jesper puffed up, nodded, and leaned back, self-satisfied. “Well, I did help Paitsel discover the boy, after all.”

  “That you did. You have an eye for football talent.”

  “Well, it ain’t an easy thing,” he admitted. “Lots a kids got it raw. Did I ever tell you boys bout when I first saw Cleo?”

  “Tell it again, Jesper,” someone said.

  “It’s a fine story.”

  “Tis a good story. Go on an tell, Jesp.”

  “Well, it was a terribly cold November that year…”

  Pops put his hand on the back of my neck and steered me toward the door. “That’ll keep em busy for the next few weeks,” he whispered.

  “Okay if I walk over to Buzzy’s house? I want to see what’s going on with his brother.”

  “Just be back in time for supper.” Pops turned and stepped into the street for the cross over to his office. I raced down Green Street and up the trail to the tree house. It was empty, so I walked down the hill and into Fink’s Hollow, which was abuzz with activity. A white van with WGZ TV12 emblazoned on the side was parked in the circle. Cleo was standing on the Giggins Hoo porch flanked by his parents and a toothless, smiling Esmer Fink. A TV lady had thrust a microphone in Cleo’s face as he described the college selection process in copious detail. Clumps of Finks and other kin were watching from the gravel driveway. Buzzy was off to the side, picking up stones and throwing them at a plastic pail.

  “Heard about Cleo and Notre Dame,” I whispered, but didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yep, he finally got what he wanted. Been his dream to play there, an ain’t nuthin gonna stop him.”

  “Did you tell him you know?”

  A flash of anger came to him. “Don’t be talkin bout that round here. Don’t want none a that trouble.” He picked up another stone, went to throw it, then dropped it on the driveway. “Come on,” he said, and ran up the hill to the barn. We went inside and settled on two hay bales by the half-open sliding wood door. “Man, I jus don’t know what to do. I jus can’t screw this up for him.”

  “Buzzy, you gotta tell him you know. You gotta try to get him to go to the sheriff on his own.”

  “You think he’s gonna confess with Notre Dame wantin him? No fuckin way, Kevin. He ain’t confessin to nothin.”

  “From what you said, he didn’t do anything.”

  “It don’t matter. Him an his friends is what caused it.”

  “I thought you said Tilroy did it.”

  “He did, but Tilroy warn’t even with them when they walked into town. It was Cleo, Donnie, and Wiltry. With me followin them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Football friends.”

  “Where was Tilroy?”

  “Tilroy was visitin Mr. Paul when them three went by an saw him an Mr. Paul sittin in Miss Janey’s waitin room. Place was closed, but Tilroy was there, sittin down blubbering to Mr. Paul bout somethin, and Mr. Paul was holdin his hand. So Donnie starts to laugh an says somethin like, ‘The old fag tryin to teach the young fag his bidness.’ An he bangs open the door and starts teasin Tilroy an Mr. Paul, callin them all kinds a queer names. Then Tilroy jumps up an says he ain’t no faggot, then starts callin Mr. Paul a fudgepacker an homo an jus goes apeshit on him. Jus starts hittin him hard. An Mr. Paul runs to the back of the place, but Tilroy follows him and pushes him out the back door. You know the rest.”

  “So Cleo never hit Mr. Paul or teased Tilroy.”

  Buzzy shook his head.

  “Well, you gotta tell him you know everything. You can’t be carrying this around with you. It’s killing you. Plus he didn’t do anything.”

  “I jus don’t know what to do. I jus don’t. I know it’s wrong not to tell, but he’s my brother.” His voice broke.

  The barn door slid open and Cleo walked in. “What are you homos doin in here?” he said and smiled.

  Buzzy suddenly went cold. “We’re talkin bout what happened to Mr. Paul. An don’t ever be callin us homos again.”

  The smile left Cleo’s face. “Easy, Buzz, it’s jus talk is all. Hey, I put a plug in for you on TV. Thanked you for being my faithful trainin partner.” There was an awkward silence before Cleo spoke again. “So what about Mr. Paul?”

  “We’re talkin bout who done him.”

  “Heard the Company’s men done him on acounta him tryin to shut Mr. Boyd down.”

  Buzzy looked up from the floor hard into Cleo. “That ain’t what happened, Cle.”

  Cleo regarded him. “How do you know what happened?”

  “Because I seen it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Everthin.”

  “What’s everthin? What did you see?”

  “I seen you an Donnie an Wiltry go into Miss Janey’s an I seen Tilroy beatin on Mr. Paul in the alley an I seen you standin there watchin while he kicked his teeth in.”

  Cleo’s Adam’s apple bobbed on a hard swallow. He sat down slowly on a hay bale and put his head into his hands. “Ohhhh, man,” he said. “I think I’m gonna puke.” He stood up, took two quick steps to the door, then sat back down quickly. He got up again and walked unsteadily into the dark and threw up. He retched for a minute, stood in the darkness for a minute more, then came back to the hay bales relatively composed.

  “Who you tole this to?”

  “Jus Kevin. I tole the sheriff I dint see nothing.”

  “Who you tole it to?”

  “Nobody,” I said.

  Cleo assessed the situation for a few seconds, then sat down on the third hay bale and motioned us in, huddle-like. “Okay, here’s the plan. If the sheriff comes back to you, don’t say nothin more. Hear? Don’t change your story in any way. We got two-a-days startin August first. Don’t want nothin distractin me.”

  “You think you can ju
s quarterback this all away?” Buzzy said. “Life don’t work like that. Folks is gonna find out. Tilroy’s already tole people.”

  Cleo cursed to himself. “Who’d he tell?”

  “Petunia an them. Cle, you gotta go to the sheriff,” Buzzy implored. “You didn’t do nothing! It was all Tilroy.”

  “Buzzy’s right,” I said. “It’s all going to come out, and when it does you’ll look guilty. You go to the sheriff now, you’ll look like you did nothing wrong.”

  Cleo thought for a moment, then shook his head; his face went dark. “I worked too hard to get where I got, an I ain’t throwin it all away cause Tilroy beat up some old fag.”

  “He wasn’t just some old fag,” I said, anger boiling inside me.

  Cleo stood up now and pointed menacingly at Buzzy. “I ain’t goin to the sheriff an you don’t say no word to no one. You hear?” He poked Buzzy hard in the chest.

  “But you gotta go see the sheriff, Cle. I can’t be carryin this around.”

  He came up close to Buzzy and grabbed his collar. “Listen, you little shit, you fuck my ride up I’m gonna beat your ass so badly it’ll make what Tilroy done look like a fuckin birthday party. You got that?”

  Buzzy nodded. A tear came down each cheek.

  “What if I tell the sheriff?” I whispered. “You going to beat me too?” A curious calm had come over me as I faced up to this much larger boy, knowing that I had rightness on my side. It gave me a bravery I’d never felt before and made the embarrassment of a beating at the hands of Cleo seem irrelevant.

  He brought his nose to mine. “I will kick your fuckin ass all the way back to Redfuck, Indiana, or wherever the fuck you’re from.”

  Normally such a confrontation would leave me shaking, but for some strange reason I wasn’t scared. “Fuck… you!” I said calmly, looking squarely into his eyes.

  He flinched as if slapped, then pushed me hard. I fell back across the hay bale and hit my head sharply on the plank floor, seeing stars. Buzzy lunged at Cleo, who simply grabbed him one-handed by the throat and pushed him back across the other hay bale so that we were lying next to each other, staring at the barn ceiling. He stood over us and glared.