How Fire Runs

by Charles Dodd White

  “Was this worth it? Was this fun for you all?” Harrison shouted to the others. Though they did not answer, he took their silence to mean they thought it was not. He grabbed the pistol from Delilah and tossed the remaining cooler into the boat, started the engine and wheeled out of the channel and around to the island’s point. As they passed he could see that Taylor and the two women remained sitting where they were, looking at the fallen man but afraid to approach him, as if his condition was somehow communicable. Harrison tossed the handgun in the water and throttled up. The bow rose.

  “You could have killed him,” Delilah said into his ear so she could be heard above the noise of the engine.

  He nodded.

  She kissed him at the back of his neck, put her hand over his sun-cooked thigh.

  “I wish you would have.”

  WHEN THEY returned to the compound some of the men had dragged a big Weber grill around to the side and were grilling ribeyes and tight cylinders of corn in aluminum foil. The smoke moved over the big back lot. Jonathan stood sweating over the flames with a long fork, stabbing the cuts and flipping them over every few seconds.

  “That smells good,” Delilah said.

  “You go ahead and get you some,” Harrison told her.

  “You don’t want to eat?”

  “I’m going to go lay down for a while. You’re hungry, though. I’ll be down there in a little bit, don’t worry.”

  Harrison kissed her briefly and went up to their room. He could feel her watching his back as he left.

  He stripped out of his clothes and washed himself with a cloth and a bowl of water that had been left out on the pine dresser. Pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of torn but laundered jeans. He took out the two hundred he needed, folded it into his hip pocket and returned the rest to the envelope he would take to Gavin. Somebody had turned a radio on outside and he heard Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson singing about their many reincarnations and lawless deeds. He went to the window and looked down. Delilah had moved in among the circle of others, one hand on her hip, the other holding a can of Bud. She seemed to fit there as exactly as though she had been cut to form.

  He lay down and closed his eyes, let his mind reel free. Before he realized it he was asleep and dreaming of a kinder life.

  9

  THOUGH THE SUN WOULD NOT RELENT, THE MEN CONTINUED marching along the broad shoulders of the highway. They dragged large plastic sacks behind them and gathered whatever did not belong. Aluminum cans and assorted wadded rubbish fattened the bags until they were misshapen burdens that needed to be tied off. The old moving van came rolling behind then and Jonathan grabbed what remained and loaded it into the back. Gavin walked along behind that, ensured that no single piece was overlooked.

  At the top of the hour he waved his hand to gain their attention, shouted for the van to be shut down, to have everyone come on and get water from the cooler.

  “We won’t get the job done if we’re heatstruck, gentleman,” he cautioned. “Make sure to get some ice as well.”

  The men stood in a conversational circle, drank deeply from red Solo cups. Some smoked cigarettes. Gavin drew fresh water whenever someone needed a refill. It moved him to see that they worked without complaint. These were good men. How could anyone see them as anything else? Good men who cared for the betterment of their small corner of the world. All they required was the hand to tend and correct them.

  He recalled how often across the years he had stood aside when among other men. An aid far more than a participant. As a boy he was obsessed by his own physical weakness. The asthma attacks taught him to be afraid of what his body couldn’t handle. His father was a bluff, hearty man, and though it was never directly addressed, Gavin could see how it pained the old man to recognize the insufficient creature he had fathered. That was what had driven him to know things, to observe and learn how people behaved. If the strength wasn’t in the body, he could discover it in the mind. And the best way of doing that was to make himself indispensable in some way. Give them something to believe in—that was the only way to make sure you could be dependably admired and loved.

  After the sun had slid past its hottest zone they resumed the policing and cleanup. Heat came off the asphalt in distorting waves. Cicadas whirred.

  Gavin turned at the sound of gravel crunching behind him. A marked SUV with its blue lights stirring and folding in the humid air. The door swung open and Sheriff Holston dragged himself out, fanning his Stetson a few inches from his ruddy face.

  “Mister Noon.”

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “Looks like you boys are out here busting your ass.”

  “They’ve put in a good day already.”

  “Looks like it. I hate to come out here when it’s plain to me that you mean good by what you’re doing, but there’s been complaints.”

  “Complaints?”

  “Well, a complaint. But it was to the effect that you had come out here as a party without requesting proper paperwork. This area, it’s part of the Adopt-a-Highway program, and there’s a method for applying for permissions. I know you didn’t mean nothing by it, of course . . .”

  “And how do I go about by applying for permission?”

  Holston clapped his hat back on his head, winced up at the sun.

  “It really is powerful hot out here anyhow. It’s just best to call it a day and make sure your folks are back home sitting in the shade, you ask me.”

  “We’ll be happy to do that, Sheriff. As long as you tell me who I need to talk to.”

  THE FOLLOWING week Gavin had Jonathan drive him down to the county courthouse and accompany him into the boardroom where the county commissioners’ meeting was being held. It was a plain little room at the back end of the facility that had a single window looking out over a courtyard with a pair of locust trees. The ceilings were high and plaster, cracked down the middle from the stress of age and thin budgets. At the front a long table where the seven members of the commission were seated behind name placards and microphones attached to flexible metal necks. The gallery seating was arranged in aligned rows of folding chairs, and as the audience began to file in people were having to get up and shuffle around so as to allow adequate room. That, together with the poor ventilation, quickly turned the air hot and hard to bear. Gavin felt the sweat along his ribs and spine, felt his skin becoming as slick as if it were freshly painted.

  The chairman of the board rapped his gavel on the sound block until the few listless comments of the audience trailed off. He opened the meeting with a few procedural remarks and a review of the evening’s agenda. From the corner of his eye, Gavin could see a young man in a blue cotton blazer feverishly recording these particulars in a small moleskin book. A reporter from the local paper, he surmised.

  The chairman opened a thin file of papers and began, “Now, I would like to get to a few pieces of board business that are fairly run-of-the-mill in the name of expediency. Once we get through that we can move on to more Byzantine matters. Are there any objections to that?”

  The board raised no complaint.

  “Very well. Let’s attend to all new business as it concerns the sanction of the county. I believe there’s a bill here regarding participation in the highway cleanup program. It appears that an organization under the name of Little Europe of Carter County has posited an application to take care of a three-mile stretch of road that runs from lower Elizabethton down to the Warlick unincorporated township. Do we have anyone in the gallery who intends to say anything in support of the application?”

  Gavin raised his hand.

  “Yessir? Are you Mister Noon?”

  “I am.”

  “Very good, Mister Noon. Could you please approach the podium? I believe the microphone is already switched on.”

  Gavin pardoned himself as he moved past the young newspaper reporter and assumed his place at the lectern, tilted the microphone toward his mouth.

  “Good evening. I’m Gavin Noon, the individual who
has submitted the request. I’m sorry that we didn’t understand the need to put this paperwork forward when we began collecting the trash. We were simply trying to practice good stewardship as part of being new members of the community. We’d certainly not intended to violate any codes. I explained this to Sheriff Holston, who has been very gracious and understanding in the matter.”

  “That’s fine, Mister Noon. Could you speak to us briefly about your organization?”

  “Yes, I’d be glad to. We are an intentional community that believes in reclaiming ethnic distinctiveness as part of our cultural identity. As part of that goal, we firmly support the laws and principles of the American ideal of individual expression and the right to self-protection. To that end, citizenship is at the forefront of our collective interests. We see the health of the local government as complementary and essential to our own. To that end, we desire to be part of giving back to the area and to establish our investment in its continued betterment through volunteer efforts and other charitable activities.”

  “Thank you, Mister Noon. Does anyone have any questions or comments for the gentleman?”

  The old man Pickens covered his microphone and said something unintelligible, though Gavin could see that it drew glares from several of the other commissioners. After a brief exchange of whispered conversation, the younger commissioner, Kyle Pettus, edged his microphone closer and spoke into it in a mild, controlled voice.

  “Mister Noon, could you please elaborate on the name of your organization? I believe you said it was called Little Europe? Can you tell us a little about that?”

  Gavin cleared his throat, tightly wrung the edges of the podium.

  “Yes, Commissioner. Little Europe is an acknowledgment of historical precedence. It informs our sense of cultural and philosophical distinctiveness. It is merely a unifying term for a larger ideology.”

  “Yes, I understand that. I was wondering, though, if you might clarify that ideology somewhat for members of the commission.”

  Gavin paused, pressed ahead.

  “It is a community founded in pride not apology. It declares itself along lines of genetic identity without reservation.”

  Several members of the board traded looks.

  “Mister Noon, does your Little Europe community have any ties to neo-Nazi parties?”

  “Absolutely not. That is a categorical falsehood. There are many entities in this country that do not associate themselves with any violent or discriminatory sects that seek to break the law. Our community is self-sustaining and contributes to the ongoing prosperity . . .”

  “Yes,” Pettus broke in. “I’ve heard you say so. However, is it true that a Nazi flag, that is a red flag with a swastika symbol, was flown from the flagstaff at your current residence?”

  “There was a mistake when we first arrived. Some of the community members were overzealous and did not act wisely.”

  “I see. I’ve heard that flag is no longer flying. Do you confirm that?”

  “Yes, I’ve made sure it was removed.”

  He could feel dark moons of sweat soaking through his shirt under his arms.

  “But since then there have been reports of a new flag. Is that true?”

  “Reports?”

  “Yes, other county members in the area have made note of it.”

  “Yes, I made the change myself.”

  “Could you describe the appearance of the current flag?”

  “Yes, it’s a cross. A black German cross, what’s commonly called an iron cross, on a simple field of white.”

  “And what’s the significance of this flag?”

  “I’m unaware of any significance other than it demonstrates a sense of pride in white identity. There is nothing malevolent intended by it, if that’s what you’re implying. Every other ethnic group in this country is encouraged to exhibit pride in their heritage. We are simply part of that collective movement in order to preserve what we hold dear. I have no guilt for being a white man, no shame. That doesn’t make me a threat. It merely makes me honest. Let me remind the commission that neither I nor any direct members of the Little Europe community have participated in any violence. In fact, we have been quite consistent in our opposition to violence, even when it may have been directed toward us . . .”

  “Thank you, Mister Noon. I’d like to ask the board that we table this issue for further discussion in closed session. Would that be all right, Mister Chairman?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe that would be the best course of action for the moment. Thank you for your comments, Mister Noon. We will pick up this issue again as soon as it is feasible. If you would please take your seat.”

  HE STRODE into the hall with Jonathan unable to keep an easy pace beside him, banged through the outer door. Stood there holding his arms like he was pinned by something he couldn’t name. His anger a tumor in the hollow of his throat. It was all that prevented a hoarse scream.

  “Mister Noon, sir. If I could talk to you a moment?”

  A voice from inside the courthouse, as the door was quickly closing. The door was flung open and he saw then the damp face of the young reporter appear, his hands still busy writing in his notebook. Gavin composed himself, assumed a beleaguered smile.

  “Yes, can I be of some help?”

  “Yessir. I’m Karl Sealy. Municipal and crime reporter for the Carter Citizen.”

  Gavin extended his hand and they shook.

  “Delighted to know you, Mister Sealy. I subscribe to your publication. I’m sure I’ve enjoyed several of your contributions.”

  The young man actually blushed and stammered before continuing.

  “I was hoping we could talk about something you said. Something about acts of violence that have been directed at the members of the Little Europe compound.”

  “Not a compound. A community. There is a significant difference. A compound suggests militancy, which is not at all the case. Words like that matter, Mister Sealy. That’s the sort of thing I need people to understand so that fear and assumption don’t color people’s opinions before they have a true sense of what Little Europe is about.”

  “Yessir, I understand. Is there something you might want to tell me?” he asked, folded the notebook shut and tucked it in the inner breast pocket of his sports jacket. “Something that doesn’t necessarily have to go on record?”

  Gavin touched his fingers to the shallow cleft of his chin as he considered.

  “You said that you were also tasked with crime reporting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what might interest you is something that may not have received any official paperwork. An incident at Little Europe involving members of the very same governmental entity as the one deciding the fate of our application this evening. And even though this incident might lack formal documentation, I’m certain that the several members of the sheriff’s office who were summoned will not have lost all memory of what they witnessed. Does that sound like something that might prove worth your attention?”

  “Yessir, it absolutely does. Is there a number I can reach you at, Mister Noon? In case we ever need to sit down and talk a bit?”

  “Absolutely. Jonathan, please hand Mister Sealy one of our cards.”

  THAT NIGHT after the house had succumbed to the quiet of the late hours, Gavin sat up at his desk with a cup of herbal tea, scrolling through the familiar Storm Front threads. He clicked through and read some of the creative writing that had been posted since he last checked. His favorite was a series of Batman fan fiction that portrayed the Gothic vigilante in a steampunk world of the Reconstruction South where Bruce Wayne was a dispossessed Virginia planter. The author’s name was WhiteGallah00d, and his stories had sharp dialogue and charismatic villains, including the grandson of Nat Turner, a grandstanding fiend called The Emasculator, who practiced a strange mix of voodoo and Zoroastrian ritual after he murdered sleeping tenant farmers and raped their wives and sometimes their children, regardless of sex or age. It thrilled Gavin to read
these kinds of stories. They seemed truer than the source material somehow. More than simple comic books in that they had generated these distinct and different lives from their mainstream origin. These stories were owned by the people, had become part of something entirely new.

  He had begun to try writing something of his own. Nothing he had taken too seriously, but still he recognized a certain therapy in the recording of these ideas, worked out as they were in the frame of a dramatic story. He wrote about Captain America, what he would have been had he known the truth of the holocaust lies.

  He opened the file of the first story, one he’d called “The Dresden Massacre,” and uploaded it to the fan fiction thread. He would be curious to hear what the other members of the community might make of it. He refreshed the screen three or four times before he grew bored and shut the computer down, listened to its motor cease and cool.

  He checked his phone several times as he sat there and thought. He had sent Jonathan back to the commissioners’ meeting. He needed to understand more about that man Kyle Pettus. Told Jonathan to follow him and make a record of the man’s actions. A simple enough task, he hoped, but still he had received no word despite several texts.

  Men could be so disappointing. The idea of what he wanted to accomplish was pure and full of such promise. But there was always this intervening thing that seemed to wreck it all. A lack of common purpose, a desire for empty appetites. He wanted these people to recognize that what they were trying to do was as important as when those first European explorers staked their claim in the American wilderness. It took such extraordinary faith to create a country that could endure. That was where abiding strength could be found—in a community that looked beyond the glib advertisements for beauty and sensuality and superficial gain and saw the inner content in being among others who shared the common roots of race. No fear or misunderstanding of what some other tribe might hold as dear. Only the deep satisfaction of being finally at home in the world.

  Sleep was beyond him now. He realized there was no need to attempt it, so he went silently down the stairs carrying his shoes and put them on only after he had crossed the dusty front yard. He turned and looked back at the old asylum. A ghostly and imperial edifice there in the overall mountain dark. It was an extraordinary thing to have made this happen, to make others see its viability. A restoration to something they had believed irretrievably lost. He needed to remain patient, that was all. The one thing that could undermine his efforts was haste. Instead, he must remain deliberate, measured. He must not allow others to make him the caricature they would have preferred him to be.