How Fire Runs

by Charles Dodd White

  He had nearly gone over the edge of sleep when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He swore quietly and swung his fleet onto the floor, saw one of the few names he could bear to look on just now.

  “It’s late, Mister Sealy.”

  “I apologize, Mister Noon. I wouldn’t have bothered you this time of night unless it was something I’m sure you’d want to hear. Something that involves the history of your opponent, Frank Farmer.”

  “Go on.”

  Sealy began to talk and Gavin couldn’t have imagined any words that might have sounded so dear.

  29

  FRANK HAPPILY ACCEPTED THE HELP OF THE VETERANS GROUP IN THE last few days leading up to the election. They stuffed mailboxes and knocked on doors from one side of the county to the other. He had felt a shift in the kinds of conversations he was having with people since the debate, and he knew he had to take advantage of his momentum while he could.

  There was one stretch of the county he hadn’t had a chance to show his face, up in the north end, just shy of the Carolina border. It was back in the deep end of some hollows with roads named after the families who had lived back there for a couple of centuries. Old-time mountaineers. Pettus suggested he take Turner Whist from the veterans group with him. Said he knew a lot of the folks out that way, could point him to the households willing to give Frank a fair shake.

  As they turned back and followed the dirt road deeper in, the sunlight was soon cut off by the high ridgelines flanking them on either side. They passed a couple of trailers with satellite dishes stuck to the roofs. A big rottweiler barked from the front porch of one of them. Even with the windows rolled up, you could hear the rattle of its chain. A little further on they passed a brick building in a cleared lot next to a creek. Across the way was its barn with a brightly painted quilt square. A tin-covered lean-to abutted the barn; beneath it a full three cords of firewood were stacked as neat as needlework.

  “I’m going to take you up here to my uncle Virgil’s place,” Turner told him. “He lives in a cabin that Daniel Boone was supposed to have stayed at back in the day.”

  “Daniel Boone, huh?”

  “That’s the story. It’s pretty old anyhow. You’ll see.”

  And he did. The cabin seemed as solid as an oceangoing ship, composed of planed timbers and hard chinking. It wasn’t difficult to picture it having been here when the white frontiersmen pushed west with their whiskey and violent ambition. Living in a house like that had to have an effect on how you perceived the problems of the day-to-day. Time on a different scale. Walking the floorboards, it would be impossible not to listen for the ghosts of those who had come before.

  Turned banged on the door. An old voiced roared within like a creature roused from hibernation.

  “And this is one of the friendly ones?” Frank asked a moment before the door flung open. Out stepped a man a good six and a half feet tall with shoulders that nearly brushed the doorframe. He wore overalls only. Beneath it his massive naked chest labored with the effort of moving such bulk so quickly. His china blue eyes screwed up against the sudden flood of sunlight.

  “Turner, by God, you’re the only kin that could knock me out of a nap without taking a ballpeen hammer to the skull. How are you, son?”

  The big man wrapped Turner in a smothering embrace, then stood him back up as tidily as he would a bowling pin.

  As soon as Turner regained his breath, he said, “I’m good, Virgil. Didn’t mean to disturb. Just was out this way with my friend Frank, and thought he’s somebody you’d want to meet.”

  “That right? Well, good to meet you, Frank,” Virgil said, extended his hand. “I’ve seen some of your signs up in town last time I was down there. Read your name in the paper too. Let me get a couple of chairs out here on the porch. Musty as hell inside.”

  He dragged out a couple of dining room chairs from the front of the cabin and set them next to his only rocker, which he took for himself and began to pack a pipe so that he could listen to them.

  “You all smoke? I’ve got a couple of old corn cobs in there.”

  Frank said that he would take one if Virgil didn’t mind. On the contrary, it appeared to please the bearish man immensely. Once they had settled into a congenial circle and the smoke was running, Virgil began to talk.

  “I’ve followed your entry into the race with interest, Mister Farmer. You and that feller Noon have certainly put a spark into local politics that is a bit more exciting to what we’re used to. As you might imagine, being this far into the back of beyond, we typically don’t involve ourselves overmuch in what goes on down in Elizabethton. I’ve got a sister, she’s over fifty years old, lives just over that ridge there. She hasn’t been out of the county three times in her whole life. People like to think folks like us are a myth. But there’s plenty of us that stick to our own. That doesn’t mean we’re bad or ignorant. It just means we value a different kind of life. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  Frank told him that he could indeed. There was a lot to be said for keeping to yourself when so much of the world seemed to be determined to prove it wasn’t fit for any decent use. Virgil nodded, let the smoke spill from his mouth.

  “But there’s more to it than just that,” Frank said. “I’m not sure it’s something I realized until I agreed to get involved in this whole mess. The thing I worry about is what I would tell my children if I didn’t stand up for what was right. That’s about as personal as you can get. I’ve spent their whole lives telling them that they have a right to be who they are. It’s no more complicated than that. They have the right to be who they are and to live how they decide is best for them. And if other people start to say that isn’t the case, they have an obligation to fight for themselves. So, I guess you can say that doing this thing in public, in making myself a target for what men like Gavin Noon hate, I’m just trying to be consistent. I’m trying to be the example I want them to follow.”

  They talked for a good while longer, soon at ease with minor differences of opinion. But what surprised Frank most was how much agreement he could find with this man. He realized quickly that Virgil was an important man to convince. He listened well, but Frank had no doubt Virgil could speak in a way that could get the attention of people like him. He was a shrewd man, and no camouflage of attire or accent could conceal it.

  After an hour of visiting, Turner noted that they needed to be pressing on. There wasn’t much daylight left to burn, after all. Virgil walked them down to their truck.

  “Mister Farmer, you seem like an honest man,” Virgil told them. “I don’t see a reason in the world that anybody with a reasonable head on his shoulders wouldn’t be able to tell the same. I know that’s what I’ll be telling the folks that give me the time of day, at least. And I wish you the best of luck.”

  Frank said he was glad to have Virgil’s good word and climbed up into the vehicle.

  THEY STOPPED at a Dunkin’ Donuts attached to a convenience store in Hampton to go over a list of the names they’d been able to contact. Nearly a dozen, with eight of those committing favorably to turning out for Frank on election day.

  Turner went for a refill while Frank pulled the notepad around and checked the names once more. He had been pleased with the reception they received. Hospitable if taciturn at first. Though they were quick to share their mind once they had a chance to form an opinion of him.

  “I’d call today a victory, wouldn’t you?” Turner said.

  “A step in the right direction anyhow. I’m grateful for you taking me back up there. I would never have been able to find some of those places if I wouldn’t have had you as a guide. You think they’ll actually turn out to vote?”

  Turned tugged the brim of his ballcap, watched something out the window.

  “Virgil will. He’s a tough old bird, but if he likes you, he’ll go to the ends of the earth for you. Some of the others will. Some won’t. I’ll tell you the truth. There’s a damn good chance you were the first black man who ever st
epped in any of those houses.”

  “I imagine you’re right. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You ever had a black man in your place?”

  Turner shifted in his seat, wouldn’t meet Frank’s gaze.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Turner finally said. “The world around here just isn’t that way, is it? Maybe someday, but not now.”

  Frank agreed with him and said he thought it was time to go to his own home, get a night’s rest before putting in another full day tomorrow. Turner said to go ahead and crank the truck while he went next door for a pack of cigarettes.

  Half an hour later Frank stepped across the threshold to a quiet household. The kitchen light was the only one burning. The clock above the stove said that it was a quarter to midnight. On the counter was a note from Gloria saying that his supper was wrapped up in the fridge, but he wasn’t hungry and didn’t bother to check what it might be. Instead, he slipped his shoes off on the linoleum and stood them next to the back door, eased back down the hall with as little noise as he could.

  She had fallen asleep reading with the lamp on. He carefully picked up her book and folded it with a grocery store receipt between the pages to keep her place then switched the light out. She startled at the sudden sound.

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me,” he told her.

  He put his hand over her bare shoulder. She lay there breathing for a while before saying anything.

  “I was having bad dreams,” she said. “I dreamed you were gone.”

  “I’m here, baby.”

  “Right now you are.”

  He kissed her and slipped beside her. When he put his arms around her he felt like he had hold of something bigger than he could ever manage to keep.

  When he woke the next morning he found the bed empty. He turned his head and saw on the clock radio that it was nearly nine o’clock. Hadn’t slept that late for as long as he could remember. Felt more exhausted for having slipped so far under. He sat there for a minute to get himself together. He glanced at his phone and saw he already had three missed calls from Pettus. He’d deal with that as soon as he had a cup of coffee in him.

  Gloria was sitting at the counter with her tea, looking through the newspaper. She was already dressed for work. Of course she was. The world didn’t stop turning just because he was laid up in the bed.

  “I know I was supposed to take the girls to school,” he said.

  “You needed the sleep. Coffee’s fresh in the pot. Pour yourself a cup, Frank. I need to talk to you about something.”

  He circled warily toward the carafe and poured out a cup.

  “I am standing here thinking,” he said.

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking the number of times you called me by my first name since we were married and it being for a good reason are enough to count on one hand.”

  She told him to sit down, that he wasn’t wrong. But instead of talking, she pushed the paper across to him. It didn’t take him long to see what she meant. It was all right there on the front page. He leaned back, studied the pattern of reflected overhead light in his coffee.

  “Well, I should have expected it, I guess,” he told her.

  “What are you going to do, baby? This is the last thing in the world the kids need to see right now.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “There’s no taking care of this, Frank.”

  He started back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  “Of course there is, Gloria. I’ve got to call some people now. Don’t worry about this. I know what to do.”

  She said nothing, though a moment later he could hear her leave by the front door.

  An hour later he was seated in the broadcast radio office in Elizabethton. He had called in that favor Jamie Vasquez had offered. Kyle Pettus was there with them, though they hadn’t said much to one another after they’d gone over the news and what it meant for the election. It was on Frank’s shoulders now. He was the only one who could turn the narrative back to where it needed to go.

  Ted Fallon, the morning show man, popped his head into the lobby and waved them back to the recording booth. A prerecorded segment on a charity softball event was running, which gave Fallon a chance to explain how the microphones picked up sound and how much time to take with each question.

  “I appreciate you making time for us on short notice, Ted,” Pettus said.

  “Not at all. I’m proud to do it. I imagine we’ll get about twice as many people listening as normal. You ready, Mister Farmer?”

  “Let’s go ahead and run it,” Frank told him.

  Fallon counted him in and introduced the segment. Frank said he was pleased to be invited and was eager to talk directly to the people of Carter County, that he believed it was important that they hear the actual voices of the people who meant to represent them.

  “Mister Farmer, I want to make the best use of our time this morning,” Fallon said, “and that’s going to mean delving into something uncomfortable right here at the outset. I’d like for you to give our listeners a response to the newspaper story that ran this morning. According to the Carter Citizen it says your father, Demetrius Farmer of Dekalb, Georgia, was convicted in 1994 of a double homicide in a drug-related exchange in Atlanta, and that he has been serving consecutive life sentences at a state penitentiary since that time. Firstly, is this report true, and secondly, how would you like to respond to this piece of news and how it affects your run for office?”

  Frank leaned toward the microphone, kept his voice even.

  “These general facts are accurate. My father was involved in a very dangerous and destructive life. Even as a boy, I could see what kinds of things he was caught up in. So did my mother. It was why she and I left when I was eight years old and she and her sister raised me in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, which is where I began playing football once I started middle school. I have visited him across the years and seen what a life in prison does to a man. It’s not pretty.

  “I want everyone who’s listening to understand something. I love my father. The last thing in the world I would ever do is pretend that he isn’t part of me. That’s exactly what the people who leaked this information want me to do. They want me to try to shrug this off so that it looks like I would do anything to protect myself. Well, that’s impossible. This isn’t the kind of thing you can set aside. It’s forever part of who you are. It’s made me be the kind of husband and father I am. It’s made me the kind of man who won’t back down when a political opponent tries to smear me.

  “But here’s why it’s important to those of you who are hearing my voice. This was reported because my opponent wants you to fear me. He doesn’t want you to see me as a man willing to serve this county. He wants you to see a criminal, a threat. He wants you to define yourself by fear and suspicion. I want you to vote for me because we have a chance to say that Carter County is better than its worst parts. We have a chance to deliver a new future. But I need your help to do it.”

  After the interview, Fallon walked them back out front, shook Frank’s hand and wished him the best. They said the same in return and went back out to Frank’s truck and sat there a minute.

  “You think it’ll make a difference?” Frank asked.

  “Hell, Frank. Just you saying something makes all the difference. I believe you’re a smart enough man to see that.”

  They then drove out to beat on doors to see if he was right.

  30

  HARRISON LEFT TOWN THE MORNING BEFORE THE ELECTION. HE HAD to take the opportunity while he had it. Once the votes started coming in he knew that Noon would expect everyone to be gathered around him and there would be no chance to slip away.

  He had packaged some of his money and put it in with a gym bag he would later fill with weed. There had been the temptation to move ahead with everything now, to go ahead and steal the rest of what he needed from Gavin’s stash, but it would be foolish to move forward
before everything had been set to rights.

  Delilah didn’t ask why he was going. She had stopped asking him a lot of things in the past week. A part of him wanted to take her aside and talk to her, to make her see what he was doing had to be done, but there was something in her that had begun to trouble him, something that seemed to back her up and leave her cornered. He could no longer trust her to side with him. Delilah would always make sure to look after herself, and if that meant shifting her allegiance he had no doubt she would. So he had not lingered when he told her he would be back the next morning in time to help with whatever errands Gavin might require on election day. And she had made no claim on his attention. As he left she’d said she liked having the bed to herself anyhow.

  When he got into Knoxville Emmanuel’s car was gone, so he sat out on the front porch until he got back. Already, it was hot and even in the mid-morning shade he was beginning to sweat. He pulled out his phone and checked the forecast. A line of strong thunderstorms were supposed to roll in from the west over the next couple of days, bring some of the first rain they’d seen in nearly five weeks. That would probably concern Gavin. He would need strong turnout, which probably meant he’d had them all getting out and driving as many people to the polls as they could. Still, Harrison would believe it when the weather actually materialized. Hard to believe there was anything still green in the ground. Weather like this was enough to make a man doubt the wisdom of living where he did. Take away everything, and so much of a life was still subject to the sun and how it beat down on your body.