Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  Aunt Amanda placed her hand on Ada’s, just for a moment, and that was enough.

  “There’s Will.” Aunt Amanda pointed out the window. “I had hoped he might come out while you were here.” She looked at the gas pumps, fifty yards away. “He’s the tall, black-haired young man out there. He just started yesterday.”

  Ada saw his back as he leaned against a pump, talking with two other men. A car pulled up, and Will took long, loping strides toward it.

  “I helped raise that boy. He’s my nephew, you know. His mother died giving birth to him. And when that happened, something disappeared in Sam, his father, and never returned. So, little Will would wander over to my house just about every day. Sam died of cancer four years ago. We had to sell the farm to cover the bills . . .” Aunt Amanda looked at Ada. “To be honest, he feels more like a son than a nephew.”

  “I bet he loves you.” Ada was not sure what to say.

  “Most of the time, especially now that he’s on his own and I don’t have to discipline him.”

  Another car pulled up, and Will began washing its windows. Even from this distance, Ada saw his huge grin.

  Will noticed his aunt and waved. Aunt Amanda waved back. Then he pointed to the sky, cupped his hands, and gave a loud cronk cronk sound.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Oh, that’s Will talking with the ravens. They must be up above us somewhere. On the drive in this morning, he told me he’d been watching a pair all day yesterday acting like they were feeding young. He wants to find the nest, and knowing him, he probably will.”

  Will looked back at the window, and Ada could tell he just now saw her. He waved again, but this time the gesture was awkward and hesitant. He turned to help the other men.

  For some reason, Ada suddenly recalled the sparrow from so long ago, the injured one she’d held until its eyes opened again and stared right into her. For a moment, Ada felt the quickness of its tiny heart in her palms, and looking out at Will, she felt her own heart flutter.

  Cicero

  Babies are the ugliest things, even if they’re your own. That skin all scrunched up nasty and wrinkly, the color off. When the pinfeathers come in, I swear they look like starlings, those fowl so foul they can’t be called birds. I loved our threesome, but my god of rat guts, some days I thought they were worse than ugly.

  They shit worse than ugly, too. Loot and me would come back to find one of them hadn’t made it to the edge, so we’d have to shove it over the side. That whole rock face below turned white streaked, like some piece of your modern art. I studied it one day and wondered if maybe instead of words, I should’ve taken up painting shit—forget Keats and Dickinson, make a go of it as the avian equivalent to your Pollock or Picasso.

  Anyway. I didn’t have time for art; those sweet little gutbags were always squawking for more food—more, more, more! Loot didn’t like going to the trash dump, but I didn’t mind. You just had to be careful. And the rewards! Sticky buns and hot dogs, eggs and cheese and oatmeal, lots of oatmeal.

  One morning way back when I was one of those ugly nestlings, my mom returned with something brown and red, with a little yellow, too. My two sisters and me, we opened our beaks wide as we could and set to begging for whatever she had. And Mom chose me, little ol’ ugly Cicero. She thrust that food into my beak, and right then, I knew what heaven tasted like. It’s a piece of a burger meat with ketchup and mustard. I immediately wanted more.

  8

  Same Day

  On his second day at work, Will parked his Plymouth at the back of the lot, up against the mountain.

  Aunt Amanda checked her hair in the mirror. “Did you remember your lunch?”

  “Of course.”

  “Right on time for my shift.” She looked at her watch. “So, Mr. William, what are you going to do for two hours?”

  “Oh, I might take a hike.” Will didn’t doubt that she knew. And she was probably the only one in the whole world who would’ve approved.

  “Watch for snakes” was all she said as she walked toward the HoJo’s back door.

  Will carried his lunch into the back room of the Esso garage.

  “Surprised to see you here so early,” Dickson said, which made him jump. “Just in time to help me do inventory. How about it?” He had a clipboard in his hand and a pencil behind his ear.

  Will had wanted to sneak in without seeing anyone. Just shove his lunch in his locker and head up the mountain. He should’ve known better. “I was hoping to hike up the mountain before my shift starts.” He opened his locker and found one of those little Bibles.

  “Thought you might need that,” Dickson said from behind him. “Why don’t you take that with you? Lots of people climb mountains in that good book.”

  The Bible had a leather cover just like the one on his bedside table, the one he hadn’t opened in years, the one that once belonged to his mother. “I already have one of these.” He held it out to Dickson.

  “Have another.” Dickson turned to look up at all the fan belts hanging from the ceiling. “Can you tell me the number on that long one?”

  Will slipped the Bible back in the locker and read the number. Then he headed out.

  “See you in an hour or so,” Dickson yelled.

  Will didn’t reply. Out in the lot, he wove between the big rigs, their engines idling, the drivers still asleep. At the incinerator, the air reeked of rotted eggs. Will held his breath and jogged past. Someone had dumped trash along the curb where he’d swept, which made him curse Dickson again. Will didn’t want to tear his uniform, so he squeezed through the hole in the chain link fence, slow and easy.

  On the other side, he paused. Already he’d scuffed his new black leather shoes, the only part of his uniform he had to buy. Yesterday, those shoes had become little Dutch ovens, the sun burning the tops, the asphalt a bed of coals underneath. He expected the same for today.

  Far across the wide valley the sun crested South Mountain. A shaft of light pierced the clouds, and the whole sky glowed, a rich wash of purples and pinks. In the night, the wind had shifted, and he was sure it would rain in a day or two.

  Down on the plaza, two Esso men filled a tractor-trailer, and behind HoJo’s, two slender women slammed their car doors and hurried to the kitchen. He looked at his watch; it read 7:05. “Somebody’s late for work,” he said and wondered who. Then he turned to face the mountain.

  The scrub growth stood thick at first, where the land was timbered to build the pike. Will scouted a path along a rivulet. Bending like a deer, he plunged through. The air smelled musky and wild, and somewhere ahead, a deer snorted. Soon, the path opened to mature oaks and hickories. Will straightened and stretched his back. The plaza had disappeared, but the sound of traffic stayed close. Can’t get lost with that noise. He pushed up the slope.

  Yesterday, from the station, he had plotted landmarks, mapped a route. The ravens kept flying to a cliff at the edge of a hollow. Now up close, the hollow looked twice as large, the rock face not yet visible.

  Will hummed Little Jimmy Dickens’s “I’m a Plain Old Country Boy.” Even though he didn’t go to church, he had plowed behind a mule just like Little Jimmy. And like the singer, Will could play the guitar. At first, he’d taught himself by listening to the radio, picking out the melody. Then for his thirteenth birthday, Aunt Amanda had given him a few lessons with Bill Freeman. Will learned enough about chords to work through Hank’s tunes, and Little Jimmy’s, too.

  About the same time, Will signed up for the junior high band because Betty Lee wanted to play the flute. That was her first and last name, but everyone called her that like it was one word—BettyLee. He sang those three syllables, over and over. Mr. Fogle, the band director, handed him a saxophone, said that’s what the band needed, so that’s what Will got to play. He hated it at first, the squeaks and sore lips. But Betty Lee loved it, and eventually that beat-up, scratched piece of metal yielded a melody. When his father hit his own steady snoring song, Will listened to big ban
ds on the late-night radio, working through the fingerings, memorizing the solos.

  Before his father died, Will used to like pissing him off with those squawks. “Go play that goddamn thing out in the barn,” he’d yell. So Will did, forcing their horses, Mac and Bob, to listen to scales and stupid marches. Later, in high school, Will went to the barn to play because he didn’t want Aunt Amanda to hear. He’d hole up in the empty grain bin with its tight walls; it held in the most warmth and his long, rambling riffs. He could follow a melody and get lost. He found a kind of peace in that music.

  The hollow forked, and Will stayed with the north branch, the stream getting narrower, the slope steeper. His feet slipped as he zigzagged up the mountain through a thicket of rhododendron, what his father called “laurel hells.” Just visible beyond was the cliff. He glanced at his watch and kept moving.

  The cliff face was brittle and loose, shale mostly. He skirted the bottom edge, searching for the nest. Because of the mountain’s steepness, he steadied himself against trees, moving from one to the next, the ground more rock than dirt, stone piled on stone.

  The sun heated the air, and he saw no snakes. Will broke some spicebush to wave away the gnats, the twig smelling tangy and sweet. For a moment, he rested against a boulder to look at the turnpike far below. The cars and trucks had become miniatures, the people tiny as toy soldiers. He wished for his water jug and hoped no one spotted him, especially Dickson.

  He was closer now. Will recognized one ledge that jutted out from the cliff. And there was a raven watching from an oak. “I’m just coming to look,” Will said aloud. “Don’t mean no harm.” The raven flew away.

  Will glanced at his watch again. Forty minutes left, and most of that he would need to climb back down. “Come on. Where are you?” He scanned the cliff, picking out any ledge large enough to hold a nest—all of them empty.

  A barred owl suddenly cut through the air to land in a hickory. It didn’t see Will, its eyes focused on the cliff. Will waited. Within a second, two ravens flew through the trees, squawking louder than Will had ever heard. One dove at the owl. The owl swiveled and looked once more at the cliff. Then it opened its wings, launched from the branch, and glided through the forest and disappeared. One raven followed for a while before wheeling above the trees. The other raven flew to the cliff, and at last, Will saw. Halfway up, a stunted cherry tree grew from the rock face, and at its base, a pile of sticks rested on its roots. The raven perched on the edge of the nest and murmured a soft call. Will heard the reply of two or three nestlings, and he could barely contain a shout. “Hot diggity!” he whispered. The other raven had flown to a tree directly above him, and the adult on the nest turned away from the young to look down at Will.

  “All right, all right,” Will said. “I’m leaving . . . but I’ll be back, don’t you worry.” He turned to slide down the mountain.

  Scoop spotted Will first as he loped around a tractor-trailer. “Where have you been?” He took in Will’s shoes, the dirt on his knees, the cuts on his forearms. A briar had sliced Will’s cheek, so he held a handkerchief to his face. “You look like you fought a bear.”

  Will looked down at his clothes, wondered where Dickson was. He kept facing Scoop. “You have any safety pins around?”

  “I think you need a little more than that,” Scoop said. He lifted his cap, wiped back his hair. “There might be some back in the back. What you need them for?”

  Will pointed to his butt. “I ripped my pants.”

  “Good God, boy, this is your second day at work and you already ripped your new pants. I’ve worked here twenty years and haven’t done that. Let me see.”

  Will turned and Scoop burst out laughing.

  Dino, at the far island waiting on two cars, hollered, “What’s so funny?”

  Scoop couldn’t stop laughing, so he waved for Dino to come over.

  “Come on, Scoop,” Will said. “This ain’t funny.”

  “No, it sure ain’t. You know Dickson’s fixing to come out here any minute.” Scoop busted out laughing again.

  “What’s going on here?” Dino asked in a deep voice, imitating Dickson. “And where the hell you been?”

  Scoop bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath. He just pointed at Will.

  “I ripped my pants, Dino,” Will said. “Think you could get me some safety pins?”

  “Do what?”

  Will turned slightly to show the long rip. The whole seam that separated one cheek from the other was wide open.

  “I like your drawers,” Dino smiled and shook his head. “How the hell you do that?”

  Will told them he got here early so he could climb the mountain. “There’s a raven’s nest right up on that cliff.” He turned and pointed, forgetting for a moment, then turning quickly back. “When I came scrambling down, I slipped a couple of times. These shoes are worth shit for climbing.”

  “I see what you mean,” Dino said. “They’re worth shit for pumping gas now, too.”

  “Come on, you guys, help me out.”

  “What do you say?” Dino turned to Scoop. “We could send him in to Dickson.”

  “Or we could just leave him to fend for himself,” Scoop added. “All them young college girls coming through sure would enjoy the show.”

  Will’s face reddened. He couldn’t believe Scoop had once taught him in Sunday school.

  “What do you think Dickson will do?” Dino asked.

  “I’d guess he might fire him,” Scoop replied, and this sobered them.

  “OK, Will, ol’ buddy,” Scoop said. “It’s 9:05, so you’re already late for the punch clock. Dickson will be out here looking any minute. You slip into the restaurant, go to the men’s room, and get washed up. Try to stop that cheek from bleeding. I’ll go back to the lockers and find you another pair of pants. They might not fit right, but at least they won’t be drafty. Dino, you got the islands?”

  “Got it, boss.” Dino headed to the four cars lined up for gas.

  “But I can’t go into HoJo’s. There’s people in there.”

  “People out here too, son. And Dickson on the way.” Scoop turned to walk away.

  Will held onto the back of his pants and hurried toward the restaurant.

  When he entered Howard Johnson’s, the first person he saw was a tall woman, about his age, standing behind the ice cream counter. “Hello,” she said, “and welcome to Howard Johnson’s.” Her voice had a funny squeak, and she looked at him oddly, her long neck bending like a bird’s.

  Will waved his hand with the hankie in it, revealing the cut on his cheek. He said hi and stammered a moment, before asking, “Restroom?”

  The woman pointed and Will scurried past, thanking her. He took giant steps sideways, his back to the wall all the way to the restroom. At the door, he never turned, just stumbled backward. Inside, he locked himself in a stall, sat, and put his head in his hands.

  A few minutes later, Scoop yelled, “You in here?”

  Will came out.

  “These are the best I could find.” Scoop laid the pants on the counter. “I think they belong to Dickson, so you’ll have to tighten your belt and pull up your socks. You won’t have to worry about wading any streams on your way home.”

  Will thanked him and held up the pants. They wouldn’t cover his ankles, but they didn’t have any rips, either.

  “Dickson came out looking for you. I told him you had a little emergency on the way here. A flat tire, right?”

  Will shook his head. “He saw me early this morning already, right before I headed up the mountain. He’ll know it’s a lie.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to tell him the truth, if he asks.”

  Will nodded and pulled his belt. “Thanks, Scoop.”

  The pants were about four inches too big at the waist and four inches too short at the ankle, and for a moment, Will debated about going back out. He looked in the mirror, brushed his hair, blotted blood from the cut, and tried to scratch away a new pimple. He cinched his
belt one more time before walking out, muttering, “Damn ravens.”

  The young woman was serving ice cream, so Will slipped by, hoping she didn’t see. At the door, he looked back. She smiled, her lips closed, and he couldn’t tell if she saw his pants or not.

  Outside, Dickson seemed to be in a good mood. “Well, Mr. Will, looks like you grew a few inches.” They all looked at his ankles, the white socks barely hiding his white shins. “And I thought those were new shoes. I expect them to look better tomorrow. Say, how’d you get that cut?”

  “Got too close to some briars,” Will replied.

  “Did you have a good trip up that mountain?”

  Will shrugged. “I found a raven’s nest, for what that’s worth.”

  “Do any reading up there?”

  Will shook his head. “Ran out of time.” He was glad when a Dodge pulled in.

  After lunch, Dickson went home, replaced by Johnny Hilton as the shift boss. He was a tall man with a crew cut, a barrel chest, and a high-pitched voice that surprised Will. Hilton also liked to smoke, which meant he leaned against the restaurant’s wall, in the one spot of shade, and watched the other men work. He came to help pump gas only after he finished his cigarette, not any sooner.

  “Dickson might be a dickhead,” Woody said under his breath. He’d come on the same shift as Hilton. “But at least he works.”

  “Yeah, but Hilton leaves you alone,” Dino added.

  “I’ll say. Alone to do all the work.”

  Will just listened and moved from car to car. He liked this work, so far, at least. He liked the ebb and flow of traffic, the orderliness of tasks, the quickness of seeing a rush of traffic disappear. He liked the other guys, too. Most of them anyway. They were like brothers and uncles he’d never had.

  After finishing a windshield, Will started balancing the squeegee in his hand. The traffic had slowed, and the other men leaned against the pump, trading jokes. Will placed the tip of the handle in his palm so that the squeegee formed a “T” in the air. He moved his hand left and right, keeping the tool upright, watching the top. Then he switched his hands, the squeegee staying upright.