Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  Will washed the windshield of a new car. Woody moved to the other side, waited for him to finish. “So,” Will took a deep breath, “why are you called ‘Woody’?”

  Woody spat and rubbed his mustache. He grinned, but his eyes cut sharp. “I talk so damn fast that one time Coach Clemmons said I sounded like Woody Woodpecker. And that was that.” He dropped the squeegee in the bucket and moved to another car.

  Will waited for the gas to finish. He remembered, after another fight with his father, asking his aunt about his own name. “It was one of your mother’s last requests—‘Name him William, Will for short,’” Aunt Amanda had told him. “To honor her father.”

  They had been in the garden, Aunt Amanda on her knees harvesting peas, Will eating them raw. “Samuel wanted to name you Childerson after our father, but he honored her request.”

  “Sometimes he acts like it hurts him to call me that.”

  “Your mother was a strong and beautiful woman, and she could be as stubborn as your father.” She looked at him. “I think she knew what she was doing naming you Will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She scooted down the row. “You’re strong and good-looking, like her, and just as stubborn as both of your parents.”

  “So?”

  “You might need that strong will in the future, Mr. William.”

  Will ate some more peas. “That still doesn’t answer why Pop’s so hard on me.”

  “You know, when he was growing up, he loved birds just like you,” Aunt Amanda told him. “But he loved the railroad even more. And that’s where he went off to work.” She slid her basket down the row. “Remember those cartoons you found last winter? Your father drew them when he worked as a conductor on the Harrisburg to Pittsburgh line. Now he had talent.” The drawings covered the backs of punched tickets. On one, a big-nosed man wore a fedora. On another, a curly poodle sat in a woman’s lap.

  “But our father died,” Aunt Amanda said, “and as the only son, Sam had to come home to tend the farm. Plodding behind two mules never could match the rhythm of the rail. He still drew, though. He even did portraits of me and Mary Julia.” She paused to shift some vines. “Then sweet Mary died. And Samuel never was the same.”

  She stopped picking, and looked him in the eye. “He loves you, Will, he just doesn’t always know how to show it.”

  ON his lunch break, Will found the raven asleep in the car, so he tiptoed backward and then walked to the garage. He reached for his lunch and saw that Dickson had left another religious pamphlet propped against the bag. He slipped it into Woody’s locker. As he turned, Will almost stepped on one of Dino’s traps, the metal bar having brained a poor mouse. “Now, this looks like yummy to a bird.” He carried it by the tail to the car.

  The raven startled when Will opened the door. It made plaintive cries, and Will hushed him with, “It’s all right, it’s all right, now.” He leaned in and the raven rubbed its beak against his palm. “So, you like your beak stroked?” His fingers rubbed the smooth hardness. The raven made a soft rasp and closed its eyes.

  “Look. I found you something.” He waved the dead mouse in front of the bird. “Ain’t that what you like, ol’ buddy? A mouse for dinner? Shoot, if I’d a stuffed it, we coulda called this Thanksgiving.” The bird quieted and stared at the mouse. “What do you say? How about eating for me?” Will laid the tiny carcass in front of the raven. The bird touched its beak to the gray fur. Soon, it made a different call, not so pitiful, maybe even a little raucous. “I thought you’d like that.”

  With its beak, the bird flipped the mouse, tossing it to the other side of the seat. It hobbled a few steps to pick it up and throw the mouse again. The whole time it made louder caws, grunts almost, clacks and knocks.

  “I think it might be Thanksgiving after all,” Will said. “Should I get Aunt Amanda to make shoofly pie for dessert?”

  As it murmured, the raven ran the mouse sideways back and forth through its beak. It crunched every bone, the cracks sounding like popcorn, and one eyeball dangled free. Then the bird tossed the limp form straight up to catch it headfirst. The mouse went down in one gulp.

  “That was some kind of good, wasn’t it?” The raven squawked in agreement. “Do you need another towel?” And again, a loud croak. Every time Will spoke, the raven replied with a loud, low caw. “You’re a talkative fellow.” Will rubbed its beak. “We need you a name.” The beak stroking quieted it.

  Will remembered his favorite teacher, Mr. Harris, who had made them read old Greeks and Romans. Will remembered liking the name of one, liking how it sounded.

  “Cicero,” Will said aloud, and the raven looked him in the eye. “That sounds like a dignified name for a raven. And he liked to talk a lot, too. Maybe you’ll do great things like him, ol’ boy.” Will rubbed the raven’s head. “Cicero,” he said softly as the bird settled to sleep.

  Cicero

  I wasn’t ready to give up on flying. Not yet. Mr. Hoover and his hot hands and whatever words he said—I have to admit they got me hoping. Back then, I still had faith in words and all their power.

  But in my head, I just had to give that cutoff foot a toss. It was gone, no use mewing like a cat over it. I could hop and I could grip with my good foot, and once the other healed, I could hold down food with my stub. Just call me Hop-Along. Or Peg-Leg. Just give me an eye patch and call me Cap’n Rook.

  But instead, Will called me Cicero, and it seemed to fit.

  At Aunt Amanda’s one day later that summer, Will read from one of her encyclopedias. I sat on the lamp while Aunt Amanda dusted. Both of us listened.

  “That’s you, Cicero.” He pointed to a drawing of a man. “An orator, a great elocutionist.”

  I just squawked. I loved the sound of that, an elocutionist. Something electric in how it rolls out of the beak.

  “It says here Cicero comes from the Latin for chickpea.” He looked at me. “That’s some kind of bean. Have you ever eaten it, Aunt Amanda?”

  “I think so, but can’t say I remember. We might have to try some sometime.”

  He went back to reading. “Says Cicero’s letters sparked the European Renaissance, and his writings influenced our Founding Fathers and the French revolutionaries.”

  I cronked again.

  “Wasn’t he murdered?” Aunt Amanda asked.

  “I’m getting to that. Looks like his speeches got him in trouble with Antony, who ordered his beheading. It says Cicero’s last words were, ‘There is nothing proper about what you are doing, soldier, but do try to kill me properly.’ Then he bowed his head and had it chopped off.”

  This got me riled. I cawed and squawked and flew around the room.

  “I agree, Cicero,” Will said. “Seems like he could’ve at least put up a fight.”

  I gave a throaty rattle. I’d a pecked out an eye or two before flying away.

  “His hands were also cut off because he wrote so much against Antony. And then Antony’s wife, a lady named Fulvia, pulled out Cicero’s tongue and jabbed it with a hairpin. Can you believe that?”

  Aunt Amanda just humphed. I clacked and squawked. I didn’t like how this was going.

  “Modern scholars don’t seem to like him either.” Will kept reading. “A guy by the name of Friedrich Engels called him ‘the most contemptible scoundrel in history.’ And another guy said his letters show him as ‘vain’ and ‘pompous.’ You’re not vain or pompous, are you, Cicero?”

  I did a soft murmur and set to preening my feathers. I had heard enough.

  16

  Same Day

  By afternoon, Will couldn’t find any more mice or pet food in the locker room, so he opened the back door to the restaurant. Metal bowls clanged, the dishwashing machine belched steam, and coffee cups clinked against trays. Waitresses and cooks swirled around. He took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair while he stood just inside the door. The temperature in the kitchen was ten degrees hotter than outside. He smelled burgers frying, and something else, stro
nger, familiar but not pleasant.

  Freddie, his toupee stiff, his smile wide, shouted over his shoulder a hello. He stood at a counter and worked his arm, chopping. When he turned and grabbed another cabbage, Will finally recognized the overpowering smell.

  “Getting ready to cook some cabbage,” Freddie yelled. “Pity your aunt isn’t here. I know how much she loves this dish.”

  Will smiled and agreed. He didn’t mention how much the smell made him sick.

  Will stepped closer. “I need a favor. I got a rescued bird in my car, and I need to feed it. Think you could get me some raw burger?”

  “Sure,” Freddie said, wiped his hands, and looked around, searching for Mabel. He disappeared, and Will heard the walk-in refrigerator slamming shut.

  Will waited by the screen door. Someone had propped open the swinging door to the dining room, so down the hallway, Will could see into the fountain area. One customer sat at the counter, and a few waitresses moved in and out of view, getting coffee.

  Another waitress came around the corner. She made some kind of soda, her hands just out of sight. She was tall, and her brown hair brushed the tops of her shoulders. She frowned, bit her bottom lip. When she turned, she still didn’t see him, her eyes focused on the drinks.

  Will slicked back his hair and worked to hide in the shadows. She was the same woman who had greeted him after he’d ripped his pants yesterday, the same one he’d seen looking out the window. What was her name? Ada, yes, Ada, whose family had had the barn fire. Will almost called out, but then Freddie brought burger meat and she disappeared.

  Later, when his shift ended at 4:00, Will lollygagged by the pumps.

  “What are you doing?” Scoop asked. “Go on and tend your bird.”

  “I’m thinking of getting some ice cream,” Will said.

  Woody overheard. “That so, ol’ Whip?” He leaned against the pump. “That Miss Ice Cream is mighty pretty. Might need to get you a scoop.”

  “Shut up.” Will socked him in the arm.

  “Hey, she’s best friends with my cousin Ellie. Here, I’ll introduce you.” Woody stepped out into the middle of the lot and faced the restaurant. He whistled and waved both arms. Then he cupped his hands. “Hey, Miss Ice Cream. This here’s Whippoorwill.” Customers turned to stare at Woody, who just rubbed his moustache and spat.

  “Tell her he’s crazy for birds, but she might like him,” Scoop said.

  Woody cupped his hands again. “Whip, here, is crazy for birds, but he hasn’t grown any feathers yet. And you might like him.” He returned to the pumps. “There. I introduced you.”

  Will threw another punch, but Woody just laughed and dodged between the pumps.

  Teacup joined the group. “You know, she can’t drive. She caught a ride with me this morning. You might give her a ride home.”

  “Oo, that’s a good idea,” Woody agreed. “But you’ll have to hurry before she melts.”

  “Just ignore them.” Scoop turned his back to Woody and Teacup. “And don’t ask to take her home the first time you meet. That’s fool’s advice and you know it.”

  Will tucked in his shirt, ran his hand over his hair, and settled his cap down tight. He took a quick look at his reflection in the gas pump window before walking toward Howard Johnson’s. He hoped he didn’t stink too much of sweat and bird. He heard Woody yelling, “Good luck,” and pretended not to hear. At the door, Will took a deep breath and wondered what he’d say.

  Ada stood behind the ice cream counter, waiting on a family. Will got in line. She bent sideways, her long arms reaching into the freezer, her uniform tight in the right places. Over the counter, she handed a tiny scoop of chocolate to a freckle-faced girl.

  The family moved away, so that Will found himself stepping to the counter. He took off his cap, looked at the tubs of ice cream, and tried to act relaxed.

  “May I help you?” Ada asked.

  Will glanced up, saw her smile, her slightly crooked teeth, her bright hazel eyes. He wondered about her voice and looked back at the ice cream, searching the different colors. “How about pistachio, one scoop, please?”

  She wrapped a napkin around a cone and pulled a clean scoop out of the tray.

  “Pretty day out, isn’t it?” Will thought, Jeez, how stupid.

  Ada looked out the window and nodded. “Yes, yes, indeed.” She hesitated, glanced at Will and then over her shoulder before she bent to scoop.

  “I’m Will, Will Burk.” He rolled his hat between his hands, watched her tight skirt as she bent.

  “That’s what your aunt told me.” She stayed bent over, working with the ice cream. “I’m Ada Franklin.” She looked up at him through the glass. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too.” He raised up on his toes, rocked a little on his feet. “I rescued a raven yesterday.”

  “That so?” Ada kept her head in the freezer, glancing up as she spoke. “Where’d you find it?”

  “Up on the cliff behind the station.” Will pointed. “That storm the other night blew its nest down and killed its family, but this one was still alive. He’s in my car right now. You’ll have to come have a look sometime.”

  “I’d like that.” Ada worked in the freezer. “Not today, though. I don’t get off for another two hours.”

  “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “No, I’m off. But after that I’m on for a week.”

  Will wondered what was taking her so long. “You live near Hopewell, right?”

  Ada nodded. “Right over that little ridge on the other side of the pike.”

  Will looked out the window. “Sorry to hear about your barn.”

  She didn’t look at him but said, “Thank you.”

  Finally Ada stood and pressed the ice cream down into the cone one last time. She handed Will the cone, and for a moment her fingers brushed his.

  Will was startled by the heat, wondered why the ice cream didn’t instantly melt, wondered why he didn’t just melt. He looked from the ice cream into her face and saw a smile but also a curious gaze. Then he understood. He held three scoops, not just one. “I only ordered one scoop,” he said softly.

  “I know,” she said, that voice sounding birdlike to him. She released her hand, covered her smile, and nodded him toward the door. But before he turned, Ada winked.

  Will hurried outside and took a lick, the drips already running over his fingers. But he’d forgotten to pay for one scoop, let alone three. He was too embarrassed to go back in, especially when Woody yelled from the pumps. Will just waved and hurried to the car, the ice cream melting.

  In the restaurant, Ada washed the dipper and pretended to read a sign on the wall. She couldn’t believe she’d winked.

  III

  A man and a woman

  Are one.

  A man and a woman and a blackbird

  Are one.

  —Wallace Stevens

  17

  In the early dawn, Ada slipped into her worn dress, glad to be off from HoJo’s for a day. She brushed her hair and picked up her amulet from the bureau. How long had it been?—six years at least since she’d read the ad. She had wondered about a stone’s power, yet she’d believed enough to place money in an envelope addressed to Mr. Walter I. Rand in Boston.

  The black stone fell into her palm, cool, dark, and shiny. The size of her thumbnail, it had a white streak of quartz like a lightning strike. The first time she’d held it, she’d known it had special power.

  In his letter, Mr. Rand called it the Oriental Lucky Stone and said it should “be worn about the person for luck & prosperity.” The letter told of how his charms had saved many soldiers in World War II and now in Korea. He also told of a mother who fell out of a bus with no injury to her or the child she held. Ada had kept the pebble in her pocket ever since.

  She rolled the amulet between her thumb and finger. It had been in her pocket through the fire. Maybe this pebble had saved her from the burning timber. Or maybe it was the Lord. Or maybe it was just dumb l
uck.

  Their new minister called it idolatry to believe in amulets, but he also disavowed her healing. What would he say now that she couldn’t powwow? The Lord has punished you for helping others? The Lord has forsaken you for believing in miracles? That was not a gospel she accepted. She slid the stone into her pocket and headed out to help with the milking.

  When she returned to the kitchen, she heard the sizzle of grease and smelled bacon. “Mama, you’re not supposed to be cooking.” Her mother forked fried strips onto a serving plate, her hands wrapped, her fingers swollen.

  “Oh, I can hold a fork just fine,” she said. “And Mark’s taking care of the pain.”

  That silenced Ada. Her mother didn’t mean any harm, but mentioning Uncle Mark just slid open the curtain onto her failure.

  The three of them ate breakfast in silence, her parents reading the morning paper. “Another shipload of soldiers heading to Korea,” her mother said. Nathan’s chair sat empty beside her.

  “Here’s the little piece about our fire.” Her father laid down the paper. “Now we’re in the history annals for all to know.” He excused himself and headed back out, leaving his eggs and bacon only half eaten. Her mother watched and shook her head.

  After Ada washed the dishes, she told her mother, “I’m going to the mountain to gather plants. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Might not be until milking. Tell Papa.” Her mother wished her well. Ada found her basket and whistled for Lucky.

  The morning sun had burned off the fog, and now the air hung heavy. Across the road and up two houses sat the church her great-grandfather had helped build on land he donated. A small structure, all brick with a high bell tower and a cemetery behind, it had always been her sanctuary, even before she understood that word.

  On the far side of the church, Reverend Zigler and his wife lived in the parsonage. Ada didn’t want to talk with him today, so she kept the church between her and the house. At the heavy wooden door, she told Lucky to wait. The black-and-white border collie sat in the shade and watched the door close.