Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  Will thought I slept in his car those first days, and for the most part, I did. That’s the job of recovering raven. But I also admired all those shiny knobs. I mean, that whole dashboard gleamed—a glider for the heat control, two buttons for the radio, the bright grip of the gear shifter. “Admired” is too soft a word. I coveted all that shine. I wanted to eat it up. Well, not really. But I did want to yank them off and stash them in some secret place.

  And then there were all those people walking by. They talked like nothing, like words were cheap little tokens to toss away. “What do you want to eat?” “Bobby, get over here right now.” “My, what a hot day.” You could tell by the way they spoke the words meant nothing.

  By god of ruint nests, not with me.

  21

  Same Day

  Halfway through the first cow, Will squeezed just right, and he understood how to get gushes of milk. Instead of milking only two cows, he finished the evening by milking four.

  When they poured the last buckets into the strainer, her father said to Ada, “He might be milking the whole herd in a week, what do you think?”

  “Just in time for me to stop milking and start putting up beans and corn.”

  Will snugged down his hat and coughed to cover his grumbling stomach.

  “That bird eat all your lunch?”

  Will shrugged. “A little bit.”

  “Well, join us for supper this time. How about it?”

  “That sounds good.”

  Ada’s mother greeted them at the door. She was a big woman with curly dark hair, and she hobbled as if from a bad knee. Her arms swung at her sides, each hand wrapped in bandages. Will saw where Ada got her intense hazel eyes and smooth, high forehead.

  “Sorry I missed you yesterday,” she said.

  He fumbled with his hands, not sure what to do. At last he tipped his hat with a “Pleased to meet you.” A full spread covered the table. His stomach growled again.

  When Peter said the blessing, Will peeked at Ada. Her eyes were shut, her forehead pinched. He looked down right before they all said, “Amen.”

  Later, in the middle of dessert, they heard a truck rumble into the lane. “Wonder who that is?” Peter excused himself. “Looks like a load of block. Why, I haven’t ordered any yet.” He headed out the door.

  “You go on,” Kate said to Will and Ada. “I’ll clean up.”

  Ada hesitated, but her mother gave her a stern look and nodded to the door.

  Outside in the fading light, Peter greeted Norman and Jesse Shupe as they climbed down from the cab.

  “Eb Hammond, the man I just finished building a basement for,” Norman said, “had these block left over. When I told him about your barn, he said to take and give’m to you.” Jesse unloosened the binders. “They ain’t enough for the whole job”—Norman looked toward the barn—“but they might build one wall.”

  “Well . . . I’m truly grateful, Norman. To you and Eb.”

  Will stepped forward. “Where would you like them stacked, Mr. Franklin?”

  “Over there should be out of the way.”

  Jesse slid the first two to the edge, and Will lugged them to the corner of a shed. Then Jesse handed Ada one block. She cradled it like a lamb.

  Before he released his grip, Jesse said, “Hello, Ada.” His voice was soft. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Hi, Jesse.” She took the block and turned.

  Norman asked, “Who’s the young fella?”

  Her father said, “I should’ve introduced you. That’s Will Burk, a friend of Ada’s.” She heard her father and Norman grab blocks and wondered what Jesse was thinking.

  The next two blocks almost slid off of the bed and hit Will on the chest. “Whoa, there,” he said to Jesse. They exchanged hard looks before Will’s arms swung down with the load.

  “So. That’s your new boyfriend?” Jesse crouched and held Ada’s next block.

  “He’s just a friend, Jesse. Leave him alone.” She turned and walked away. She should’ve asked if he was back with Miss Ra-Ra, if she still wore his jacket, the two-timing hiney-wipe.

  Again, at Will’s turn, the blocks slid hard across the bed. One fell off and almost hit his foot.

  “Easy.” He stared at Jesse. “That about cut off a toe.”

  Jesse said, “Pity,” but Will didn’t hear as he paced off with the load.

  “You leave him alone,” Ada warned as she grabbed another block.

  “If he’s only a friend . . .”

  “You leave him alone.” She turned away, the older men behind her, waiting.

  This time, both blocks fell off, and one hit Will’s shin. “What the hell did I do to you?” He started climbing onto the bed, but Jesse kicked him in the chest, and he fell back hard onto the ground.

  Ada dropped her block and knelt by Will. “You all right?”

  He nodded, got up, and stared at Jesse, who stood at the edge, waiting.

  “Leave him, Will. He’s just a no-account ex-boyfriend.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  Mr. Shupe climbed up onto the bed. “I think I’ll finish unloading, son. Go take a break in the cab.”

  Jesse jumped off the other side, the cab door creaking open. He cranked up the radio and lit a cigarette.

  On the next load, Mr. Shupe set Will’s blocks on the edge. He didn’t look at Will or speak. He just turned and kept moving blocks. Soon, the truck emptied and the Shupes left, their exhaust fumes fogging the taillights’ glow.

  Peter thanked Will for his help and apologized for Jesse. Then he headed into the lighted house.

  At the Plymouth, Will checked on Cicero. The bird was quiet, his eyes open. Will whispered, “Hey, buddy. It’s all right.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Ada asked.

  Will rested his back against the fender and said yeah. “So, how serious were you two?”

  Ada crossed her arms. “Serious enough that I thought I might get a ring at Christmas.”

  “Damn. What happened?” He touched her arm, pulling her to lean against the car beside him.

  “I found out about his other girl, and that was that.”

  Will reached into the car and pulled out a small flask. “All those blocks made me thirsty.” He unscrewed the top and offered Ada a drink.

  “What’s that?”

  “My friend Jack.”

  Ada shook her head and watched. Will tilted back the bottle and then made a long, pained sigh.

  “Are you sure?” He offered the flask again. “It’s good for what ails you.”

  “Our family doesn’t drink.”

  “Neither does Aunt Amanda, but that hasn’t stopped me.” He swirled the liquor in front of her.

  Ada smiled. “I feel like I’m being tempted by the Devil.”

  “Ah, not me. No horns, tail, or cloven hoof here.”

  She took the flask and put her nose to the mouth. “This smells like the stuff I make tinctures with.”

  “Oh, so you do know Jack. He’s good for pickling all kinds of things. Just a little won’t hurt, now.”

  She touched the rim to her lips and flicked a sip into her mouth. The fire drained down her throat, making her cough. She handed him the flask and wiped her mouth.

  Then Ada felt Will’s hand on her chin. She faced him, this boy with the cowlick and blue eyes, and she leaned to taste his lips.

  As they kissed, they both heard the deep rattling call of the raven.

  22

  Ada sat with her mother on the porch, where they snapped string beans. They talked little because the noise from across the driveway was so loud. Lloyd Koontz operated his bulldozer, his yellow cap pulled low. He lowered the blade and pushed what was left of the barn into a pile. Then he backed away from the charred timbers to push again. Back and forth, he steered his machine and circled the pile, his head jiggling with each jolt.

  Peter worked close by, pulling off a piece of roofing that wouldn’t burn or picking up debris missed by the dozer.


  Around noon, Lloyd finished and climbed down from his machine. He wiped his hands on an oil rag. “That’s as good as I can do for now.” He looked at Peter, then the overcast sky. “We’ll light her this afternoon. No wind, and the weather’s right.”

  After a quick meal, Ada left the dishes in the sink and ran after her father. From a shed, they carried burlap, paper, cardboard, and a few old tires. Lloyd helped make small piles around the base of the pushed-up timbers. Her father poured kerosene over the cardboard and tires.

  Ada stepped back and watched. She wanted to say be careful to her father, but she didn’t. He lit a match and threw it on each pile. They whooshed into flames. When he finished, he stood with Lloyd by the dozer to watch.

  Ada retreated to the pile of cinder blocks and sat against the cool stack. She didn’t want to watch, yet she had to. Aunt Amanda’s snake story drifted into her thoughts—“Being afraid . . . is a sin,” she had said. And Uncle Mark’s words echoed, too. “It ain’t the fire that burns . . .” Why was she so afraid? “Help me, Lord,” she whispered.

  The flames grew, and soon a plume of black smoke filled the gray sky. The pile popped and hissed with the noise of fire making a business of wood. The heat rolled like waves, the sound of it like a constant thunderstorm bearing no rain.

  The rush of air made her recall Reverend Zigler’s sermon. After he preached against her healing, she had considered not attending, not playing the piano anymore. “But that just gives him the upper hand,” her mother had said. “He’s wrong and we all know it. There might be a few he’ll win over, but not many.”

  “You can’t just stop because of one Sunday, Ady,” her father joined in. “Besides, you might learn something from his other sermons.” He had been right. Just yesterday, she had listened from her seat by the piano while Reverend Zigler preached for a whole hour on one word. He had that cadence and deep voice of practiced preachers. She tried to focus on just the words. “The Greeks,” the voice proclaimed, “had an amazing word, pneuma.” He spelled it out. “It literally means the movement of air, but for them it also meant spirit and breath. That means our every breath is also part of God’s breath. When we breathe, we breathe God. And when we blow on a fire to get it started, we ignite the Holy Spirit.”

  God was in the air, this air, her breath, and God was in the fire, every fire, even the barn fire. At least that’s what she wanted to believe. Yet she hadn’t felt Him in the barn fire. Why? And how could anyone tell the difference between the holy fire in Moses’s bush and the perpetual fire of hell?

  There in the church it came to her that somehow hers was a story of fire, her life defined by flame—like it was water she needed to drink. She needed that tingling power, that fire of healing, of the Holy Spirit. That fire that burns but also cleans away all sins.

  But what was her greatest sin? Pride in her good deeds? Fear of fire? She suddenly realized that if she feared fire, then she also feared death. And if she feared death, she didn’t know God. “Give it up,” Uncle Mark had said. She wished she knew how.

  Something exploded in the fire before her now and made Ada jump. The pile blazed high. On her arm a small spot reddened where a spark had landed. She blew to cool it but didn’t say the chant.

  AT work all afternoon, Will watched the plume of smoke. He wanted to leave and help put out the fire, but Bishop told him not to worry. “The Franklins are just burning the rest of the barn, clearing it to make room for a new one.”

  Two hours later, Will parked across the road from the Franklin farm. To Cicero he said, “Take a nap, big boy. I’ll be back in a little.” Then he slicked his hair and crossed the road.

  As he walked toward Peter and the other man, Will watched the barn fire spit and fizzle, small flames flaring up. But some other movement made him look away—Ada running toward him. Before he could say hello, she hugged him, her body shaking in sobs. He wrapped his arms around her, felt her tremble as she caught her breath.

  “Whoa, there. What’s wrong?” She didn’t talk. Kate from the porch and Peter and the other man all watched for a moment before turning away. Will saw little, his eyes covered in the loose mass of her hair. He was surprised by her thinness, like if he didn’t hold on to her, a wind might whip her away.

  “You all right?” he asked when she settled a little. She nodded, then released her hold and dried her eyes on her sleeve. Will offered his handkerchief, and she blew her nose, the loud noise embarrassing.

  “This sure is ladylike.” She grinned, glancing at him as she handed back the white hankie.

  They stood there in the driveway, embarrassed and silent, Ada hugging herself, looking toward the mountain where the smoke drifted. Will followed her gaze but watched her out of the corner of his eye.

  Ada dropped her arms. “Come on. I want to show you something.” Will wanted to hold her hand, but she stayed out of reach, her arms swinging at her sides.

  They walked like that, Ada a step ahead, Will surprised by her long strides. She led him around the garden and behind a crib filled with corn. When they turned the corner, the house and garden disappeared, and they entered an orchard. Will heard the turnpike, and when the smoke shifted, he saw trucks cruising down the slope a quarter mile away. The mountain hovered over them.

  Ada marched through the orchard. The land rose until they left the fruit trees and entered a bowl, a small hollow laid out in rows of bushes all the way to the turnpike fence. They seemed familiar, yet Will couldn’t identify them. “Blueberries?” he asked.

  Ada smiled and nodded before bending to pick. In a few moments she turned to him, her palms outstretched. “Here,” she offered, and he put a berry into his mouth.

  “They’re good.” He took another.

  “You can eat more than that.” She poured all she had picked into his palm. “We have a few to spare.” She motioned to the long rows. “I talked Daddy into planting these a few years ago, and they’re just starting to mature. Next year we’ll officially open to the public.”

  Will picked beside her. “Can’t say that I’ve ever seen this many.”

  “Oh, this is only five hundred. There’s a farm in New Jersey that has thousands that I’d like to see sometime.”

  They picked and ate, circling one bush, then another, the rest of the farm out of view.

  After a while, Ada stopped to listen. She strode to the top of the hill, where she looked over the whole farm. Will followed her gaze down the slope to the homestead. Smoke hovered low, and the bulldozer had started pushing the black remains of the smoldering pile.

  Ada sat in the grass. Her quietness startled Will, so he sat beside her. They said nothing for a long while, the throb of traffic behind, the dozer rattling below. Finally he asked, “You were there, weren’t you, when the barn burned?”

  Ada’s whole body trembled. She looked at her hands and nodded. In a low raspy voice, she began. “We were quilting, Mama and me, waiting for Papa to come home. I heard Lucky barking and went to the window, but the lane was empty. Then I saw smoke coming from under the barn door. And I heard the cows.” She told Will about entering the smoke, unhooking the cows, the timber falling on Seven. But she didn’t tell him about the Lord’s Prayer catching in her throat, or what happened after the fire, in the kitchen when she tried to chant. What might he say, this friend who was still a stranger?

  Will touched the tears from her cheek. Then he leaned and kissed her, and for some reason, she remembered that word, pneuma. She wondered how long she could keep kissing before she had to breathe.

  Cicero

  That damn boy left me in the car. Again. I watched him walk toward the fire, and I watched her come running through the smoke and hug him so hard it looked like a tackle. Then the two of them just disappeared. The smoke was so thick, for all I knew, they could’ve gone into the fire. I swear he would follow her anywhere.

  Thank god of riled winds, Will left my window open. I hopped to the edge, looked back to where he disappeared, and then spread my one win
g and jumped. I know it was about as graceless as a rat snake, especially the landing, but I didn’t break anything. I hopped around the car and scanned the road for traffic. I thought of that damn joke: Why are there always two crows in the road? So one can eat and one can watch for cars and call, “Caw, caw.” Cackful terrible, I know. And there was just one of me.

  After a truck passed, I started my one-legged ambulation across that deathy wide macadam. Why did the chicken cross the road? I asked myself. Because he was an idiot, that’s why. I made it, just barely, before another truck’s fat tires zoomed six inches from my tail. Damn wit wanks.

  I still couldn’t see, that smoke so thick. I kept moving, cursing those damn bandages the whole time. The yellow dozer worked to my left, and somewhere in the other direction I imagined that shit-for-brains was taking a nap. The dozer was so loud I couldn’t hear well, and I wish I had been right about that dog napping.

  He came silently, and if I hadn’t heard one quick pant, he would’ve been on me before I could’ve turned. I was lucky to get a good beak whack right on the tip of his muzzle. That stopped him with a squeal, but he didn’t run off. No, he started pacing back and forth, barking his idiot self hoarse. He had me backed up against a stack of blocks, and with all the smoke, I couldn’t see any better shelter. So I hopped up on one. That gave me a little advantage for his next charge, which came from my weak side. Oh, hell, I had two weak sides, what with a stub and a broken wing. So, anyway, this time the dog came from my left. I got him near the eye with a peck, and he knocked me for a tumble off the cement. I knew I was done for if I didn’t move quick. Somehow, I got back up on the block and found another edge higher up, so I scrambled up that stack until I was a good four feet off the ground. Amazing what a little adrenaline will get you.

  That dog didn’t quit, I’ll give him that. He came back and did this perpetual pogo-stick maneuver. I hunkered back from the edge and watched his stupid face pop up and disappear, pop up and disappear. The barking didn’t stop either, and that eventually brought the missus from the house and the mister from the fire. He pulled him off by the collar and stashed him out of sight. She just stood back, afraid I might peck her eye out or something, I guess. She held one of her bandaged hands to her cheek and kept saying, “Oh my. Oh my.” Like that would solve anything. I had little strength left, so I rested on those cool blocks and closed one eye for a bit.