Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  I sat in that pine and preened. I found where those two tail feathers used to be, and I touched the tender spot, the blood already scabbed over. I preened my other feathers, worked over my back and wings and chest. That always leads to a good nap.

  When I woke, the sun rode the long wind to the west. My tail didn’t even throb, the sting all gone. Of course, I was hungry, so I stretched and glided to the green box, where I found my favorite dessert, a cream-filled donut. I have a sweet-beak. I had to get my fix.

  Then I caught an updraft and flew into the wide blue. That air held me just like water holds a fish. I swam through that sky, wings like oars, tail a rudder. My god of rum and rainbow trout, it’s so damn glorious to drink the world like that.

  I found a thermal and played with a vulture. He’d tilt one way and I’d tilt after him. Me and that ugly buzzard circled up a spiral of winding stairs until I was higher than I’d ever been. So high, I could hardly see the red-hatted men, the plaza a black thumbprint on a green wash. So high I could see over the mountain and over the next one, too. I saw where the trucks disappeared into one tunnel and then another, and I followed that thread to Will’s exit. From there I flew north, up the valley, all of it familiar yet odd from so high.

  Those mountains, my god of rippled and rident rocks, they were pretty, so vast and green and speckled with silver streams. I had to make up a new rolling caw, it all was so fine. I wasn’t sure I wanted to descend. But I did. I glided down through the sun-sparked air to the gnarly silver maple in Aunt Amanda’s yard. I knew Will would eventually show up. He liked to eat, too.

  28

  After the men stopped for the day, Ada helped her father with the milking. Her hands worked rhythmically, but her mind was elsewhere. Where’s Will? How far will he go searching for that raven? And had she really healed? Maybe Cicero had just been hiding there, licking his wounds, and she’d flushed him out. But he didn’t fly until after she said the chant. And she knew her fingers had tingled.

  She was afraid to hope, and she didn’t want to tell anyone yet, not even Uncle Mark. One more time, she thought, and then she would know for sure.

  AT dusk, Will returned to his car. He found Ada leaning against it, waiting.

  “Any luck?”

  He shook his head and sat on the hood beside her. “I hiked all the way to the station. Nothing.” His face was blank and tired.

  “Dino and Scoop, they were surprised to see me, but they hadn’t seen Cicero. No one had. Then I heard a raven call way up high. It might have been him, but I couldn’t tell.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m scheduled back to work tomorrow.”

  “Me too.”

  “They got me working a string of ten to sixes, so I can’t help with the milking or building for a while.”

  “I’ll tell Papa.” She gathered herself. “Goodnight.” She leaned to kiss Will.

  He watched her disappear into the dark.

  On the other side of the mountain, Will stopped at his apartment. He whistled and called, his voice hoarse. No black bird in the dark trees, no Cicero.

  Will drove on to his aunt’s. As soon as he stopped the car, he heard a low knock-knock-knock. “Cicero!” The raven flew down to land on Will’s shoulder.

  “Old buddy, I was worried about you.” He rubbed Cicero’s beak. “I looked all over. I thought you were gone, and here you are, waiting.”

  He walked to the porch light and made Cicero hop to a table. He unfolded each of the raven’s wings. “I found two of your feathers, and there’s their spot.” Will spread the tail, and this agitated Cicero. “OK. I’m just looking.” He held the raven at eye level. “I won’t let that bastard get close to you again.”

  Will quieted as he stroked the bird’s back. They both heard movement inside.

  “Want some supper? Let’s go bug Aunt Amanda, OK?”

  Cicero rocked up and down. “OK. OK. OK.”

  29

  Sunlight reflected off the clock face while Cicero waited. He was hungry and bored, and already he had shredded a box of cornflakes, but the bag held only crumbs for all his trouble. So he sat on the windowsill and pondered. A few flaps landed him on the narrow bed. Will didn’t move. Cicero pinched the sheet and hopped, tugging it off of Will’s shoulder. Still no movement.

  Next, Cicero settled on Will’s pillow, watching his chest rise and fall. The raven leaned close to his face. In one swift movement, Cicero plucked a hair from Will’s eyebrow.

  “Ow!” Will woke, thrashing his arm.

  Cicero flew to his perch, where he preened.

  Will looked at his clock, fell back to stare at the raven. “Good morning, Cicero.”

  Cicero bobbed. “OK.”

  For the next hour, Will and Cicero played, Will repeating five words, over and over, rewarding the raven each time he said two or three. Eventually, Cicero repeated the complete sentence. Will whooped and Cicero circled the room, rattling.

  Aunt Amanda tapped her horn, and Will gathered his lunch and Cicero. Aunt Amanda sat in Will’s Plymouth, waiting.

  “Good morning, Cicero. Good morning, Will.”

  Will returned her greeting and Cicero roosted on the back of the seat. The raven bent to preen Aunt Amanda’s hair.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Look at this.”

  Will shook his head and started the car. Cicero rocked as the car moved, and then he resumed gently moving his beak over the white strands of Aunt Amanda’s hair.

  “I’ve never had my hair combed by a raven.” Aunt Amanda didn’t move her head.

  “I’m jealous. This morning, he woke me by yanking out one of my eyebrows.” He glanced at Cicero. “I think he likes you better than me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  Cicero settled to watch the world zoom by. In his rearview mirror, Will watched the raven sway with each turn as they drove up Amberson Valley. He was tempted to tell Aunt Amanda about their newest trick, but decided not—he wasn’t sure how much he could trust her anymore around Ada.

  At the tunnel, Will lugged in a huge breath, and Aunt Amanda stayed silent. Then halfway through, she said, “Oh, I meant to tell you, Ellie—you know which one she is, Ada’s best friend?”

  Will nodded.

  “Well, she told me that Ada’s birthday is in two days. To use her words, ‘Someone who works next door might need to know.’ So, I’m just relaying her message to that someone.”

  Will blushed. “That so,” he said, still holding his breath.

  “You might need to go shopping this evening. Maybe take her out for a picnic or something.”

  They exited the tunnel, and he gasped deep breaths before saying, “Enough, Aunt Amanda.”

  RIGHT after lunch, Ada served ice cream to a busload of high school kids. She bent and scooped, bent and scooped, as the swarm of teenagers pointed at flavors, jostling to get in the door. Aunt Amanda ran the register.

  “Is that all I get?” one pimple-face complained, holding his cone like a half-spent torch.

  Aunt Amanda took his money. “That’s all we’re allowed to serve, young man. If you want more, you have to pay more or write a letter of complaint to Mister Howard Johnson. I’ll be glad to give you his address.” She handed him his change.

  That shut the boy up, and Ada made a point to remember this line.

  After she served the last of them, their round-bellied teacher approached. He ordered three scoops of vanilla and apologized for their behavior. As Ada handed him his cone, he said, “You know, there’s a fellow outside the door with a big crow on his shoulder. He keeps waving his arms and looking in at you. Do you know him?”

  Ada walked around the register to get a better look. Sure enough, there stood Will with Cicero on his shoulder. Ada wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the door.

  A tourist snapped a photo, the flash startling Cicero, who shifted but didn’t fly. At the door, a lady stood transfixed, her hand on the handle, unable to move. A child whimpered as her parents tugged her away. She kept l
ooking back, eyes wide. Will ignored them all. He smiled and waited for Ada to come through the double doors.

  “You found him,” Ada said. She wanted to touch Will but was afraid of the bird, so she stopped a few feet away, arms folded.

  “More like he found me.” Will had his hat on backwards. As he fed Cicero a nut, he told Ada of searching at his apartment with no luck, and then pulling into Aunt Amanda’s and hearing Cicero in the silver maple. “I called his name and down he came.”

  To Cicero, Will said, “I was happy to see you, wasn’t I, ol’ buddy?”

  Cicero rocked his head, cawing.

  “Hello, Cicero,” Ada said. She stepped a little closer. “Can I feed him?”

  Will shrugged and handed her a nut. “Sure, why not?”

  She took another step, her hand upturned, the nut cupped in her palm. She was amazed by its huge beak, its fluffed-up head and throat feathers. Did I heal you? she wanted to ask.

  Cicero tilted his head, looked at her, tilted some more to examine the nut. He hesitated before making a quick jab to nab the nut.

  “Ow!” Ada jumped with surprise and examined her palm, where a red welt rose.

  “He gets a little excited sometimes. You all right?” Will moved Cicero to his left wrist, away from Ada. He looked at her hand. “Sorry about that. Usually he’s very gentle.” He stepped back to look the raven in the eye. “That wasn’t nice, buddy.” He stroked Cicero’s chest while Ada hugged her hand.

  “He’s learned a new trick. Listen. Hey, Cicero, what do you know about Ada?”

  The raven gazed away to the mountain, pretending to ignore Will.

  Will asked his question again. He offered another nut but held it just out of reach.

  “Come on, Cicero, what do you know about Ada?”

  The raven squawked, “Ada is a purty girl.”

  Will grinned and fed him the nut. “Attaboy.”

  “Oh, my.” Ada laughed and blushed.

  “Smart bird, don’t you think? Say it again, Cicero. What do you know about Ada?”

  Cicero repeated his new sentence, and Ada shook her head.

  “Now scat for a while, Cicero.” With that, the bird wumphed the air between them with hard flaps. Ada felt the wingtips brush her face. Will reached for her hand as they walked around the restaurant.

  At his car, he told her he’d checked their schedules. “It looks like I’m off tomorrow and then we both work the same shift the next day.” He paused. Cicero had landed in a big pine, where he perched to look at them. “Think I could drive you home then?”

  Ada said yes, of course.

  Cicero

  I learned real quick that language is all lies. Say one thing and mean another. Hell, we’re all politicians, aren’t we? They just do it for a living.

  Ada is a purty girl. Ada is a purty girl. God of all rude and rotted words, I hated that sentence. But I loved that peanut. Guess that made me a politician, getting paid to throw away words. What a shame, a bird with no morals.

  And it was my first sentence. I have to admit, I’m proud of that, even if it was a lie.

  Wonder what the first word ever spoken was? Probably no, or maybe yes. Either way, it could’ve been a lie, too. No, I don’t want to eat that deer liver. Or, Yes, you are my only love. Pathetic, I know.

  I watched the two of them hover around Will’s car. Watched him ask a question and her nod her little head. Then that kiss, that peck on the cheek, right there in the parking lot. Made me want to cough up a pellet of mouse hair. Right on her, of course.

  Hell, I knew I was losing him. Even then, I knew I had no chance. So I went along with the game, hoping to keep him as long as I could.

  30

  Ada woke early to help her father with the milking. They walked to the shed in dawn light, Lucky circling, playfully. That sweet tang of cow manure wafted over the farm, and she wondered if she smelled like that, wondered if Will noticed.

  The skeleton of the new barn rose before them. The crew had finished the bottom floor the previous day, right as the trusses for the loft had arrived.

  Joe Reece, the plumber, pulled in. The men shouted greetings, and her father said, “It won’t be long, it won’t be long,” almost singing. As he walked by, he rubbed the block wall with his open palm.

  Ada crouched beside old Molly, and her bucket echoed with the sound of milk. Usually, the rhythm soothed her, but not this morning. She felt unsettled, like a raw edge of torn fabric. I will be twenty tomorrow, she thought, and here I am in 1953, living at home like I’m just fifteen, or twelve, even.

  The cow shifted because she pulled too hard, so she gentled it with a soft voice.

  In her head she rattled through all the available men she knew, all of their faults too great to overcome: Hubert Smith with his leering eyes; Josh Myers, who loved his dogs and guns too much; Robert Cheslow, sixteen years her senior . . . the list went on. None of them made her heart skip like Jesse Shupe once did. Like Will Burk did now.

  What had she wanted, back when she was fifteen? A family, a place of her own, good work, like a nurse. Ellie was only two years older, and already she had a husband and two girls. Ada thought of her girlfriends—each one married or living on her own. And here she sat, still at home, still single, and yes, still a virgin. She knew what the Bible said, believed in that sacredness, but she also knew she was missing out. She’d never expected to feel so alone.

  Ada moved to the next cow and remembered when she had healed Betty Calhoun last fall. She had been standing at the sink, washing potatoes, when she looked up to see Betty at the door, Ted Calhoun’s baby sister, maybe sixteen. Ada always thought she was pretty with her auburn hair and full figure, except for those front teeth. They stuck out over her bottom lip. Betty only smiled with her lips closed. Ada, with her own crowded teeth, knew what that was like. She was glad hers weren’t as bad.

  Ted Calhoun had a reckless roughness that frightened her, and more than once he had come to Sunday school with red eyes. He would whisper to the other boys and wink at Ada.

  Now the gossips said Betty also liked to sneak out.

  At the door, Betty showed the warts covering her hands. “Think you can get rid of these?”

  Ada dried her hands and held Betty’s wrist, examining the lumps. They looked like pink cauliflowers and covered the back of her hands and thumbs.

  “I tried biting them off and even peed on them once,” Betty said. “They just keep getting bigger.”

  “I can give it a try,” Ada said. She held Betty’s other wrist. The younger woman kept glancing at her, and Ada felt something else she couldn’t name.

  “Take off your coat and have a seat.” She pointed to the kitchen chair. “I’m making potato salad, so I’ll save out the best potatoes to take off your warts.” Ada peeled the skins. The potatoes that seeped the most, she set aside on the counter.

  Betty filled the kitchen with chatter—about the new math teacher, the horrible bus ride, her cousin’s new boyfriend. She looked at her hands and rubbed the knobby roughness of the warts. Ada said little, heard something else in Betty’s voice, wondered what else she needed.

  “Let me see those warts,” Ada said as she carried the potatoes to the table and sat opposite Betty. “When I rub this over the warts, it’ll suck out the poison.” She gently stroked a potato over Betty’s thumb, back and forth, for a long time. Her hands growing hot, she whispered the secret chant and set the piece aside. Betty watched and said nothing.

  Ada picked up another chunk to repeat the rubbing and chanting. “When I finish, you have to take these and hide them somewhere, and don’t tell anyone where you put them.” She set aside the potato. “If you do, the warts will come right back on you and on the nose of the person you tell. And they’ll come back with deeper roots, making them harder to get rid of. You understand?”

  Betty nodded.

  Ada worked on Betty’s other hand, rubbing the wet chunk and chanting. When she finished, she handed Betty the four pieces of pot
ato. “There.” Ada leaned back in her chair, the tingling subsiding. “That should take care of them. It’ll take a few weeks, but eventually they’ll dry up, then scab and fall off. But remember,” she pointed to the potatoes, “don’t tell where you hide them.”

  A long silence followed. She wiped her hands on her apron and studied the younger woman’s face. Betty wouldn’t look at her, instead fumbling with the potatoes. At last Ada asked, “Something else bothering you, Betty?”

  Her hands stilled, and Betty nodded. Her black eyes glanced toward the stairs.

  “No one else is here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Betty looked at her lap. “I have . . .” She bit her lip. “I have crabs,” she blurted out. A red flame of embarrassment flared up and covered her face.

  “Crabs? Like that live in the ocean?”

  “Oh no.” Betty smiled briefly. “Crabs. Like lice. Tiny and itchy and awful.”

  Ada leaned forward and peered at her scalp.

  Betty shifted and blushed even more. She glared at Ada, who sat back. “Not there.” Betty pointed to her lap. “Down here.”

  “Oh.” Ada felt her own cheeks heat up. “Well.” She stood. “I’ve treated head lice, so I’d guess the same will work for you. Give me a moment to mix it.” She walked to the cabinet to search through the bottles. So who did she sleep with to get lice? And who has she slept with since? Ada pulled down three bottles.

  At the counter, she pinched rosemary, thyme, and lavender into her bowl, grinding them with the mortar and pestle. She poured the powder into a small paper bag and wrote “Betty Calhoun” with a pencil stub.

  “Here.” She handed Betty the small package. “Mix this with a little shampoo and half cup of sudsy water. Massage it in and keep it there for five minutes. Follow that with a vinegar soak, again, for at least five minutes. It might sting a little, but it won’t hurt you.”

  Betty clutched the packet. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing for the warts, but fifty cents for the medicine.”