Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  A minute later, he topped off the car on the other side of the island and realized that in his embarrassment he had messed up. Both cars had locking caps. And he’d put the wrong one on that red convertible. The driver cussed him out and then, declaring that no cap was better than the wrong one locked on, he drove off, leaving Will holding the red convertible’s cap.

  After lunch, Scoop came on. Dickson wanted to talk with Scoop, so they worked the pumps together, and the manager sent Will to the garage to change oil for a customer. “You’ve changed oil, right?”

  “Sure, at Ernie’s.”

  Dickson turned his back while Will trudged away. He didn’t tell his boss that this was the first time he’d changed oil while the customer watched. The tall man waited at the mouth of the garage, his white business shirt bright in the sun. He didn’t speak, just stared at Will as he jacked up the Chrysler, slid under and drained the oil, and changed the filter. When Will finished, the stranger asked to see his manager.

  “He’s right out there, pumping gas.” Will pointed. “Is something wrong?”

  The stranger just walked toward Dickson. Will watched the two as he cleaned up. He couldn’t hear, but Dickson puffed up his chest and soon he marched into the garage.

  “Jack that car back up,” he told Will.

  “Why?”

  “Just jack it up and don’t ask.”

  When Dickson slid under, he turned the filter and oil spurted down his arm.

  “Goshdangit, Burk. This man claimed you didn’t tighten the filter, and I didn’t believe him. But goshdangit if he ain’t right.” Dickson wiped off his arm and grabbed the filter wrench. “You ever use one of these?” Will nodded. “Well, better learn again ’fore I ever let you change oil.” He slid back under and tightened the filter. After topping off the oil, he apologized to the customer. “And of course, you don’t need to pay for this. I’ll dock Mr. Burk’s pay here for all of it.” Dickson told Will to go join Scoop before he fired him. Then he slammed his office door.

  When Will’s shift finally ended at 3:00, he walked across the lot and called for Cicero. The raven landed on his shoulder and chortled in his ear.

  “Hello, Cicero,” Will said and dug out a peanut.

  Cicero ducked his head and moved it from side to side. Then the raven said, “Hello.” This earned him another nut.

  “How you doing?” Will asked.

  Cicero nodded. “OK.” Another nut.

  “That’s good. Better than me, that’s for sure.”

  They moved across the lot—Will asking, Cicero replying. They wove between the big rigs and parked cars, truckers and tourists stopping to stare. Will ignored them. He kept thinking about the crappy letter, the crappy day, and the crappy night, his stupid words to Ada. Why hadn’t he just held his tongue?

  A young woman, her bra making pointy mountains, walked by. The raven ripped out a loud wolf whistle.

  “Cicero!” Will yelled. The woman glared before picking up her pace.

  Cicero repeated the whistle, and repeated it again, the woman running now. Will reached to pinch his beak closed, but the raven flew a few feet above, hovering and whistling.

  “That’s rude.” Will tried not to laugh. “And it’s right in my ear. Learn some manners, buddy.” He held up a nut and Cicero landed. “No more whistling, OK?”

  Cicero didn’t answer.

  “Who taught you that anyway?” Cicero chewed his nut. “Probably Woody. Damn him anyway.” Will imagined him sneaking to teach the raven, repeating over and over the two long, high-pitched shrills.

  At the end of the lot, they came to Ellie’s car, the blue Buick with a dented fender. He hoisted himself onto the fender and rested his feet on the tire. Then he tried to rake down his cowlick. Cicero flapped to keep his balance. He never released his grip from Will’s shoulder.

  Will tucked his comb into his pocket, next to his mother’s hankie, touching the soft fabric just to make sure. For most of his life, he had kept that hankie secreted away in his bureau, never using it, only rubbing his fingers over the worn cloth. But since Cicero had almost shredded it, Will had been tucking it into his back pocket. Maybe he should show it to Ada. Maybe he should tell her about the draft letter, maybe that would somehow make up for last night, help her understand.

  “She should be getting off soon,” Will said.

  “OK,” Cicero replied.

  Will rehearsed his apology. “I screwed up bad last night.” Will stroked Cicero’s beak. “And I screwed up twice today. Guess that makes me the king of screw-ups. Shitfire anyway.”

  The traffic moved, a constant, so many engines pushing up the mountain, and on the far side, the flow rolling downhill, truckers jackhammering their brakes past the station.

  Cicero tilted his head at other ravens flying high on the mountain. Will followed his gaze. Neither could hear their gronks, the traffic was so loud. “Have you met them yet? Maybe they’re your cousins.” Cicero stayed quiet as the pair dipped and played.

  A few minutes later, the back door opened and out stepped Ada and Ellie. Ellie saw Will and hung back to smoke. Ada waved, and Will tried to read her expression, but the sun behind her shadowed her face. He admired her long strides, that erect posture. “You be good, now, you hear,” he whispered to Cicero. The bird looked away.

  “Hey,” Ada greeted him. “What’re you doing?”

  “Just watching the clouds, and waiting for you.”

  Cicero bobbed and cawed.

  “Say hello, Cicero.”

  “Hello,” squawked the raven.

  How to begin, Will wondered, how to say sorry? How to find a way around what lies between us?

  Ada spoke first, as she leaned against the car beside them. “You know, I don’t think Cicero really likes me. He just puts up with me to please you.”

  “Don’t be silly. You like Ada, don’t you, Cicero?”

  Cicero looked sideways before he said, “OK.”

  “That’s real convincing.”

  “Want him on your shoulder?” Cicero hopped onto his hand.

  “Sure,” Ada said, her smile disappearing.

  Will reached out his bird-weighted hand to Ada’s shoulder. “Go on, Cicero. She won’t bite.”

  Cicero hesitated, bobbed from side to side. He looked at Will.

  “Go on!” Will said again, this time lifting his arm to make the raven flap and hop onto Ada’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Cicero,” Ada said in a quiet voice. She stroked his chest and held her head cocked away, trying to peer at the raven’s face.

  Cicero didn’t respond.

  “He’s so big! But not very heavy, is he?”

  “All feathers and meanness. What do you think, Cicero? How’s that view?”

  “OK,” he croaked. Will reached out with a peanut, but Cicero ignored it, his eyes elsewhere. “OK,” he repeated and rocked his body. He glanced at Will. Then Cicero turned to Ada and quickly jabbed her ear two times.

  Ada screamed and flailed out her arm.

  Cicero flapped three strong strokes and caught the wind.

  Ada held her ear, blood staining her waitress uniform. “I told you he didn’t like me.”

  Will was quiet. He held his mother’s handkerchief up to her ear to stop the blood.

  “I don’t want your dirty oil rag. Or your stupid bird.”

  “It’s not an oil rag. And he only wanted your earring.”

  Ada glanced at the hankie and grabbed it. She opened the car door, slammed it shut, and pressed the lock. She dabbed one end of the white cloth to her ear, the other to her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Will shouted through the glass. “I didn’t know he’d do that.” He scratched the back of his neck. “And I’m sorry about last night, in the barn. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Leave me alone,” she yelled and turned away.

  Ellie came up behind him. “You heard her. Leave her alone.” She threw her purse in the backseat and settled behind the steering wheel. Then she drove wes
t, the two of them glaring at Will as they passed. They headed in the same direction Cicero flew, the pebble of a pearl in his beak.

  Will walked to his car and headed west, too. He didn’t hold his breath through the first tunnel. In the narrow fold of land between the two tunnels, he pulled over. Something about this place comforted him, made him feel as if he could catch his breath here. And even though hundreds of people zipped past, the wildness of the mountains felt close, tree branches poking through the fence, rocks tumbling down to bang the guardrails. If he concentrated, he heard Gunter Branch purling underneath all the other noise.

  The staccato flares of windows flashed in the slanting sunlight. For a moment, the drivers appeared, all of them focused on the road ahead. And then they disappeared into the next tunnel—glint of light and gone. Glint and gone.

  He drummed the steering wheel and wondered about his handkerchief. What would Ada think? Would he ever see it—or her—again?

  Will merged with traffic, and soon, the second tunnel swallowed him, and he remembered. He was ten, maybe eleven, his father gone to town, so Will snuck into his father’s bedroom. The smell of his father hung familiar and thick in his bed sheets, his shoes under the chair. Dust motes sifted in the sliver of light. Will stepped over the floorboard that creaked to stand at the dresser, his father’s altar, which had also become Will’s altar.

  There, on a white doily sat his mother’s hairbrush and her picture. He touched the frame’s soft velvet backing, its carved flowers along the side, but the weight of it always surprised him, made him hold tight to frame her face with his thumbs. He stepped to the window for better light.

  She was so pretty—her smile almost a smirk, her smooth cheeks, her wavy hair. And her eyes—he could tell, even though the photo had no color, they were the same blue as his own.

  After a moment, Will returned her photograph to its exact spot, the clear line on the dusty dresser. Then, for the first time, he pulled on wooden knobs, opening drawers—all of his father’s pants in one, socks and underwear in another, and in the bottom, under a stack of shirts, the white handkerchief. It had a lightness like he imagined her hands must’ve felt, a softness like her cheeks. And he knew, before he even touched the monogrammed initials, that this was hers. He held it to his cheek, felt the ridges of her initials: “M.J.B.,” for Mary Julia Burk.

  He closed the drawer and stole out of his father’s room, holding the hankie close. He didn’t want to lose its softness, didn’t want to give away what little he had of his mother.

  But as he exited the pike, Will realized for the first time in his life he had done just that.

  ADA’S ear throbbed as Ellie ranted. “How dare he force that damn bird on you? And how dare that no-account bird rip out your earring?” Ellie took the exit. “I swear, Ada, I’d start looking elsewhere.”

  Ada stayed silent, thankful the bleeding had stopped. She held the bloody hankie in her lap, studied it while Ellie slowed for the tollbooth.

  Theda Miller greeted them and handed Ellie the clipboard. She bent to take a second look at Ada. “Lord, honey, what happened to you?”

  “Just a little accident at work.” Ada took the clipboard and signed her name.

  “Now, that’s more than a little accident.” Theda peered over her reading glasses at the bloodstains on Ada’s uniform. “You be sure to file your worker’s comp forms, make Mr. Johnson pay up.”

  Ada tried to smile as she handed back the clipboard.

  When Ellie turned onto the main road, she glanced at something on the handkerchief. “What’s that on his hankie?” She stopped and reached for the cloth.

  In a whisper, Ada said, “‘M.J.B.’ What’s that mean, Ellie? Who’s M.J.B.?”

  Ellie rubbed the monogram, initials she’d never heard before.

  “Who is that?” Ada asked, startled at the idea, the doubt, the stark, underlying rawness of this question.

  “Why, that no-good S.O.B.,” Ellie said. “I’ll wring his neck, yet. Wring that bird’s neck, too.”

  Ellie threw the handkerchief onto the floor and drove the half mile to Ada’s home. “You just forget about him,” she yelled through the window as Ada got out. “You take a shower and start thinking about something else . . . those blueberries, maybe? Just consider Will Burk history, OK?”

  Ada ran into the house. She wanted a shower, wanted to get rid of this greasy, bloody uniform, take a walk, alone. And she didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even her parents. She heard her father’s tractor behind the new barn, and in the house, no one replied to her hello. She figured her mother was out running an errand.

  As she rushed up the stairs, Ada kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her uniform. Her ear throbbed. She considered chanting to ease the pain, but wondered if it would work and decided she’d better not risk it. She could bear this pain, but not any more today.

  She drew hot water and knelt over the tub. The lather covered the stain as she scrubbed. How dare he put that bird on my shoulder? How dare he give me some other woman’s hankie? How dare he court me all this time with his sweet words so full of lies? Most of the stain disappeared, except for a faint dark line she hoped no one would see. She hung the dress to dry, stepped into the tub, and filled the bathroom with steam.

  When she finished, Ada threw on her worn dress and brushed her hair. She let it hang loose and long, combing it to cover her ear.

  A car pulled in, and she parted the curtain, expecting to see her mother. Instead, it was Reverend Zigler’s black Ford. “I am not talking to him,” she said aloud. She listened as he climbed the steps, knocked on the screen door, and hollered, “Hello. Anyone home?”

  Ada didn’t move. What does he want? she wondered, and then in her head she repeated, Just leave. Just leave. Just leave now. He knocked louder, yelled again. She could feel him looking into the kitchen, turning to gaze at the barn. “Goodbye, Reverend,” she whispered. And like she willed it, the minister returned to his car and drove out the lane.

  When he was gone, she collapsed onto the bed to take a nap. But she was too angry, too hurt, too wound up to rest, so she slipped out the back door, called Lucky, and headed to the back side of the barn, out of view of house and road and the rest of the world. There, she pried open a bucket, stirred until the swirls became uniformly red, and then started to paint. She had four walls and only two months before cold weather set in. Before today, she’d thought Will might help. But now she just wanted solitude. The quiet work might help her forget.

  38

  Ada’s ear hurt all night, so she slept little. At dawn, the curtains hung limp and still. A thick fog surrounded the house. She had kicked herself awake, but she couldn’t remember any details from her dream other than a flash of brightness. In the half dark, she dressed and stepped out onto the porch. The new barn glowed with lights, her parents already tending the cows, the milker pulsing from inside. Since the new equipment was installed, Ada hadn’t had to help with the milking. So she headed out beyond the sheds to stretch her legs and clear her head.

  Fog made the mountain disappear. It gathered in droplets on the fine hairs of her arms, and on her eyelashes, it beaded and dropped when she blinked. Ada breathed in this fine mist, smelled what a fish might smell. I am walking through a cloud, she thought. I am drinking the sky.

  Ada zigzagged through the orchard, palming the scaly bark of each tree, wet grass soaking her bare feet. Touching these trees usually calmed her, but not this morning. Something in that dream lingered, loomed over her invisibly like the mountain.

  At the blueberries, the far-off cark of a raven reached her. The ear throb returned.

  The bird called from the east, a voice without a body traveling through fog. No other raven responded. The clicks and rattles grew louder, and suddenly it was above her, low, at treetop height. The raven quieted, circled, and tilted its head.

  It was so quiet she heard its wings. She hugged herself. She wanted a tree to hide under.

  The raven landed in a dead
locust tree right above her. There, it reared back and released a series of harsh clacks. With each call, its body recoiled like a pistol. Its eyes never left her.

  Ada clenched her fists, her breathing shallow and quick. “Get away from here!” she yelled. The fog swallowed her words.

  The bird quieted, ruffled its wings, but it didn’t fly away. The clacks and rattles resumed.

  Ada clapped and shouted, “Leave me alone!” She even ran toward it a few steps.

  The raven didn’t shut up. Instead, it swooped down and circled six feet above her, wings spread as if it might land on her, and she was sure, then, that it was Cicero.

  Ada turned and ran. She swung her arms above her head, imagining the bird that close, close enough to pluck her hair or the other earring, if she had had it in her ear.

  In the orchard, she stopped, her breathing hard. She hugged a tree and looked back. Cicero had disappeared, but she heard him cawing, heading east toward the station.

  Cicero

  Some damn dream left me edgy, hot, jittery. I tried to preen it all away, but I couldn’t recall what it was—something with a flash of light, bright and hot. Of course, I know now, but back then, it just jolted my nerves. Something was going to happen to someone or something I loved. And back then, I only loved my pearl, Aunt Amanda, and Will.

  The fog hid the sunrise, but I still found my cache. I circled, listened, didn’t make a sound, and when I was sure no other birds saw me, I swooped to the white oak, where I waited and listened some more. After a while, I glided to the ground and walked the last bit, checking the sky, listening. Finally, under the burdock, I found my treasures—bottle caps and coins, slips of foil, a seashell with purple fluting. Some kid had dropped it at the station, and I’d snatched it up so I could listen to the sea.

  Then, the pearl earring. It felt so right in my beak, so white and perfect and smooth. I tossed it in the air, caught and tossed it again. I couldn’t help but gurgle a little before I hid it back among the coins. I inspected the stash, touched that pearl once more, and then I flew away.