Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  “Did you hear about our visitor at the station?”

  Will said no.

  “Harry S. Truman himself along with his wife, Bess. Can you believe it?

  “This black Chrysler pulled up, and me and Scoop started filling it up, washing windows, the whole deal. But we kept looking at each other, and then at the driver all dressed up, coat and tie, you know? Finally, Scoop asks if he was President Truman, and ol’ Harry says he allows that he is. He shook everyone’s hands, even signed a slip of paper for Scoop. Just a regular ol’ fellow, that Harry. And Bess, she recorded the gallons and what they paid, like they were pinching pennies.”

  “How about that.”

  “The day after, Scoop read in the paper where some state trooper out of Bedford pulled over the former president of the United States for driving fifty-five in the left lane. Wonder who was more surprised, that copper or Truman?”

  “Wish I could’ve met him.”

  “Me too. He saw where the fire had been, and we told him about you. He said to give you this.” Woody handed him a piece of paper. Will unfolded it: Hope you get better soon. Harry S. Truman.

  “Thanks, Woody.”

  “No problem.” Woody glanced at Ada. “Hey, I heard you been wanting to sing, so I brought my guitar.” Woody unpacked the instrument and strummed a few notes, adjusting the tuning pegs. “What’ll it be?” He played a few licks, waiting.

  “I don’t know. What about Hank Williams?”

  “Just the man I was thinking.” Woody played the first notes of “Jambalaya,” and together, Will, Ada, and Woody sang. “Goodbye Joe me gotta go me oh my oh. Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou.”

  Will had never been able to understand the words, so he mumbled through made-up ones.

  In between verses, Woody yelled, “Louder now. Let’s get some of those pretty nurses in here.” He winked at Ada swaying from side to side.

  “Jambalaya and a crawfish pie and file gumbo. ’Cause tonight I’m gonna see my ma cher amio. Pick guitar fill fruit jar and be gay-o. Son of a gun we’ll have big fun on the bayou.”

  Two nurses stopped in the doorway, and when the chorus came around, they sang along. Woody finished with a flourish, and the women clapped, while Will slapped the bed with his good hand.

  “How about some more Hank?”

  Will nodded and sang along as Woody broke into “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” “Honky Tonk Blues,” and “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.” He played two of Hank’s religious songs, “I Saw the Light” and “I’ll Fly Away.”

  “We’re cranking now.” Woody started singing “Move It On Over.” At the chorus, he thrust his guitar to the side and once even pretended to kick the imaginary dog.

  In the middle of “Move It On Over,” Ada saw Will starting to flag. “How about just one more, Woody?”

  Will protested, but Woody agreed. “Let’s go out on ‘Hey Good Lookin’.’”

  Will tapped the bed and gazed at Ada, who just smiled and sang along.

  WILL slept for several hours. Ada dozed a little, but mostly she knitted and watched. She hummed bits of Woody’s songs like “Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly.” The haunting tune played over and over in her head, even when she woke from a nap.

  The night nurse soaked Will’s bandages, and when she finished, she said in a hushed voice, “He’s getting better. I think the doctor will say no more bandages on his face tomorrow.”

  Ada thanked her. All of this time in the hospital had made her all the more sure she wanted to be a nurse, maybe here in ICU or in the ER—a place where she could do the most good. She just had to go to school and then use her gifts.

  Later, in the dim glow of the false dawn, Ada sensed Will watching. “Hey,” she said with a yawn.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “You all right?”

  Will nodded and scratched at the bandages covering his face. “You?”

  “A little stiff, but yeah, I’m all right.” Ada couldn’t read his expression, so she asked again, “You all right?”

  “Had this crazy dream. The fire all over again, the sky black with smoke. But this time . . . the flames turned into flowers. Hundreds of roses. Then Cicero showed up. He flew through those flowers, back and forth, like he was playing in the falling petals.”

  Ada squeezed his hand.

  Will shifted. “I was thinking about what you told me the other night. Tell me more.”

  “About powwowing?”

  Will said yes.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How’d you learn? How’d you know you could do it?”

  Ada told him about when she was a child and the sparrow flew into the window. How she held that bird and said a prayer and felt her hands tingle, even then, and she was only ten. “I asked Mama about Uncle Mark taking warts off my hand, and she explained his powwowing. I told her about the sparrow, and eventually, I told Uncle Mark. That summer he taught me everything he knew.”

  “How do you stop blood?”

  “Well, like for taking out fire, there’s a special chant. You say it over the cut three times, and . . .”

  “That’s what you did for somebody’s cow, wasn’t it?”

  “Clyde McGrady’s. That’s the only time I ever did it for a cow, and over the phone at that. The first time I ever healed a person was at the church’s annual hog butchering at Charles Swartz’s. I was twelve, maybe, and a lot of the young men were off at war, or heading that way, so Daddy handed me a knife, said, ‘We want everything but the squeal.’ We were cleaning the bones, a bunch of us standing around a table.

  “They were all talking about Theron Mitchell, who had gone missing in France. I just listened and concentrated on my knife—I didn’t want to cut myself. This young fellow named Roger Holtry was working across the table. He had large brown eyes that always blinked. Everyone knew he was about to turn eighteen.

  “Anyway, something distracted him, and he cut his hand, a bad cut, sliced the middle finger to the bone. Skinned all the flesh off it. Blood everywhere, down his hand and arm.

  “Ruth Zook was working beside him. She hurried him to the sink and started running water over it. People were shouting. Someone ran to the house for a first-aid kit.

  “I said, ‘Let me look at it,’ but no one heard with all the noise and water rumbling in the big sink. No one really noticed me, me still just a little thing.

  “I said again, ‘Let me look at it,’ this time louder.

  “Roger and Mrs. Zook looked over their shoulders, surprised. I tried to stand straighter. I said, ‘I think I can help.’

  “Roger was the one who turned. He pulled his hand away from Mrs. Zook. He kept blinking those eyes like he was afraid the lids would close up permanent.

  “I said my silent prayer to ask for help. Everyone was looking, but I just focused on that tingle in my hands and tried to do the Lord’s work.

  “I took Roger’s hand with the blood pouring out. I leaned in close and said the chant Uncle Mark told me, real soft, a mumble really. Stared into that wound and said it three times. And sure enough, God stopped that blood.

  “Mrs. Zook said, ‘Hallelujah,’ and people jostled around to see. Roger looked even more stunned, but he managed to say thank you before Mrs. Zook carted him off to wrap the wound. Soon enough, we all picked up our knives and went back to work.

  “A year later, Roger died in Germany.”

  Will’s eyes were closed when she finished. He squeezed her hand and said thanks before his breathing fell off slow and steady.

  Cicero

  We ravens all look alike, don’t we? Hell, if I had both of my feet, even Will couldn’t tell me from Moses. If he could only see. If only all of you could see . . .

  All along, he assumed I was a male. At first I didn’t know any better what he meant, or Cicero either. Then I read the dictionary. Then I laughed.

  The other ravens of Burns Valley, they knew. For the longest time, they d
rove me away. I wasn’t one of them, wasn’t to be trusted, because Will was my friend. But I persisted. I played their games, diving after feathers, counting coup by taking one from a red-tail. By god of razor-talons, that last trick about sent me to the hospital with Will (like they’d have such a place for birds). Right when I yanked, the hawk flipped over and raked me with his claws. I dove and outflew the oaf, but a few of my own feathers drifted to the ground. No blood, though, thank the lucky Corvus stars for that.

  Lyle showed up then—Lyle with those shimmering black feathers, Lyle with the little poof above his head, Lyle who called me Cice instead. He followed me to my oak perch and told me of a fresh roadkill between the tunnels, and off we flew. It was one of the best meals I ever ate.

  We built a nest, hatched our young, and survived other storms.

  Eventually, I showed Lyle my cache. He marveled at the pearl, at how perfectly it fits in a beak. And then he helped hide it under the burdock leaf.

  49

  In the morning, Aunt Amanda had her own doctor’s appointment, so Ada stayed. “She’ll be in around lunchtime,” she told the morning nurses out in the hall.

  “She told me that,” Nurse Hallett said. She worked on filling little cups with pills for each patient. “Your aunt also told me you want to become a nurse. Is that right? What school?”

  Ada mentioned Harrisburg.

  “That’s a good one. A lot of our nurses went there. I graduated from Boston College. You should consider it.”

  There was something about this woman that unsettled Ada—her accent, the way she paused after a question—Ada couldn’t figure it out.

  “Your aunt also said you were a healer. I think she called it some kind of voodoo doctor?”

  “Powwow doctor.”

  “That you could take warts off and stop cuts from bleeding?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Whatever it is you do, you better leave that at home. No nursing school in the world is going to want to admit you if you tell them that.

  “Now, we have to debride Mr. Burk. You’re welcome to watch, just sit by the door, out of the way.”

  Ada didn’t know what to say—how do you thank someone for an insult—yet that’s what she did. She thanked the nurse and watched her push the cart down the hall.

  The orderly came out of Will’s room, Will beside him. “Going to be a big day,” Roscoe said. Ada followed. She had heard about the debriding, but she hadn’t witnessed it, so she sat in a corner and waited.

  Ada expected pain as the nurses unwound the bandages from his face, but Will didn’t grimace. Instead, he looked like a bird hatching out of its egg, the shell falling away.

  “I think today’s the day,” Nurse Hallett said. “Your face looks better. Dr. Roberts’s going to be pleased. But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t show it.”

  Gone were the raw, open burns Ada had seen right after the explosion. Gone, too, were most of the scabs. Shiny folds of skin had replaced them, thick and waxlike over all of his face. Some of the new skin was bronze, some bright pink, and one patch on his cheek shone as white as the nurses’ uniforms. All of it, every pore and wrinkle, the silver nitrate had speckled black.

  Will didn’t even glance at Ada. He looked straight ahead, out the far window. And he braced himself.

  The nurses unwrapped his neck, then worked down his arm, where Will winced every time they ripped off a scab. Sometimes he shouted.

  His hand was the worst, the gauze stained with mucus and fresh blood. On his palm, the dead tissue cracked and oozed. His fingers were black.

  Next came the whirlpool, where Will touched first his elbow to the steaming water, then slowly his bicep and forearm. Eyes pinched shut, he moaned when his hand sank into the bath. He smiled awkwardly at Ada. “Sure you want to see all of this?” He had to shout over the whirlpool.

  Ada gave a quick nod. She wanted to stand beside him, but she was afraid she’d be in the way, afraid the nurses might tell her to leave. So far, they’d politely ignored her, so she put a finger to her lips and watched from a distance. Will turned back to staring out the window.

  The timer dinged and the whirlpool stopped. Even from across the room, Ada saw the swirling scabs. Will’s arm emerged bright red and dripping and still tinted black.

  Dr. Roberts marched in a few moments later. “Good morning, Mr. Burk.” He peered through his thick-rimmed glasses, turning Will’s hand, examining each finger, then the wrist and forearm. “Wiggle those fingers for me,” he commanded.

  Will complied.

  “Now, the wrist and elbow.”

  Will grimaced.

  “Let’s do it all again.” This time, Dr. Roberts pressed on Will’s fingers and spread them wide. Will screamed. Then the doctor wrapped his hand around Will’s, forcing him to make a fist. Again, Will cried out. Dr. Roberts turned the wrist in a circle, and the elbow he pried open before moving it back and forth.

  “You’ve been doing this on your own, right?”

  Will nodded.

  “Speak.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you remember what’ll happen if you don’t stretch these joints, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The scar tissue will contract,” the doctor spoke extra loud, and Ada comprehended he was also talking to her, “and you won’t have the full range of motion in any of these joints. So push yourself, young man. You have to rip that new tissue. Make it hurt.”

  Next he turned to Will’s face. With his thumbs, the doctor pinched and spread the skin. He gently tapped Will’s cheek with his palm. “We’ll start skin grafts here tomorrow.” To the nurses, he said, “No bandages on his face today.”

  Dr. Roberts rested his hand on Will’s good shoulder. “You’re doing well. You keep listening to these nurses and do what they tell you.”

  Before the doctor could leave, Will asked in his odd voice, “How does it look?”

  Dr. Roberts stopped, surprised. “Say that again?”

  “How does it look?”

  Dr. Roberts faced him. “It looks fine, Will.”

  “How does it really look?”

  “It looks like you’ve been burned and healed.”

  “I need to see. I want a mirror. I want a mirror, now.”

  Dr. Roberts nodded to Nurse Young, who retrieved a small mirror.

  Will held it to his face. “This looks fine?”

  “Considering what you’ve been through, yes, you look excellent and . . .”

  “You call this fine?”

  “We’ll start skin grafts tomorrow.” The doctor crossed his arms.

  “You said you could heal me.” Will’s voice rose and he pressed shut his eyes.

  “Better this than to be dead.”

  Will didn’t hear. “I thought you were a healer, that you could heal me. You call this fine?” He looked at the reflection. “Hell, I’m just an ugly monster.” He threw the mirror, shards of glass tinkling on the floor. Then he beat his left fist against his thigh and sobbed.

  Dr. Roberts glanced to the nurses, then to Ada, before he walked out.

  Ada stepped forward, but Will shouted, “Leave me alone.” He glared, his sobs ceasing. “You can’t heal me. And you can’t love me.” He wiped his nose and hiccupped, his whole body shaking. He pointed to the door with his right hand, his burned arm. “Just. Leave.”

  Ada didn’t move. She held his gaze until he looked down and slumped into his chair. He kept pointing with his burned arm, resting it on the table between them. And there on his wrist along the creases of new scars, Ada saw a small black V, like a bird flying, like a raven. The sign she had been waiting for.

  “Please leave,” Will whispered. His arm fell into his lap.

  Ada turned. She pushed through the doors, past the elevator, and headed down the stairs. Her body buzzed. On the steps her feet tapped out What just happened? What just happened? But she knew, deep down, she knew.

  She leaned on the heavy door—she hadn’t eaten o
r slept in who knew how long, so she felt wrapped in a sluggish joy. When she stepped into the bright day, the humidity took her back to the room with its whirlpool and steamy heat. With its miracle. Will.

  She stepped off the sidewalk, away from the hospital and the busy street where everyone had smooth and perfect skin. She headed to a creek under a huge sycamore, the sweet smell of fresh-cut grass everywhere. She couldn’t stop smiling. Her powwow was working. Will was healing. That blackbird was flying.

  Ada ran her fingers along the sycamore’s bark, corky outer layers tan and loose, inner layers bright green, flat, and tight. A flake came off in her fingers, and underneath, the bark was smooth and white.

  “Will’s going to be all right,” she said aloud, her forehead against the tree. Even if he was scarred, his skin would heal, his lungs would breathe, and his blue eyes would still pierce her. A robin sang high in the sycamore, and then she heard some other bird. Could it be?

  Ada ran from under the tree’s canopy and scanned the sky. She turned in a slow circle but saw nothing. Just my wishful hearing. She started back toward the hospital. Then once more—far off but definite—she heard a raven rattling and cronking.

  “Cicero?”

  The raven flew high over the hospital, circling like a hawk. He gave a guttural knock-knock-knock, before tucking his wings and gliding down. Slowly he descended until he reached the uppermost floor. Then Cicero circled the building, looking in windows. When he came back around to Ada, he rattled and tilted his head, watching her.

  “Yes,” Ada whispered, her grin wide. She ran into the hospital, up the stairs, her breath short up the three flights. She slowed to a hurried walk as she rounded the nurses’ station only to find Will’s door closed. She opened it anyway, startling him awake.

  “Cicero!” Ada shut the door and leaned against it to catch her breath. “I just saw Cicero.” She hurried to the window.

  Will didn’t comprehend, wondered why she was flushed and out of breath.

  Ada pulled the blinds and unlocked the window. She lifted to open it, but the pane was stuck. She scooted a chair closer, climbed onto it, and lifted on the window again.

  “What are you doing?” Will asked. “Cicero’s not out there.”