Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  The window budged a few inches, and just then, a large, black shadow moved across the sky.

  “CICERO!” Ada yelled out the small crack. The shadow didn’t return.

  Will threw off the blankets and heaved himself out of bed. Beside Ada, he put his good hand under the frame, and together they opened the window.

  “CICERO!” Ada yelled again.

  “Are you sure?”

  She ignored Will and ran to lock the door.

  At the window, Will felt the humid air. How long had it been since he’d breathed real air?

  A moment later, they heard the cronk, and both called, though it hurt Will to yell and he coughed.

  Cicero rounded the building’s corner. When he saw them, he tucked his wings to land on the windowsill. He was all noise, cawing and rattling and burbling joy. His black beak clicked, and his bright eyes shined as he jumped up and down, a sort of one-legged jumping jack, with his wings flapping. He paused to ruffle his feathers, before he hopped back and forth on the windowsill, chortling.

  “Well, hello, ol’ boy,” Will said. “You found me.” He stroked the raven’s chest. Cicero looked him in the eye, then looked behind him at Ada.

  “Let’s bring him inside,” Ada whispered.

  “OK,” Cicero said, and this made them giggle.

  Ada found some crackers. She stepped back, and while Will fed the raven, she took off her earrings, her fingers fumbling.

  “You better sit down, Will.”

  Will collapsed into the chair, and Cicero perched on its back, gurgling and nipping at crackers from Will’s hand.

  “Come down here where I can see you.” Will lured Cicero to the armrest with another cracker. He stroked him with his good hand, and the bird closed his eyes. “I missed you, buddy,” Will whispered. Cicero opened one eye but closed it again to enjoy the petting.

  For the first time since the burn, Ada could see Will’s smile, really see it, not half covered by bandages. The scar tissue had a glossiness that made his lips and cheeks stiff. He couldn’t smile as wide, but he still had those slight dimples.

  “So, what do you know, Cicero?” Will held a cracker just out of the raven’s reach. The bird pecked, but Will moved his hand away. “Talk to me. Show me you remember something.”

  Cicero looked at the cracker, then at Will. He turned to Ada. “Ada is a purty girl.”

  “Hot damn. You got that right.” Will fed him the cracker.

  “Oh, I still don’t believe you mean it, Cicero.”

  “What else?” Will held up another cracker.

  “I’ll fly away,” Cicero said.

  “That’s for sure.” The cracker disappeared. “You still like ol’ Hank. I bet you miss him on the radio, don’t you?”

  “OK,” Cicero replied.

  “How about one more?” Will rubbed the raven’s beak; the bird leaned forward with pleasure.

  Cicero pulled back and studied Will’s face for a long moment. Then the raven said, “Hey good lookin’.”

  Will stopped petting, his hand in midair. His smile disappeared. “Go on,” Will said. “Get out of here before you get us in trouble.” Will nudged the raven off the chair.

  Cicero gave a soft murmur and hopped to the windowsill. He gazed back at Ada and then Will, his black eyes bright and impenetrable. Then he opened his wings and flew off.

  WHEN Will woke up that afternoon, Aunt Amanda sat in the chair, not Ada.

  “Hello, Will.” She rested her book on her lap. “I heard you had a big morning.”

  Will yawned, which hurt his cheeks.

  “And look at your face! No more bandages. Ada told me they plan to start grafting tomorrow. You’re getting better and better!”

  Will remembered the mirror, and he turned away.

  “And good afternoon to you, too, Aunt Amanda,” she said. “I missed you this morning. Oh, and how was your doctor’s appointment?”

  Will rolled back. “What did your doctor say?”

  “Why, he speaks. Thanks for asking. No major problems, just rusty old joints. And I talked to an army fellow about the draft notice.” She rested her hand on his. “Sounds like they’ll send someone to come visit and make sure your story’s true.”

  “Thanks for dealing with that.”

  “Let’s just hope they have some sense about it all.”

  Will saw the window still open.

  “I heard you had a visitor.”

  Will smiled.

  “Care to tell me? And don’t just nod, young man. You’re supposed to talk, remember?”

  Will told of how Ada had rushed in. How they’d pushed open the stuck glass and there was Cicero, landing on the windowsill. “He looked good. And he came in and sat on the chair with me, and he even remembered some of the things I taught him.”

  “I’m not surprised. Think he’ll come back?”

  “I hope so.”

  Aunt Amanda pulled a bottle out of her bag. “I brought your shampoo. I thought I’d wash your hair today, especially now that the bandages are off for a bit. What do you think?”

  Will agreed reluctantly.

  In the bathroom, he stuck his head under the faucet, which made him dizzy, and Aunt Amanda steadied him as he sat on the side of the tub. “You all right?” Will waited for the lightheadedness to pass before answering. She rubbed the shampoo into his thick, black hair. “Keep your eyes closed,” she told him, but he already had them shut.

  Will’s head swayed with the motions of her hands. Even when he was a kid, he’d always liked when Aunt Amanda did this, her gentle touch, her fingers that made his whole body relax. He breathed in the scent of her perfume, the closeness of her breath.

  “I haven’t done this since you were a boy. Remember all those times I’d come to get you for church and you still had a week’s worth of dirt on you?”

  Will smiled. They were both silent for a while.

  “Time to rinse. Easy now and don’t get dizzy. Don’t want you fainting on me.”

  Aunt Amanda checked the water temperature before he ducked his head under the faucet. She gently moved his head, guiding the water and rinsing out the suds. After, she laid a towel over his head and rubbed. Will stood to face her and wiped his eyes.

  “Thanks, Aunt Amanda.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  Will started out of the bathroom, but she blocked the door.

  “We’re done, aren’t we?”

  “Not quite. I need you to do something for me.”

  Will waited, the towel draped around his neck.

  “Comb your hair.”

  Will picked up the comb and started.

  “Do it like everyone else, Will. Do it like you used to. Turn and have a look in that mirror.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Well, I’d rather you did. You’re going to have to at some point, and now’s as good a time as any.”

  “Why are you doing this, Aunt Amanda? I already know I’m ugly.”

  “That’s exactly the point. You are not ugly. And I’m not letting you out of this bathroom until you have a look in that mirror and realize it.”

  Will didn’t move.

  “You’ve been terribly burned, but look at you! You can breathe and see and hear and walk. You have people who love you. You’re alive, Will. Alive.”

  Will looked at his feet.

  “Besides, you’re just being conceited if you think everyone is looking at you because of some scars.”

  She ignored his glare and stepped out of the bathroom. “I’ll be right on the other side of this door, but I’m not letting you out until you look long and hard in that mirror. And don’t try to lie to me. You know I can always tell when you do.” With that, she closed the door.

  Will rubbed the towel over his head before hanging it on the back of the door. He picked up the comb and turned to the mirror. He focused only on his hair. With a few quick strokes, he combed it into place. The cowlick, as usual, arched over his forehead.

  Wil
l leaned close to the glass. The skin was what made him sick. No softness, no freckles. Only a palette of wax, stiff and thick. And colored like a fire, red and bronze with a streak of white. All of it speckled black. Conceited, shit. You don’t look like this.

  He pinched his cheek but could hardly feel it, the scars were so thick. Just an ugly goddamn monster. He remembered the other mirror, the one he’d shattered. He wouldn’t be able to shatter all mirrors, but he had shattered one. The idea of it brought a smile.

  Or an attempt to smile. He stretched his lips and tried to wiggle his cheeks, but they moved only slightly, and his smile looked more like a flat line than a curve. This is all there is, folks. His little rant after Dickson’s visit came back. That’s just how it is. Heaven, the story. Hell, the story. God, the story. If this was heaven, then it also could be hell. Just depended on the story. “So, Mr. Will,” he whispered to the mirror, “what story will it be?” He scratched at the biggest black speck on his chin; the splotch didn’t disappear.

  What was that Milton line from his senior English class? He’d hated Miss Schaffer for making them memorize, but now, he called it up:

  The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

  Old Milton might’ve been right, having Satan say this. Paradise, the story. And yep, Paradise Lost, the story.

  Will rubbed his forehead, pushed on it. Texture like rubber. And dimples, what had happened to them? Nose—blotchy, bright red. No eyelashes, no eyebrows. One ear an ash-colored white. Part of it missing.

  Cicero, when he’d lost his foot—how had he handled that? He’d moped around for a few days at most. Not more than a week. And then, that was it. Let’s get on with it, he seemed to say. Soon enough, he held down his food with that stub.

  This is all there is.

  Will stuck out his tongue. It looked about the same but with a few more scars.

  He spat into the sink and licked his lips, tasted his salty skin. He still had a mouth, he still had a nose, he still had a tongue, an ear, and two eyes.

  The mirror fogged, so Will straightened.

  Like Ada.

  She, too, knew fire. She, too, knew loss. And like Cicero, she seemed to be finding heaven here, not hell. Maybe she could heal. Maybe she’d been helping him all along.

  He bent his right arm, moved each joint, stretching each finger, the pain intense. But he had an arm and hand and fingers, and yes, pain. No numbness. No phantom limb. Pain—if he squeezed hard—sharp enough to make him faint.

  Will took a deep breath, the air funneling through nose and into lungs that still worked. As if traveling through the tunnels, he held his breath and started counting. But after seven, he had to breathe. He’d have to work on that.

  When Will opened the door, Aunt Amanda put down her book.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I looked.” He climbed into bed.

  “And?”

  “I doubt anyone will ever want to go to a dance with me.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that, not at all,” Aunt Amanda said, smiling to herself.

  THAT night, when the nurse came to give another shot, Will asked, “Is that morphine?”

  She said yes.

  “I don’t want it tonight.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I want to try making it through the night without it.”

  “If you change your mind, just call.”

  When the door closed, he looked at Ada.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Why are you here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you here, in this room, with me, every night?”

  “Because I want to help you. And because I love you.”

  “You love me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Even when I look like this, like a monster?”

  “Yes, Will, even now. And you don’t look like a monster.”

  He stared at her hard. She stared back.

  “Do you pity me?”

  She hesitated. “Sometimes. Like this morning, when you were in so much pain.”

  “I don’t want to be your charity case.”

  “You’re not. Don’t even think that.”

  They stared again for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed and he eased back.

  “Hold my hand.”

  She moved closer and took his good hand.

  “Hold this one, too.” Will laid his bandaged arm across his body and she took his fingers.

  “Are your hands tingling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say the chant.”

  She leaned close to the burn and whispered. When she finished, Will stared at her.

  “I think it’s working.” He rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Yes. The pain is going away.” He squeezed her hands with both of his. She didn’t let go.

  AFTER Will fell asleep, Ada stretched and stood by the window. These past nights, she had spent the time knitting or reading under a tiny light. But now, she wanted only to stare out the window into the dark.

  She remembered the summer Uncle Mark had taught her all of the chants. “When it comes to taking out fire,” he had told her, “I know two different chants, but I’ve only ever used one, because it always works. I’ll teach you both, just in case.” Ada had forgotten the other one, even when she had tried to heal her mother’s hands. But now she remembered:

  Water won’t burn;

  Fire won’t quench;

  God’s Word won’t lie.

  Was it all true? Water had burned in the mountain cove when she’d gone to gather herbs. She’d seen it. Like Moses’s burning bush, it had glinted and flared for that brief moment.

  Ada traveled farther back to the barn fire, when she’d clapped the flame out of her dress and her hands had gone cold. She’d wanted to drink that fire. How odd this sounded now, yet it was true. She had been thirsty for fire.

  Part of her still was—that fire that burned in Will and Cicero and all this world, she wanted to drink, to drown in it, even. She’d seen the black bird on Will’s arm. She’d opened the window for Cicero. And now, Will had opened a different window, and they had both flown through it, together.

  God’s Word won’t lie. She had always known this, yet there it was again, a reminder. And this made her remember the line from the psalm “Be still, and know that I am God.” Be still. Be quiet. Just listen. Don’t doubt. God’s Word won’t lie. He never abandoned you. You never angered him—the barn just burned—and He never disappeared.

  The night the barn burned, after her father had put her mother to bed and then gone back out to help the firemen, Ada hadn’t known what to do. She couldn’t sleep, even though it was late, and her father forbade her from getting close to the fire. So she hiked past the corncrib, out into the orchard, away from the smoke. The flames still burned bright enough to cast her shadow ahead of her, but eventually she climbed over the hill into the hollow of the blueberry field.

  She had been so foolish. With every step through the orchard and up that hill, she had said, God’s gone. God’s gone. God’s gone. She couldn’t get past that, couldn’t get past asking why? An irrelevant question, really. But she had been so shattered.

  A small part of her still was, the nursing part. Nurse Hallett’s words had latched onto a deep fear. Maybe she didn’t need to be a nurse. Maybe this was enough. God wasn’t gone, nor was her powwowing, nor her love of Will. Nor Will. This easily could be more than enough. This could be plenty. This was plenty.

  LATER that night, Will woke to find Ada dozing in the chair beside him. Her hand, even as she slept, touched his. He listened to the soft breaths coming from her parted lips. Her skin was so smooth and soft. Not like his, that reflection in the mirror. Yet Ada had never looked away. That morning, when he’d shouted at her to leave, she had seen his new face, all of its ugliness, and he’d had to look away first.

  And right afte
r the explosion, when his face must’ve looked worse, like his arm, black and bloody, even then, Ada hadn’t looked away.

  She had never looked away.

  In that moment Will realized what it was that he most desired and most feared. Would she kiss him? And would he be able to feel her soft lips?

  He squeezed her hand to wake her.

  She smiled and squeezed her fingers around his.

  He surprised her with a whispered “Kiss me.”

  Ada did not hesitate. She leaned over and felt the sinewy strips of his lips, the familiar taste of his mouth.

  Will knew again his heart’s fire.

  Cicero

  So how does this story end?

  An avian version would be for me and Lyle to fly off into the sunset, which we do, every day, except when it rains.

  Another version would be for Will and Ada to settle down and have a big family and then all of them walk off into the sunset . . . the syrup so thick it clogs your throat.

  So this is what happened. Will came home, and he and ol’ what’s-her-name got married. They settled in Hopewell, where he opened a garage right at the exit and got all kinds of business. She never went to nursing school. She just kept working at HoJo’s and doing her hot-handed stuff. And other than the wedding, he never went to church.

  I check in every now and then. Always by myself, though. This hunger for words and Will, that’s all mine, not Lyle’s, and I don’t blame him. I still have the noise in my ears from that gunshot, still have the old aches from those scars (noise, rooted in the word nausea—figures). And Lyle forbade me from ever taking any of our offspring to Will, which I get, but that’s hard to do when they’re fidgeting smart-alecks wont to fly everywhere you fly. So I slip away and cross over the mountain and visit. Usually, I throw a few sticks at that dog, and all of his barking brings someone to the door. If that doesn’t work, I do my wolf whistle, over and over.

  I like to have a new word or trick for Will, something I pick up along the way. The best was the toilet flush. They built these fancy new johns at a nearby state park where me and Lyle raid dumpsters. And I got to listening to that rush of water, that glomp followed by a long whisssssssssh. Pretty soon I could nail it so that when a person stepped out the outhouse door, I’d make that noise and if they had ears, they’d look around and think, wasn’t I the only one in there? Do it again, and they might look up, or not. Usually they’d just scratch their butt and shake their head and walk away, me the only one having a ripsniptious time.