Chasing Fireflies

by Charles Martin

  I nodded at my hands. “Go ahead. I’ve got some experience with this sort of thing.”

  He put his feet in my hands as if they were a lion’s mouth, and I gently lifted him up. I propped him up with some pillows and then pointed back out the door. “You want a soda?”

  He shook his head.

  “You sure?” I held out the quarters again. “My treat.”

  He nodded.

  “Coke?”

  He shook his head and scribbled quickly without looking at the page. He held it up. MOUNTAIN DEW.

  I smiled. “A kid after my own heart.”

  I bought a couple of Dews and two MoonPies. He sat on his bed and ate carefully, not spilling a crumb. I sat on the chair at his desk, spilling crumbs all across the floor. When we finished, I stood and headed for the door. When I did, he stopped chewing and watched me closely—which told me more than a smile would have.

  “I’m going to check in with the administrator here, and then I’ve got to get to work. You going to be okay?” I should’ve known better.

  He drank the last sip of Mountain Dew and set the bottle quietly on the table beside the bed. As he did, it struck me how much we both had in common with that bottle.

  I tried to smile. “I’ll come back . . . tomorrow. Maybe bring a game of checkers.”

  He frowned.

  “You don’t like checkers? How ’bout cards? We could play slapjack or 21.”

  He flipped to a clean sheet. His hand flew across the page, then he held it up to show me what looked like matching king and queen chess pieces.

  “You play chess?”

  One quick nod.

  “You any good?”

  A second quick nod.

  “But I don’t play chess.”

  He thought for a moment, then both sides of his mouth turned up slightly. I read his face.

  “Okay, tomorrow. Chess it is.”

  I turned to walk out, but he tapped the bottle with his pencil. When I turned around he was holding up his notebook. It read BYE, CHASE.

  “Bye.”

  When I said that, his right hand came up, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and took the right side of his mouth up with them even farther. I walked out of the room and down the hall—my own flip-flops slapping my heels. The echo of my gait brought to mind the picture of Sketch, his room, and this place. I looked around, read the signs for the office of the administrator, and shook my head. This whole thing had just gone from bad to worse. I had done the one thing you never do to a kid like that. I’d offered false hope. His face told me that. And false hope is worse than no hope at all.

  Mandy Parker picked up her office phone and sounded busy. “District Attorney’s Office.”

  “Mandy . . . Chase Walker. I’ve got some information that might help you with our little friend. You got a minute?”

  “Yes. Let me drop some stuff off at the courthouse, and I’ll meet you at Starbucks in fifteen minutes. I’m in desperate need of caffeine.”

  I arrived early, ordered two double shot lattes, and didn’t have to wait two minutes before she arrived. She wore a gray striped suit—the kind with a skirt—high heels, a white blouse, and nylons. When I stood up to offer her a seat, I had to look up. She was about an inch taller than me. “You been in court today?”

  “Yes . . . a couple of different hearings.”

  I told her about my visit to the boy’s home and how we’d played ring around the Coke bottle until I figured out what Sketch was trying to tell me.

  She sipped her coffee and tried to read my face. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Thought I’d drive over to Jesup Brothers Bottlers and see if I can find anyone who knows Bo.”

  “Want some company?”

  Chapter 11

  After bouncing around the state from home to home, I landed in Augusta in a boys’ home where the walls were lined with bunks, smelly socks, and too many pairs of the same kind of shoes. I remember waking up to the smell of cut grass and the sound of mowers. I could look out my window and watch those men in green suits and yellow earmuffs zip across the fairways on red machines. Between them and me stood a really tall chain-link fence.

  About twice a day I would imagine myself hopping that eight-foot containment fence and riding one of those mowers home. There were only two problems with this. First, the other boys told me I was too short to crank it, but I told them that if I could get across that fence, I’d figure a way. My second problem was a little harder to fix.

  It was a Tuesday morning when a man in denim signed me out and took me home. I studied him and thought he was just one more stop on the streetcar called my life. He was different from a lot of the men I’d been around. He was tall and skinny, his boots were dirty, and his jeans were faded and fraying at the ends. His sunglasses looked like the kind the baseball players wear that flip up and down. His baseball cap was old, and whenever he was inside he carried it in hands that were knotty and hard. He wore a gold ring on his left hand, a white T-shirt beneath his button-up, and his hair was cut real short around the sides and back—like you could see his skin—and the top was cut just long enough to comb over. Unlike most of the other men I’d been around who were always telling me what to do, he didn’t talk much, but always seemed to be pointing his ear at me. The first time he shook my hand, I thought he smelled like a horse.

  When we got in his truck he said, “You hungry?”

  I nodded.

  “You like Krystal?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well”—he flipped on his blinker and eased out of the parking lot—“we’ll try Krystal, and if you don’t like it, we’ll go someplace else.”

  I looked in the rearview mirror, saw a cloud of white smoke, and smelled what I would later learn was burning oil.

  He turned to me and flipped his glasses up. “That okay with you?”

  In one fell swoop, he’d done something that no man had ever done before: he asked me twice in the same minute what I liked. And he listened for the answer.

  We ate a sack of Krystals and then pulled into a convenience store for dessert. He left the truck running and reappeared a few minutes later carrying two brown bottles and two circular things that looked like huge hockey pucks wrapped in plastic.

  He popped the top on a bottle and handed it to me. “It’s a Yoo-hoo.” He swigged his own and said, “It’s like chocolate milk . . . only better.” Then he broke open one of the hockey pucks and shoved about three bites’ worth into his mouth. Barely able to talk, he motioned for me to do the same.

  I pulled on the bag, which broke and sent crumbs flying across the cab of the truck. I tried to catch them, but doing so spilled my drink. I looked at the crumbs and at the chocolate stain on the seat and braced for the backhand. And the U-turn.

  I’d seen it happen before.A couple picked up a little girl, and before they got out of the parking lot, they were back dropping her off.

  But he just took another bite and said, “It’s called a MoonPie.” He chuckled. “Don’t really know why.” He looked out the windshield in a moment of measured pleasure. “I guess if you ate enough of them, you’d get big as the moon.”

  We rode three or four hours and then turned into Brunswick, Georgia. He glanced at me. “You want a tour?”

  I nodded.

  “You thirsty?”

  Another nod. Then I shook my head.

  He thought for a minute. “You got to pee?”

  I nodded several times.

  “If you pee, you think you’ll be thirsty again?”

  I smiled and looked at the plastic wrapper on the floor.

  He stood outside the stall while I did my business, and then we bought two more Yoo-hoos and just as many MoonPies. We loaded up and stuffed our faces while he gave me a tour of the town that has been my home ever since.

  We drove past the funeral home, where there must have been a viewing going on, because he took his hat off. Next came the movie theater. “That there’s the Fox. Run by two br
others named Ronald and Rupert. Ronald keeps the books while Rupert tears the tickets. Ronald . . . he’s pretty sharp, but Rupert . . . well, the engine’s running, but there ain’t nobody home.”

  I looked at him, a wrinkle above my brow.

  “Oh, he, uh . . . he got kicked in the head by a horse when just a kid.” He swirled his finger around his ear. “Sort of scrambled his thinker. But he’s strong as an ox, and he’s the smilingest kid I’ve ever seen.”

  Further down the street we passed a house with a white sign out front that read SMITH AND SMITH. He pushed his hat down tighter and tipped it back just a bit. “Attorneys.” He shook his head and spit out the window. “The Smith brothers died years back. Now it’s run by a couple of Buddha-bellies who are all hat and no cattle.”

  He peered into the window where a large man in a white shirt was leaning back in his chair, his feet on the desk, the phone pressed to his ear. “Uh-huh, there he is now, giving somebody a handful of howdy and a mouthful of much-obliged.” We passed, and he tilted his hat further back. “He’s probably talking to my brother.”

  I looked at him.

  “Oh, yeah, I got a brother. Name’s Jack. Year older. He doesn’t claim me, but we’re still blood.” He laughed. “He thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.” He waved his hand across the dash-board. “Unfortunately, most folks around here tend to agree with him.” He pointed at a big, huge castle-looking thing on our left. “He owns that bank, but”—he pointed at a large white church on our right—“folks over here say he’s still tighter than the bark on a tree.” He talked, to himself and to me. “I used to work at that bank, and . . . I used to go to that church . . . funny how life works.”

  The confusion grew thicker across my face. He saw me and nodded again. “Yup . . . my brother’s taught me a couple things . . . the first is that meanness don’t just happen overnight, and the second . . .” He got quiet and flipped his glasses back down over his eyes. “Well . . . it don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge . . . so, forgive your enemies”—he chuckled—“it messes with their heads.” Then he laughed louder and patted the seat. “Oh, and maybe there’s one more.” His laugh was deep, easy, and told me he did it a lot. He poked himself in the chest. “Never judge someone by their relatives.” He looked at me. “You want to see where he lives?”

  I shrugged, and we turned east down the causeway. It would be my first time smelling the marsh.

  We drove through the security gate. He waved at the guard, the gate lifted, and we passed through. He tapped the windshield. “I got this sticker up here that lets me in whenever I want. Makes it easier for me to get to these people’s horses. But, in truth, I’m about as welcome around here as a skunk at a lawn party.”

  We drove past a huge country club, and I heard a strange sound on my right. After another mile or so we came upon a huge house, built up high and facing east. He pointed. “He lives there. Married to this woman who . . . well, we’ve howdied but we ain’t shook yet.” He shook his head. “Word around the barn is that she’s got enough tongue for ten rows of teeth.” He nodded. “And they ate supper before they said grace.”

  That one really stumped me.

  “Oh, um . . . she moved into his house, stayed awhile, and then they got married. She’s the second one to do that. And I doubt she’ll be the last.”

  I nodded.

  We U-turned, drove back south, and headed back toward the security gate. The sound, now to our left, kept drawing my attention. I couldn’t place it.

  He noticed, studied me a minute, and then said, “Ohhhh.” He slowed, turned left down a dead-end street, and parked in front of some tall grass and a sand dune that was taller than the top of the truck. We climbed the hill, pulling on the grass to get over, and when I looked up, the world got a lot bigger.

  That’s one thing Unc did from the start—he made the world a lot bigger.

  I stood there, the ocean at my feet, and listened as the waves broke on the shore. Finally he sat down, pulled off his boots and his socks that had holes in one heel and one toe, and offered me his hand.

  “You don’t really know what it’s like ’til you step in it.”

  He led me down the dune and into the water. I stood knee-deep as the waves crashed into my legs. I’ll never forget the power. It took my breath away.

  Unc did that too. And then he gave it back.

  He reached down, cupped the water in his hand, and sipped it. He swished it in his mouth and then spat it out in a long stream out over the waves. “Go ahead. Won’t hurt you. But you probably don’t want to swallow it. ’Cept maybe a little.”

  I did likewise. It was salty, swimming with sand and bubbles. I spat it out in more of a spray than a stream.

  He laughed. “Yeah, me either. But sometimes you need to be reminded.”

  We stood in the water, nearly thigh deep. His pants were soaking wet, but he didn’t seem to mind. And he didn’t seem bothered that mine were wet too. We looked out across that expansive blue, and he pointed. Enormous black clouds moving fast from left to right climbed high into the sky with smaller clouds that looked like cats and dogs.

  Lightning flashed behind them. He nodded. “Gonna be a real frog-strangling turd-floater.” Thunder clapped and spread out above us. He looked up, unafraid.

  I jerked, crossed my arms, and looked toward the sand.

  “Oh . . . never mind that. It’s just God moving the furniture.”

  I smiled.

  “Besides”—he looked out over the water, talking to someone other than me—“once you’ve been dead, everything else is gravy.”

  We jogged back through the water, up the sand, and through the grass just as the first few tablespoon-sized drops began to fall. He grabbed his boots and held my hand, and we slid down the back of the dune. When we reached the truck, he lifted his head high to heaven, took off his hat, and opened his mouth wide. The rain pelted his face and wet his tongue. He shook his head, opened my door, and smiled. “Free water. Never pass it up.”

  We sat in the truck, drying off as the rain came down in sheets. It was the hardest rain I’d ever seen. The wipers made no difference. We could barely see the front of the truck through the glass. He smiled and leaned his head back against the glass. He had to speak above the roar of the rain on the roof. “It’s raining like a cow peeing on a flat rock.”

  Lightning flashed close to the truck, the thunder echoing inside. I jumped, grabbed the door handle, and my knuckles turned white. He stared out the window, studying the underside of the clouds, and whispered over his shoulder, “Sort of makes your butt feel likes it’s dipping snuff.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but his tone of voice and the laughter that followed told me what I needed to hear.

  Minutes later, as quickly as it had come, the rain let up and then stopped altogether, letting the sun out where it immediately burned the water off the road. We drove through the swirling steam, past the country club, out the gate, and back down the causeway.

  Twenty minutes later, we turned off the hard road and onto what would become the driveway of my life. It was dirt, patched with gravel, and lined with pecan trees that were draped in Spanish moss and chattering with territorial fox squirrels. Ryegrass—green as the ripe meat of an avocado—swayed in the breeze, forming the carpet that spread from the highway to the house. I counted six huge birds with long tails and more colors than the rainbow perched in the limbs of the trees.

  “Those are Lorna’s peacocks.” He shook his head. “They make more noise than a roomful of women.”

  Beyond the trees was a pasture spotted with huge cows that had horns as big as an easy chair. We eased down the drive, skirting the potholes. Midway down, Unc stopped the truck, walked into the middle of the road, and picked something up. He walked it over to my side of the car, cracked it between his viselike hands, and handed me a piece. It was the first pecan I’d ever seen taken out of the shell. Until then, I thought they came in cellophane bags.

/>   It was sweet.

  I stepped out of the car and saw a white house with two stories, a porch that wrapped around the bottom, and enough room underneath for a dog to sleep.

  A tall, slender woman met us in the driveway. Her hair was jet black, combed straight, and hung down to her waist. She wiped her hands, knelt down, and kissed me on the cheek. I remember because her lip was fuzzy, and while her hair was black, her lip was blonde.

  “Hi . . .” She looked at the man in denim, then back at me. “I’m Lorna.”

  She held my hand and walked me into the kitchen. The table was covered with coupons and sweepstakes entries. She handed me a plate, led me over to the Crock-Pot, and picked up a big spoon. I held out the plate, and she covered it with brisket, mashed potatoes, field peas, and biscuits. We sat down, and she pointed at my plate with her fork.

  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I asked Liam, and he said he thought maybe you’d like what he liked.” She tapped her plate. “Which is this.”

  I looked from her to him, unsure.

  “Him . . . I call him Liam. Everybody else calls him Willee.”

  He smiled, but his face looked pained and his eyes were wet. He reached both his hands out; she grabbed one, and I did likewise. Then they bowed their heads, but no words came. He tried several times, but couldn’t get them out. His hand trembled, tears dripped off his nose, and his shoulders shook one time. Finally she said, “Amen.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. Then he refolded it and slid it back into his pocket.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen a grown man cry.

  After dinner she slid a small bench up against the sink, where I stood with a towel and dried the dishes he washed. She led me out onto the porch, where we sat in rockers while he dug something out of the bottom of the fridge. He walked out on the porch carrying three cups of Jell-O chocolate pudding. He peeled off the lids and handed one to each of us. We rocked and ate chocolate pudding, and he showed me how to squeeze it through my teeth so it made your teeth look all brown and dead.