Chasing Fireflies

by Charles Martin

  “Won’t be the first time,” I said, smiling.

  “You know, if I were investigating you, I’d look at an aerial photo and begin to wonder if you weren’t just casing out the ZB&T.”

  “I’m sure my uncle believes the same thing, which is why he owns all the property for three blocks in every direction . . . and why I’m not allowed within fifty feet of his bank.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if you’ve got something buried and you want to buy your-self a protective barrier around the grave.”

  “Sounds like a conspiracy theory.”

  “Sometimes the truth is hard for people to believe.”

  She nodded. “Good point, but if that’s the case, you’ve got your work cut out for you. But don’t you think somebody would have caught him by now? I mean, all those municipal bonds are no good if you don’t cash them in. Wouldn’t they have to show up somewhere?”

  “If he cashed them in at all.”

  “Why would you steal a bunch of money and never spend it?”

  “What if the money wasn’t the goal?”

  “What was?”

  “You tell me. What’s worth dying for?”

  “Mostly, money.”

  I shook my head. She might have graduated law school near the top of her class and be one of the best attorneys on the planet, but I’d had a lifetime to consider. “No, he had plenty of that.”

  “What then?”

  “What was the one thing he didn’t have?”

  She thought a minute. “You don’t actually think he framed his brother?”

  “I know that the first recorded sin in the Bible, after the Fall, was the murder of one brother by another.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Think about it, Counselor. For all intents and purposes, this town hung William McFarland on a murder he didn’t commit—which, by the way, included his wife and father—and a theft of millions in municipal bonds that they never found, can’t prove he took, and have no evidence were ever cashed in. They were just looking for someone to blame, and he was the easiest to peg. Lastly, if he did take them, doesn’t he have a rather funny way of showing it?”

  “Okay, let’s say Jack did all this to gain control. Control of what?”

  “The Zuta. Twenty-six thousand acres of virgin, South Georgia real estate. The bank is petty cash compared to the opportunity at the Zuta. It’s no secret that I think Jack McFarland is a murdering crook, but I never said he was a stupid murdering crook.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I shrugged. “What I know about Jack McFarland. You of all people should know that appearances can be deceiving.”

  “True. If this job has taught me anything, it’s that people are good at hiding who they really are. But what about William McFarland? No one ever explained that pardon. A lot of people around here were mad, thought he didn’t get what he deserved. A lot still do. Let’s assume for a minute an underground basement, tunnel, call it what you will, actually existed at one time. What good would knowing that do you?”

  “It would prove Jack had or knew about access to the vault.”

  “So what? The same would be true of William McFarland.”

  “Sure, but for so long the finger’s only been pointed in one direction.”

  “Let’s say Jack knew. What was his motive? We’re starting to argue in circles.”

  “Welcome to my life.”

  “Twice you’ve been held and questioned about snooping around the bank’s surrounding buildings.”

  “Those are just the times they know about,” I said, grinning.

  She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t hear that. The third time, the judge put you in jail until she could figure out what to do with you. Which”— she shrugged—“is nothing, because it’s difficult to take anything out of empty and gutted buildings.”

  “Yeah, my uncle is good at that.”

  “What?”

  “Gutting stuff.”

  “He says he’s renovating for the historical society.”

  “Yeah, he’s preserving history all right. If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell you.”

  “You really don’t like him, do you?”

  “What is there to like?”

  “Well, for starters, he’s one of the most well-respected businessmen in South Georgia. Not to mention an elder in his church and . . . the list goes on.”

  I studied her. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Well, ’cause if you do this to every guy you meet, it might be kind of difficult to find yourself on a second date.”

  “Sorry. Too many courtrooms. I get carried away. But, seriously . . .”

  “See? There you go again.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “You don’t trust people too easily, do you?”

  She took a deep breath. “In my job, that’s an asset.”

  “But what about your life?”

  “It’s given me some trouble before. Seriously”—she wouldn’t let up, which I began to see as a strength in her character—“looking at an aerial photo of the block, I’d say you were casing out the bank.”

  “It’s not necessarily the bank I’m interested in.”

  “Really? You can believe that somebody, somehow, came up through the Spanishera basement—that no one can find—and bored through a couple feet of concrete and into the old vault, where they then stole most of the town’s municipal bonds, all of which were kept in individual lock boxes that required two keys, one of which was only held by the box holders?”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “Law school taught me that.”

  “Is that the same law school that taught you not to trust people?”

  “No, this job pretty much took care of that.”

  “Did you just break up with a boyfriend or something?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Even if the basement still exists, wouldn’t it flood? What about the water table?”

  I wasn’t about to play all my cards at one time. Not until I knew more. “Maybe, but not necessarily.”

  “Then how do you explain the new high-tech vault you see when you walk in the front door?”

  “I don’t. I’m only interested in how they got into the old one.”

  “Just what are you looking for? Certainly, you don’t think Jack McFarland is dumb enough to keep anything of value down there.”

  “That depends on what you value.” I looked at her over the top of my Costa Del Mars.

  “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

  “Yes . . . but I’m not quite ready to write it.”

  There’s a lot I don’t know about my life. Don’t know my real name, don’t really know where I came from, who my parents were, or why they dropped me off on the doorstep of a boys’ home. Lastly, I don’t know much of anything about the man who raised me except this: I have lived my entire life in a chasm between hope and hate, and the only man to climb down into it with me was Unc.

  And that’s enough.

  Chapter 17

  The afternoon of my man-overboard adventure with Unc, we cleaned the fish and put most of them in the freezer in Ziploc bags. Needing some cornmeal for a fish fry and horseradish for the cocktail sauce, we drove to town. Returning from the grocery store, we were driving down Highway 99 when we came upon an entire fleet of flashing lights. Eight fire trucks, six police cars, four state troopers’ cars, and an ambulance were parked in a random circle around what looked like a well head out in a farmer’s pasture.

  Unc wasn’t too welcome most anywhere in town, but when he saw all the lights, he stopped and asked the trooper who was directing traffic, “What’s going on?”

  The trooper pointed. “Ain’t good. Little kid fell in a well. Wedged in. Can’t get him out.”

  Unc looked at the swarming chaos, then at me. He
clicked on his blinker and pulled into the pasture. We approached the crowd of professionals who had gathered around the top of the well, and he elbowed his way in and quickly put two and two together. Most farmers in and around Glynn County feed their flocks with surface water. Few wells exist because the surface of the earth is so close to the water table, but there are exceptions and this well was one of them. It was a fifty-foot seepage well, and its walls were made of coquina.

  The boy had climbed down into the well much like he would a set of monkey bars. Problem was, when he neared the bottom, he was hanging upside down with his flashlight when he lost his grip and fell. Given the diameter of the shaft and complications of the bars, the men in the group were all too big to climb down, and the kid—who was upside down and only partly conscious—couldn’t grab hold of anything sent to him. Lastly, they couldn’t disturb the construction of the well because it had grown brittle over time. If they did, chances were good it would collapse on the boy. That meant they needed somebody small who could retrace the boy’s steps, wind around the crossbars, and take a rope down to him—even tie it around him if need be. And they needed all this done right then. That’s about the time that everyone looked at me.

  One of the firemen knelt down and explained this in terms I could understand. When he finished, he said, “Son, we’ll give you a flashlight and tie a harness around you so that if anything goes wrong, we can just lift you out.” He raised his chin and sized me up. “You think you can do it?”

  Evidently, they had already chosen the smallest among them to try this very thing, because a dwarf of a man was squatting atop the well smeared with mud and dressed only in boxer shorts. He wasn’t much bigger than me. If he couldn’t make it, then they weren’t kidding. I looked at all the people looking at me, then back at the fireman. Each forehead was framed in deep creases.

  I’d already had enough excitement for one day, but I figured we were on the upside. What else could go wrong? I nodded and then slowly pointed at Unc. “But he holds the rope.”

  That night, after Unc and Aunt Lorna had turned out their light, I sat up and wrote a letter to my dad. When I think about the start of my writing career, I look back to this letter.

  Dear Dad,

  Today I almost drowned. We were fishing when I dumped the boat over. Got caught on a tree beneath the water, and Uncle Willee spent three minutes underwater trying to get my foot unpinned. He did. But his face turned real red, then blue, and tonight he’s got a real bad hacking cough. I think he almost died, too.

  Then later this afternoon I climbed down into a well and pulled this kid out who was upside down and turning blue. He had fallen in, broken his arm, and couldn’t get out. The fire department said they’re gonna give me an award and the newspaper man says my picture will run on the front page tomorrow. But I was scared. I only did it ’cause up above me Uncle Willee held the rope.

  A lot has happened since I’ve been here.

  When I got here, Aunt Lorna baked two cakes—because I didn’t know if I liked chocolate or vanilla better. Until then, I’d been passed over a lot and passed around from home to home to home. The kids on the bus call me a “reject.” I think that’s what you are when you don’t have a home.

  But Uncle Willee and Aunt Lorna gave me a room and helped me paint it whatever color I liked—which changed three times in the first three months. A few months ago, I wore holes in my shoes and Uncle Willee bought me new ones. Last Christmas they took me to Disney World, and I rode Pirates of the Carry-bean seven times. And when I wanted a bicycle, Uncle Willee worked nights to buy me one. It was an all-chrome, Schwinn Mag Scrambler with knobby tires and a Bendix brake. And then, a few months later, when somebody at school stole it, he worked nights again to match my savings and help me buy a new one.

  Since being here, I haven’t needed nothing.

  Most days I wonder if I was just a mistake. Why did God make me? Am I really what the kids on the bus say I am? And I guess I get this look on my face, ’cause when I think that way Uncle Willee puts his hand on my shoulder, and I feel something like butterflies in my stomach. Uncle Willee says that’s hope. At first I thought it might have been worms like I had before at that other home. I’m not sure what it is, but I think I like it. ’Cause when he does that, I start to thinking that maybe I’m okay. That maybe there’s nothing wrong with me. That maybe God didn’t make a mistake with me. Uncle Willee’s hands are callused, real wrinkly, often dusty, and sometimes smell like horse poop. Usually there’s a cut across one of the knuckles, ’cause he says his tools are worn smooth and they often slip.

  I won’t lie to you. I still cry at night. I bury my face in my pillow so he can’t hear me, but he’s got good ears. He walks in, sits down, and when I look up, sometimes he’s crying too. I never knew grownups did that, but his nose runs too. I guess that’s why he always carries this white handkerchief in his back pocket. He’s a good storyteller, ’cause he’ll tell me about his daddy and how he lived. They’re good stories, too. I like them. When he’s finished, we go in the kitchen and eat ice cream. But we don’t tell anybody ’cause I still think crying is for sissies.

  When I first got here, I’d sit up late at night and look out the window ’cause I thought maybe you’d drive down here and get me. I watched the headlights on the highway. I watched them come, then watched them go, but none of them ever turned down the drive.

  So I wrote this letter to tell you that tonight, I’m going to sleep, and I’m done looking down the driveway.

  Sincerely,

  Your son,

  Chase Walker

  The next morning I put my letter in an envelope, addressed it to “The Dad of Chase Walker,” got Aunt Lorna to help me put a stamp on it, and then put it in the box and flipped the flag up. Then I waited on the mailman to make sure he took the letter. He did.

  Chapter 18

  That morning, after we visited Bo, Mandy and I stopped in at the boys’ home. The receptionist was watching a reality TV show and waved me past with a potato chip. The folks in the cafeteria were cleaning up, and the air smelled like a mixture of Pine-Sol and bad chocolate cake. The janitor’s yellow mop bucket sat empty, his mop was dry, and both were rolled up in the corner where the marks on the wall told me he kept it.

  I pushed open Sketch’s door and saw what Aunt Lorna told me I’d see—the kid was teaching Unc how to lose at chess. The board was laid out on the bed where Sketch sat Indian style. Unc sat backwards in the chair with his legs on either side like he was riding in a saddle. He was resting his head on his arms atop the backrest and chewing on his lip. That meant he was losing.

  Most of Unc’s pieces were laid across the bedspread at the kid’s feet, and most all the kid’s pieces were still on the board making a pretty tight semicircle around Unc’s king.

  When I walked in, he tilted his hat back and said, “It’s a good thing you showed up, ’cause I’m about to die . . . again.”

  “Don’t look at me. He beat me in straight sets.”

  Unc shook his head. “Buy you books, send you to school, and all you do is chew on the covers.”

  Mandy walked in behind me. She didn’t want to see Sketch as much as she wanted to see Unc. She’d been chewing on her finger-nails ever since we got back into town. She curled her finger to summon him into the hallway, and he pushed back from the bed.

  “Here”—he offered me the chair—“take my place. You can’t make it much worse.”

  “Thanks a lot. Your confidence in me is inspiring.” I flipped his baseball cap with my fingers, knocking it onto the floor. It exposed the bald spot and how his hair had shaped to his hat. He stepped out into the hall, twirling his cap in his hands while Mandy talked. I tried to eavesdrop while the kid concentrated, but chances were good he heard more than I did.

  In the crack between the hinges and the doorjamb, I could see that Mandy was talking a lot with her hands. “I just want to make sure you’re aware of what you’re getting into.”

  “Yes m
a’am.”

  “I mean, it’s been awhile since you two have done this.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “That boy’s parents could show up any day, and you might not like what you see, but you’ve got no control. The law will literally put him in the car and watch them drive off.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Here’s the simple truth. . . .” Mandy lowered her voice, telling me that she didn’t like saying it any more than Unc liked hearing it. “There are more than five hundred thousand kids just like him around the country, and since we’re pretty sure he’s older than eight, the chances of his going anywhere but to another foster home before freedom at eighteen are about 70 percent against him. Once he gets past ten, which he might already be, the chances of his ever getting adopted are close to nothing.”

  Unc twirled his cap and nodded, speaking softly, “Yes ma’am.”

  “Are you listening to me? Because all I’m getting is this ‘yes ma’am’ stuff that’s hard to read.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She shook her head and put her hands on her hips. “Mr. McFarland, I admire what you’re doing. You all are good people. This boy deserves a chance. And I think he’s starting to make a friend of Chase in there, but . . .”

  “Ms. Parker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your case is shiny, but it won’t hold lighter fluid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing, and I understand why. I really do. Were I in your shoes, I’d do the same. And you’re right . . . the possibilities in that boy’s future may hurt us. May hurt a lot. But I’m no stranger to the rain.” He looked back at Sketch. “It’s the hurting that makes it right . . . makes it worth doing.” He sucked through his teeth and put his hat on. “’Sides . . . this ain’t my first rodeo. So let us do what we’re good at.”

  She smiled and folded her arms. Through the crack in the door, we made eye contact. “Yes sir.”

  Chapter 19

  Dressed in his apron that read QUICHE AND FONDUE ME, Unc shucked corn while Aunt Lorna picked off the silk. She’d given him the apron for their twentieth anniversary, and I laughed every time I saw it. On the steps, Tommye chewed on a fingernail while I wrestled an errant Confederate jasmine vine that had climbed through the railing. I wound it up the porch column as the four of us watched the phone. It’s not like any of us were practiced at this. The thing that kept us going was the idea that no matter how imperfect and insufficient it was and we were, and no matter how little we knew about this kid, we were pretty sure that here beat any place he’d ever been before.