“My life has been real different than I thought. Ain’t turned out how I hoped . . . nor dreamt. But I’m not the only man in the world to get screwed by life. Lots are worse off than me. That’s life. You take the bad with the good. Rise up through it. Live in the midst of it. It’s the bad that lets you know how good the good really is. Don’t let the bad leave you thinking like there ain’t no good. There is, and lots of it, too.”
“You know they sell that same stuff down at the grocery store in those magazines along the checkout counter.”
He nodded, then he picked up one of Lorna’s roses and set it in my lap. “Here.”
I picked it up and smelled it.
He poked me in the shoulder. “See what I mean? Thorns don’t stop you from sniffing. Or putting them in a vase on the kitchen table. You work around them.” He stuck a finger in the air. “Why? ’Cause the rose is worth it.” He looked at me. “Think what you’d miss.”
We sat a long time while Unc learned to smoke. After he got the hang of it, he smoked the ashes white, then tapped it out on the heel of his boot. “Sometimes good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.”
“Doesn’t seem right.”
He nodded slowly. “Yup.”
Chapter 29
We loaded up, packed the cooler and the pole, and walked outside where Unc had Lil’ Bubba tied up. He helped Tommye up into the saddle and then placed Sketch behind her. The five of us walked out through the back pasture, underneath the canopy of cypress and oaks, and into the dense cover of the Zuta. Thirty minutes later, we walked out of the water and into Ellsworth’s Sanctuary. The crepe myrtles were in bloom and sprinkling the ground with small pink blossoms. We walked to the north end, Tommye dis-mounted, and we sat down on logs to watch Unc teach Sketch how to fish.
Unc slipped the worm onto the hook, threading it from head to tail, and then tossed it into the water where the warmouth were popping bugs on the surface. He held the pole gently, raised his chin, and whispered, “Talk to me, sweet lips. I’ll find you in the dark.” Just then the bobber disappeared; he set the hook and handed the pole to Sketch, who started reeling furiously. A moment later, he stood on the bank watching his fish flop on the ground as Unc laughed and clapped.
Tommye bumped me with her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to join them?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“Only one pole.”
She frowned. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”
I smiled, staring back into my own memory. “The point is not the fishing . . . the point is the kid.”
We spent the morning watching the two of them fill up the stringer. Midmorning, after Sketch had the hang of it, Tommye slipped her arm inside mine and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
She steered me around the Sanctuary, walking slowly, saying little. We skirted the edges, then broke through the brush to stare down on two tombstones. We stood for a moment, our eyes tracing the names on the marble. The ground around each had been brushed back, and dead flowers lay between them.
Unc walked up behind us. Whether it was the sunlight or the place, his face had changed. Normally young and vibrant, his age suddenly showed. There were wrinkles on his neck and around his eyes, and a single muscle in his cheek twitched.
We three stood looking down. Tommye hooked her arms inside ours, holding onto us as much as uniting us. Finally she spoke. She turned to Unc and said, “I want you to do something for me.”
She looked at the ground next to his son’s grave. Mushrooms and small ferns were reaching up out of the ground, and a caterpillar was slowly making its way across the dead leaves. She slipped her hand into his. “I want you to speak at my funeral. And I want you to bury me right here.”
Unc gritted his teeth, pulled her to his chest, and nodded.
While dusk had set, it had grown dark inside the swamp. Unc slid his flashlight into his back pocket, lifted Tommye, and then handed Sketch up to her. She wrapped her arms around him, and the two held onto the saddle horn while Unc told Bubba, “Old Man, you’re carrying precious cargo. Better take it easy.”
Watching that picture, I was reminded that there are still things in this life that are beautiful. Tommye and Sketch were two of them. The beam from Unc’s flashlight bounced off the water and lit their smiling faces as they bobbed atop the horse. Then it hit me that the reason the light bounced off the water was because Unc was pointing it behind him. And maybe that was the prettiest picture of all.
We walked out of the Sanctuary as the last rays of the sun glanced off the earth, making room for the cooler sea breeze that swept itself over the islands, across Brunswick, and down into the Buffalo. When we walked into the house, the phone was ringing. Unc answered it, spoke briefly, and hung up.
“It’s Mandy. She’s coming by.” He looked at Aunt Lorna. “Bringing somebody with her.”
Mandy’s state-issue white Camry turned down the drive, followed by a blue van. The van hung back at a distance as Mandy parked. She mounted the porch and then looked at Sketch.
“Hey, I heard you had some cake today. I wonder if you could cut me a piece?”
He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
After the door slammed shut, Mandy’s poker face returned. “You know those little flyers you get in your mail that have a kid’s picture on front with an accompanying age-progression photo to the right?” She held one up, passed it around, and then pointed to the van coming down the drive. “This lady is from Tampa. She saw our classified ads in a Miami paper. She lost her son to a kidnapping about six years ago. The picture there is her son. She thinks Buddy might be him.”
Tommye, who was white as a ghost and wrapped up in a blanket in the rocker, stood up and looked over Unc’s shoulder.
I looked at the age-progression picture, which was the spitting image of Sketch. “How will she know? I mean, how will she know for sure?”
Mandy heard footsteps coming from the kitchen and lowered her voice. “A birthmark. She wouldn’t tell me where it is. Just said she’d know him for certain once she got a chance to look at him up close.”
Sketch walked out onto the porch carrying a slice of pound cake on top of a paper plate. He carried it with two hands, having stuffed his sketch pad inside his waistband behind his back.
The lady in the blue van parked and got out. Mustering her courage, she walked up the porch steps. She was in her midforties with graying hair and a bit ragged around the edges. She stepped up to Sketch, who turned and took her breath away. She covered her mouth, composed herself, and pushed her hair behind her ears. She tried to speak but could not.
Mandy sat down next to him and said, “Buddy, this kind lady just wants to look at you a moment.”
Sketch nodded. The lady put her hands on his shoulders and turned him sideways. She then gently pulled back his right ear and stared at the skin. Sketch stood unmoving, still holding the cake.
The lady released his ear, shook her head at Mandy, and stood up, facing all of us. No one said a word. Unc stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Ma’am, I’m William McFarland. This”—he waved his hand across us—“is my family.”
The lady nodded. “Before my son was . . . taken, we were working in the yard. He was five then. He was playing in the driveway and fell on a clay pot. It cracked and cut his ear. We had to have it sewn back on. There would be a scar.”
Aunt Lorna stepped forward. “Will you stay for dinner?”
“No. Thank you.” The lady turned, looked again at Sketch, and walked to her car.
He watched the van’s taillights disappear out the drive, set down the cake, and walked to his room. No one had told him what was going on, but no one had to. He’d been passed over before.
Mandy looked at all of us. “I’m sorry. She . . .” She put her hands on her hips, and I saw her poker face return. “I think I’ve found a permanent home that will take him. Some folks out of Charlotte. Attor
ney and his wife. Good people. Might be two or three weeks before we get approval. Judge is on a European vacation.” She walked to the railing, her back to us, and looked out over the pasture. “At least in criminal court, the guilty get what they got coming.”
On my eighteenth birthday Unc and Aunt Lorna took me outside and said, “You’re free to go as you like. You’re also free to stay. The state put you here, now you can choose.”
They gave me my freedom, but I didn’t want it. Taking it would have sealed me officially as a fatherless kid. I would be no one. That’s a hard way to live.
Before the driveway dust had time to settle, another set of head-lights pulled into the drive. They were that bluish color that comes on real expensive cars. The black Escalade skirted the potholes and parked in front of the steps. Tommye’s eyes narrowed, and Unc stepped down off the porch, standing between the driver of the car and us.
I’ve never seen Uncle Jack without a tie. White shirt, bluish tie, immaculate hair. His pants draped like Italian silk, and his loafers looked like soft calfskin. He walked up to within three feet of Unc. They studied each other. Jack was bigger. Barrel-chested, he stood three inches taller than Unc.
Jack spoke first. “William.”
Tommye stepped off the porch and walked up behind Uncle Willee, holding loosely to his shirtsleeve.
Uncle Jack spoke to Tommye. “Heard you came by the house.”
“Yeah . . . thought I’d stop in. Grab a couple of things.”
He paused, thinking. “I guess you heard about the Zuta house?”
“No, do tell.”
“Somebody lit a fire in the kitchen, then cut the lines to the propane tanks in the cellar. Burnt it to the ground.”
Tommye stepped around Unc, but slipped her arm inside his. “Gee . . . that’s too bad. All that wine . . .”
Uncle Jack looked at me. “You like prison?”
I thought about him in that house, down in that cellar, admiring the legs of his wine . . . and his daughter. Then I thought of Tommye running through the Zuta that night—her gown covered in the last remnants of little girlness. Jack had lived his entire smug life having stepped above his secret, the prize of the Brunswick business and church community. He had taught Sunday school and been an elder six times. I listened as the wind cut through the pecan trees carrying Tommye’s echo, Some lies run deep.
I stepped in front of Unc and under the shadow of Uncle Jack. He was taller than me by six inches. I placed my face less than a foot from his and said the thing I’d been wanting to say a long time. I guess sitting in that cellar, looking backward, I found the gumption. “Keep a good watch over your shoulder, because those footsteps you hear . . . they’ll be mine.”
I had caught him off guard, I could tell. I scratched my chin. “You ever heard of the Freedom of Information Act? If not, you will shortly.”
Unc stepped between us. “You need something, brother?”
“I heard my daughter was home.” He looked at the hollow shell Tommye had become.
Her taut top lip quivered, pulling the trickle of sweat down off her face.
Sketch stared through the front door screen.
Uncle Jack saw him too. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Heard you took in that boy found at the railroad track. Keeping him while the DA looks for his parents. That’s good.” Then he looked directly at Uncle Willee. “Every man should have a son.”
Unc closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he smiled and half-laughed. He turned Tommye, ushering her into the house, and motioned for me to follow. I shook my head and hung my thumbs in my jeans pockets.
Unconsciously, he did the same. He looked again at Jack. “Thanks for coming.”
Uncle Jack turned, stepped into his car, and disappeared down the drive.
I turned to Unc. “Why do you always let him do that to you?”
Aunt Lorna stood on the porch, leaning against the house. Her silence told everyone that she agreed with me.
Unc cleaned his glasses on the untucked front corner of his shirt. “You think I’m the one getting ‘done’ here?”
I nodded.
He looked at Tommye. “That the way it looks to you?”
“Unc, he’s been walking over you all of my life and then some.”
He stared at the dust sweeping over the road. “Never corner something you know is meaner than you.”
I was out of line, but I’d had about enough of speaking in code. “Is he meaner, or are you just a lifelong coward?”
He chewed on his lip. “I’ve got more to lose.”
I laughed. “Like what? He took everything you ever thought about having.”
“You sure?”
I flicked a piece of paint that was flaking off the railing. “Just look around you.”
He looked at all of us. “I did.”
“Well . . . maybe your eyes need checking.”
Unc slipped on his glasses and watched Uncle Jack turn left onto Highway 99. “Chase . . . perspective often depends on where you’re standing.”
Chapter 30
I had applied to every school I could think of, but while my academics weren’t too bad—my high school GPA was a 3.2—my SAT was miserable. A combined 1080. Florida State flatly refused me. Unc read the rejection letter, looked at my face, and said, “Is this where you want to go?”
“Yes sir.”
He looked at the letter. “Load up.”
We got in the car, drove four hours, and stepped out in front of the admissions building about four o’clock. Unc took off his hat, walked up to the receptionist, eyed the bottom of my letter, and said, “We’d like to see Ms. Irene Sullivan.”
The receptionist looked at us over her glasses. “And this is regarding?”
He pointed at me. “My boy here.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment.”
Unc looked through the glass at a lady sitting at her desk, talking on the phone. “When is the next available?”
The receptionist eyed the computer in front of her. “Tuesday, nine thirty AM.”
Unc eyed his watch. “You mean tomorrow morning.”
“No, I mean Tuesday week.”
Unc said, “Well, I don’t need that much time. If you’ll just tell her we’d like five minutes, I’d be grateful.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
I turned to leave, but Unc was having none of that. “You don’t mind if we wait for an opening.” He sat in a chair along the wall next to her desk, knees together, spinning his hat in his fingers. I could tell his mind was spinning too. I sat next to him, looking over my shoulder for a security guard.
A few minutes later, the receptionist dialed a number and turned her head, and the lady behind the glass picked up the phone. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I had a pretty good idea it had something to do with us. She hung up, and an hour passed while the lady behind the glass saw people into and out of her office. She was busy—there was no getting around that.
About 5:30 PM the receptionist gathered up her things, closed down her computer, and left without a word. Unc didn’t budge. A few minutes later, the lady behind the glass walked around the corner to the water cooler, poured herself a cup of water, and then walked into the waiting room, where we immediately stood up.
She looked at us and then motioned to the cooler. “Can I offer you two a drink?”
Unc shook his head. “No ma’am. We don’t want to take up any more of your time than is necessary.”
She smiled and motioned us into her office. We sat down, her on one side and us on the other. Unc’s right leg was bouncing. She leaned back, looking half-amused, and said, “How can I help you?”
Unc slid the letter across the desk. “Ma’am, my name is William McFarland.” He spun his hat in his hand. “For nearly half my life, folks have called me Willee.” He looked at me. “This is Chase, and�
�— he eyed the letter again—“well . . . he’d . . .”
She typed something into her computer, brought up a file, and read quietly. “Mr. McFarland. While his grades are not too bad, his test scores are quite short of what we require. He needs another two hundred points. I’m sorry, I can’t—”
Unc stood up and handed her his business card. “That’s my personal number, comes in right here.” He tapped the cell phone in his shirt pocket. “If he doesn’t make straight As, or at least your dean’s list, every semester, call me, and I’ll make sure. He’s a good kid, a hard worker.”
I stared at him like he’d lost his mind. He shrugged in my direction.
“Mr. McFarland . . .”
“Ma’am. Can’t you make an exception?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Unc twirled his hat in his hand and lowered his voice, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Ms. Sullivan, my life hasn’t turned out exactly as I’d hoped. In one sense, I’ve lived two lifetimes. Please give him a chance. Just one. If he screws it up, then he’ll have to live with that, but please don’t take him out of the game before he gets his chance at bat. You won’t be disappointed. I can promise you that.”
She looked at the computer, back at Unc, and finally at me. “Is he always like this?”
I nodded and twirled my own cap in my hand. Looking back, we must’ve looked like twins. “When it’s important.”
She leaned forward on her desk, folded her hands, and bored a hole right through me. “Well, is it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She chewed on her lip, leaned back, and looked out the window. Then she looked at Unc. “What do you do?”
“Ma’am, I’m a farrier . . . I shoe horses.”
“I imagine you’re used to hard work.”
“I’ve known it a time or two.”
She looked at me. “Probation.” She typed a few sentences into her computer, then grabbed a sheet off her printer and handed it to me. “You’ve got one semester to prove yourself.” She smiled and looked at Unc. “When he makes the dean’s list, I’ll be the first to call you.”
Two months later Unc and Lorna moved me to Tallahassee and rented me a room in a little house just off campus. Late in the after-noon, we stood on the front porch, all three afraid to say good-bye.
Chasing Fireflies Page 21