Fiery Rivers

by Daefyd Williams

  “A salamander?”

  “Yeah, a salamander. We learned about ‘em in science. They only live in clean streams. I only seen pitchers of ‘em in books. I never seen one in person. You gonna let ‘im go?”

  “Course I’m gonna let ‘im go. Wha’djou think I was gonna do with ‘im?”

  “I doeknow. Put ‘im down an’ let’s go into the woods.”

  “OK.” Devon gently placed the salamander on the bank of the creek, and he instantly scurried under a black rock near the water’s edge.

  Further north across the creek and up a slight rise was a forest. They walked into it. It was quiet and cooler than being out in the open. The only sounds were the rustling of the leaves, the chirping of birds, and somewhere off to the northwest, a woodpecker tat-tatting a tree.

  “‘Member when we came with Daddy to go squirrel huntin’?” Del asked.

  “Yeah,” Devon replied, “He was shootin’ squirrels that I coulden even see.” He never mentioned to Del that his vision had been blurry ever since the day that he had stared at the sun trying to see sunspots.

  “I coulden see ‘em either. But he’s been huntin’ an’ fishin’ since he was in the second grade. Mommy said he stopped goin’ to school after the second grade.”

  “Really? I didden know that.”

  “Yep. That’s what she said.”

  As they walked through the forest, each of them found a tree branch just long enough to be used as a staff. For the rest of the afternoon, they pretended to be the Wizards of the Woods, turning over rocks with their staffs to discover what mysteries lay beneath, balancing themselves with them as they walked across fallen logs, turning them into lances and rushing tree trunks on imaginary steeds to topple the evil knights, sparing their lives only at the request of the beautiful princess. As the shadows lengthened, Del broke the spell and said, “I reckon we oughta git back an’ help Grampa fix supper. We don’t wanta git him mad at us.”

  “OK,” Devon agreed. He threw his staff down, and Del did, too.

  As they reached the crest of the knoll above the strawberry patch, Del said, “Mommy an’ Daddy are movin’ to Dayton this summer.”

  “How do ya know that?” Devon inquired.

  “They told me. They said they were gonna move so Daddy could be closer to the church an’ to Frigidaire. They ain’t found a place yet.” He paused. “I don’t wanta move. I never been to any other schools except Franklin’s.” He was in the eighth grade. If they moved, he would be entering a high school in which he knew no one.

  “You scared?” Devon asked.

  “Yeah, kinda,” Del replied.

  Grampa was at the small kitchen table removing the stems from the strawberries as they entered. “Just in time, boys. Here’s a parin’ knife for each o’ ya.” He handed them the knives. “This is what ya do. Watch me now. You just place the blade ‘neath the leaf at the top, cut down an’ then up. Nothin’ to it. Watch your fingers, though, so you don’t cut yourselves.” They placed the stems into a trash can at Grampa’s feet, and the strawberries into a large white plastic bowl on the table.

  After several tries, the boys caught on, and soon the plastic bowl was full. “Now, I’ll warsh these an’ we’ll have us a strawberry feast for dessert. While I’m doin’ that, you boys kin set the table, an’ then watch TV till supper’s ready.”

  “OK, Grampa,” Del said.

  For supper, Grampa heated two cans of Dinty Moore beef stew and toasted some Wonder bread, which they all slathered with butter as they ate. When they were finished, Grampa said, “Wild strawberries got a wang to ‘em, so to make ‘em good, we gotta sweeten ‘em up some with milk an’ sugar.” He placed the large bowl of small, red strawberries on the table, picked out a handful and placed them into a small breakfast bowl. He sprinkled a tablespoon of sugar on top of the fruit and then poured milk over the sugar. “Hep yourself, boys. Them’s good eatin’ now.”

  The boys followed his example and soon were enjoying the fruits of their morning labor. They were delicious with the milk and sugar.

  After supper, they watched Grampa’s favorite show, Championship Wrestling. At nine o’clock, they went to bed, only to be awakened by the itching of chigger bites on their lower legs, ankles, and feet. Devon and Del both scratched furiously, but their scratching only intensified the itching.

  “Should we wake Grampa up?” Devon inquired fearfully.

  “If we don’t, we ain’t gonna git no sleep,” Del stated. “I’ll wake ‘im up.” Del walked down the hallway and timidly knocked on the bedroom door. “Grampa,” he said softly. “Grampa.” No response. He knocked louder, and in a stronger voice, “Grampa!”

  From inside the bedroom came a gruff, “Whuh?”

  “Grampa, me an’ Dev are eaten up with chiggers an’ we can’t sleep. You got anything to stop the itchin’?”

  The door opened, and Grampa stood there in his underwear and a tee shirt. “What’s the problem?”

  “Me an’ Dev got chiggers so bad we can’t sleep.”

  “Alright.” He shuffled into the bathroom and handed Del a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some Q-tips cotton swabs, and a bottle of clear nail polish. “Soak a Q-tip in alcohol an’ rub it ever’where you see a red spot, an’ then put the nail polish on top o’ that. It smothers the little fuckers.”

  “Thanks, Grampa.”

  “An’ don’t bother me no more,” he said brusquely. He went into his bedroom and slammed the door.

  Del took the swabs and alcohol to the bed where Devon was furiously scratching his ankles. “Stop scratchin’ an’ let me put some alcohol on the bumps.”

  He tilted the bottle so that he could get some alcohol on the swab and proceeded to rub all the red bumps on Devon’s legs, ankles, and feet with the swab, continually inserting the swab into the neck of the bottle. The alcohol was cool on Devon’s skin. Then he applied the nail polish.

  “Why didden Grampa do this?” Devon asked.

  “He ain’t Mommy,” Del said. After he had applied the alcohol and nail polish to himself, he screwed the caps back on, threw the used swabs into the trash can beside the sink, and put the swabs, alcohol, and nail polish on top of the counter. He turned off the light and lay back down beside Devon. After a few minutes, both boys fell asleep.

  Lemuel dipped the steel ladle into the vat of molten aluminum, filled it, and then poured it into the opening on top of the horizontal piston and pushed the red button on the frame of the die casting machine, which immediately caused the piston to thrust its load of molten metal into the die. Some of the metal squirted out from between the two halves of the die and into the air, falling onto Lemuel’s cap and down his neck, burning him. “Hot damn, bitch!” He spat a stream of tobacco juice at the base of the die casting machine. “Stop that shit!”

  After thirty seconds, the two halves of the die trundled open, and he reached in, removed the aluminum piece from the pins on the left side of the die with his gloved right hand, quickly placed the red-hot piece into an aluminum tub behind him so that it would not burn through his glove, sprayed both sides of the die with solvent from a metal wand tipped with a nozzle he held in his left hand, and began the process all over again.

  At the base of the vat were gas jets which heated the aluminum to twelve hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Along the wall to the right of the vat sat bars of aluminum on a wood pallet, from which Lemuel would pick a bar every thirty minutes and slowly ease it into the molten aluminum, taking care not to splash any of the metal on himself.

  It was May and stifling hot inside the factory. There was no air conditioning, and two floor fans, one behind him to his left, and one to the right, merely blew hot air onto his back. He always wore long-sleeved shirts, bib overalls, work gloves, and a cap to protect his skin from the falling aluminum when it shot out from the die.

  He had worked for Wonder Die Casting Industries for thirty years. He had begun working at the factory while he was still in high school with the intent of saving enough money to
attend college, if no college offered him a scholarship, which was unlikely since he was the star quarterback on his team. However, in his senior year, he had blown out the meniscus in his right knee and was on crutches the remainder of the school year. No scholarships were offered, and then in July following graduation, he had married Leona, and now he was doomed to labor in hell for the rest of his life.

  Ladle, push, grab, turn, spray; ladle, push, grab, turn, spray; ladle, push, grab, turn, spray. He had made millions of these repetitive movements during his tenure at the factory so that he performed them automatically, unconsciously. He paused momentarily to push the tub of lawn mower carburetor parts, stacked two feet above the top of the tub, down the line, causing the metal rollers on the line beneath the tub to spin. “Here ya go, honey! Here’s another heavy load!” he shouted at the cute new blond punch press operator sitting at the end of the line, as she pushed down both handles of the press. She could not hear him in the noise of the factory and did not turn towards him. He smiled. She removed the carburetor pieces from the press, placed them into a tub beside her, and picked up another casting. “Nice lookin’ head,” Lemuel thought. “Wonder if she’s ever had a dick in ‘er mouth.”

  He returned to his favorite daydream, the only thing in his life that made this monotonous, hot, dirty job tolerable. He was with Gwen, and they were in his father’s car again for the ten thousandth time. He remembered how it felt when she took him into her mouth the very first time. The warmth and the suction were so exquisite he hoped he could hold off for a few minutes. He remembered caressing her stiff hair and the back of her neck. He was incredulous and in awe that a girl would willingly do this to a boy, without any pleading from him. It was such an intensely pleasurable experience that transcended any boyhood fantasy of how he had imagined it would feel, that he could hardly believe it was actually happening. And then, when he came—.

  “Lem, I’d like to introduce you to our new office manager, Derek,” said a voice beside him. Lemuel had been so caught up in his reverie that he had not noticed Mr. Wonder approach him. He turned and looked at him and then saw the man standing beside Mr. Wonder. Something moved inside his gut. There was an instant attraction. He was the most handsome man Lemuel had ever seen—black, wavy hair, a flawless complexion, tall, fit.

  Lemuel removed his work glove from his right hand and shook hands with Derek. “How ya doin’?” he asked. Derek’s grasp was firm, warm. “What the hell?” Lemuel thought anxiously.

  “Good. Nice to meet you,” Derek said.

  “I’m just takin’ him around to introduce him to everyone,” Mr. Wonder said. “We think he’ll be a good addition to our team. Let’s go over and say hello to Betsy now.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” Derek said.

  “Me, too,” Lemuel mumbled.

  Mr. Wonder and Derek walked over to Betsy at the punch press.

  “WHAT THE FUCK!?” Lemuel thought. “I ain’t no sissy. I never been attracted to men in my life. What the hell’s wrong with me?”

  For the remainder of the day, Lemuel tried to convince himself that he had not been attracted to Derek. The movement in his gut had just been that Spam sandwich and Vernor’s ginger ale he had had for lunch. He didn’t like men. He didn’t. He had always only liked women, only women. Especially their mouths. Not men. Never men. Never in a million years could he imagine being with a man. Never.

  Devon was in his bedroom, playing with marbles. Del was outside playing baseball in the spare lot with Doug and Ron and some of the other neighborhood boys. Now that school was out, Del spent most of the day outside in the hot Ohio sun. Devon ventured outside only when they rode their bikes or went to Rennie’s to ride his go-kart.

  Marbles were some of Devon’s most prized possessions. He and Rig would play “keepsies” with their marbles, and his most cherished one was a yellow cat’s eye he had won from Rig. He held it in his left palm and looked at the yellow bit inside the clear glass. “Wonder how they make these?” he thought.

  He placed all the marbles in a cluster on the hardwood floor, saving the yellow cat’s eye for the shooter. He drew an imaginary circle with his forefinger around the cluster and got on his knees outside the circle. He placed the shooter atop the first joint of his right forefinger and his thumb behind it, took careful aim at one of the marbles, being careful to keep his hand outside the imaginary circle, and flicked his thumb, sending the marble toward the cluster. It careened into a steely, knocking it four inches from the other marbles. He got behind the steely with the cat’s eye, flicked his thumb, and knocked it outside the imaginary circle. “Mine!” he exulted.

  When he had reclaimed all the marbles from the imaginary Rig, he got tired of playing and began putting the marbles one by one into his blue velvet bag, examining each one before dropping it into the bag. When he got to the cat’s eye, he looked at it admiringly and stated, “Rig’s never gonna git you back.” He shifted his weight on the bed, and the marble fell out of his hand and dropped to the floor. He heard it roll when it hit the floor. “Dang it!” he said. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under his bed. No marble. He peered under Del’s bed. No marble. He began to panic. “Where’djou go?” he asked plaintively. He went over to the pink Naugahyde rocking chair in the corner and looked beneath it. No marble. “Dammit!” he swore, for the first time in his life. “Where’s my marble?” He started at one corner of the room and searched every inch of the room on his hands and knees, but the marble had seemingly fallen through the floor. “I don’t believe in the Holy Ghost!!” he said angrily. Then the words of Brother Peatry rocketed into his head: “If you blaspheme the Holy Ghost, God will never forgive you an’ you will burn in the lake o’ fahr forever.”

  A black hole instantly yawned open in the center of Devon’s heart, from which malodorous fumes hissed and sizzled into the air. Dark nightmare shapes burst forth from its depths, cackling like rabid hyenas, slithering into his brain, his organs, clinging to his chest and back, crouching atop his head. He saw the hideous flames in the eternal darkness, heard wails, screams, moans, and the gnashing of teeth, observed countless multitudes tearing at their flesh and pulling at their hair.

  It was his doom for having blasphemed the Holy Ghost.

  He immediately tried to rectify what he had said by repeating in his head: “I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost,” but the demons remained and seemed to tighten their grip more firmly on his soul and body with each iteration. Nevertheless, he saw no other way out from eternal damnation, no escape except to repeat: “I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I
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  And he continued to repeat the sentence in his mind every waking moment of every day thereafter.

  Chapter 6

  The water was cold, and Devon was standing in it up to his knees near the bank, holding on to the wooden dock which projected from the eastern edge of the pond. It was July 4th, and Grampa had invited all of his children to come to the grand opening of his pond, which he had dug for the benefit of his grandchildren and had been completed only a week before. The only structures in the pond were the dock to which Devon was holding, and a diving board ten feet above the water at the deep end of the pond on the southwest bank, supported by a wooden trestle. The water was muddy, and Devon did not want to go any further because he could not swim.