by Lee Martin
“It’s too late for that,” Ronnie said, but still he gave a glance back at the trailer, and Shooter felt for just an instant, one little sliver of time, that maybe, just maybe, Ronnie would grab this chance and everything would work out for the best.
It was that instant that Shooter would try to live within as much as possible in the days to come. He’d still be trying to cozy up to it the night of the fire, and beyond that to the night when he’d stand over his burn barrel, trembling, asking God to forgive him for what he’d done, to understand that sometimes things happened you couldn’t dream of and once they were over, all that was left was to go on through your days, pretending you were innocent. He’d long for that brief moment when everything that was about to happen wouldn’t, when people’s lives would still be happy and full of hope, when every mistake would be redeemed.
“Take your hand off me,” Ronnie finally said, but Shooter wrenched his arm up behind Ronnie’s back.
“You’re a stupid man,” Shooter said. “A selfish, stupid man.” Ronnie tried to twist free, but Shooter held on, pushing him into the Firebird, folding him over the hood. He leaned down and put his mouth up close to Ronnie’s ear. “I could yank this arm out of the socket. Quick as you please. Surely you know that.”
Ronnie whispered through clenched teeth, “Do it and I’ll make it so they lock you away.”
That’s when Shooter let him go. Ronnie stood up, rubbing his shoulder. He didn’t say another word, just got into his Firebird and headed up the blacktop to Goldengate, where Brandi was waiting for him.
Shooter turned toward his own house, his hands clenched into fists. Later, he’d wish he’d been paying more attention to what mattered and what didn’t. What was that photograph, that card, in relation to the fact that Merlene was dead? That night, though, he felt his anger flame again as he recalled when Ronnie and Della first moved into the trailer and Merlene stood at the window, watching them unload furniture from Wayne Best’s pickup truck.
“Look at them,” she said. “Just kids.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Just starting out.” She let the curtain panels fall back into place and smoothed them with the back of her hand. “They’ve got their whole lives,” she said. He’d never forgotten the sad look on her face when she finally turned to look at him. He’d never forgotten what she said next. “Remember what that was like?”
12
Ronnie and Captain hit it off from the get-go. One summer night, when Merlene asked Ronnie and Della over for ice cream and cake, he let the toddler hold on to his finger, and they walked around the yard in the twilight. Ronnie pointed to the fireflies flashing on and off, and he got a good, warm feeling in his chest when Captain pointed too and babbled and giggled with delight.
“That’s right, Wesley,” Ronnie said. He caught a firefly in his hand. He crouched down and held his fist open a crack, just enough for Captain to see the glow pulsing. His little mouth opened wide with wonder. “The world’s a mysterious place,” Ronnie said, and then he opened his hand and let the firefly go.
Captain kept touching Ronnie’s hand, kept patting his palm with his little fingers. It seemed so long ago now, those days before Merlene gave Wesley the nickname Captain, those days before anyone knew about what would come to be called his “intellectual disability.” On that long-ago night, he was a little boy amazed, and Ronnie, as the years went on, was glad that he’d been there as witness. He was still a boy himself, but married to Della and about to become a father.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” Merlene told Della as they sat at the picnic table with Shooter and watched Ronnie. He and the boy who would become Captain were shadows in the dusk. A whippoorwill was calling somewhere back in the woods. The night air was pleasant, just cool enough on the skin, and it carried with it the sweet smell of cut hay curing in the pasture. Merlene and Della and Shooter could hear Ronnie’s soothing, patient voice.
“You’ll both do fine,” Merlene said to Della. “Just look at how good Ronnie is with Wesley.”
Shooter dropped his spoon into his empty ice cream bowl. “I’m sure Merlene is right,” he said, “and if anything goes wrong, we’re just right across the road.”
From that night on, Captain adored Ronnie. Even as Captain got older and became more difficult, Ronnie was always the one he’d listen to, much to Shooter’s dismay. Where he was sharp with Captain, Ronnie was patient; where he was stingy with his praise, Ronnie was generous.
“He thinks the sun rises and sets with you,” Shooter said one day before Ronnie left for good, said it in a way that made it plain to Ronnie that he resented the fact. Shooter laughed, a nervous chuckle. “I swear he spends more time at your place than he does at home. Just like he’s another one of your kids. I should pay you a little something for support.”
They were alone in Ronnie’s lane, Shooter already having sent Captain back across the road, despite his protests. Ronnie was adjusting the carburetor on his Firebird and Captain wanted to be there to watch, to fetch him a wrench if the need arose.
“It’s all right.” Ronnie stood back from the Firebird and wiped his hands on a red shop rag. He didn’t mind humoring Captain, and that’s what he thought he was doing, letting him hang around the way he did. Sure, he could be a pain sometimes, but nothing Ronnie couldn’t stand. “He’s not so much of a handful like you think.”
Ronnie could tell from the way Shooter narrowed his eyes and set his jaw that he’d touched a nerve.
“I love my son.” He took a step toward Ronnie and then stopped. “I want you to know that.”
Ronnie kept quiet, unable to bring himself to say, yes, I know it. He didn’t say a word, and after a time, Shooter said in a fierce voice, “Sometimes it’s not easy.”
“You know you’re the whole world to him,” Ronnie said.
Shooter snorted. “I can hardly believe that.”
“It’s true. He’s like any boy. He wants his father to be proud of him.”
Shooter looked down at his feet. When he raised his head, his brow was bunched like he was wincing in pain. “He tell you as much?”
Ronnie sensed a border he couldn’t see, one that separated him from Shooter and Captain, one that he wasn’t supposed to cross. “I don’t even know who my daddy is,” Ronnie said.
Shooter put his hands on the fender of the Firebird and leaned in close. Ronnie took a step back. He’d seen looks like the one Shooter was giving him now on the faces of his foster fathers just before they exploded with anger—lashed out with a belt, a switch, or, as he got older, a fist. They weren’t all like that, but there were enough of them who were to keep him on his toes.
“I guess you’re like so many of the others,” Shooter said. “The ones who think they know exactly what’s what when it comes to raising a boy like Captain. I do my best, Ronnie. I told Merlene I’d do everything I could for him. I’d make sure he stayed out of trouble. I wouldn’t ever leave him to someone else’s care. I promised that to Merlene when she was dying, and I don’t intend to go back on my word. I do the best I can, but that boy’s stubborn and headstrong.” Shooter laughed. “I guess in that way, he’s a lot like you.”
“You too,” Ronnie said.
“Then God help us.”
So there was that between the two of them, that tension of father and son and the bullheaded refusal to admit how close they really were. Then there was Captain, who was eager for someone to show him how to best be a man in the world. None of them knew that the fire was coming, and once it was done, they would be forever bound. Bound by their stupidity and their love. Bound by the story of what happened one night to a woman and three of her children. Bound by the story of the four who survived.
“God help us,” Shooter said to Ronnie that day in his lane. “God help us all.”
13
Emma clung to Missy’s hand and wouldn’t let go. The girls were in Missy’s house, and Emma kept asking where everyone else was—her mama and Gracie and Junior—and when Emily would be coming. The
twins had been inseparable, and now Emma was lost without her.
“There was a fire,” Emma said.
Missy stroked her head, the fine blond hair gritty with ash.
“Yes, there was.” Missy was at a loss for what else to say. All her adult life, she’d longed for children. She’d secretly resented Della’s ability to have so many when Missy and Pat hadn’t been able to have a single one. Now here she was in charge of these four, and helpless. “It was a big fire,” she said to Emma.
Sarah was crying. Her white pajamas were smudged with soot. Pat had carried her in and set her down, and she hadn’t moved a speck. At first, she’d been quiet, a blank look on her face. Then the tears came. She didn’t make a sound, but her cheeks, blanched white from the cold, were soon wet.
“They’re not coming back,” she said. “They’re in Heaven, aren’t they?”
Angel had her arms crossed over her chest, an angry set to her jaw. “They’re dead.” Her voice was too loud. “That’s what they are. Dead.”
Sarah cried harder and ran to Missy. Emma was crying, too, and Missy got down on her knees and let both girls lean into her. She wrapped them up in her arms, and she did the only thing she could for the time being. She let them cry.
Hannah wanted to go back outside and look for their goats. “I saw Methuselah run away.” She was at the bay window, her hands pressed against the glass. “He ran into the woods.”
“Why do you care about those goats?” Angel said. “You wouldn’t even feed them tonight.”
Hannah whirled around from the window. Her long hair, tangled with crusts of ice, whipped at her face. “You were supposed to take out that box of ashes, but did you? No.”
“Girls.” Missy interrupted. “Let’s get you all into some fresh things.”
Angel took a step toward Hannah, her hands balled into fists. Then she stopped. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, and for now that was that.
Then it was a flurry of hot showers and the untangling and combing of hair. Missy found two pairs of her old pajamas for Angel and Hannah, and a couple of Pat’s T-shirts that were long enough to be sleep dresses for Sarah and Emma. The things they’d been wearing reeked of smoke. Missy threw everything into the washer.
The girls huddled together in the living room. Angel and Hannah were on the couch, and Sarah and Emma were between them. Missy wondered how their lives would ever be whole again.
Then the front door opened, and Pat and Ronnie came inside. The smoke from the fire was still on Pat’s Carhartts, and though Missy knew he couldn’t help it, she wished he hadn’t brought that smell back into their house.
Missy gave Ronnie a nod, and he came the rest of the way to the couch. He took his hands out of his pockets and he got down on his knees, wedged himself in as best he could between the couch and the coffee table in front of it. His hip knocked against the table, and Missy went over and scooted it out some so he could settle in there.
He cleared his throat once—tried to find his voice—but no words came and the silence went on, such an agonizing quiet, filled with everything that he couldn’t bring himself to say.
Finally, Sarah hopped down from the couch. Missy had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she’d given her a navy blue T-shirt of Pat’s that said CARPENTERS LOCAL 624 in white letters. The dark navy made Sarah’s pale skin so white in the lamplight. She threw her arms around Ronnie’s neck, and for a time that was all there was, just this little girl hanging onto her father in the middle of a cold winter night.
Then Angel said, “You think we’re all going to forgive you easy as that? You got another think coming. I can tell you that for sure.”
She stomped over to the window, arms folded over her chest. The old flannel pajamas of Missy’s that she wore were lilac-colored and they had little penguins on them, pink scarves around their necks, their pink scarves furling out as if lifted by a wind, and they had the words “be cool” on them in lowercase letters because even the words were too cool to be capitalized. Missy couldn’t bear the sight of Angel, her back to everyone, her foot stubbing at the baseboard under the window. While Sarah kept hugging Ronnie’s neck and Emma said, “Daddy’s here,” and Hannah drew her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes, Missy walked over to Angel, and she reached out and put her hand on her back and rubbed slow circles to let her know there could still be tenderness in the world, even after the fire and all it had taken from her.
Then someone knocked on the front door, and Missy shaded her eyes and peered out the window. Wayne Best’s truck sat in the driveway behind Ronnie’s Firebird and Pat’s truck.
Ronnie gathered Sarah into his arms and got up off his knees. He covered her up with his arms, holding her tight, as if he wanted to hide her away, close to his heart, where no one would be able to find her if they came looking.
It surprised Missy to feel what she did for Ronnie in that moment. She didn’t want him to have those girls, but now the sight of him overwhelmed her. How much she’d give to have a child she could hold that way, hold as if her very life depended on that heartbeat thumping close to hers. Then she felt the old resentment blaze up—what right did he have to these girls after he’d walked out on them?—and she said, “It’s Wayne and Lois.” Said it in a way that made it clear Ronnie had something to be afraid of, and then she went to the door, leaving him to brace himself for what was going to happen next.
Lois came in first. She had on her nightgown, a white flannel that fell over the tops of her snow boots. She’d thrown on a black quilted coat, and the gown, printed with dainty lavender flowers, hung down below the coat’s hem. Her hair was set in pin curls, and she hadn’t taken time to put in her dentures. Her cheeks were all caved in, as if her face had collapsed from grief.
“Oh, mercy,” Lois said. “Mercy, mercy.” She stood just inside the front door, her arms folded over her stomach, shaking her head back and forth. Finally, she unfolded her arms and reached them in the direction of where Ronnie was holding Sarah, and Hannah and Emma were sitting on the couch. “Mamaw’s here,” she said.
Wayne had already started toward Ronnie, and by the time Missy noticed, Pat had made a move to stop him. Wayne was holding a tire iron. His face was red from cold and temper. His untied boot laces slapped and snapped across the leather as he stomped across the room.
“Wayne, I’ve got Sarah here,” Ronnie said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Come here, sweetheart,” Lois said, and Sarah got down from her father’s arms and went to her.
Pat wedged himself in front of Wayne and started talking. “I know you’re torn up,” he said. “You’ve got every right to be. But there’s no reason for that tire iron. You don’t want the girls seeing anything like that.”
Wayne was chest to chest with Pat, his stare leveled at Ronnie as if Pat weren’t even there.
“Don’t you be talking to me about stupid, Ronnie.” Wayne lifted his arm and pointed over Pat’s shoulder with the business end of that tire iron. It wobbled in his unsteady hand. “I mean it. You don’t have a right to any words tonight, far as I can tell.”
“These are my girls,” Ronnie said.
“If you think I’m going to let you walk out of here with those girls—” Wayne lunged at Ronnie, but Pat got his hands up into his armpits and held him back. “You’re the stupid man, Ronnie,” Wayne said. “You’ve been no good near most all your life.”
Angel still stood in front of the window. Lois sat down on the couch. She put one arm around Hannah and one around Emma. Sarah sat on her lap. Wayne still had his arm in the air, his hand around the shaft of that tire iron. He looked at it, and then his shoulders slumped and his arm dropped to his side.
“I’m not here to make trouble,” he said, his voice now heavy with shame. “Lord knows we’ve got enough of that.”
“I just want to take my girls now,” Ronnie said. “That’s what I want to do.”
“Take them where? To that whore’s house?”
“Wayne, I
won’t have you talk like that. Not in front of my children.”
“By god,” Wayne said.
Then, before Pat could stop him, he got close enough to Ronnie to cold-cock him with that tire iron. A blow to the head, and Ronnie went down, face first.
“Wayne, my god, you’ve killed him,” Lois said.
Pat kneeled beside Ronnie and gently rolled him over onto his back. He patted his cheeks a little, seeing if he could get him to come to, but Ronnie was out.
“Is he—” Missy couldn’t bring herself to ask if he was still breathing.
When she paused, Pat filled the silence. He said, “Call for an ambulance.”
14
Shooter finally got Captain settled down after the fire—got him to bed after the boy had paced the house, his face wet with tears, muttering from time to time. Now, he’d near about dropped off to sleep, and Shooter was sitting in the living room with the lights off, staring into the darkness, unable to get a handle on what had happened that night and what might be required of him now.
Then the ambulance came down the blacktop, siren shrieking, red lights spinning.
Captain was up in a snap, tugging on his jeans and throwing an orange University of Illinois sweatshirt over his head.
“We got to go.” He stuffed his feet into his boots and wrapped the laces around the tops, tied them into loose bows. “C’mon,” he said. “Get your coat. Maybe they’re bringing them back.”
Out the window, Shooter saw the ambulance pull into Pat and Missy’s driveway. He saw Ronnie’s Firebird there, and Wayne Best’s pickup. He saw a fire truck across the road, a crew still spraying down the smoldering ashes and the debris from the trailer fire.
“Bringing who back?” Shooter asked Captain. “What are you talking about?”
“Della and her kids. Maybe they took them to the hospital and made them all right.”
