How Fire Runs

by Charles Dodd White

  Kyle pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids, leveled his breath.

  “I’ll smooth it out with her, okay? As soon as I can catch a minute.”

  Her hand encircled his, drew it back down to the table.

  “What did the sheriff say about charges?” she asked.

  “That Peter had broken and entered, so it doesn’t look like the DA is interested in getting involved. He could bring a civil suit, though I’m not sure what good that would do him.”

  “He doesn’t let things go. Obviously.”

  Kyle shrugged.

  “He can have his day in court. It’ll just end up costing us both money we can’t spare, but maybe that’s what it will take. It doesn’t change the way I feel about things.”

  She smiled, reached across the table and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

  “When are you going to announce your resignation from the commission?”

  “We can’t wait past tomorrow evening. We’d hoped to get someone committed to running for the seat, but everything’s a mess. I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  He moved food around on his plate for a minute, not looking up.

  “What’s on your mind, Kyle?”

  “I was thinking it’s pointless for you to keep staying out at the hotel.”

  “You were thinking that, were you?”

  “I was.”

  “You don’t think we might be rushing things a little?”

  “Not for me. I’m old enough to know what I want.”

  “That’s good to hear. I think maybe I am too.”

  THEY DROVE over to the Holiday Inn to get the few things she had taken with her and then back to her car where they’d left it at the restaurant. It was just slipping over the warm edge of twilight by the time they got back to the house. He carried her bags back to the master bedroom. He had her brew a pot of tea for them while he went down to check on the greenhouse plants. She brought a pair of mugs down and they sat on the edge of one of the big watering tables and listened to the evening birds come in to roost while they sipped the tea.

  “I think I can get used to this,” she told him.

  “I was hoping that might be the case.”

  The next few days offered a refuge. It was the weekend and Laura didn’t have to drive to work, didn’t have to leave the place she preferred. They lived and worked beside one another, often with few or no words exchanged. The days were long and hot but not unpleasant. They ate their meals in the shade of the porch and watched the mountains.

  She didn’t attend the night of the commissioners’ meeting, waiting on him at the house with a bottle of wine instead. He counted on needing it. He got to the courthouse early to finish up some paperwork. From his office he could see a crowd had already gathered on the front lawn. As he’d expected, word had gotten out. The newspaper was there, as were some of Noon’s gang. Shepard Dixon was out on the front steps wearing his thin sports jacket and unassailable smile. Old Gerald was there too, arms crossed and as stony faced as a carving affixed to a memorial.

  The other commissioners nodded hello as Kyle entered the boardroom, though none offered more than the briefest greeting. He could feel their eyes shift as soon as he moved on and took his place at the table. Strange to be exposed there like a specimen. He cracked open his plastic bottle of spring water and sipped, waited for the public to settle in.

  The chairman brought the session to order, processed through a few routine matters before he turned the floor over to Dixon.

  “I want to open this session with the note that the following is a general address to the public for the sake of transparency, but that in no way is it an open format for debate. Therefore, please refrain from making comments or addressing the board with direction questions.”

  A few dissatisfied comments animated the crowd.

  “If the meeting is disrupted, the board has the right to conclude the remainder of this evening’s business in closed session.”

  The public fell silent.

  “Very well. Commissioner Pettus, you have the floor.”

  Kyle nodded, unfolded his prepared statement. His voice was composed but foreign sounding in his own ears. He spoke of his years of service to the county, of his pride in what had been accomplished in the community. And then he came around to it. He was resigning his position on the board due to personal reasons that would become apparent in the coming days. He thanked those who worked alongside him regardless of party affiliation, thanked the law enforcement officials who were partners in ensuring the local government served its people, thanked the people themselves, regardless of their vote, for the trust they invested in the office. When he’d finished, he felt exhausted and got up and left the room before any of the shouting really got started.

  22

  THE PAPERWORK APPEARED TO BE ROUTINE. GAVIN SAT THERE IN THE courthouse lobby and filled out his vital information, then carried it all down to the Board of Elections office, handed it over to the woman who ran her eyes over each item to ensure it was properly noted. She smiled and told him everything looked fine, that he could now begin organizing any fundraising as well as commence production of campaign materials in pursuit of the special election. He decided to test his pose as a statesman, so he thanked her, pressing his hat over his heart as a sign of gratitude. She nervously giggled.

  He stepped around the corner to the newspaper office to ask after the reporter, Mister Sealy. He found him in the back cubicle sorting through a short stack of press releases. When Sealy looked up, he popped to his feet and wrung his hand, asked him to have a seat and a cup of office coffee. Gavin accepted with pleasure. “Am I right to offer congratulations, Mister Noon?”

  Gavin submitted a thin smile and shrug.

  “I suppose that depends on things yet undecided, but if you’re referring to my candidacy, then yes, I believe it’s now official that I can say I will be putting my name forward for consideration in the special election.”

  Sealy smiled and wished him well even as he grabbed a notepad and pen from his cluttered desk. They moved naturally into interview, the questions something the young man had framed ahead of time. Gavin knew he needed to remain cautious here. Sealy may well have been sympathetic to the goals of Little Europe, though it was far more likely that he was simply looking after his own career. Still, if handled right, the press had its particular uses. With this in mind, Gavin discovered that he enjoyed the exchange immensely. The back and forth about giving his all for the county and how it reflected his deeper commitment to the country that had such potential but had fallen under many years of apologetic self-hobbling. There were rays of promise, of course. The rallying cry of working whites who had lifted the president into office after the socialist disgrace that had preceded him. But in many ways he felt the most exciting stage in politics was in the local arenas. That was where the DNA of a country was truly sorted out, where it could realize its perfection of form.

  “You know,” Gavin said, “there’s an entirely different aspect of what’s going on here that we’ve failed to touch on. It’s something I’ve been thinking about since you brought the good lieutenant governor’s support to my attention the other day.”

  “That was something else, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. It struck a chord, as they say. It really puts the contemporary problems we face across the country into sharp focus. We’re told that our nation is about defending the rights of the individual, but that only depends on you being the right kind of individual. Can you remember what it was like to hold an unpopular viewpoint and not be whipped like a bad child for it?”

  Sealy gently laughed.

  Gavin continued, “But that’s not the way it is now. You look wherever you want in the mainstream media. It’s nothing short of puritanism. I think it’s an American obligation to dissent. It think it’s practically constitutional, in fact. If not for the courageous few who live as men thinking, we would live under the boot of whatever orthodoxy the empowered have de
cided to enforce. Men thinking, that’s what we are. You know the reference?”

  Sealy stammered, “It rings a bell, but . . .”

  “Emerson. Ralph Waldo Emerson. There was a man who understood how a revolution could be packed inside a sentence.”

  Gavin cut himself short. No one wanted to be lectured.

  “Well, I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is, Mister Sealy. I’ll leave you to your good work.”

  Sealy clumsily came to his feet, invited Gavin along for something to eat at the corner deli, but Gavin declined, said that he had campaign business that needed his attention. Sealy followed him to the front door, clapped him on the back. It was a bit familiar, but Gavin let it pass.

  AFTER JONATHAN took him home, Gavin asked Harrison to come up and see him. They sat in Gavin’s bedroom with the window thrown open. Harrison handed over the leather zip packet of money and the accounting sheet. Gavin gave it only a cursory glance, set it on his desk.

  “I’d feel better if you’d count it,” Harrison said.

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Numbers aren’t up for argument.”

  “Are you expecting us to have an argument?”

  “No sir, but I know the weather has a way of changing when you least expect it.”

  “Fine, give me a moment.”

  He drew the bills out and laid them flat on the desk, methodically counted through and tallied the sum against the calculated columns.

  “As I expected. Everything zeroes out perfectly. It must be difficult making sure that’s the case.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You carry something with you that looks like it might get expensive from time to time.”

  “You mean Delilah.”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t know what to say. I guess I kind of understand women.”

  “That’s a precious talent.”

  Harrison had nothing to say.

  “Well, that’s immaterial,” Gavin continued. “I do have something I’d like for you to take care of for me. A side task to our previous business arrangement. It shouldn’t take too much of your time, but I need someone I can trust to do a comprehensive job, someone with a proven eye for detail.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I assume you’ve heard about my intention to run for local office.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m having some campaign signs printed. They should be ready for pickup tomorrow afternoon. I’d like you to place them strategically throughout the district. I’ve gone ahead and marked up a map,” he said, handed a folded paper across. “I can have Jonathan drive you. I know he and you don’t get on terribly well, but let’s think of this as a team-building opportunity, all right?”

  Harrison stood.

  “You’re the man signing the paycheck.”

  “Yes,” Gavin concluded. “I am.”

  THAT NIGHT Gavin spent nearly an hour posting on several of the Storm Front threads. He listed his candidacy and his campaign philosophy. Almost immediately congratulatory feedback registered, different accounts chiming in with CONGRATS and WELL DONE and SIEG HEIL. He felt a pleasant buzz each time he refreshed the screen and saw the support tick up. He was beginning to grow tired, but before closing out he refreshed once more and saw a message of KEEP THE FAITH from the username of SirGallah00d. He clicked on the name. He was still online. He opened a dialog box for a direct message.

  GNooner: Thx for the comment.

  SirGallah00d: np

  GNooner: Btw I’m a fan of the Batman stories you’ve been posting. You should try to publish them somewhere.

  Several minutes passed without a response. Gavin was again ready to log off when the speaker chimed.

  SirGallah00d: Sorry. Had to tuck the kids in. Glad you liked them. Didn’t know if anybody even paid attention to them things.

  GNooner: Absolutely. They’re better than anything I’ve read in a long time.

  He hesitated before clicking send and then blustered through the next discharge of text.

  GNooner: I’ve been writing some too but haven’t posted anything to the boards yet. Wondered if you might be interested in taking a look. Mabye some feedback:)

  A long time passed without a response until Gavin became irritated.

  GNooner: U there? zzzzzzz

  SirGallah00d: Sorry man. Wife wanted me to do something. Sure send something along. I’m not a professional or nothing but I would like to see what you come up with. Gotta buzz off, bro. Sieg Heil.

  GNooner: Yeah, me2. SH

  He logged off and shut the laptop down, sat there in the darkness with nervous excitement piling up in his chest. It was one thing to have these stories on his hard drive, recorded there as proof of what he conjured out of nothing, but the prospect of sending them out to a reader, a reader whom he admired and who would take these stories, these invisible things that he’d created, and make them part of his larger world, that was far more than he could have hoped for. He got up and stood at the window, watched the moon slide from its camouflage of tree branches, the light telling against the twisted irregularity of natural shapes. The tree limbs had grown and knotted toward daylight, disobeyed gravity, but only here in the night under the scrutiny of the moon was their hypnotic power evident, the way shade and angle transformed them into something terrible and profound. Beholding it like this, Gavin had never felt so strong and ready in his entire life.

  23

  HARRISON TOLD JONATHAN TO KEEP THE VAN RUNNING, THAT HE’D grab the signs on his own. His help would have been useful, no doubt, but the chance to be spared a few moments of his company was worth the tradeoff.

  Inside, the print shop was loud and it appeared the air-conditioning was busted. All they had going was a rattling box fan set on the counter. The man behind the desk was boxing up reams of color flyers. Looked like advertisements for a local professional wrestler.

  “You the boy for the Nazi signs?” the man asked, one hand hitching his waistband. “They’re all pretty and lily white for you. Just like ordered.”

  Harrison nodded, slid the cash envelope across.

  “You don’t care much for my jokes, do you?” the man smiled as he gazed at the money.

  “Is that what they are, jokes?”

  The man shrugged, wet his finger, and began to count the bills.

  “It don’t mean a damn bit of difference to me. Just a bit of print on a surface, idn’t it? This country is protected by freedom of speech, by God, or I’m not a Christian.”

  Harrison had no desire to debate the sign maker’s ethics, asked him to show him the signs. The man laughed and told him to follow him around back.

  Three trips to the car had everything stowed in the trunk. Harrison got in and directed Jonathan to the first installation, all the way down the highway to the border with Washington County. Midday traffic was mild, so they cruised through town, out past the high school and the Sycamore Shoals historical park where people still dressed up in colonial costumes and pretended to be mountain men who bred and broke treaties with the Cherokee. All in the name of preserving the past. From there they cleared the vestiges of town, left the history behind them until it was all straight velocity, thinned and tanned with endless drought.

  “You think these signs are gonna make a damn bit of difference?” Jonathan asked.

  Harrison glanced at him. Had no reason to trust him. Had no reason to share his mind.

  “It’s what the man wants done, so I’ll do it. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I thought I just did.”

  Jonathan started to say something but stopped himself. Harrison was happy to let him privately foster whatever thoughts he had.

  A few minutes later Harrison told him to pull over. They crossed over the rumble strips and parked. Jonathan made no effort to help when Harrison got out and opened the trunk. He held the sign. Red lettering on a field of white, the black Germ
an cross stamped at the top.

  GAVIN NOON FOR COMMISSIONER HERITAGE NOT HATE.

  Incredible that he could be holding something like this. Equally incredible that his hand could be the one driving it into the ground.

  The earth was baked into cracked clay. The iron prongs were sharp but as soon as they went, in the soil split and there was nothing to keep it standing in place. He tried another spot farther up the road, but it was no different.

  “It kicking your ass?” Jonathan called. “Need Daddy to come up there and handle it for you?”

  “Knock it out of the park, big man.”

  Jonathan peeled himself from the car, strutted down and snatched the sign from Harrison’s hands.

  “All it takes is a little bit of goddamn elbow grease.”

  He jabbed his boot down on the centerpiece until it seated.

  “There. Look what I told you.”

  Jonathan’s self-congratulations barely cleared his mouth before a shiver of breeze caught the vinyl edge and the sign flagged over in the dirt. He swore and kicked up dust.

  “I think I see the problem,” Harrison said. “You forgot to hit it with your purse.”

  Jonathan walked back to the car.

  “That your solution?”

  Jonathan gave him the finger.

  Harrison picked up the sign, folded it under his arm and went up on the highest part of the highway shoulder where some grass was still able to grow. It wasn’t ideal, but he had a decent vantage of the passing traffic and the earth still retained some of its moisture. He planted it there and tugged it to test how well it held. One soldier in a rank, he supposed. He walked back to the car.

  “The hell kind of good is it going to do up there?” Jonathan smirked.

  “Better than laying flat on the ground. Come on. Let’s get to the next spot.”

  They spent until well past suppertime posting the campaign signs across the designated areas. The last one was next to the State Line Drive-In, just short of where the Warlick community began. So rare to see one of these old theaters still in operation. Big and bulky monuments to an outside world that held on to a kind of reverent strangeness. Harrison remembered one from when he was growing up east of Knoxville, set there on the banks of the Holston River. A summer eve with the car radio turned up and the enormous Hollywood faces framed and fixed against the night. The stories they showed didn’t matter all that much. What mattered was the odd magic of seeing the remote and beautiful brought down to where you could drive right up to it, fill your eyes and your head with those impossible images. Made you believe you could one day find yourself in a place that seemed as important as that.