Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  Dino glanced at Will. “Yeah, sure.” They stayed silent for a moment before Dino said, “Well, that’s something.” He walked down the slope, slapping his gloves on his thigh.

  Will wanted to stay longer, all night even. But another car pulled up, so he scuttled back to fill another tank, wash another window. Several cars pulled in at the same time, and Will was too busy for more than a quick glance.

  When he slipped up to the hillside, the family had left. He stood on the curb as a truck pulled out and roared through the quiet. The red moon was gone. The white sliver had returned on its other side. That whiteness grew a little at a time, and he hoped Ada had seen some of this grand show.

  At the end of his shift, he called Cicero, who glided down from the garage roof. Will leaned back to gaze one last time. The moon was high now, and once more white and round and whole. The hungry shadow had disappeared.

  BEFORE bed, Ada drank two glasses of water. Almost immediately, she felt the pressure in her bladder. Thank you, God, for indoor plumbing, she thought. Her father had had it put in when she was seven, so she remembered the trips to the privy in the dark night. But not tonight.

  She dreamed of searching for bathrooms in foreign places. Each time Ada woke, she scurried across the hall, her parents snoring in their bedroom. Then a quick glance out the window revealed the same moon—fat and happy and smiling.

  But the third time she woke, the white part of the moon had shrunk to just a sliver, a shadow hiding all except a thin peel, a husk around a grain.

  Ada stepped onto the upstairs porch for a better view. The scent of her mother’s roses came on the warm current along with the smell of sawdust from the new barn. The night air felt soft, the heat of the day dissolving. Ada leaned against the railing. Will was working just a mile away, probably watching this same moon at this very moment, and this made her smile. He was such a boy at the dinner table, his cowlick bobbing. No wonder my folks like him.

  Something in the yard moved, a shadow within the maple’s shadow. The shape was small, moving in and out of the moon’s light. A cat, maybe? No, a skunk waddling in its unhurried way. But something about it didn’t seem right. It walked into the yard, and Ada finally saw: instead of stripes, this one had no white at all, not on its head or back or tail—the fur solid black. How strange, Ada thought. Where did you come from?

  Ada looked back at the moon, and what emerged made her clutch her throat. This time no white sliver or shadow, but the whole of it. And all of it flushed to glow orange-red, like a giant dying coal. The intensity of color made it look alive, burning even. Ada hugged herself. She was silly to think it, but somehow, this red moon could mean nothing good.

  She returned to bed and tried to sleep.

  Cicero

  Something woke me that night from my slumber in the car while Will worked. Not the trucks grinding up their gears, no, I was used to that. It must’ve been the change of light. I cocked my head and looked out the rear window, and there was the moon a-changing colors before my very eyes. It looked too big. It looked like a red eye. It looked like something dead. And I didn’t like it one bit. I hopped to the window and flew to the top of the garage.

  I could see Will better. He worked those pumps by himself, moved the cars along, and every chance he got, he looked up at that moon. I could see his silly grin even from that far away. It was all a big show to him, a marvel, take pictures if you had a camera. He had no idea.

  And I didn’t have the words to tell him. By god . . .

  35

  July 4, 1953

  At the door, Will thanked Mrs. Franklin for the lemonade, but he looked at Ada. Her cheeks and hazel eyes, the tilt of her head, the hair tucked behind her ear—never had he seen her glow like this.

  He reached to take her hand, and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. For that brief moment, he breathed in her sweet, clean smell and the hint of some perfume, maybe lilac.

  “We’ll be late, Mama.” Ada’s words startled him. “No need to wait up.”

  “I’ll just leave the porch light on,” her mother said.

  She pulled him along the sidewalk, and this tug somehow made him shy and bold at the same time. In the car, he kissed her on the mouth. She responded before pulling away. “Let’s get out of sight of my parents, don’t you think?”

  Will leaned back and laughed. He started the Plymouth, and Ada slid across and nuzzled her shoulder into his.

  “So, where’s Cicero?” Ada peered into the backseat, the perch and old bed sheet gone.

  “I dropped him off at Aunt Amanda’s. Thought the fireworks might bother him.” He turned toward Newburg.

  Ada sniffed. “Smells like someone did some cleaning.”

  “Maybe just a little.”

  When they crossed the Conodoguinet, Will formed into words what had been floating in his head for a long time. “So, a while back, when I took Cicero to your uncle, he mentioned you healed a cow one time?”

  Ada stiffened. “That’s right.”

  “Said it was somebody’s favorite cow?”

  “That’s right. Clyde McGrady’s.” What to say, what to say? She had worried about this moment for a long time, expected it even, and now, her mouth went dry, her hands cold. Ada shifted. “Guess you didn’t know I could heal, did you?”

  “Your uncle told me. Before that I’d heard rumors but never really believed them.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know what to believe myself.” She relaxed a little. But still, what did he think?

  “So, did it work?”

  “I think so.” She focused on the road. “I felt the same tingles I always feel. And Clyde called back and said the bleeding had stopped.” She couldn’t read his face. He steered through the dogleg curves, their bodies leaning into each other on the turns. That warmth, that muscle and bone and blood pulsing beside her made her understand she couldn’t hide, didn’t want to hide anything from Will. Yet if she told all and he spurned her? Best be honest, she could hear her mother say. “So, have you ever heard of powwowing?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe a little from Aunt Amanda or someone, but not really. Not sure it exists on our side of the mountain.”

  Ada began. “Powwowing has nothing to do with Indians, and everything to do with God. He works through a person to heal others. And you have to believe for it to work. You have to have faith.

  “Some powwow doctors can only cure warts or burns or stop blood. But others, like Uncle Mark, can cure just about anything, as long as the Lord allows. And Uncle Mark’s the one that taught me.”

  Will’s face hadn’t changed; he stared at the road, listening.

  “Before the fire, I could cure anything—warts, cuts, burns, lice. Once I even cured a girl who was having fits.

  “But since the fire, I can’t heal anyone, not even Mama’s hands.”

  Will glanced over. She was looking at her hands, forehead creased, lips a tight line.

  “I’m not sure why, but I think the Lord wanted to burn something out of me, make me a better person. I think I had become too proud. I liked how people looked at me, how they came to me with their problems. And maybe that was it. So, He burned that up inside of me. Made me humble. Took away His gift.

  “Remember when James cut his hand at work?”

  Will said yes.

  “Well, he asked me to powwow right there in the restaurant. I tried, but nothing happened, and I could tell even before I finished that it wasn’t working. I thought I’d never heal again.

  “But now I’m not sure it was just pride God wanted gone. I think it was the fear of fire, too. He spoke to Moses through the burning bush. And maybe He was trying to tell me something in that barn. I don’t know. I do know that all my life I’ve been afraid of fire. And maybe that’s what God wanted to burn out of me, that fear of death.”

  Should she confess? Tell what happened in the orchard?

  “When I realized that, something changed in me.” She paused. “And I think I can heal again.” Should she
tell?

  “I’ve never told anyone this, but remember when Cicero got shot, how frantic you were? You sent me back to the house because you feared Cicero wouldn’t come if I was around. Remember?”

  Will gave a slight nod.

  “When I came down through the orchard, I saw something black at the edge of the woods. It was Cicero, under a pine tree, and I could tell he was hurt. When I said his name, my hands tingled again, like they used to. I didn’t get close—he wouldn’t let me—but I said the chant to stop blood and I felt the Lord working through me.” Ada half laughed. “Like Cicero—maybe he somehow healed me.”

  “You saw Cicero and you didn’t call me? And you think you healed him?” Will couldn’t hold in his anger.

  “He flew away as soon as I finished. And you were long gone.”

  “You could’ve come after me. You could’ve told me that night when I came back.”

  “Told you what? I healed your bird? And you would’ve believed me? Like you believe me now.”

  This quieted them. Will drove toward the high ridge that separated Newburg from Shippensburg.

  She had to know. “So, what do you think of this? Of powwowing?”

  And Will heard the implied, And what do you think of me?

  “I don’t know, Ada,” he finally said. “I’ve never been much of a church person. Dad never took me, and Aunt Amanda tried, but I never liked it, so she stopped. And to be honest, I’ve never known what to believe. I’ve seen some strange things, like Cicero talking, or Uncle Mark working on his leg, but I just don’t know. How do you know it’s the Lord? Or how do you know it’s not just the body fixing itself?

  “Or how do you know it’s not the body not fixing itself? Like, why couldn’t the granny woman that was at my birth heal my mother? Why did she have to die, and why then? Years later, the preacher told me, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ Like that answers anything.” Will quieted.

  “I believe that,” she spoke softly. “I believe the Lord does work in mysterious ways. And I believe in the fullness of time. In the fullness of time, we’ll understand.”

  The hum of the tires filled the silence. They crested the hill, and Will braked hard and steered left away from Shippensburg.

  “Where we going?”

  “Just had a better idea.”

  “Are we still going to see the fireworks?”

  “Definitely.” Will smiled. “Maybe even more than one. And forget the crowds, this might be our own private show. What do ya think of that?”

  “Sounds fine to me.” Her eyes glinted with joy.

  And in that moment, Will grasped how much he loved her, and why. Her smooth cheeks and small nose, her lithe body next to his, her quick wit, her phoebe voice—all of that was wonderful, but something else drew him. Other women would whine if he changed plans like this, but Ada just went along for the adventure, full of trust and curiosity. Like on her birthday when she led him through the fence and across the pike for some ice cream. Not many other women would’ve done that and laughed so much, too.

  He hugged her closer.

  “Watch the road, cowboy.” She fiddled with the radio, switched from a news report on Korea to Carl Smith singing “It’s a Lovely, Lovely World.”

  “You’re coming to Daddy’s barn dance, right?”

  “If you’re going to be there, I reckon I’ll come. But I have to warn you, I’m not a dancer.”

  “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

  They drove back roads toward Blue Mountain, away from the fairgrounds where Ada had expected to watch with all the other folks crowding in, sitting on the hoods of their cars. Where was he taking her? Back to his side of the mountain? Or down to Carlisle for a bigger show?

  When they turned onto Three Square Hollow Road, Ada slapped his thigh and said, “What a fine idea.” Will just smiled.

  On the overpass, they paused to gaze down on the turnpike, headlights coming on in the dying light.

  “Pity the fools who have to work today,” Will said. “That place will be packed.”

  He drove on, the chain link fence returning to barbwire, the landscape back to red barns and cornfields. Blue Mountain filled their windshield, its blueness shifting to purple in the fading light. The land steepened, the fields gave way to woodlots. The road doglegged around the last fields before it turned to dirt.

  Will slowed. Rocks jutted up in the roadbed, and gravel pinged on the muffler. The engine pulled up the steep grade. A mile up, at the head of a hollow, the road made a switchback.

  “Pull over here for a little,” Ada said. “Get us some spring water.”

  The sound surrounded them, the roil of falling water filling the whole ravine. In the twilight, the foam glowed ghostlike, white knees of water curling over rocks. As if it didn’t move, as if the water froze in some permanent fall. But there was that cool, wet smell and the constant noise of it, so loud it drowned out any bird calls.

  Will looked upstream. “You ever fish here?” he hollered.

  “Never here. Might have to come back with our poles. What do you think?”

  Will nodded.

  By the side of the road, years ago someone had built a waist-high retaining wall, the rocks now covered with moss, dripping wet. On top of the wall, three pipes gushed with spring water.

  “Mama and Daddy like to come up here on Sunday afternoons,” Ada shouted, “to fill the trunk with jugs of water. Usually, we drink from a tin cup that rides in the glove box. Guess we’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way.” She cupped her hands, and water immediately overflowed. She drank long and deep, water dripping from her chin. Will did the same, and the coldness stung his teeth. He drank again, and without thinking, he belched.

  “Oops,” he said, embarrassed. But before he could apologize, Ada burped, too.

  “Oops,” she said. “Bet you never heard a woman burp.” She wiped her chin on the sleeve. “Did you get enough?”

  “I think so.” Will pulled out his hankie to wipe his chin.

  “I didn’t.” Ada leaned to the spring and cupped her hands once more. Then she turned and threw the cold water on Will.

  “Hey!” he shouted. The water soaked his shirt, cold prickling his skin. He bent and cupped his hands, but Ada splashed him again, this time on the head, water dripping into his eyes. He shouted again and threw his handful but missed. He gathered more, but Ada already had scurried up the road, laughing and teasing. He chased after, water sloshing out of his cupped hands, so by the time he threw it, only a trail of drops reached her feet. Will tackled her in a big hug, kissing her cheek and mouth, trying to quiet her laughter.

  “That was mean.” Drops fell from his cowlick onto her face.

  “You still looked thirsty.” She rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d had enough.” She played with the collar of his shirt. They kissed again, more slowly, the trees pulling in the night, darkness filling the hollow, the sound of water dancing all around them.

  After a while, Ada pulled away. “We’re going to miss the fireworks.”

  “What fireworks? I got plenty right here.”

  “Oh, come on.” She slipped from his hug and pulled him to the car.

  They traveled on, the road rising, skirting along the side of the mountain, the trees silhouetted against the evening sky. A mile from the spring, they stopped at the lookout, a section of road near the top where someone had cut the trees.

  They stood at the edge to take in the view, Ada leaning close to him. The wide valley stretched below, and the last of the day’s heat carried the scent of honeysuckle up the slope. Far across, the wall of South Mountain held the final glimmer of sun. Closer, the shadow of Blue Mountain crawled across the wide reach.

  “There’s the turnpike.” Will pointed to a straight line of lights.

  “And there’s Newburg,” Ada added. “And right behind it, a little farther out, you can see Shippensburg. That cluster of lights, see?”

  Will checked his watch. “No fireworks yet.” />
  Ada knew this view better than Will, so as her daddy and grandfather had done for her, she created a map.

  “There’s Chambersburg.” She pointed to the west, almost out of view.

  Will saw the glow of the small city.

  “They’ll have big fireworks,” Ada said. “And if we could see around the edge of this mountain, we’d see our farm and HoJo’s and the tunnels, but not from here.”

  She turned to the east, and Will followed her finger to the small town of Newville. “I think they have fireworks, but I’m not sure. And that glow farther on, just behind the trees, that’s Carlisle, the county seat.” She scanned the whole valley. “So, if we’re lucky, we might see four different fireworks.”

  Will spread a blanket on the hood of the car, and there they ate cold chicken and fresh rolls, deviled eggs, and just-canned green beans. For dessert, Ada pulled out slices of blueberry pie. When he finished, Will licked his fingers. “That was some kind of good.”

  Ada laughed, deep belly laughs she couldn’t stop.

  “What?” he asked, wiping his fingers on a napkin.

  She said nothing, just stuck out her purple tongue.

  Will could barely see, but he laughed, too. “Are my lips as purple as yours?”

  Ada nodded, her laughter slowing.

  “Maybe you need me to wipe that purple lipstick off for you?” He bent to kiss her, but she slipped away.

  “That’s what I brought napkins for.” Ada wiped her lips.

  “Oh, but they don’t taste as good.”

  She turned away, hid her smile, and cleaned up.

  The fullness of night settled over them. Will sat on the hood, and Ada leaned into him. He breathed in the lilac smell of her and kissed the top of her head as they both looked south. Stars stippled the cloudless sky that had turned a purple darker than blueberry pie.

  “I always love coming here,” Ada said. “Seeing the valley laid out in fields and orchards, following the creeks and roads, imagining the people—it makes me see how small we all are. And for some reason, that comforts me.”

  Will pointed and whispered, “There! Did you see it?” Soon they both pointed east and west, the sparkling fireworks erupting below. The valley filled with brief, vibrant flowers—circles of color that bloomed and faded, all of them silent.