Chasing Fireflies

by Charles Martin

  Lorna said, “Liam . . . that’s gross. Don’t teach him that.”

  He laughed that deep laugh, tossed his head back, and began licking the inside of his cup.

  It was glorious fun.

  At bedtime they led me to my room on the second floor; it sat on the front of the house just across the hall from theirs. It had a small bed and one dresser. Above hung a ceiling fan, and you could see the underside of the tin roof.

  I didn’t want to go to bed, but they tucked me in, turned out the light, and pulled my door half-shut. He must’ve known or talked to somebody at my last home. Us foundlings never slept much. You could get through the days okay, but nighttime was the hardest. It’s when you remembered and wondered.

  I heard the front door shut, so I climbed over to the window and looked out. He walked out beneath the moonlight into the yard, grabbed the sprinkler, and connected it to the hose. Then he turned the water on and aimed the sprinkler at my corner of the house. The water rose in a high arc over the porch and above my window, and fell lightly on the tin roof above.

  Three minutes later I was asleep. And ten hours later, I woke up having slept like the dead.

  Chapter 12

  I spent the rest of the afternoon tucked away in my office perch overlooking the courthouse steps, the phone glued to my ear, working my own sources. By suppertime I had enough for my column. Red eyeballed it, made three corrections, gave me the nod, and said, “Get back to work. I want part two next week.”

  The following morning in the predawn darkness, I slipped out of my apartment where Tommye lay sleeping and walked across the yard and into the kitchen where Unc sat with Aunt Lorna, drinking coffee. He was dressed for work while she wore her slippers and a tired robe. The checkbook was open, Lorna was licking a stamp, and Unc was spreading cinnamon roll crumbs across the newspaper. He shoved the rest of a roll into his mouth, turned the paper 180 degrees, pushed it toward me, and raised his eyebrows.

  MUTED JOHN DOE: A MARVEL AND A MYSTERY

  Four days ago local fire department personnel found a young boy—now labeled John Doe #117—in a ditch off Highway 99 near the Thalmann railroad crossing. Naked except for a pair of cutoff jeans, he was disoriented and covered in ant bites.

  Hours before, the local fire department was called to the scene of a car fire caused when a southbound train T-boned a green 1972 Chevrolet Impala. Authorities are not citing the car wreck as a suicide, as no note has been found. The boy was found the following morning, standing in the middle of the high-way. Apparently he had been thrown from the car only seconds before the driver drove in front of the train. Doctors believe he is between the ages of eight and ten.

  He has numerous body markings that would identify him, but his doctor states, “His most striking characteristic is that the boy cannot speak.” To compensate for the inability to communicate, he utilizes a sketchpad, drawing pictures with a cartoonist’s speed and an architect’s detail. One nurse states, “He’s a prodigy. The most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen. That kid can draw like DaVinci.”

  The sheriff, working in conjunction with the district attorney’s office, has determined that the woman driving the car was not his mother and is investigating her identity. Mandy Parker, who works with the DA, says national data-bases have produced nothing of note. “They tell us that no one has reported him missing. Which, after a week, tells us a lot.” The Department of Children and Families, along with the DA’s office, has filed an emergency petition to place the boy in temporary foster care.

  Scars, cigarette burns, and other markings cover the boy’s body, suggesting years of severe and chronic abuse. That trauma has also apparently affected his memory, as the boy does not know his name, where he’s from, or anything that might help authorities find his home or family. When asked his name, the boy scribbles in his pad, SNOOT.

  Medical tests confirm tracheal damage, suggesting his muted existence is not a choice. His doctor adds, “That further complicates any hope of ever recovering the ability to speak.” A local law enforcement officer, speaking on condition of anonymity, states, “Somebody’s been beating the heck out of this kid. And it ain’t been just once. It’s been many times over a long period of time. I pity the fool if we ever find him, because prison ain’t friendly to people that do stuff like this.”

  Near the bottom of the page, Red had written an editor’s note saying that the paper would continue to follow this story, and that part two would appear next week.

  Chapter 13

  Highway 25/341 passes out of the northern tip of Brunswick, through Sterling, and straight into Jesup—a drive of maybe thirty minutes. There’s usually no traffic, other than logging trucks, heading either way. When Uncle Jack gained control of the Zuta and the bank, he built a house on the northern tip of the property—if you can call it a house. I’ve never been in it, but I’m told it has ten or fifteen bedrooms and enough space to house a small African tribe. Though he doesn’t ride, he owns about fifteen horses and had a nice-enough stable built to board a Triple Crown winner. Case in point—the horses’ stalls are air-conditioned.

  I downshifted at the light at Sterling, caught the green, and brought Vicky back up to sixty. Mandy didn’t seem to mind. Only problem with a bikini-topped vehicle is that it makes it difficult to talk at highway speeds. So we drove in silence, letting the wind mess up her hair. We soon began passing the Zuta on the left. After twelve months of nonstop clear-cutting, the earth looked like it’d been napalmed. That monstrous thing Uncle Jack once called a house sat off on our left, a half mile off the road. Surrounded by nothing but burn piles, it stood out like a sore, opulent thumb.

  Mandy pointed. “Seems strange to have such a pretty house nestled in all those trees, and then cut the trees.”

  I nodded but said nothing. The truth would take too long.

  Jesup Brothers Bottlers was a hole-in-the-wall place on the outskirts of town, hemmed in by chain link and razor wire. Several unwashed and unmaintained delivery trucks sat parked along the fence next to a long, nondescript warehouse. Sometime long ago the company name had been hung in large letters above the door to the office. Now all that remained was SUP BOTTLERS. On the gate hung a sign that read FORGET DOG. BEWARE OF OWNER.

  The gate was closed, but the chain hung loose. I bumped it with Vicky’s nose, and it swung open. I parked in front of the office door and knocked, but no one answered. I walked around to the one open bay door of the warehouse and whistled. Still no one showed. Finally I honked twice and stood next to Vicky.

  Mandy looked at me and said, “Maybe nobody’s here.”

  I looked around and shook my head. “I doubt it.”

  About two minutes later a shaggy, white-haired guy who was probably fifty but looked seventy walked out of the bay and into the sunlight. He was wiping his greasy hands on an orange rag and squinting in the sunlight. He wore blue pants and a lighter blue shirt with his name ironed on the front. He looked a lot like the man in Sketch’s picture, but then any mechanic in a rented uniform would.

  I read his nametag and waved. “Hi . . . Mr. Ruskin.”

  He kept wiping his hands. “Ruskin’s my first name. Skinner’s my last. Momma called me Rusky. And my kids don’t call me at all anymore.”

  I stuck out my hand. “I don’t have kids, never knew my mom, and my friends call me Chase.”

  He took my hand and shook it. At one time he’d had strong hands, but now the skin was loose, and softness had taken the place of calluses. “What can I do for you?”

  I thought about lying but decided to try the honest approach. “Mr. Skinner, I’m looking for a fellow I think once worked here. All I know is that his name was . . . is . . . Bo, and that he might have lived in a trailer.”

  He squinted an eye. “You with the police?”

  “No sir.”

  “The government?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well, it’s a dang shame. Wish you were. That boy owes me money. If’n we’re talking ’bout the sa
me person.” He held up his hand to about my ear level. “’Bout this tall?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. All I’ve ever seen is a picture of him.”

  “Had a bunch of tattoos on his back.”

  “Don’t know—I never saw it.”

  “You don’t know much, do you, boy?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “Guess not. I’m trying to do some-body a favor, and that’s all I’ve got to go on.”

  He pointed at me. “What you do, boy?”

  “I’m a journalist. I work with the Brunswick Daily.”

  “You writing a story on Bo?”

  I shook my head. “No sir. But I think he might have known a little kid I’ve gotten to know.”

  Ruskin nodded. “I never saw the kid, but he used to talk about him. If’n it’s the same kid.” He flipped over a five-gallon bucket, dusted off the top, and sat down, leaning against the warehouse in the shade. He flipped the rag over his shoulder and looked through the gate. “He had this woman living with him. They were both drinkers. Bad for each other. He only worked here a short time. Maybe a year. Not too dependable, rarely showed up on time, but”—he held out both hands—“he could fix anything. That Bo did know diddly when it came to engines and anything mechanical.”

  “You know where he is now?”

  “Sure.” He nodded and took his time. “Prison.”

  That didn’t surprise me, and to be honest, I was glad. “You know where?”

  “Florida, I think. Somewhere in the panhandle. But it’s been awhile.”

  I turned, took a few steps toward Vicky, and then turned again. “You don’t happen to know where he lived, do you?”

  He nodded. “Sure.” He pointed down the dirt road that ran behind the warehouse. “’Bout a mile that way. Can’t miss it. Only thing back there.”

  “Did he own it?”

  Ruskin shook his head. “No.” He pointed toward the office door. “Owner let him live there for”—he held up his hands and made quotation marks with his fingers—“security.”

  “You mind if I take a look?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Mandy and I idled down the dirt road until a white single-wide trailer came into view. Poison ivy had grown up over the porch railing, and kudzu was making its way along the pitch of the roof. A charcoal grill was overturned in the yard, along with three pink flamingos, a kid’s bike with no rear tire, and the tireless rear end to some car. The grass was a foot tall, and Coors Light cans dotted the yard like seashells. Three cars stood on blocks beneath the shade of a scrub oak. Each was missing at least one tire, most of its windows, and even a door or two. All of the trailer’s front windows had either been shot out or broken, and the front door was hanging from one hinge.

  Mandy saw me shaking my head and said, “Pretty bad.”

  “Can you imagine being a kid and living here?”

  She spoke softly, as if saying it any louder would make it hurt that much more. “Not really.”

  I pushed the front door aside and walked in. The squeaking noise of the door scared a herd of cats. They ran in eight different directions, and then the smell hit me. Evidently, they didn’t leave the house much. The trailer had one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen—all of which needed to be torched. Other than the bike out front, there was no sign inside the trailer that any kid had ever been there, much less lived there.

  Mandy followed me, holding her nose and looking disgusted.

  I stood in the living room, where one of the kittens eyed me with that take-me-home look. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  Standing at the front door, I turned and eyeballed the place one last time. I spoke to both Mandy and myself. “If you were a kid living here, and you were told not to touch anything—ever, except you had this insatiable need to draw stuff all the time, where would you draw so that it’d never be noticed?”

  She looked around the room. “Good question.”

  We spread out and began thinking like a kid who didn’t want to get beat. It didn’t take me long. Wedged into the corner of the den sat a five-legged table. A lamp sat on the floor next to it. Why the floor?

  I grabbed my flashlight out of the console between Vicky’s seats, returned to the table, knelt, and shined upward. One thing immediately came to mind—the Sistine Chapel. The underside of the table was a collage of thoughts or things seen by the kid. From a man throwing a beer can to a woman crying to a cat chasing a mouse . . . it was all there.

  Back on Highway 341, the fresh air felt good and smelled even better. Neither of us said much for a while. We passed through Mt. Pleasant, through the light at Everett, over the railroad tracks, and to the northwest corner of the Zuta. Two more miles and we passed the northern gate on the main road. It was open, which was unusual, but given the number of logging trucks going in and out every day, not surprising.

  “You in a hurry to get back?” I asked.

  “I don’t have to be in court. What’ve you got in mind?”

  I U-turned and cut across the highway and through the main gate, which was marked by an enormous sign that read NO TRESPASSING. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.

  Mandy pointed. “You saw that sign, right?”

  I nodded. “My uncle’s father bought this property some seventy years ago.” I waved my hand across the dashboard. “Unc and his brother Jack used to own everything from those tracks back there, south to Thalmann, east to Sterling, and west again to Everett.”

  Mandy calculated. “That’s a lot of land.”

  “Twenty-six thousand acres.”

  “Who owns it now?”

  “Jack.”

  She thought for a minute. “There’s probably a story there.”

  I nodded. The thought of losing the Zuta and, more importantly, the Sanctuary, to Uncle Jack dug at me. I hated the idea. He didn’t appreciate it, never had, and didn’t deserve it. He was going to strip it of any value, drain it of its beauty, and leave it naked as he had every other property he’d ever owned. Then he’d sell it off to developers, who’d come in and build condos or golf courses or retirement villas.

  When I get to this place in my thinking, where the anger burns and messes with my head and heart, I remember that life is not fair and was never promised to be so. But that does little good, and I still hate Uncle Jack. My hatred for him is simple: I hate him because he wants to take from Unc the one thing that means the most to him. The one thing he held onto. The only thing he’s got left.

  And some things are sacred. No matter how much money you have.

  We passed beneath the major power lines that ran from the coast to central Georgia, cutting through the northern corridor of the property in its path. The main road snakes through the middle of the property, more or less cutting it down the middle, minus a big westerly turn to cut around the Buffalo. Vicky rumbled along, at home on the dusty roads.

  With every corner, I filled Mandy in on more of the history. I told her about how Ellsworth had gambled with the money in his mattress, pulled the bathtub drain, made a fortune, and begun cutting the timber, which was then used from America to the Orient.

  Her face told me she liked hearing the story. The all-business attorney even leaned back and propped her right foot up on the side of the door. In the middle of the property the road turned right, or west, and began following the outline of the Buffalo. On our left we could see the towering treetops rising up out of the pines. A mile or so later the road turned left again, crossing the Buffalo and putting DuBignon Hammock on our right.

  When Ellsworth drained the property, he had to build a road across the Buffalo without hindering the water flow. A bridge was too expensive, and a dam defeated the purpose. So he sat up on his horse, scratched his chin, and asked himself, What is strong enough to drive across but will let water flow through?

  It took him a few days, but somewhere in the Zuta the idea hit him. One of the railroad lines had abandoned three rail cars on an unused section of track on th
e western boundary. The two-mile-long track had been laid so that trains could pass each other if they planned it right. Sometime back, they quit using it as a passing lane and began using it to dump old cars. Three freight cars had been sitting there long enough to get rusty, so Ellsworth “borrowed” them. He dredged a section of swamp, slid the train car doors off the cars, dropped the three cars end-to-end in the water and—using a welding rod and cutting torch—snugged them together using the doors to close the gaps between each. He then covered the top with fill-dirt and sand so when you drove across you couldn’t see the train cars. Actually, it was pretty ingenious. And for seventy years, water has flowed through, and horses, carts, and vehicles have driven on top.

  We stopped on top of the train cars and watched the Buffalo silently slip beneath us. Tall cypress trees sprouted up out of the water on either side, along with purple irises that were just starting to bloom. Because of the rain, the water level was high, as was the fish activity around the bridge.

  We eased off the bridge, through Arnette Field, around the Turpentine Shack—an old shack where they used to sleep while working the turpentine trees, down past the picnic grounds, and finally through Gibson Island, across the canal, and around the back pasture of the house and barn. Unc’s Brahman cows were milling around our end of the pasture, and in the distance I heard Aunt Lorna’s peacocks raising a ruckus.

  Mandy, who’d been silent a long time, said, “Is that a peacock?”

  “Yeah, my Aunt Lorna thinks they’re pretty.”

  “I thought those things only lived in zoos.”

  I drove into the clearing, the house in view, and smiled. “Welcome to McFarland’s Zoo.”

  “Please tell me it’s okay for us to be here. I don’t feel like getting shot today.”

  I laughed. “Unc and Aunt Lorna live there.” I pointed at the barn where the light was on and the window unit was running, dripping water on the roofline below. “And that’s my second home. I stay here when I’m too tired to drive out to my boat or just feel like hanging out.”