I had started crying, so I turned back to the screen and said, “Uncle Willee.”
He shook his head.
I turned around, wiped my tears and snot on my forearm, and stepped toward Rupert. I couldn’t go back and didn’t want to go forward. I figured words wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I gritted my teeth and made a decision. I started at him on a dead run. When I got within arm’s length, I crouched, left my feet, and hit him in midair. He toppled backwards, dropped my backpack, and landed on the ground below the steps. He probably had forty pounds and six inches on me, so I sat up and started hitting him in the stomach and then the face. After I’d popped him a couple times, I jumped up, waited for him to stand up, and when he did I hit him as hard as I could in the eye. Blood trickled out of his nose and down into his mouth. The last I saw of him that day, he was running home screaming something about his momma.
As Rupert ran home, Unc sat me down on the porch step and put his arm around my shoulder. “Chase? You mad at me?”
I nodded.
He squeezed me tighter. “I want you to listen to me.”
I looked up at him.
“I don’t want you using this as a recipe to fight every boy in school. There’s always somebody bigger.” He nodded at my feet. “Best thing God gave you was two fast feet. God wasn’t kidding when he said turn the other cheek, but”—he spat out across the porch and into the grass—“turning the cheek don’t mean be a doormat.”
It was a hard lesson to learn. It was also one of the best.
The next day, Rupert’s eye was black and nearly swollen shut, but that afternoon on the bus he never said a word to me. And he got off at his old stop.
Chapter 22
Aunt Lorna fluffed up Sketch’s pillows and put his few pieces of clothing away in the dresser next to his bed while Tommye and Mandy cleaned up the kitchen. Tommye was washing the dishes, reaching into the soapy water, as Unc and the kid walked through the back door.
Talking to Mandy and not really paying attention to what she was doing, Tommye slipped her hand into the soapy water and immediately jerked it back. She turned away from us, grabbed a paper towel, and wrapped it like a Popsicle wrapper around her finger. Within seconds, the blood had soaked through the tip. Trying to make light of it, she held her finger in the air and said, “E.T., phone home.” She grabbed another towel, but was careful to bury the first deep inside the trash can.
Aunt Lorna pulled the first-aid kit from the cabinet and emptied the Band-Aids, tape, and gauze pads across the countertop. Unc watched with measured restraint while Sketch walked up to Tommye and pulled on her shirtsleeve. Tommye looked beneath her arm and said, “Oh, it’s okay. I just cut it on a knife down in the water.” She bit her lip and tried to laugh. “Sharp, too.”
Sketch pulled on her arm and stretched his neck, trying to see the wound.
She held it away from him, out across the soapy water, and wrapped the paper towel tighter. “Little Buddy, I better handle this one myself.”
He stepped back and dropped his head, like he’d done something wrong.
Tommye knelt down, still applying pressure, and made eye contact with him. “You’re sweet. Thank you. You probably know a thing or two about stuff like this. But . . . I have cooties.”
Unc stepped up, patted Sketch on the head, and said, “You all have a seat, we’ll be there shortly.” He peeled the plastic off the gauze and took the lid off the antibiotic ointment.
Tommye spoke beneath her breath, “You’re not welcome either.”
He dabbed her good index finger with the ointment, then held out the gauze while she wrapped it around her cut finger. “That might need a stitch,” he said.
Tommye accepted his help, realizing she needed it, but she looked at him with disapproval. When he had her bandaged up, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and gave her that hip hug that people do when they’re familiar with one another. She shook her head. “You know, you’re not too old to get cooties.”
He nodded. “Yeah, but once you’ve been dead, everything else is gravy.”
Sketch showered, Unc touched up his back with that same tube of antibiotic ointment, and then the kid climbed into bed. Lorna had bought him some Spider-Man pajamas, which he seemed to like. The short sleeves came down beyond his elbows and the shorts fell past his knees. She smiled. “You’ll grow into them.”
Unc turned out the light, left the door open, and pulled a brass cowbell from behind his back. He sat back down on the bed and held it in his hands. “This is a cowbell. You hang it around her neck if you want to know where she is when you can’t see her.” He jingled it lightly, sounding a low, brassy clang. “It also makes a pretty good mid-night bell if you need either me or Aunt Lorna.” He set it on the bed-side table. “Just give a ring if you need us, okay?”
Sketch nodded, but his eyes were wide, and I didn’t see much sleep in them.
Tommye, Mandy, Aunt Lorna, Unc, and I sat in the den talking lightly, hoping maybe Sketch had worn himself out and he’d drift off to sleep. Thirty minutes later I crept around the corner, peeked into his room, and saw him looking wide-eyed at me.
When I came back to the den and reported, Unc nodded and walked out the front door, and I smiled.
Mandy asked, “What’s he doing?”
“South Georgia rain dance.”
A minute or so later, we heard a faint pitter-patter on the tin roof above the porch and Sketch’s room. The sound grew louder. When Unc walked back into the den and sat down, his boots were wet across the toe.
Mandy said, “What’s that about?”
Tommye sat on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her, and said, “Uncle Willee can’t sing a lick, so he’s learned to improvise.”
Two minutes later, I crept around the corner and peeked into Sketch’s room. He looked like one of those kids in a stroller whose mom has spent three hours pushing him around the shopping mall. One foot was sticking out from underneath the covers, and he was drooling out of the left corner of his mouth. I pulled the covers up around his shoulders and arms, which were folded in a protective fence around both the bell and his notebook.
The next morning, Sketch woke early and found me alone in the kitchen. He shuffled in, sleep still heavy in his eyes, and sat at the table clutching his notebook. I slid the cereal box across the table and set a bowl in front of him. He poured himself some Cheerios, mixed in some Raisin Bran, and covered it with milk. Then he walked to the drawer, pulled out a spoon, and we ate in silence—which seemed okay with him.
Chapter 23
It was nearly Christmas, my first with Uncle Willee and Aunt Lorna. Because kids dream, I had spent considerable time imagining that my dad, who by now had been reduced to the voice in my memory, would appear like St. Nick carrying packages, a smile, and a one-way trip out the driveway. Unc told me they’d put ads in papers from Charlotte to Miami telling folks about me. So my dad could come get me. I just knew he’d read it. He had to.
On Christmas Eve, just before dinner, somebody knocked on the door. I was standing on a stool in the kitchen helping Aunt Lorna cut up carrots and sweet potatoes. I heard the knock, my face lit, and I tore through the den, nearly knocking Unc over. I flung open the door, eyes wide, and found an older woman, glasses hanging around her neck, carrying a manila folder and selling a pasted-on smile. I pushed open the screen and looked around her. “Where is he?”
She looked confused. She reached down to shake my hand. “Hi . . . you must be Chase.”
“Where’s he at? He hiding?” I ran to the porch steps and cupped my hands to my mouth. “Daddy!” When he didn’t answer, I screamed again, “Daaaaaaddddd!”
“Is Mr. McFarland here?”
Unc appeared at the door. “I’m William McFarland.”
“Hi, I’m . . .”
I didn’t hear what else she had to say. I ran around the front yard looking for his truck, because I just knew my dad wasn’t coming to get me in a yellow Buick.
They talked quie
tly, Unc nodding his head every now and again. I ran back up on the porch to get a bird’s-eye view of the drive and heard her say the word “termination.” Finally, they shook hands, and the lady stepped into her yellow submarine and disappeared out of the drive. Unc sat on the top step and patted the wood next to him. I sat on one side, opposite the folder.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Chase . . . you know how we told you about those newspaper ads?”
“Yes sir.” I craned my neck to see around the railing that was blocking my view of the driveway.
“Well”—he scratched his head and let out a deep breath—“when no one answers them . . . the state sort of becomes your parents.”
“What? But . . .”
“Technically, it means—”
I knew what it meant, and I didn’t want to hear it. I ran off the porch, jumped the pasture fence, and ran across the pasture and into the darkness toward the highway. When I reached the other side, I jumped up on the fence and sat like a swivel, looking east and west, but the highway was dark and the night air cool. It crept through my clothes and turned my sweat to icy fingers.
A few minutes later, Unc walked up next to me and hung his arms across the fence railing. In his hand he held an empty mason jar with holes punched in the lid. He stood there a long time turning the jar. Inside, a single lightning bug fluttered off the sides of the glass. Every five or six seconds, he’d light his lantern. Unc turned the jar in his hand. “Scientists say that these things evolved this way over millions of years.” He shook his head. “That’s a bunch of bunk. I don’t think an animal can just all-of-a-sudden decide it wants to make light grow out its butt. What kind of nonsense is that? Animals don’t make light.” He pointed to the stars. “God does that. I don’t know why or how, but I’m pretty sure it’s not chance. It’s not some haphazard thing he does in his spare time.”
He looked at me, and his expression changed from one of wonder to seriousness, to absolute conviction. “Chase, I don’t believe in chance.” He held up the jar. “This is not chance, neither are the stars.”
I was hurting inside, and the streaks shining on my face didn’t scratch the surface at telling how much.
He tapped me gently in the chest. “And neither are you. So, if your mind is telling you that God slipped up and might have made one giant mistake when it comes to you, you remember the firefly’s butt.”
The laughter walked up behind me, wrapped around my tummy, and tickled my ribs, finally bubbling out my mouth—taking the hurt parts with it. That’s something Unc was good at. He gave me his laughter and took my pain.
He walked back into the pasture and began making wide sweeps with his arms. The air above him was lit with tiny flashing orange and yellow-green stars. Every few seconds one would glisten, shoot through the air in a circular pattern, and then disappear, only to be answered by another shooting star several feet away. No sooner had one quit than another started. Unc followed the circles, running here and there, pulling the lid off and then screwing it back on. Minutes later, he returned with the heavens in his jar. He offered it to me. My single scoop of the Milky Way.
I set the jar on top of the fence post and settled back on the top rail, staring through the glass with the real Big Dipper shining through the other side. Unc was quiet a few minutes. He looked up and down the highway and in the distance, a single headlight approached—the 11:15 freighter to the ports in Brunswick. In the distance we heard the horn sound, hollow and haunting.
He pulled the folded manila folder from his back pocket and struck a match on the fence post. He held the flame to a corner of the folder and turned it so the fire climbed up and swallowed the papers inside. He put his hand on my shoulder, turning the icy fingers warm. When the folder got too hot to hold, he dropped it in the pasture, and we watched in silence as the papers turned to ash. He turned me around, set his hands on my knees, and looked at me square.
“Chase . . . technically, it don’t mean a thing.”
The fire burned out. The breeze picked up the flakes of ash and spun them on the air like feathers fluttering off an angel’s wings.
“Absolutely nothing.”
That night, I lay in bed watching my stars swim around inside the glass and light my room in flashes. Before he turned out my light, Unc squatted next to my bed and tucked me in. It was growing colder, so he wrapped me in a cocoon and pushed the hair off my face. “I’m pretty sure that if your dad had read those ads and could have answered them, he would have. And in my book, no matter what the state says or does, he still can.” He tapped the lid of the jar. “If God can make a firefly’s butt light up like a star, then anything is possible. Anything.”
Chapter 24
To help ease the transition, I’d told Unc I’d hang around and maybe take Sketch into work with me if he’d go. I was watching him eat his cereal when Tommye walked into the kitchen, looking sleepy. She pulled the orange juice from the fridge, poured herself a cup, and sat at the table, her shoulder leaning against mine. She winked at Sketch, then laid her head on my shoulder.
She spoke to me without looking. “I like Mandy.” She sat up and crossed her legs. Her face was flushed, and her eyes looked glassy.
I placed my hand on her forehead, and she pulled away. Still hot. “How’re you feeling?”
She shrugged me off. “I need to go to town today and thought maybe I’d make you my lunch date. You game?”
“You gonna answer my question, or pretend like you didn’t hear me?”
“You gonna take me to lunch, or do I have to ask Spider-Man here?”
The kid, whose head was on a swivel as we talked, looked at me, eyebrows lifted. He wanted to know just as much as she did.
“You like barbecue?” I asked him.
He looked at Tommye, who nodded at him and then wrote a secret note on her napkin and passed it to him. He read the note, turned the napkin, nodded, and slid the napkin across the table to me, then tapped it twice.
I knew what it said without looking. Tommye and I had been eating at Hawg Heaven since we were old enough to drive each other to school and appreciate good barbecue. I finished off my coffee and looked at Sketch. “You like Hawg Heaven?”
He looked down at the napkin and double-tapped it again.
“Okay, okay . . . I heard you the first time.”
He sat back. Tommye gave him a smile and another wink, and in less than a second his spine grew another two inches.
As we were walking out the door, Unc appeared from who knows where and said, “Hey . . .”
Sketch looked up.
“I have some work to do today and thought maybe you’d be my helper.”
Sketch looked at me, asking for permission to stay and at the same time wanting to know if I’d take him to Hawg Heaven another day.
I smiled. “Yeah . . . I’ll take you some other time.”
Unc put his hand on Sketch’s shoulder and looked at Tommye and me. “Good, ’cause I think they need to have some grown-up talk.”
Hawg Heaven sits just north of the causeway that leads out of Brunswick and onto St. Simons Island. Famous for their pulled pork and breaded French fries, they’re a local staple.
We sat at a booth in the back, Tommye with her back to the room and still wearing her sunglasses even after the iced tea had been delivered.
I leaned across the table. “Not too bright in here.”
She nodded and said, “Uh-huh.”
After we ordered, I noticed five guys in white shirts and ties sitting at the table in the center of the room whispering and looking our way. Every now and then one of them would utter a hyena laugh. A few minutes later, the tallest and broadest walked over to the table and sat down next to Tommye, brushing his shoulder to hers. He threw his business card on the table. His voice betrayed him—he was nervous.
“My buddies bet me a good bit of money that I wouldn’t walk over here, tell you I’ve seen most of your movies, and offer to let you star in one with me.”
&n
bsp; Tommye slid her glasses down to the end of her nose, turned just slightly, and noticed the wedding band on his left hand. She was wearing a sweatshirt but looked cold, and the dark shadows behind her eyes had only gotten darker. She looked at me but spoke to him. “There was a day when I’d take that as a compliment, but I guess that really just tells you how little I thought of myself.” She tapped his wedding band with her fingernail. “Go home to your wife and burn the movies.”
“Oh . . .” He turned, looked behind him, got a giggle out of the table, and then turned back to Tommye. He put his hand on her thigh. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
She read his business card and looked at the table behind her. “Robert . . . you all got money?”
He threw a money clip on the table. The wad was thick, and Thomas Jefferson’s face sat on top.
She eyed the parking lot. “You got a car?”
“At least.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.” She slid her glasses over her head and looked at me. “I’ll be right back.”
Robert lit up like he’d just won the Georgia State Powerball. He stood up and waved her in front of him—some sort of sick version of a Southern gentleman.
She slid off the bench, grabbed my keys, handed me her glasses, and said, “Hold this for me.”
“You sure you want—?”
She waved me off. “Easy. I got this.”
She slid the ignition key almost an inch through her index and middle finger, faked a practiced smile, and threw a stiletto-jab into the soft spot beneath Robert’s Adam’s apple. He grabbed his throat, choking, which opened him up to the vicious right that followed. One hand on his throat, the other on his groin, he doubled over and crumpled. His four wide-eyed compatriots stood up, toppling three chairs. Tommye straddled Robert like a calf roper, grabbed the guy’s testicles with both hands and squeezed, using her thumbs for emphasis. The only thing louder than the waitress’s scream was his—only it was an octave higher.
She leaned over him and spoke loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. “I made a couple hundred movies, and I regret every . . . single . . . one. I don’t care what you’ve seen, watched, or dreamed, the only thing sicker than me . . . is you.”
Chasing Fireflies Page 17
