A lot of questions were answered in that second.
I crawled out, turned around, and then climbed back up to Jack’s office, where Tommye sat smiling and twirling her hair between her fingers.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was asked not to.”
“By who?”
“Uncle Willee.” She looked down, rubbed the back of her calf like she had a cramp, and swigged from her water bottle. “Chase, I can see it on your face. You’ve lived a long time not knowing. It’s eating at you, and you won’t let it go. Further, I can feel the tension between you and Uncle Willee.” She pointed. “I showed you this because I don’t want you ever to doubt Uncle Willee.”
“What are you not telling me?”
The sun cracked the skyline, and daylight broke through the windows. Downstairs, we heard somebody coming in the front door, pocket change rattling as he climbed the stairs.
Tommye’s eyes lit up. “Come on.”
We shut the office door and began walking down the steps, where we bumped into Uncle Jack. Obviously, he had known we were there, but what could he do? Tommye laughed as she passed by, but said nothing.
He put his hand on my chest and raised his chin. “You miss jail?”
I’ve always had a fear of Uncle Jack that I never could explain. Something in me, deep down, got the heebie-jeebies whenever he was around. I think he knew this, too, because he always had this air about him that said he knew he had the upper hand.
I ducked around his hand, leaving him to point at my shadow. When I got to the bottom of the steps, I turned around. He stood, his head on a swivel, looking up at his office and down at us. I smiled, because I read the uncertainty filling his eyes. It was an unusual feeling, knowing something he didn’t want me to know and knowing it before he knew that I knew it.
I spoke slowly, “Uncle Jack, I’m reminded of something your brother once told me while we were eating breakfast: The truth is a lot like the milkman’s bucket.”
Tommye put her hands in her back pockets. “This ought to be good.”
“The milkman can scrape that milk, cut it, even shake it ’til it’s nothing but bubbles, and then sell it as whole milk, 2 percent, or non-fat, but sooner or later, the cream is going to rise to the surface and be known for what it is. And when it does, he’s going to have to explain to his customers why he’s been holding out.” I looked him in the eye. “You may be good . . . but I doubt that even you are that good.”
I turned my back on him, grabbed a mint off the receptionist’s desk, and dropped my wrapper on the floor as I walked out. When I stepped into Vicky, Tommye was leaning against the seat back, eyes closed, fist clenched.
We pulled onto 99 and she began rubbing her leg.
“You okay?”
Tommye’s always been a good liar. She could charm the devil him-self. For most of her life, she did. She nodded and tucked one leg beneath the other. The only thing different here was that I knew she was lying.
Chapter 38
Some journalists make a big deal about the muses, and how they’ve got a direct line and write best when the muses are moving. In my experience, the muses are seldom on time and even less seldom do they tell the truth. When they do, they only tell half of it. With this in mind, I got to my office and forced my butt into the seat. Stories don’t write themselves. Besides, Red had pushed up my deadline and didn’t like excuses. Funny how that has a way of moving the muses.
I had a decent draft and was in the process of e-mailing it to myself when the phone rang. While in college I lost three weeks’ worth of thesis work due to a school-wide virus. It was a difficult lesson. As a result, I created several dummy e-mail accounts to which I send drafts of articles while I work on them. Now, in the event of an office fire, the theft of my computer, or another sadistic virus created by some latchkey fourteen-year-old with too much time on his hands, my stuff is relatively safe in cyberspace. Provided I can remember where I sent it.
I flipped open my phone and pinned it between my ear and shoulder while my fingers worked the keyboard. “Chase here.”
No one spoke. Cell reception was routinely poor in and around my office. I stood up next to the window and tried again. “Chase Walker here.” I heard some shuffling, short quick breathing, and then two taps. “Sketch?”
A single tap.
“You okay?”
One tap.
“Tommye okay?”
Silence.
Maybe that’s a hard question to answer. Thought I’d help him out. “She sleeping?”
One tap.
“Unc home?”
Two taps.
“Aunt Lorna?”
Two taps.
“She run to the store?”
A single tap.
“Is it something else?”
One tap.
“Tommye?”
Silence, followed by a single tap.
“Hold tight. Sit with her and tell her I’m coming.”
The phone clicked dead. I finished e-mailing myself the article and jumped into Vicky.
While in the car, I called Unc and Aunt Lorna. Twenty minutes later, the three of us nearly collided in the driveway. I ran up the steps, unprepared for what I saw. Sketch was kneeling at Tommye’s bedside, holding her hand.
Running in behind me, Unc looked at Lorna. “Take Buddy into the house.”
Tommye lay in bed. Her eyes were nothing but slits, her face was flushed in places and gray in others, and the room smelled of human waste and vomit. I placed my hand on her forehead and looked at Unc. “She’s on fire.”
He knelt, sliding his hand beneath hers, and I dialed 911. I placed the phone to my ear, but she grabbed it and flipped it shut. She shook her head and motioned us both closer. Her speech was labored. Her mouth was cottony-white, her tongue swollen, and blood oozed from her mouth, nose, and around her eyes. She placed her hand on Uncle Willee’s chest and closed her eyes, catching her breath. “Do something for me.”
Uncle Willee nodded.
She opened her eyes, and they danced around the room and finally focused on him. She lifted her head off the pillow. “Baptize me.”
“But I . . .”
Her breathing was short and shallow. She shook her hand. “I can’t hold on much longer.”
He pulled the sheet back, and I almost turned my eyes. Tommye had lost control of her insides, and the sheets were soaked—front and rear. Unc scooped his arms beneath her, lifted her off the bed, and turned to me. “Crank Vicky.”
He carried her down the stairs and climbed inside, holding Tommye in his lap.
We drove through the Zuta and pulled up to the landing where the water level averages from knee-deep to waist-deep. Uncle Willee nodded at my four-wheel-drive stick. “Are the hubs locked in?”
I knew what he meant. I stopped, locked the hubs, shifted into four-low, and eased down into the water. The water level came up above the top of the wheels, then spilled into the cab, covering up our feet but stopping short of rising above our knees. I eased her across the sandy bottom, the slight current of the water washing over us. We steered around stumps, between trees, through holes, and Vicky never stuttered. It was as if she knew.
We drove the half mile across the swamp bottom, then pulled up to one of the small streams that fed into the Altamaha—the stream where Unc and I had done most of our fishing. I knew it was deep. I also knew I couldn’t leave Vicky. I downshifted her into Granny gear—my hands below the level of the water—and eased down into the deeper water. The water rose over the hood, pushed against the windshield and up to my shoulders. Midway across, we bumped into something too big for Vicky to push out of the way. Her tires spun, dug into the sand, and I shook my head. We were ten yards from shore, but she would go no further. I didn’t know how long she could continue to run under water. As long as she kept running, the exhaust would force the water out of the engine, but I wasn’t sure about her plugs, distributor, or anything else.
We sw
am out of her, and I helped Uncle Willee get Tommye to shore and keep her head above water. Her eyes were closed and her body limp. Uncle Willee picked up the pace, nearly running through the trees. Five minutes later, winded and wheezing, we reached the swimming hole on the far side of the Sanctuary.
There was no moon. Clouds covered the sky and threatened rain. Uncle Willee stepped into the water at the edge of the swimming hole where we’d spent our summers, and Tommye opened her eyes. “Wait.”
He knelt on the sand, her body spilling around him. She tried to lick her lips, but her mouth was mostly blood. She swallowed, caught her breath, and looked at Unc. “One last thing.” She focused on him. “Speak at my funeral . . . please.”
He choked back a sob, then nodded.
She pressed him. “Say it.”
He whispered, “Okay.”
“Lastly . . .” She choked and coughed, gasping. Her chest rose and fell. She recovered one last time. “Tell him.”
Tears broke from his eyes.
She poked him in the chest. “Promise me.”
He nodded. Her head bobbed backward, and her body went limp. Unc stood, and her breathing grew more shallow. He tried to stand, but stumbled. “Help me.”
I held her head as we waded in. Waist deep, we stood holding Tommye, her arms and legs floating limp.
Unc tried to speak but couldn’t. I put my hand on his shoulder and stood alongside him. He tried again, but still the words wouldn’t come.
Finally I said, “Unc . . .”
He held Tommye’s head in his huge, tender palm, kissed her fore-head, and whispered, “Baby . . . in the name of the Father . . .” His voice broke as he gently slipped her body beneath the water. He pulled her up, his muscled shoulders shaking. “. . . and the Son . . .” Again he pressed her down into the water, only to pull her back to his chest and hug her. He held her, crying loudly now, the moans coming from deep down—some place that daylight never saw. He kissed her cheek and said, “and the Holy Ghost . . .” and laid her back down in the water.
The water swallowed her face, wrapped around her head, and flowed across her, pulling bubbles from her mouth and nose. Unc stumbled. I stretched my arms beneath his, and we lifted Tommye from the water. Her head tilted toward me and her eyes flickered. She was half here and half there.
She placed her hand behind my head and pressed her forehead to mine. “Your book . . . it was already on his shelf.” She inhaled and tried to speak again, but the words were all gone. Her last breath floated off, carried to the sea by the ripples on the water.
Her absence hurt. I wanted to be mad at her, thinking it might lessen the hurt, but every time the anger bubbled up, I heard her laughter, felt her soft touch, and saw the light that once sparked behind her eyes.
In truth, I was mad at me. I felt responsible. Somewhere in the second day, the guilt set in. Yes, I’d called and written dozens of times with no response over the years, and yes, she was the one who left, but how hard had I tried? I wasn’t naive enough to think I could’ve changed the course of her life, but I could’ve . . .
Well, see what I mean?
After two days staring off the bow of my boat, the self-doubt and second-guessing drove me away. Before I knew it, Sally had bounced against the curb and delivered me to my office. But while my geography changed, the view did not. Tommye was everywhere I looked.
Given enough research, details, and time to let the story percolate in my head, I can write a couple hundred, even a thousand, words in fifteen minutes. Tommye’s seventy-five-word obituary took me the better part of a day.
Sometime after supper, Red sat on the edge of my desk and pressed PRINT. He read the page that slid out and raised both eyebrows. “You’re done. Go home.”
The obit ran the following morning.
MCFARLAND, TOMMYE LYNN, born April 17, 1976. Friend, actress, memorizer of baseball trivia, lifelong Braves and Bulldogs fan, Miss Brunswick High 1993, singer of Don McClean songs, unselfish, tender, and compassionate, died Sunday, August 27. Tommye was sexually abused by her father, Jack McFarland, when just an innocent girl. She went west to fill the gaping hole he left in her chest. When she did, it killed her. She died surrounded by her family, having found peace and knowing love. Weather permitting, outdoor funeral services will be conducted at the home of William and Lorna McFarland at 1:00 PM Wednesday, August 30, followed by a private burial in the family cemetery.
I knew Jack wouldn’t be too happy with me, but I really didn’t care. Red, of course, did, so he cut the three sentences that would have gotten both him and me sued.
But writing is cathartic, and I felt better. Maybe that’s what Sally was thinking when she drove me to the office.
Chapter 39
Fog blanketed the water the morning of the funeral. No breeze stirred the surface, so my boat sat oddly still. Even it was reverent. I threw on some shorts, bought a couple bags of ice at the store, and got to the house after breakfast, where I cut the grass and coordinated with the rental company to set up chairs. We didn’t know how many people to expect, but Unc said, “People ought to have a place to sit, even if it’s just for a few minutes,” so we rented fifty. We set them up beneath one of Ellsworth McFarland’s pecan trees that was bordered by a wild muscadine vine that Unc had trained along an arched arbor years ago.
Aunt Lorna had spent the previous day cooking Tommye’s favorite chili, which she intended to serve to anyone who wanted it following the funeral. Sketch and I set up tables on the porch and turned the ceiling fans on low to keep the flies off. It was hot and muggy, and his glasses kept fogging up and sliding off his nose. We set out paper plates and bowls, plastic spoons, a couple of boxes of Saltines, and some iced tea, and Unc threw in three dozen MoonPies for good measure.
About lunchtime it turned overcast and gray, threatening rain. Because Unc had been removed as an elder and kicked out of his church some thirty years ago, our funeral locations were limited to the house, but we figured Tommye would like it that way.
When the mortician delivered Tommye to the house, he told us that Uncle Jack had identified the body at the morgue, but he never contacted us to talk about the funeral. If he had plans, he didn’t express them. We carried her coffin to the front of the chairs and set her on top of a stand made just for that purpose. The box was simple, like Tommye. Stripped of any pretension.
The mortician asked me, “Open or closed?”
I looked down at the box, then shook my head. “Closed. If somebody wants to look, they can open it.”
A few minutes later, a delivery truck pulled down the drive. Unc spoke to the driver, then directed as he backed up to the coffin. They lowered the tailgate, set down a heavy, tarp-covered object on the grass, and drove off with a handshake from Unc. He straightened any wrinkles, then took a long walk around the house before climbing back up the porch.
At twelve thirty, Unc walked out of the house dressed in his best and only suit. By the looks of it, he had not worn either the blue suit, the white shirt, or the striped tie in at least two decades. Looking uncomfortable and self-conscious, he walked across the drive and disappeared into his greenhouse. A moment later he reappeared carrying a single purple orchid. It was about three feet tall and covered with maybe a hundred little white-tipped blooms. He set it on top of her coffin and then sat down in the front row.
I—dressed in shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt—studied his getup, and got caught looking. Sketch did too. As the minutes passed, Unc kept fidgeting with his pants and tie and then pants again. Suddenly he got up, walked back into the house, and reappeared a few minutes later wearing faded jeans, muddy boots, a denim shirt, his Gus hat, and his Costa Del Mars.
When he sat back down, I whispered, “You feel better?”
He nodded.
“Good, you look better, too. Not as silly.”
At a quarter to one, a single car drove down the drive. It was that Lincoln Continental again. I shook my head. Couldn’t he have picked a better day?
Unc took the envelope and nodded. “Thank you, Pockets. I don’t doubt your abilities.”
“After all this time, I sure as hell do.” He turned, walked to his car, and looked around. The house, the pasture, the orchid house, the chairs set up for the funeral. Just before he stepped back into the car, he spat, swore, and looked back at Unc. “William, I really am sorry.”
When he’d left, Lorna tugged on Unc’s sleeve. “You going to open it?”
Unc shook his head. “I know what it says.” He turned the envelope in his hands. “We lost the appeal.” He looked around and then spoke quietly, “We’re losing the Zuta. Losing the Sanctuary.” After a deep breath he said, “He finally got everything.”
By ten minutes to one nobody had showed. Aunt Lorna, Unc, Sketch, Mandy, and I sat alone in the chairs, listening to the cows. Sketch held Bones in his lap, and every few minutes one of us would look over our shoulder or rub the cat between the ears.
Five minutes later, three stretch limos pulled into the drive. A young guy about my age rolled down the window and asked, “Is this the funeral for Tommye?”
I nodded.
He waved to the other cars and they parked along the drive. When they stepped out, it didn’t take me long to figure out who they were. I’d never seen more beautiful people in one place in my whole life. The guys were all fit, muscular arms, tight T-shirts, sideburns. Several of them had close-cropped beards. Half the women were blonde, a few brunettes, a few jet-blacks, some tall, but all seemed just as fit as the men. Evidently most had visited Tommye’s plastic surgeon. Most wore sun-glasses or had them propped atop their heads, holding back their hair.
Chasing Fireflies Page 27
