I NEVER THOUGHT about it before, but being a parent is a lot like being a fireman. You've got to put up with a lot of stupid mistakes, never knowing what will happen and what kind of mess you'll have to clean up. It's an around- the- clock job, always on call and you have to be prepared.
Kelly's done something about as stupid as you can do in my book, asking a sixteen- year- old to drive from here to kingdom come to pick her up—in a Volkswagen of all things. I've seen what happens to those cars when they run off the road. They're like tin cans, the trunk in front, just empty air out there, so it crumples right up into the driver's compartment.
We had to respond to a wreck some time ago where a Volkswagen had left the road and hit a tree off of 707, the front cut right down the middle to the dashboard. A young girl was killed. Some witness said she had tried to swerve to avoid hitting a rabbit. It's a shame if that's what really happened. The girl was only seventeen, a year older than Ellen. What a waste.
But that's not the scariest part of what my daughter's done. Ellen's driving up to Cullowhee by herself, and then the two of them all night to get back home, driving on unfamiliar roads that snake around, dropping off into hairpin turns and switchbacks, is just crazy. It's dangerous when you know what you're doing, but two girls driving all night is about as stupid as it gets.
Ellen Thomas's parents had no idea what she was up to. Nobody knew what those two girls had in mind. I'm pissed off that they would do something like this, pissed off at myself that I didn't see it coming. Now I have to take personal time so I can get Kelly back up to her momma, and that just pisses the hell out of me.
I'm filling out paperwork, getting the schedule figured out for a crew already shorthanded, when Goose Hetzel comes flying in here with two other men in the bed of his truck holding on to Collie Walker. They're yelling and screaming that Collie's dying, something about his arm being bit off by an alligator. Now, I've seen gators in cypress swamps off the Waccamaw River, in the freshwater ponds over at the state park, so I know they're out there, but this worries me because Collie Walker is as good an outdoorsman as there is.
He owns a charter boat and should've been out on the water today while a boatload of seasick tourists tried to catch barracuda or some big- ass fish they could mount on a wall. If he was hit by a gator, no telling what's going on, so I throw my pencil down and tell Lori to call this in. I yell at J.D. to pull his kit from the Pirsch and get the hell over here.
I give Collie the benefit of the doubt until I get close enough to smell his breath, then I almost don't give a shit anymore. “He's drunk,” I say.
“We been down on the river,” says Goose, all out of breath. “We've been drinking, but he ain't drunk.”
“Well, where the hell did he get bit like this?” Collie's arm is gone to the elbow, not a clean cut like he might get off a saw down at one of the mills, but jagged and torn, ligaments hanging, arteries pumping blood right out of his body. The boys have a belt wrapped around the upper biceps to try and stop the bleeding, but they did a piss- poor job.
Collie's losing lots of blood, already white as a corpse. He's wet too. They're all soaked to the bone. “Why is he so wet?” J.D. says. “Ya'll fall out of a boat?”
Everyone looks at each other like they know what to say, but don't know which one ought to say it. “He was fishing,” Goose says.
“He was what?” I ask.
“He was fishing in the Waccamaw.”
I look around to see if anyone else is going to add to this. It's obvious they're going to let Goose do the talking. He was the driver, so I guess that makes him the captain here. “You mean he was in the Waccamaw fishing with a pole and some alligator just came up and bit off his arm?”
“Nope,” Goose says. “He was using his arm.”
“You mean he was noodling?”
“Yeah, he was,” Goose says. “He hit a hole inside one of them cypress trees, went under at the roots and then up inside to his shoulder. He got a gator instead of a catfish. It weren't that big.” Goose says this like that makes it better. “Pulled it out and whacked it around real good, then it let go.”
“Well, it did a little more than let go,” I say and then yell for Lori to call an ambulance. J.D. has a tourniquet applied and an IV going to try and ward off any shock. “Why didn't you take him to the hospital?” J.D. asks, his impatience with the boys obvious.
Goose looks at the group, replaying the whole trip in his head. “You was closest,” he says.
“I think Conway was closer,” J.D. says. “You came the wrong way.”
I look up to find Kelly behind Partee, her face white, her hands at her mouth like she's forgotten to breathe. She shouldn't be looking at a man without his arm. “Take a breath, girl,” I tell her. “Go see if Lori needs anything. Now.”
J.D. checks the man's vitals, adjusts the IV flow, and then gives Collie a shot for the pain. He's pretty frustrated at them for bringing him to the station. “I don't know if a hospital will do him any good now,” he says. “He's lost a lot of blood.”
“He's going to need a tetanus shot, ain't he?” Goose says.
J.D. just shakes his head. “That'll about do it, Goose, that and about three pints of blood.”
Billy Jackson sticks his face down into what's going on and says, “We got the arm,” and that stops everything.
“You got the arm?” I say. Partee comes over to see what he can do. Billy glances over like Partee's the school principal and needs to be told the truth.
“Gator let it go,” Billy says, “floated right out in front of us, so we brung it along. It's in the bed of the truck, behind that tire.” He points in the general direction of Goose Hetzel's truck. We all turn to look, but no one volunteers to get the arm. I finally have to yell at Partee to go do it.
“Go with Billy and get the goddamn arm, get it in a bucket of ice, fast.”
“Where am I getting ice in this heat?” he asks. It's obvious Par-tee's got a problem with Collie's arm lying in the back of Goose Hetzel's truck. We always keep several bags of ice in a freezer out back. Partee knows where the hell the ice is.
“Well, you can walk on down to the pier, if you want to, and pick some up,” I say, “or maybe go right out there in the ice box. Your pick, Partee.”
He stands there for a minute more like he's really thinking about the pier, but I know he's just pissed off. Finally, he turns to Billy. “Get the arm,” Partee says, and then walks off to find a bucket big enough to hold the thing.
I've been an outdoorsman all my life, shot duck down on the marsh, been deer hunting, bow and rifle, every year. Pops taught me to shoot a gun when I was twelve, and I learned how to bait a hook when I was six. I know all about noodling, been along a couple of times when I was a teenager, but I never saw any use in such a thing, none at all. Blind leading the blind's what it is.
Usually gators aren't down in holes like that, but with the heat being what it is, I guess this one was just trying to stay cool and Collie came in and woke it up. Every one of these boys holding on to Collie or watching him suffer has been warned not to noodle in the Waccamaw. It's dangerous and yet they still do it. This is what can happen, even worse.
When we stand up, I'm dripping in Collie Walker's blood. The ambulance attendants arrive and load him onto a stretcher, J.D. right alongside. I look up at Partee, stare real hard as he passes. He's got the bucket and a bag of ice, headed toward Goose's truck. “What?” he says when he walks past me, but I don't give him an answer. He's noodled in the swamps back there too. Partee's waded into that murky water, hung on to cypress roots, and felt around for a goddamn catfish.
J.D. helps get Collie in the ambulance then walks over to tell me he wants to ride in. “We'll take him over to Myrtle Beach,” he says. “They got a real trauma unit there, not just emergency. Maybe they can do something with that appendage.”
“Fine,” I say. Partee brushes past me smelling like he's been working hard, even though he didn't like what he had to do. He puts the iced- down arm in the front seat of the ambulance.
“You follow them in, Partee. And keep your arm out of holes,” I tell him. “See what can happen? I can't have you looking like that.”
“Ain't the right time for noodling,” he says like he's the authority on all this. “Them boys ought to know better. They been drinking, not thinking.”
Kelly stands with Lori, still watching what's going on. “Get her in the office, Lori,” I yell. Then I give Partee another hard look. “I didn't ask you to explain these boys’ mistake, I told you not to noodle.” Partee shuts up after that, looks like my yelling hurt, but I don't care. Nobody's listening to me anymore. The whole goddamn place feels dangerous and out of control.
One thing a fireman needs to feel is control, even when it's not there, even when he's surrounded by danger. If you lose that, fear can seep in, and fear is a cancer in this line of work. Everybody snaps back fast when I yell. It's something I don't do often, so they know I mean it. Then the station falls back in line, the ambulance leaves, and Partee gets in his Mustang to follow them up to Myrtle Beach. Calm settles in and I go change my clothes.
In the bunk room, I toss everything into the trash. The clothes are ruined. There's a pair of pants and a uniform T- shirt that will get me back home where I can put on regular civvies. The trip up to Meemaw's is going to take us the better part of the day and I'm already exhausted, still have one more stop to make before we can get out of town.
When I'm dressed, I collect Kelly. She's sitting in the office with Lori looking at a magazine, their heads leaning together, lost in some picture of a boy who's on television. My gut seizes up when I see Kelly with Lori. They are interchangeable. Kelly could be working down here in a couple of years. But as much as I love Lori and how well she does her job, I do not want my daughter settling for something like this. I want her to get out of here one day. I don't want mistakes to determine her life. I want her to determine it. “Let's go, girl,” I say.
Out in the drive, Phil Roddy is cleaning up Collie's mess. “Hey” I say. “You know of anybody who can come in for a couple of days?”
Roddy sits up on his knees to think about it, then says, “Call Johnny Cash. I don't think he's working this week.”
“He's probably off making a record in Nashville,” I say, smiling, thinking it's a pretty good joke.
“Naw,” Roddy says. “This one makes a much better fireman than a singer. Hell, he can barely read.” He laughs at me and then gets busy cleaning up Collie's blood.
When I call Johnny Cash, he's available, tells me to take my time, that he's got the days to give. All these boys, all the volunteer firemen, are good as their word. They train more than they fight fires, but they come when they're called, Phil Roddy and now Johnny Cash. I thank Johnny on the phone and then hang up whistling “Ring of Fire.” I feel a little bit easier about taking time off, but still, I want to get back as soon as I can. I'm still chief.
AT THE HOUSE, I throw together a small bag of clothes, toss it into the back of the truck along with Kelly's gear. She snuck out late Wednesday night after everyone was in bed and sat on the steps of her dorm waiting for Ellen to show. “When did you call her?” I ask. “That's a long way for her to come on such a short notice.”
“I called from Clay's on Sunday,” she says, confirming everything I already know. Still, my heart sinks.
“Did you call collect?” I ask.
“No, person to person.” And then she smiles because she knows it cost Clay money for the call.
I chuckle when she tells me this, but that's it. I won't give her any more. I don't want her thinking she's clear and free from what she's done.
Ellen told her momma she was going to a friend's to spend the night. Then she drove to the state line and found a gas station that sold maps. Someone there helped her figure out her route and then she showed up sometime after midnight. It took her a little time driving around the campus to find Kelly but she did and then they had traded off driving all night to get back home. Said they ate M&M's and drank Pepsi- Cola to stay awake. Kelly hung out at Ellen's house before she came down to the station. Called some boy who said the surf was good, so they left to hang out at the beach and wait for me to get back from the trailer fire.
All the time they were driving, I was drunk in the back end of a truck watching grown men throw firecrackers out into dry fields. I have no idea what Cassie was doing, but I can bet she wasn't paying attention either. Seems no one's making good choices right now.
I know that my little girl is growing up, that she does things that I'll never know anything about. She's never had a steady boyfriend and I like that. I don't worry about anything happening to her like it did to me and her momma, at least not yet. Kelly's going to get into things. It's just the nature of growing older, finding your own way. I just want her to be safe. I want her to have a good head on her shoulders. “Look,” I say, “what you did really stinks.”
“I know that,” Kelly says.
There's something about my attempt at moral high ground that feels pretty low. Still, I push on. “No, I'm serious. You could've been killed driving that far with Ellen.”
“I could have been killed surfing. I could have been killed riding the school bus. I could have been killed by a line drive in a softball game.” Kelly folds her arms and stares out the side of the truck like that should be enough to put a stop to my lecture.
We drive on for a bit, the air starting to smell like smoke. “Look, all I'm saying is I love you, and I hope I've taught you better, so next time—”
“Daddy, please,” Kelly whines. “It's not like you're Mister Perfect.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. The road across from the power-plant reservoir is packed with traffic going into Conway, so I have to be careful.
“I know what you and Teddy do out in the water.”
“What?” I ask.
“You know, smoke pot.”
I nearly run off the road when I hear this. It brings a smile to Kelly's face, her hands on the dashboard as I guide the truck back off the shoulder. Not too long ago, I told Teddy to be careful with bringing pot to the beach, that Kelly was surfing with us now and that she was old enough to understand. But Teddy doesn't have kids. He had no idea what I was talking about. “We don't do that much anymore,” I say, “and besides, we're adults, something you're not yet.”
“It's still against the law,” she says like she'll forever have this on me, a get- out- of- jail- free card.
“Yeah, it's against the law,” I agree. “I can't argue that. But that's not what we're talking about here. Teddy hasn't offered me smoke in I don't know how long.”
“Daddy, I don't care what you do, just don't be a hypocrite, okay?” She sits back and puts her feet up on the dashboard like she's over this conversation.
Kelly looks so much like her mother sitting here, the way her hair falls into her eyes. That summer I met Cassie, she would sneak out of the church camp and meet me at the pier. We rode around in Pops's truck, Cassie sitting like Kelly listening to the radio out of Myrtle Beach, nothing in our way except the roads we drove every night. I would take her to places up north, Ocean Drive and Windy Hill, Atlantic Beach, where juke joints played the best beach music along the strand.
“Your momma would kill me if she knew we were talking about this.”
“I'm not talking to her,” says Kelly.
“Well, me neither,” I say, smiling.
Kelly winks an eye, sealing our allegiance. I see Cassie even more in her face when she looks at me. It hurts deep, so all I do is turn my eyes back on the road and keep moving.
I follow 501 into Conway crossing the Waccamaw backwater and then the river, the bridge swooping us down onto Main. Kelly looks at me. “Are we going to see Pops?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He needs to know that I'll be gone for a while. It won't take long.”
“He won't even know you're there.”
She's right. There's a good chance he won't, but I still need to go. “I at least got to let the nurses know where I'll be,” I tell her.
I pull up in the parking lot off Fourth Avenue, the air acrid, tasting like smoke. “Damn,” I say, looking up into the sky.
We walk up to the door, go inside, Kelly holding my hand as we walk down the hall to Pops's room. We find him in his bed in near dark, small jaundiced slices of light cutting through the Venetian blinds. Margaret is there again, looks up when we push back the door, smiles wearily then gets up.
“I'm glad you came today,” Margaret says. She sees Kelly and her smile grows bigger. “And you brought the child. She has grown, Mr. Peck.”
“Hey, Margaret,” I say. The television is off, not a good sign. “Is he asleep?”
“He might be,” Margaret says. “He's been coming in and out lately. More out than in, I'm afraid.” She looks at both of us like we should understand what this means. “I been telling them to call you, Mr. Peck. I don't think he's doing too well. Ever since you were here the other day he's been sort of going down.”
I walk over to Pops's bed and look at him, lay my hand on his. “Pops, you awake?” I ask. His face is bloated, his skin pale and thin. The room is hot, the windows closed because of the smoke outside. There's a smell of urine floating up from his sheets. “I think we need to change the bed, Margaret,” I say.
She sighs heavily when she comes over to stand beside me. It's like she's checking a baby's crib. One hand goes under the covers to rub up beside Pops's body. “Yes, mercy,” she says. “That's the third time today. Don't know where it's coming from. He ain't drinking a thing.”
I'm not sure he knows who I am, even after I open his blinds to let clean light into the room. I ask Kelly to step outside for a moment and she's out like a rocket shot to the moon. Margaret brings in fresh sheets and I help her move Pops around, his body bloated more today. When I was here last time, it was only in his feet and ankles, now it's everywhere.
“I just can't get up to go to the bathroom,” he says, his words strong when he speaks.
The hospital gown he wears is soiled too, so I ask him if he wants Margaret to leave before he changes. “I ain't got no modesty left,” he says. “She knows that.” Margaret just smiles, leaves with the soiled bedding while I help Pops get the clean gown around and tied in the back.
All the commotion around him helps as his eyes brighten, his mind catching up. I tell him about Collie to keep him engaged. “Do you remember Collie Walker?” I ask.
Pops is fumbling with the gown, getting it to cover his privates while I try to hold him there on the side of the bed. “Collie Walker,” he says like he's throwing the name back into his memory to see if something comes up. “Where's he from?”
“Over here, I imagine,” I say. “He's got that ’63 Hatteras he runs out of Murrells Inlet.”
“Is that the Jarvis Walker family?” Pops asks.
“I don't know, Pops.”
“Well, I've been out fishing with Jarvis Walker,” he says. “Bet that's who it is.”
“Probably is then,” I say. “Well, Collie got his arm bit off by a gator out here in the Waccamaw today.”
“Today?” he says. I swing him around, feel his stomach protrude from the gown.
“Yes sir,” I say. “He and some of his buddies were out in the Waccamaw noodling.”
“Noodling?” Pops says like it's the first time he's ever heard of such a thing.
“Yeah Pops, stuck his arm up a hole in a cypress stump and there was a gator waiting instead of some big old catfish.”
Pops gets a big laugh out of that, his body shaking as I lay him down. “Guess he'll use a hook next time,” he says.
“If he wants to keep the other arm,” I say. “Any way about it, he's going to have a hard time putting bait on a hook.” I don't tell him what happened when they brought him to the station, all the blood and the severed arm, the near cost of life. I just let him hold on to the funny part of the story, get Kelly and ask her to come back in.
“Pops, you remember Kelly?” I put her in front of the old man, tell her to say hey.
“Hey, Grandpops,” says Kelly. She pushes against me, leaning back for support. It's hard for a young girl to be around age like this. They have no history, no understanding of who the person was before they came to this point in their life.
He smiles at her, but I don't think he gets it. “Yes, um hum,” he says and then turns to look out the window.
“I'm taking her up to the mountains today,” I tell him.
“You are?” he says, turning back to us. “That's a long ways away, ain't it?”
“Pretty good distance,” I say. I nudge Kelly, push her to move closer. “Tell him what you're going up there for.”
She's hard to move, but I get her to finally open up, her face a sweet smile. “I'm going to camp, Grandpops. I'll play softball up there.”
Pops holds out his hand for hers, then coughs so hard I'm afraid he's messed his bed again. I don't say anything about it. I just let Kelly stand there holding hands with her Grandpops for a moment. “You be careful and don't fall off one of them mountains now,” he says.
“Okay, Grandpops, I'll be careful,” Kelly says.
Then he lets her go, points with a crooked finger to his night-stand. On it sits a picture of Mom and his wristwatch. I look at the face of the watch, almost one o'clock. I know how late it is going to be when we get into the mountains, so I need to get us out of here soon. His finger points to change on the nightstand. “Give me that,” he says.
Kelly looks, tries to follow where he points. “What, Grand-pops?”
“That penny there,” he says.
I know what he's doing, so I reach over, pick up a penny and give it to Kelly. “Here,” I say, “stick this in your shoe.”
“You take one too, boy” Pops says, like I don't have a choice.
Kelly grins at me when I have to put a penny in my boot. Pops's thing, always has been.
He smiles then, says, “You go on. Let me know when you get back.”
“Will you be all right?” I ask, knowing the question's a stupid one.
“I'm fine, boy,” he says. “Now you go on. Come by when you can.”
Kelly's hand slips into mine. “Let's go,” she says, her voice a soft whisper.
I wanted Kelly to see him today on the way out, wanted her to have a moment with her grandpops. She's never seen him that much anyway. She was too young to bring over here when he first moved in, and by the time she was old enough, Pops was getting sick. At one time, early on, Cassie wanted him to come live with us out on the creeks. That seemed a bit too much, and then time just got away, everybody too busy with living life. I'm glad we came here today. There won't be many more times, I'm afraid.
Outside, we climb into the truck. Kelly smiles. “He called you boy,” she says, then goes digging for the penny she has in her shoe.
“Yeah, he's always called me that,” I say. “I don't think he ever knew my name.”
“Daddy,” Kelly says. She rolls down the window, asks if we can stop for ice cream on the way out of town.
At Barker's Servicenter I fill up with gas, think about Goose Hetzel and Collie Walker's arm, figure it's all about over by now. They either saved it or Collie will work his boat with one arm for the rest of his life. Either way, the man better be thankful he's got a life to live.
I pay for the gas, let a boy I don't know check under the hood, top off my water and oil. I look inside where my daughter is paying for her ice cream, the poise she has, the way she holds herself at fifteen. She counts out her change, uses Pops's penny to make it exact, smiles when she's coming out the door having caught me staring at her.
She needs to be in Cullowhee, to let people see her talent. I'm getting her back up there for that camp no matter how much work I might miss. I'll get her through college whether it's with a soft-ball in her hand or not. She's going. She'll be first generation, but by God, she's going.
“You used Pops's penny for the ice cream,” I say.
“Yeah,” Kelly says. “I was a penny short.”
“Then it worked,” I tell her.
“What?”
“The penny,” I say. “It brought you good luck.”
Kelly shrugs at Pops's superstition, her feet on top of the dashboard while she eats the ice cream cone. When we pull out of Barker's, she looks at me for a moment. I can feel her eyes. It's like Cassie's on me when she says, “I'm sorry that I did this. I know it wasn't right.”
“I know that,” I say. “You're not the first teenager to do something stupid, won't be the last.”
She sits up in her seat, the white cream melting faster than she can lick at the cone. “I love you, Daddy.”
The sun is moving too fast for us to have any chance of getting into the mountains before dark, but I'll push it as fast as I can. I watch Kelly for a moment, melting ice cream running down her fingers. “I love you too, baby” I say, “but you do this again, and you'll be dead meat on a bone. Do you understand?”
The girl doesn't look at me. She just licks her fingers, tosses the rest of the cone out the window before leaning back on the seat, her legs against the dash, eyes closed. And then just like her mother, she smiles.