(2007) Chasing Fireflies - A Novel of Discovery (37 page)

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 Piur'n. 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.

og 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?

Pockets stopped, left the car running, and walked over to Unc, who saw him coming and just shook his head. Pockets handed Unc an envelope and said, "William ... I've done all I can. You've got thirty days."

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 sunglasses or had them propped atop their heads, holding back their hair.

The group, all twenty of them, walked quietly across the grass. Some of the girls took their heels off and walked barefoot. If this was the partying crowd Tommye had talked about, they didn't look it.

At 1:05 Unc checked his watch. He looked at me and nodded to the back row. I knew what he meant, so I walked down the center aisle and spoke to the group as a whole.

"Hi ... I'm Chase. Tommye's cousin." I paused, looking at each one. "I don't know if she'd be mad at you or want you to sit up front where she could be near you ... so because I can't figure it out, and because she's not here to straighten me out, why don't you all come sit up front with us."

They nodded and followed me single file up to the front. Once they were situated, Unc stood up next to Tommye's coffin. He had some note cards in his hands, which he kept shuffling like a card dealer. He tried to start, shook it off, then stood studying his cards and chewing on his lip for a minute. Finally, he dropped the cards on the grass, took off his hat, walked in front of the coffin, and began to speak.

"I'm William McFarland, Tommye's uncle. She come to live with us ... back some time ago."

Three peacocks flew up into the branches of a pecan tree behind the house and began squawking.

"At one time I was mad at God 'cause my son got took, and I had a hard time forgiving him. Then Tommye come to live with us, and I seen it as God's way of easing my pain. 'Cause she did that." He held his hand out to the side, level with his waist. "When she was just a kid, I used to call her my Band-Aid-'cause she stuck to me and healed all my hurts."

The crowd on the front row seemed to take a collective deep breath, and a few smiled or laughed.

"And I've told God that on more than one occasion. Told him I was grateful and that I was sorry for being mad. 'Cause if any man has ever known anger ... known pain ... I reckon it's me." He looked off across the pasture, sniffled, and then set his hat on top of Tommye's coffin while he blew his nose into a white handkerchief.

"Tommye left us ... went out west ... when she was twenty. Trying to outrun her demons. I tried . . ." He looked at Lorna and me. "I guess we all tried to help her battle them, but ..." He faded off, then looked at his hands. "I'm a farrier by occupation. Us farriers, we read horses by looking at their shoes. How they wear tells us a lot about how they walk. You can read people the same way. Their shoes don't lie. The other night my wife and I were packing up a few of Tommye's things, and I started looking at her shoes. They were running shoes. The heels were worn at an angle ... far too worn for someone as light as Tommye. It looked like she'd been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders."

He turned and faced the coffin, tried to speak to her, but couldn't. He turned back around and looked out across the pasture. "I can't quite figure this life out. Mine's had its ups and its downs. Some would say more downs than ups, but.. . " He shook his head. "I quit screaming at God a long time ago, 'cause I reckon he knows a thing or two about hurt. When things get bad ... when I think I've hit bottom ... that's where I go." He nodded toward the Sanctuary. "And he knows-I've been there many a time. That's what gets me from there to here ... and to there."

While he spoke, I heard myself humming So leave me if you need to, I will still remember.... Tears trickled off my face. Willie Nelson had it right. I wiped them away, but it didn't do any good. Mandy put her arm around me and leaned in closer, pushing more of the hurt out of the corners of my eyes.

Unc talked with each of us. Not at us, and certainly not to us, but with us. The California crowd felt the difference. If I'd have been in their shoes, I'd have been tempted not to come-too much condemnation-but they had shown up, and that said a lot. They seemed to feel at ease with him. Some leaned forward, others half-smiled, but all were listening, and nobody's leg was bouncing around. Not even Sketch's.

Unc continued, 'When I was in prison, I had this dream that my life was a rolling canvas. Every day it rolled off the sheet, bleached white, onto the beach of my life. Come sunup, I'd begin to paint it with my thoughts and actions. My breathing, my living, and my dying. Some days the pictures pleased me, maybe even pleased others, pleased God himself, but some days, some months, even some years, they didn't, and I didn't ever want to look at them again. But the thing is this ... every day, no matter what I'd painted the day before, I got a new canvas, washed white. 'Cause each night the tide rolled in, scrubbed it clean, and receded, taking the stains with it. And in my dreams ... I just stood on the beach and watched all that stuff wash out to sea."

Several of the girls were dabbing their eyes, and one of the guys put his sunglasses back on.

"Nothing more than ripples on the water." He waved his hand out across the pasture. "No canvas is ever stained clean through." He looked at Tommye. "Not one."

One of the black-haired girls in the second row let out an audible whimper, which embarrassed her so she tried to cover. Unc stopped, uncertain what to do. He handed her his handkerchief, which she took, but that only forced more tears out. Sketch stood up, walked down the second row, and handed the woman his tabby cat. She laid it in her lap and tried to smile. The blonde-haired lady next to her scooted over, making room for Sketch, so he sat on the edge of her folding chair in between the two. A few seconds later, she picked him up and just sat him on her lap.