Fireworks Over Toccoa (6 page)

I know I’d seen them even earlier, but the first one I vividly remember was when I was three,” said Jake.

“You remember that far back?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

Lily grimaced a bit. She sat on the edge of the truck ramp. Legs dangling. Dress pulled up mid-thigh. Jake stood and wiped dirt and tiny rocks from her knee using gauze moistened with a strong distillate of witch hazel. She was also barefoot because, unlike his rubberized tank boots, her jute-soled espadrilles could create static electricity, not something you wanted on a fireworks truck.

“It was a twenty-four-inch multibreak ‘weeping willow,’” Jake continued as he gently tended to her knee. “Like the one you saw in the field, only bigger.”

“Bigger?”

“See those shells over there?” Jake pointed to several large fireworks shells secured on a grounded metal shelf in the back of the truck. “Those are thirty-sixers, three feet in diameter. One of my family’s specialties. My father really mastered them. Each one takes several hours to make, and each one makes the night brighter than noon in July.”

Lily took in the sight of all the shells secured in the back of the truck. About ten feet away from the truck, on a large folding wooden table, were several gallon-sized heavy cardboard containers filled with fine powders, each a different color; another container of long black-powdered cord, presumably fuses; and a stack of heavy brown paper. A few fireworks shells sat on the table in various stages of construction and repair. Lily was enthralled. It was like peering into a sorcerer’s workshop.

“All that time and work for something that lasts a few seconds,” she said.

“A moment in the sky, forever in the heart.” Jake smiled, surprising himself again.

Lily nodded, understanding entirely. “That’s nice.”

“That’s my father. Well, the English version. What he always said was more like ‘
in cielo per un attimo, in testa per una vita, e nel cuore per sempre
.’”

Lily didn’t realize how lyrical, how romantic, really, Italian sounded. It was, after all, the language of the enemy, and so one didn’t hear it very often. Certainly not the way Jake Russo made it sound.

She continued listening to him talk, passionately about fireworks, vaguely about himself. She was intrigued by both what he was saying and how he was saying it. He used words comfortably but sparingly; he was at ease but measured. Such a fascinating bundle of contradictions, this man. He looked tough but spoke thoughtfully. He was a laborer, and an artist. His hands were rough; his touch, gentle, tender. He was complicated, Jake Russo, so different from the boys and men in Toccoa whose nature and needs were so readily apparent.

Lily looked up and saw an old pickup driving down Owl Swamp Road. It slowed when the driver saw her Packard parked by the side of the road and then sped up and continued.
Was that the Browns’ pickup?
Lily wondered. She wasn’t sure. Had they recognized her car? If it was the Browns, probably not. They’d recognize Paul’s Cadillac but not the Packard. But why did she care? She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Of course, her neighbors might not see it that way. Yes, Lily Davis in a dirty dress, alone with a boy in a field; some would certainly say that flew in the face of the old Toccoa code of living.

“Lived in Georgia all your life?” Jake said, blowing on her knee to help the excess alcohol evaporate.

The sensation of his breath lingering on her skin distracted her from her previous thoughts. “That obvious?” she said.

“It’s your accent, mostly.” Jake had served with men from all over the United States. Long days spent in muddy foxholes with men from South Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia had made him quite expert in the subtleties of various regional accents.

“Yes, all my life.”

“Your husband from the area, too?”

“Paul is from Gainesville, just north of Atlanta.” She had seen him notice her ring and knew he was asking about more than where Paul was from. “He’s been stationed overseas. He’s returning in a few days.”

Jake expertly secured a small square of gauze to the scrape with some white surgical tape. “There. All set.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“That obvious?”

Lily smiled. “Thank you.” She pushed her dress down, stood, and hopped off the truck ramp. She slid into her sandals. “I wish I could do something to return the favor.”

“No need. Honestly, it’s been nice just to talk for a little while. I’ve really enjoyed it.”

“I’ll bring you a pie. A pecan pie. That’s what we do in Toccoa. Baking. Lots of baking, usually with nuts. Where are you staying?”

“The Auxiliary has a room for me. But I’ll most likely stay out here. I’ve got all my gear, everything I need, and I prefer it.”

Jake realized that Lily was shaking her head. “You okay?” he said.

“I’m just remembering, I’ve got a trunk full of ice cream and butter.”

“In this heat?”

Lily realized her groceries were probably ruined. “I’m not usually like this. Really. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

Jake laughed. Increasingly certain that he was seeing a part of this young woman that very few ever saw. A part she kept carefully hidden, maybe even from herself. And he liked it. He liked it a lot.

Jake had learned during his time at war that there are moments in one’s life, critical moments, small moments, passing flutters of a second, in which decisions are made and actions taken, perhaps the slightest of offers extended, that at the time on the surface seem simple and transparent but upon consideration or reflection are proven to be instants that can change the course of everything.

As she stood there in her sandals in that field, smiling comfortably at him, an evening breeze kicking up, tossing her hair, rippling her dress, the feel of the skin of her leg rooted in his mind like a lovely haunting melody, growing louder and more resolute each time he tried to forget it, on a level that he was not wholly aware of at the time, this was one of those moments. It could have ended there, Jake knew. There was nothing else between them, and the last thing he needed was a complication. He was decidedly avoiding such things in his life. That was one of the main reasons he was here, after all.
Say good-bye, wish her well, do the show, and move on to the next town
, he told his conscious self.

But after several years of living by his gut, literally surviving on what it directed him to do, he once again found himself acting on that core instinct. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked. “I don’t have much. But there’s some risotto, and I’m not entirely bad with my little camp stove. And I suppose we could have ice-cream soup for dessert.”

Lily was a little taken aback by the offer. But she continued standing there. “You save my life, you bandage my knee, I can’t have you feed me, too. The Ladies Auxiliary will throw me out of Toccoa for being such a poor southern hostess.”

“So we won’t tell them.”

How long had it been since she’d been invited to dinner, to anything, by someone besides her parents or someone who was connected to her parents? Dinner. More time with this man. Yes. That was exactly what she wanted. Was it okay? Was it proper? Was it right? She didn’t know. But she was in the middle of a grassy field and the sun was going down and Jake Russo had been nothing but nice and kind and interesting, and all she knew for sure was that she wanted more. And that, that certainty, felt right.

“I can stay.”

Sunset on the outskirts of Toccoa on the last night of June 1945 was a glorious affair. The air was warm and still. Fireflies came to life, first one by one, then by the dozens. A bullfrog bellowed lazily from the nearby stream. Jake retrieved several large candles, which he used behind the scenes at his shows, and lit them. He placed one on a small table, used to lay out his notes and directions during shows and now set with tin plates for dinner. He placed several more candles on the ground nearby and a couple more near the camp stove, where risotto and canned chicken broth simmered slowly in a cast-iron pan.

“Well, you sure picked a beautiful place to live your entire life,” said Jake.

“Yes. I think most of the time I take it for granted. A night like this really makes you appreciate it.”

Lily felt as though all her senses were heightened. The heady smell of the browning Italian rice in the field, the chorus of crickets singing their night song, and this man, lithely moving in and out of the shadows like a magician; there was something about the composite of the experiences that made her feel more like she was watching her life instead of living it.

As suspected, the ice cream and butter had melted. After throwing away the bag that contained them, Lily consolidated the remaining groceries and transferred them to the other bag, which she had brought with her from the car. Using a very sharp utility knife, she cut the squash into slices. Jake moved up next to her, poured more broth from an open can into the risotto, and slowly stirred.

“So your family has been making fireworks for a long time.”

“Yes, they have.”

“I know. You told me. I was making a statement, a leading statement.” Jake just looked at her. “As in leading you to telling me a little more about yourself. It’s a polite way of asking.”

“A statement instead of a question.” Jake chewed on this notion.

“We’re very big on that sort of thing in Georgia.”

“Being polite?”

“And nosy.”

Jake smiled and nodded. “Sorry. I’m not accustomed to too much politeness. Or talking much about myself.”

“It’s okay.”

They stood next to each other, continuing to prepare the meal. “It really is a beautiful night,” Lily said, retreating to the well-trodden path of surface-level conversation.

Jake sighed a little, trying to remember what was once so natural. “My family made pyrotechnics for hundreds of years. In Teano, a small village near Naples. My father and his brother brought the trade with them when they settled in New Castle, in Pennsylvania. And now that the war is over, we’re at it again.”

“And
you’re
at it again.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a statement.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

Jake looked at her grinning at him playfully. He did like talking to her. Very much. “I’ve always loved fireworks. While some kids were learning how to throw a curveball I was learning how to mix saltpeter and sulfur. I always assumed I’d work in the family business. And now that the war is over, I have that opportunity. In the next few weeks I’ll be going to Nantucket, Chicago, and Boulder. In the fall, San Francisco and Taos. We’re even getting calls from Brazil and Canada. A lot of them in fact. People are calling from all over the world now that the war is ending.”

“Isn’t this a lot of work for one man?”

“I can handle it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“At the bigger venues, I’ll pick up local help if I need it. My family can send the shells to locations if necessary. But I’m pretty self-sufficient. Three years in the Army will do that to you.”

Lily took in this new piece of information. “When did you get back?”

“Five weeks ago.”

“You’re a man who doesn’t like to sit still.”

Jake tasted the risotto, added a little salt and then a bit more broth. “So you’re born and raised in Toccoa.”

“Yes,” said Lily, recognizing that he was changing the subject. “But you already know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is that a leading statement, sir?”

“Why, I believe it is, ma’am.”

Lily shot him a smile and took in the earthy smell of the risotto. “Would you like some wine?”

She pulled the bottle Mrs. Keener had given her out of the bag.

“Well, you’re a handy girl to find in a field.”

Candlelight coalesced with moonlight, and in the strange and wonderful glow Lily and Jake sat at the small table in the middle of the field and dined. The magic of the night put into relief for both how long it had been since either had shared the intimacy of a meal like this. And in both this gave rise to all sorts of strong and unanticipated emotions.

Lily took a bite of the risotto with squash, closing her eyes and reveling in how good it tasted. She was amazed at how pleasurable something so simple could be. “Uhm…This is so…oh…what’s the word?…otherworldly.”

“Otherworldly?”

“Yes, as in from a world not of Toccoa.”

Unable to contain his smile, Jake was pleased by how much she was openly enjoying the meal. “People have developed so many rules about cooking risotto. I’ve seen fistfights break out in kitchens. What kind of rice, how much broth, what kind of spoon to use, which direction to stir. It’s so silly. At the end of the day it’s a peasant dish made and eaten for centuries in settings pretty much like this. As long as you have
vialone nano
, a good rice, and
buono compagnia
, good company, and you trust your instincts, it always turns out perfect. Although what my mother does with it is maybe a step beyond.”

She took another bite. As much as she enjoyed eating it, Jake enjoyed watching her.

“Uh, I can’t believe I’ve never had this before,” Lily mused.