The Sky Fisherman (27 page)

"No, but I got the other kind once," he replied, winking. "Jumped right off the toilet seat. They cracked
me
up."

He tried elbowing Doreen as she walked by with four big omelettes, but she sashayed past. "You never got 'em from me, honey. That must have been your wife."

Ned stuffed a handful of rich crabmeat into his mouth and tried talking. "Who wants to mess around with shells and a hammer? One of those funny bibs they wear back East? Here all you got to do is open the cans, set out crackers and ketchup."

We served breakfast until the light broke. By then we were out of crab and down to eggshells. Outside, red-faced men and women grew rowdier and started chanting the names of the fire's heroes. One by one they called them up, and the firefighters stood on the tailgates of pickups while the fans squirted them with beer, sort of like the players being interviewed after the World Series. Almost everybody got in on the act, including a bunch of fellas I never recognized from the fire at all. The biggest applause was saved for Buzzy, who wore his aviator helmet and pulled down the goggles to keep the beer out of his eyes.

He sprung from a pickup bed onto the cab roof and you could see it dent a little, but no one minded. While he flapped his wings and pretended to take off, the crowd made noises like buzzing bees.

They called for Jake and it became a chant. "Jake, Jake, Jake," but he and Billyum had slipped across the street and were nursing beers at the side of the Chinese restaurant.

I crossed the street, unnoticed by the crowd, and said, "They want you, Uncle Jake," as if he couldn't hear the noise.

He shook his head. "I've had about all of this fun I can take." He flexed his arms and shoulders. "Got to drink more beer. I feel like I've been beat up. More than once." Turning to Billyum, he asked, "Was it you?"

Billyum opened and closed his fists. His hands looked raw and sore. "Must be. I feel like I was in a hell of a fight." He cocked his head, listening to the continuing chant. "Better go take a bow, Jake. Kiss some more women."

"I'm going home," Jake said. "I'm not fixing to be around when sunlight smacks those poor bastards in the face and they figure out their jobs went up in smoke."

Jake dropped me off so I could get a little shut-eye, but he asked me to show up around ten. "I'm too pooped to pop. Going right to the store, try to catch some winks before the hotshots show up. At least two dozen guys will claim they put out that fire single-handed."

"Not me," I said. "I needed a little help."

"You didn't get any from him." Jake nodded his head in the direction of Franklin's Bel Air, which was parked directly in front of our house. "Say hi to your buddy," Jake said when I got out.

Franklin lay on the love seat, his legs covered with a beige terry-cloth robe that had been my father's. I had been quiet opening the door so he didn't waken. But it disturbed me to see him lying there just like he belonged, and I vowed to help my mother find someone a little better, if I could.

The early morning light filtered through the yellow curtains, defining Franklin's features. Parts of his face remained swollen and discolored, but where the skin was normal, it held a peculiar smoothness. Few pores were visible, even around the nose, and I wondered if he used Ivory soap the way my mother did.

The hands were smooth, too, unlike the working hands of the men who claimed the back-room territory. His left clutched the robe, and I could see the half-moons of his fingernails. They looked like they'd been manicured, and I realized why he held the fishing pole so awkwardly. These didn't look like hands to hold fishing gear at all. I checked the knuckles again in the clear light. If he'd swung on Riley, he hadn't landed much of a blow.

Franklin widened one eye. "You look terrible—like something the cat dragged in."

"Well, I've got lots of company," I said, not trying to hide my irritation. "Some of us stayed up all night fighting fire. Just about the whole town turned out." He seemed chickenshit for staying behind.

Franklin touched the back of his head with his hand, smoothing down some wild hair. "Doctor said I have a concussion, probably bruised a few organs. I'm supposed to take it easy a couple weeks."

"Seems like you've succeeded," I said.

He sat, swinging his legs to the floor. His ankles were thin and white. "Your mother was worried sick."

"Indeed I was," she said, opening the bedroom door. "Where on earth
have you been?" Coming over, she gave me a long hug. "I prayed you weren't dead."

When she stepped back, I saw she had been crying. But her attention suddenly turned to the carpet. "Culver, you've tracked soot and mud all over. Please remove those awful boots at once."

"Sure, Mom. Sorry." So much for the hero's greeting, I thought. Backtracking to the front doormat, I sat and started unlacing the boots.

"After I saw you at the fire, I believed you'd come straight home. When you weren't here ... Poor Franklin. He drove all over town looking for you."

"I was at the Elks, Mom. All the firefighters stopped there for a celebration."

Franklin shook his head. "Not much to celebrate. The mill's gone and the logs are burned up. The damage will total in the millions."

"At least the town's still here," I said. "That counts for something."

My mother turned to him. "If I were you, I wouldn't go poor-mouth-mg the hard work those men did last night. Remember, two lost their lives." She paused. "Didn't you go look for Culver at the Elks? I'm sure I said the Elks specifically."

"Yes I did." He spread his hands. "It was a mob. Lots of wild drunks. I asked everyone I knew."

I smiled a little. Probably he didn't hang around too long. Clean as he was, Franklin would have drawn ridicule, especially wearing his Italian costume. I believe my mother suspected the same but wouldn't admit it. Maybe she was starting to think he was a wuss, too.

"Well, the important thing is Culver's back safe and sound." She took my hand, giving it a squeeze. "You're getting too big to hold, but that doesn't mean I'm not your mother. And mothers worry. Now go take a shower and get some sleep." She examined some of the soot that had come off on her hands and nightgown. "Just throw those terrible clothes outside until I get a chance to soak them. I've never seen such a mess. Everything smells like smoke."

After placing my billfold and change on my dresser, I put the pants outside our back door. The billfold was damp from all the water and sweat, and I realized things still hadn't dried from my trip through the Combine, so I laid out the contents. The signatures on my fishing license and Social Security card were smeared. My Grass Valley student body card had turned to pulp, and a couple school photos of my teammates were ruined, too. I dumped them in the wastebasket.

I checked the kitchen clock. Almost eight. I was afraid I'd sleep
through and miss helping Jake. "I've got to relieve Jake at ten, Mom. Can you call me? Wake me up?"

At the mention of my uncle, Mom's eyes flashed. "Taking a young boy to that fire. The man needs to be horsewhipped."

***

We didn't sell much fishing tackle that day, but we sold out of emergency equipment—fire extinguishers, flashlights, thermos bottles, flares, Wolverine boots, all the short-handled shovels we stocked. People crowded the store all day long. So many crammed the back room, we made pot after pot of coffee, and Jake sent me to the store for more supplies. Homer carried over four trays of bakery goods; the fishing creel straps strained with the weight of all the coins.

Everyone was too excited to settle back into a routine. Rumors flew. A team of state fire investigators had arrived from the capital, and the insurance companies sent out their people, too. Lawyers from Central and the capital descended on the town.

"I haven't seen so many lawyers since that winter those California people hit the horses," Jake said. "God, it was freezing! We could have used some of the heat from the mill fire. Never saw it that damn cold."

"How cold was it?" I asked.

"So cold when the lawyers showed up, they kept their hands in their own pockets." Gab finished the punch line, so I knew I'd been set up. The back-room boys laughed, pointing at me. The hilarity covered their sadness about Seaweed.

My ears burned. "You guys can make your own damn coffee."

"See how you've got him swearing like a longshoreman," Jake said. "I want you damn bastards to clean up your language." At that point he added, "Fellas, I need for you to be quiet a minute."

After they quieted, he washed Seaweed's coffee cup and placed it upside down on the shelf above the sink. No one said anything for a minute, but Buzzy cleared his throat and Sniffy turned away. My eyes stung. "A good man," Jake said. "A
genuine
character."

Early reports said the fire had started in the stud mill. The whole operation had shut down two days for repairs and to allow the millworkers the opportunity to attend Central's Water Pageant. The theory was a spark from a welder's torch had smoldered in the sawdust, then ignited. Some claimed the automatic sprinkler system had come on until
the fire swept through the electrical plant, disabling the generators. Others said the whole system had failed. All agreed the investigators would have a lot of questions.

Jake was dog tired. I had slept until ten, but I don't believe he managed even forty winks. He was running on nerves, coffee, and Homer's pastry.

Several times during the day, Jake took the donations jar from the front counter and passed it to the back-room boys and customers. "Give till it hurts," he said. "You'll feel better." If their wallets were thin, Jake kept the jar under their noses until they made out a check.

"I doubt if Tyler had much insurance." Gab nodded solemnly as he worked on another doughnut.

"Think about that," Jake said. "How much insurance did you have at twenty-two?"

We kept a pretty good crew until just before suppertime. Then those who had been up all night began to fade. I felt the fatigue too and wandered out by the pictures of Kalim and his grandparents. It was a weird summer, I thought. All my life, I'd never seen anyone dead except in a funeral home. Now I'd hauled a corpse out of the Lost and seen two men plunge to death. Crazy. And that didn't even bring Riley into it.

Just before noon, a reporter and photographer from the
Central Dispatch
had shown up, wanting to talk with Jake. "We're getting pictures of all the heroes," they had said.

"You need to get my nephew in the photo, then," he said. "How many sixteen-year-old heroes do you have in Central?"

We went outside so they could take the picture in front of the store. "Free advertising," Jake said with a wink.

The back-room boys lined up to watch. "It must be a slow news day," they teased. "They're getting a picture of next year's grand marshal, Jake."

"Got to hurry. I'm close to deadline." The reporter scribbled notes as he asked questions. "Were you on the fuel tank too?"

"No," I said. "I was on the co-op roof."

He wrote something. "Did you see those two men who died?"

"Yes. I was fighting alongside Seaweed. He was a regular customer here."

"One of a kind," Jake added.

"Too bad about that," the reporter said. "One more thing. How do you spell your name?"

***

Juniper stopped by in the early evening. When Jake saw her car, he ducked his head into the back room and said, "Fellas, there's a lady coming, and she doesn't think much of cussing. I'd appreciate it if you'd hold it down."

The boys had so much respect for Jake, they did stop swearing. It seemed quiet as a church meeting.

Juniper noticed right off. "You put a muzzle on them, Jake?"

"It's always quiet when they discuss religion and art," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Give me a break." Touching his arm, she added, "Billyum was at the tribal center having coffee this morning. He looked terrible but claimed you were even worse, so I had to come see for myself."

Jake pulled down on both cheeks just under the eyes, so she could see the bloodshot whites. "What do you think? Death warmed over?"

"Stop it!" She laughed, turning away. "You look like one of those Halloween thingees with the eyeballs on springs."

"At least I didn't break any cameras. You missed the reporters. The
Central Dispatch
folks were here. I'll probably pull front page."

She shook her head. "Page eight. I bought some copies when I was in Central earlier. They sold two more of my paintings." She took several papers out of the bag and put them on the counter.

"Page eight," Jake said, opening the paper and winking. "We need a better agent."

Jake looked good and the store sign showed up well in the black and white photo. My eyes were half closed, a reaction to the flash. Underneath, the caption said, "Jake and Calvin Martin, Father and Son Fire Fighting Heroes."

The back-room boys teased us a lot about that.

"You're going to inherit this dump," Gab said. "Bad news. Poor Culver. Your lineage just got worse. You should never have posed with the old screwball. He just wanted to keep the camera from breaking."

Jake handed me one of the papers. "Show this to your mother. That should give her a conniption fit."

I grinned. It was kind of funny.

"Papers never get anything right," Juniper said. "They got the names of my paintings wrong at the gallery."

"I told you to let me keep them here," Jake said.

She pulled a wad of cash from her pocket. Noticing the donation jar, she slipped in a twenty.

"Page eight," Gab said. "That's where they put the lost dog notices.
Fall back one more page and you're in the obits along with poor Seaweed. I read them every day just to keep track of how I'm feeling."

After the back-room boys had settled down, Jake scanned the paper for more news of the fire. Gateway only had a weekly and it wasn't due out for two more days. "Blah, blah, blah," Jake said. "All about the heroic efforts and the damage assessments." His tone changed. "What they don't say is a lot of guys are going to lose their jobs. At first management will say they won't, but a year from now the millworkers won't need pants pockets."