Ron Rash - Burning Bright

As he got out of the backseat, Jared saw the woman’s ring. Even in the cabin’s muted light it shone. He took the ring off the woman’s finger and placed it in his jean pocket. He closed the passenger door and followed his boot prints back the way he came. Jared tried to step into his earlier tracks, pretending that he needed to confuse a wolf following him.

It took longer than he’d thought, the sun almost down when he crossed the park boundary. As he came down the last ridge, Jared saw that the pickup was parked in the yard, the lights on in the front room. He remembered it was Saturday and his father had gotten his paycheck. When Jared opened the door, the small red glass pipe was on the coffee table, an empty baggie beside it. His father kneeled before the fireplace, meticulously arranging and rearranging kindling around an oak log. A dozen crushed beer cans lay amid the kindling, balanced on the log itself three red-and-white fishing bobbers. His mother sat on the couch, her eyes glazed as she told Jared’s father how to arrange the cans. In her lap lay a roll of tinfoil she was cutting into foot-long strips.

“Look what we’re making,” she said, smiling at Jared. “It’s going to be our Christmas tree.”

When he didn’t speak, his mother’s smile quivered.

“Don’t you like it, honey?”

His mother got up, strips of tinfoil in her left hand. She kneeled beside the hearth and carefully draped them on the oak log and kindling.

Jared walked into the kitchen and took the milk from the refrigerator. He washed a bowl and spoon left in the sink and poured some cereal. After he ate Jared went into his bedroom and closed the door. He sat on his bed and took the ring from his pocket and set it in his palm. He placed the ring under the lamp’s bulb and swayed his hand slowly back and forth so the stone’s different colors flashed and merged. He’d give it to Lyndee when they were on the playground, on the first sunny day after Christmas vacation so she could see how pretty the ring’s colors were. Once he gave it to her, Lyndee would finally like him, and it would be for real.

Jared didn’t hear his father until the door swung open.

“Your mother wants you to help light the tree.”

The ring fell onto the wooden floor. Jared picked it up and closed his hand.

“What’s that?” his father asked.

“Nothing,” Jared said. “Just something I found in the woods.”

“Let me see.”

Jared opened his hand. His father stepped closer and took the ring. He pressed the ring with his thumb and finger.

“That’s surely a fake diamond, but the ring looks to be real gold.”

His father tapped it against the bedpost as if the sound could confirm its authenticity. His father called his mother and she came into the room.

“Look what Jared found,” he said, and handed her the ring. “It’s gold.”

His mother set the ring in her palm, held it out before her so they all three could see it.

“Where’d you find it, honey?”

“In the woods,” Jared said.

“I didn’t know you could find rings in the woods,” his mother said dreamily. “But isn’t it wonderful that you can.”

“That diamond can’t be real, can it?” his father asked.

His mother stepped close to the lamp. She cupped her hand and slowly rocked it back and forth, watching the different colors flash inside the stone.

“It might be,” his mother said.

“Can I have it back?” Jared asked.

“Not until we find out if it’s real, son,” his father said.

His father took the ring from his mother’s palm and placed it in his pants pocket. Then he went into the other bedroom and got his coat.

“I’m going down to Bryson City and find out if it’s real or not.”

“But you’re not going to sell it,” Jared said.

“I’m just going to have a jeweler look at it,” his father said, already putting on his coat. “We need to know what it’s worth, don’t we? We might have to insure it. You and your momma go ahead and light our Christmas tree. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

“It’s not a Christmas tree,” Jared said.

“Sure it is, son,” his father replied. “It’s just one that’s chopped up, is all.”

He wanted to stay awake until his father returned, so he helped his mother spread the last strips of tinfoil on the wood. His mother struck a match and told him it was time to light the tree. The kindling caught and the foil and cans withered and blackened, the fishing bobbers melting. His mother kept adding kindling to the fire, telling Jared if he watched closely he’d see angel wings folding and unfolding inside the flames. Angels come down the chimney sometimes, just like Santa Claus, she told him. Midnight came and his father still wasn’t back. Jared went to his room. I’ll lay down just for a few minutes, he told himself, but when he opened his eyes it was light outside.

He smelled the methamphetamine as soon as he opened his bedroom door, thicker than he could ever remember. His parents had not gone to bed. He could tell that as soon as he came into the front room. The fire was still going, kindling piled around the hearth. His mother sat where she’d been last night, wearing the same clothes. She was tearing pages out of a magazine one at a time, using scissors to make ragged stars she stuck on the walls with Scotch tape. His father sat beside her, watching intently.

The glass pipe lay on the coffee table, beside it four baggies, two with powder still in them. There’d never been more than one before.

His father grinned at him.

“I got you some of that cereal you like,” he said, and pointed to a box with a green leprechaun on its front.

“Where’s the ring?” Jared asked.

“The sheriff took it,” his father said. “When I showed it to the jeweler, he said the sheriff had been in there just yesterday. A woman had reported it missing. I knew you’d be disappointed, that’s why I bought you that cereal. Got something else for you too.”

His father nodded toward the front door where a mountain bike was propped against the wall. Jared walked over to it. He could tell it wasn’t new, some of the blue paint chipped away, one of the rubber handle grips missing, but the tires didn’t sag and the handlebars were straight.

“It didn’t seem right for you to have to wait till Christmas to have it,” his father said. “Too bad there’s snow on the ground, but it’ll soon enough melt and you’ll be able to ride it.”

Jared’s mother looked up.

“Wasn’t that nice of your daddy,” she said, her eyes bright and gleaming. “Go ahead and eat your cereal, son. A growing boy needs his breakfast.”

“What about you and Daddy?” Jared asked.

“We’ll eat later.”

Jared ate as his parents sat in the front room, passing the pipe back and forth. He looked out the window and saw the sky held nothing but blue, not even a few white clouds. He thought about going back to the plane, but as soon as he laid his bowl in the sink his father announced that the three of them were going to go find a real Christmas tree.

“The best Christmas tree ever,” his mother told Jared.

They put on their coats and walked up the ridge, his father carrying a rusty saw. Near the ridgetop, they found Fraser firs and white pines.

“Which one do you like best, son?” his father asked.

Jared looked over the trees, then picked a Fraser fir no taller than himself.

“You don’t want a bigger one?” his father asked.

When Jared shook his head no, his father kneeled before the tree. The saw’s teeth were dull but his father finally broke the bark and worked the saw through. They dragged the tree down the ridge and propped it in the corner by the fireplace. His parents smoked the pipe again and then his father went out to the shed and got a hammer and nails and two boards. While his father built the makeshift tree stand, Jared’s mother cut more stars from the newspaper.