Lee Martin - Late One Night

“I mean it, Ronnie,” Shooter said. “You’re not thinking about how many lives you’re affecting.”

For the first time, Ronnie didn’t take kindly to Shooter’s assessment — his criticism — nor did he admit that there was any truth to it.

“Shooter,” he said. “What do you know about what it is to love someone anyway?”

For a good while, Shooter didn’t say a word. He knew what Ronnie didn’t have the nerve to say. That Merlene had talked to him in a way that another man’s wife shouldn’t, that she and Ronnie had come to some closeness of their hearts.

Shooter said, “You and Merlene—”

Then he stopped, unable to say more, unwilling to admit that he’d found the photograph of Ronnie that she’d saved and the card she’d hidden away. He was afraid of what Ronnie might say about the two of them.

“She was a good woman,” Ronnie finally said. “She deserved better than you.”

Shooter was determined not to show how deeply he was cut. He’d had all those years with Merlene, a woman who — yes, Ronnie was right — didn’t deserve the way he disappointed her too many times. For a while, he’d even blamed her for the way Captain was, told her she hadn’t done something right when she was pregnant, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her or that he didn’t miss her now every minute of every day. It didn’t mean he wasn’t trying his best with Captain. It didn’t mean he had to tolerate the way Ronnie was treating Della, even though there’d been a time in his life when he might have treated Merlene the same way.

“You’re going to have a hard row,” he finally said to Ronnie.

“Maybe so,” said Ronnie. “But it’ll be my row and not yours. You stick to your problems and I’ll stick to mine.”

“I suppose you think I’ll take care of Della and your kids?”

Ronnie shook his head. “I can’t think of them right now.”

“You can stop.” Shooter grabbed his arm. “You can go back in that trailer and you and Della can work things out.”

Shooter wanted it to be so because he wanted to believe in the power of love. He wanted to believe that there were men who would always stay true, who would swallow whatever discontent they felt, all for the sake of the woman who had given birth to their children and for those children themselves. He wanted Ronnie and Della and their kids to be all right, to be a family, so he could believe there was still a chance for him and Captain.

“It’s too late for that,” Ronnie said, but still he gave a glance back at the trailer, and Shooter felt for just an instant, one little sliver of time, that maybe, just maybe, Ronnie would grab this chance and everything would work out for the best.

It was that instant that Shooter would try to live within as much as possible in the days to come. He’d still be trying to cozy up to it the night of the fire, and beyond that to the night when he’d stand over his burn barrel, trembling, asking God to forgive him for what he’d done, to understand that sometimes things happened you couldn’t dream of and once they were over, all that was left was to go on through your days, pretending you were innocent. He’d long for that brief moment when everything that was about to happen wouldn’t, when people’s lives would still be happy and full of hope, when every mistake would be redeemed.

“Take your hand off me,” Ronnie finally said, but Shooter wrenched his arm up behind Ronnie’s back.

“You’re a stupid man,” Shooter said. “A selfish, stupid man.” Ronnie tried to twist free, but Shooter held on, pushing him into the Firebird, folding him over the hood. He leaned down and put his mouth up close to Ronnie’s ear. “I could yank this arm out of the socket. Quick as you please. Surely you know that.”

Ronnie whispered through clenched teeth, “Do it and I’ll make it so they lock you away.”

That’s when Shooter let him go. Ronnie stood up, rubbing his shoulder. He didn’t say another word, just got into his Firebird and headed up the blacktop to Goldengate, where Brandi was waiting for him.

Shooter turned toward his own house, his hands clenched into fists. Later, he’d wish he’d been paying more attention to what mattered and what didn’t. What was that photograph, that card, in relation to the fact that Merlene was dead? That night, though, he felt his anger flame again as he recalled when Ronnie and Della first moved into the trailer and Merlene stood at the window, watching them unload furniture from Wayne Best’s pickup truck.

“Look at them,” she said. “Just kids.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Just starting out.” She let the curtain panels fall back into place and smoothed them with the back of her hand. “They’ve got their whole lives,” she said. He’d never forgotten the sad look on her face when she finally turned to look at him. He’d never forgotten what she said next. “Remember what that was like?”

Ronnie and Captain hit it off from the get-go. One summer night, when Merlene asked Ronnie and Della over for ice cream and cake, he let the toddler hold on to his finger, and they walked around the yard in the twilight. Ronnie pointed to the fireflies flashing on and off, and he got a good, warm feeling in his chest when Captain pointed too and babbled and giggled with delight.

“That’s right, Wesley,” Ronnie said. He caught a firefly in his hand. He crouched down and held his fist open a crack, just enough for Captain to see the glow pulsing. His little mouth opened wide with wonder. “The world’s a mysterious place,” Ronnie said, and then he opened his hand and let the firefly go.

Captain kept touching Ronnie’s hand, kept patting his palm with his little fingers. It seemed so long ago now, those days before Merlene gave Wesley the nickname Captain, those days before anyone knew about what would come to be called his “intellectual disability.” On that long-ago night, he was a little boy amazed, and Ronnie, as the years went on, was glad that he’d been there as witness. He was still a boy himself, but married to Della and about to become a father.

“Oh, you’ll do fine,” Merlene told Della as they sat at the picnic table with Shooter and watched Ronnie. He and the boy who would become Captain were shadows in the dusk. A whippoorwill was calling somewhere back in the woods. The night air was pleasant, just cool enough on the skin, and it carried with it the sweet smell of cut hay curing in the pasture. Merlene and Della and Shooter could hear Ronnie’s soothing, patient voice.

“You’ll both do fine,” Merlene said to Della. “Just look at how good Ronnie is with Wesley.”

Shooter dropped his spoon into his empty ice cream bowl. “I’m sure Merlene is right,” he said, “and if anything goes wrong, we’re just right across the road.”

From that night on, Captain adored Ronnie. Even as Captain got older and became more difficult, Ronnie was always the one he’d listen to, much to Shooter’s dismay. Where he was sharp with Captain, Ronnie was patient; where he was stingy with his praise, Ronnie was generous.

“He thinks the sun rises and sets with you,” Shooter said one day before Ronnie left for good, said it in a way that made it plain to Ronnie that he resented the fact. Shooter laughed, a nervous chuckle. “I swear he spends more time at your place than he does at home. Just like he’s another one of your kids. I should pay you a little something for support.”

They were alone in Ronnie’s lane, Shooter already having sent Captain back across the road, despite his protests. Ronnie was adjusting the carburetor on his Firebird and Captain wanted to be there to watch, to fetch him a wrench if the need arose.