Lee Martin - Late One Night

“It’s all right.” Ronnie stood back from the Firebird and wiped his hands on a red shop rag. He didn’t mind humoring Captain, and that’s what he thought he was doing, letting him hang around the way he did. Sure, he could be a pain sometimes, but nothing Ronnie couldn’t stand. “He’s not so much of a handful like you think.”

Ronnie could tell from the way Shooter narrowed his eyes and set his jaw that he’d touched a nerve.

“I love my son.” He took a step toward Ronnie and then stopped. “I want you to know that.”

Ronnie kept quiet, unable to bring himself to say, yes, I know it . He didn’t say a word, and after a time, Shooter said in a fierce voice, “Sometimes it’s not easy.”

“You know you’re the whole world to him,” Ronnie said.

Shooter snorted. “I can hardly believe that.”

“It’s true. He’s like any boy. He wants his father to be proud of him.”

Shooter looked down at his feet. When he raised his head, his brow was bunched like he was wincing in pain. “He tell you as much?”

Ronnie sensed a border he couldn’t see, one that separated him from Shooter and Captain, one that he wasn’t supposed to cross. “I don’t even know who my daddy is,” Ronnie said.

Shooter put his hands on the fender of the Firebird and leaned in close. Ronnie took a step back. He’d seen looks like the one Shooter was giving him now on the faces of his foster fathers just before they exploded with anger — lashed out with a belt, a switch, or, as he got older, a fist. They weren’t all like that, but there were enough of them who were to keep him on his toes.

“I guess you’re like so many of the others,” Shooter said. “The ones who think they know exactly what’s what when it comes to raising a boy like Captain. I do my best, Ronnie. I told Merlene I’d do everything I could for him. I’d make sure he stayed out of trouble. I wouldn’t ever leave him to someone else’s care. I promised that to Merlene when she was dying, and I don’t intend to go back on my word. I do the best I can, but that boy’s stubborn and headstrong.” Shooter laughed. “I guess in that way, he’s a lot like you.”

“You too,” Ronnie said.

“Then God help us.”

So there was that between the two of them, that tension of father and son and the bullheaded refusal to admit how close they really were. Then there was Captain, who was eager for someone to show him how to best be a man in the world. None of them knew that the fire was coming, and once it was done, they would be forever bound. Bound by their stupidity and their love. Bound by the story of what happened one night to a woman and three of her children. Bound by the story of the four who survived.

“God help us,” Shooter said to Ronnie that day in his lane. “God help us all.”

Emma clung to Missy’s hand and wouldn’t let go. The girls were in Missy’s house, and Emma kept asking where everyone else was — her mama and Gracie and Junior — and when Emily would be coming. The twins had been inseparable, and now Emma was lost without her.

“There was a fire,” Emma said.

Missy stroked her head, the fine blond hair gritty with ash.

“Yes, there was.” Missy was at a loss for what else to say. All her adult life, she’d longed for children. She’d secretly resented Della’s ability to have so many when Missy and Pat hadn’t been able to have a single one. Now here she was in charge of these four, and helpless. “It was a big fire,” she said to Emma.

Sarah was crying. Her white pajamas were smudged with soot. Pat had carried her in and set her down, and she hadn’t moved a speck. At first, she’d been quiet, a blank look on her face. Then the tears came. She didn’t make a sound, but her cheeks, blanched white from the cold, were soon wet.

“They’re not coming back,” she said. “They’re in Heaven, aren’t they?”

Angel had her arms crossed over her chest, an angry set to her jaw. “They’re dead.” Her voice was too loud. “That’s what they are. Dead.”

Sarah cried harder and ran to Missy. Emma was crying, too, and Missy got down on her knees and let both girls lean into her. She wrapped them up in her arms, and she did the only thing she could for the time being. She let them cry.

Hannah wanted to go back outside and look for their goats. “I saw Methuselah run away.” She was at the bay window, her hands pressed against the glass. “He ran into the woods.”

“Why do you care about those goats?” Angel said. “You wouldn’t even feed them tonight.”

Hannah whirled around from the window. Her long hair, tangled with crusts of ice, whipped at her face. “You were supposed to take out that box of ashes, but did you? No.”

“Girls.” Missy interrupted. “Let’s get you all into some fresh things.”

Angel took a step toward Hannah, her hands balled into fists. Then she stopped. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, and for now that was that.

Then it was a flurry of hot showers and the untangling and combing of hair. Missy found two pairs of her old pajamas for Angel and Hannah, and a couple of Pat’s T-shirts that were long enough to be sleep dresses for Sarah and Emma. The things they’d been wearing reeked of smoke. Missy threw everything into the washer.

The girls huddled together in the living room. Angel and Hannah were on the couch, and Sarah and Emma were between them. Missy wondered how their lives would ever be whole again.

Then the front door opened, and Pat and Ronnie came inside. The smoke from the fire was still on Pat’s Carhartts, and though Missy knew he couldn’t help it, she wished he hadn’t brought that smell back into their house.

Missy gave Ronnie a nod, and he came the rest of the way to the couch. He took his hands out of his pockets and he got down on his knees, wedged himself in as best he could between the couch and the coffee table in front of it. His hip knocked against the table, and Missy went over and scooted it out some so he could settle in there.

He cleared his throat once — tried to find his voice — but no words came and the silence went on, such an agonizing quiet, filled with everything that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Finally, Sarah hopped down from the couch. Missy had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and she’d given her a navy blue T-shirt of Pat’s that said CARPENTERS LOCAL 624 in white letters. The dark navy made Sarah’s pale skin so white in the lamplight. She threw her arms around Ronnie’s neck, and for a time that was all there was, just this little girl hanging onto her father in the middle of a cold winter night.

Then Angel said, “You think we’re all going to forgive you easy as that? You got another think coming. I can tell you that for sure.”

She stomped over to the window, arms folded over her chest. The old flannel pajamas of Missy’s that she wore were lilac-colored and they had little penguins on them, pink scarves around their necks, their pink scarves furling out as if lifted by a wind, and they had the words “be cool” on them in lowercase letters because even the words were too cool to be capitalized. Missy couldn’t bear the sight of Angel, her back to everyone, her foot stubbing at the baseboard under the window. While Sarah kept hugging Ronnie’s neck and Emma said, “Daddy’s here,” and Hannah drew her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes, Missy walked over to Angel, and she reached out and put her hand on her back and rubbed slow circles to let her know there could still be tenderness in the world, even after the fire and all it had taken from her.

Then someone knocked on the front door, and Missy shaded her eyes and peered out the window. Wayne Best’s truck sat in the driveway behind Ronnie’s Firebird and Pat’s truck.