Eli lay supine, eyes studying the arching branches high above. He wore overalls and a white T-shirt stained with a young boy’s persistence. His feet were bare like Carrie’s, his heels blackened and rough. His light-colored hair was buzzed to stubble because of high heat and a recent bout with lice, his soft face reddened by a receding summer.
The makeshift creek whispered along beside them, a narrow ribbon brought to life by the wet season. The stream connected Jackson Pond to a state park miles away. When it rose high enough it carried trout. Eli’s daddy had diverted the creek so it split the property between their two crops, running it through a dense thicket of basswoods, shrubby oaks and sugar maples. It also created a park for the children. A living playground of trees to climb, dirt to furrow for planting flower and corn seeds, a cold stream to mine for smooth rocks and minnows.
Rainfall pattered against the leaves that surrounded them, tapped against the covering above. Thunder rumbled a second time, rolling across the broiling gray sky from east to west. Carrie didn’t hear the crack of distant lightning, so decided they’d stay a bit longer before heading home to schoolwork and chores. She slapped Eli’s knee and he smiled at her.
“What?”
“Do something.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged, scratched behind her ear, and looked around for inspiration. Her eyes fell upon the water, then twitched back to Eli, who watched her closely. She nodded toward the water and he gave a half-grin, then focused his eyes on the stream.
Carrie waited. After a few seconds, she felt a sharp gust of wind puff against her back, heard a whisper in the trees. A cool breeze tangled around her bare legs like serpents made of air, and she stared in fascination as the water of the creek began to bubble furiously, then rise in thin pillars from the surface, one-by-one, to form a line six-long and high as her hips. The pillars bent at their midsections in unison, forming a bow of water-stick soldiers awaiting her command. She giggled as more tufts of wind tossed her hair, struck her face in pockets like dissolving cotton.
Eli sat up and the water-stick soldiers collapsed into trickling chaos, the pillows of breeze vanished, and the air lost its magic. He smiled, pleased with himself. Pleased he made her happy. She started to speak, but he held up a hand, stalling her.
“Watch,” he said, and began to lightly rub the pads of his thumb and pointing-finger together, his eyes intent on the motion. “Just watch,” he repeated.
“I’m watching, geez,” she said, but despite her tone was captivated. She’d hadn’t seen this one.
A tendril of smoke rose from between his fingertips. In the next moment, there was a pop of spark and a soft snap of air, as if a million oxygen particles had simultaneously broken apart. A yellow sliver of fire rose from the motion of his fingers, then grew.
It reddened, fattened, and flickered. Slowly, as if releasing a butterfly without wanting to damage its wings, Eli spread his fingers apart so they splayed flat. He held his palm up to her; the lick of dancing flame lifting from his skin reflected in her wide brown eyes, her dark pupils quivering with an orange inner-light.
The storm outside their shelter grew. The wind beat more fiercely against the trees, battered and twisted the sheltering leaves above. Rain infiltrated their harbor. Fat cold drops dimpled the creek, tickled their faces, soaked into their hair.
“Eli…” she said.
He shook his head, eyes narrowed with concentration, then gently lowered his hand to the lip of the brook. He brought his face toward his palm – to within inches of the flame – and softly blew.
The fire, now deep red and yellow-hatted at its curling top, slid smoothly off his skin and onto the creek. It rested atop the surface, bobbing and jerking in place with the motion of the cuts and shimmers of the water. It bumped and swayed, but did not go out.
“How are you doing that?” she asked, a stunned whisper.
Eli studied the flame, eyes never leaving his new creation. “Air, mostly,” he said.
Carrie got onto hands and knees, settled in beside the warmth of her friend. Together they watched the buoyed flame, now three inches in height and wide as a big toe. She rested her fingers lightly on the top of his wrist.
“Eli,” she said. “Do it again.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they knew it was time to go. The storm had picked up and the wind and rain fell through the barrier of leaves with ease. Lightning had flickered in the distance, snapping the air like a whip, and was encroaching.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, not wanting to leave but knowing they could not stay. At their feet the stream continued mindlessly along its path, unaware of its riders.
Twenty flames flickered and danced atop the water. The children watched, transfixed. One in giddy awe, one in deep concentration. The light and heat of the flames were enough to warm their bare feet, illuminate his blue knees, her yellow dress. She imagined small fish rising to try and eat the fire, finding heat and pain instead. It was both cruel and beautiful.
“Okay?” he said, and she heard the strain in his voice. A tremor she hadn’t noticed in her excitement. She looked at his face. What she thought to be rain was actually beads of sweat dotting his temple, forehead and cheeks. He looked pale in the gray-green light of their shadowed domain. She rested a hand on his back, as if her support would add to his strength.
“Okay, Eli,” she said. “Let it go.”
He exhaled, and she watched with wonder and sadness as the flames, as one, slipped down into the cold stream, and were smothered.
PARKER TOOK A long swig from the bottle and passed it back to his brother.
Too much, he thought absently, his reason a fluttering veil. He felt the whiskey go to his head and swore it off until the ceremony was over. The guys were getting shitty and that was fine with him. He’d be getting shitty, as well, if he could. But that would not go over well with Carrie, or her mother and nana, who, frankly, could both be pains in the ass.
“Guys, go easy,” he said half-heartedly, wondering if Brock was going to do something stupid to ruin his wedding. Parker had already caught him taking a piss in one of Pastor Willard’s potted floor plants, in whose office they’d been caged until the guests arrived. Parker thought maybe the plant was fake, and that the growing stain in the Berber carpet beneath the pot would be a tricky problem to explain. Brock was younger, but he was a big guy, a former all-state offensive guard who could lift a hay bale on each shoulder and carry them around easy-as-you-please. Parker had seen him do the same thing with giggling, kicking girls on a hundred youth-fueled nights under the lights, under the stars. To make things worse, Brock had a devil in his heart, a temper like no one Parker had ever known, and it was best not to chastise him when he’d been drinking. Henry and Tuck were easier, more manageable. They weren’t smart or dumb, just bored and happy to go along with whatever made their little corner of flat-assed, cornfield-carpeted Iowa even a smidge more interesting on a day-to-day basis.
Brock tucked the fifth into the crook of his elbow and pressed it to his chest like a slippery baby. “Don’t worry, Parker, we’re not going to get drunk before your very first wedding.”
Tuck snickered, and Henry went to the door for a peek at the church lobby. “Looks like folks are showing up, Park. Aren’t you supposed to greet them, say hello?”
“No,” Parker said, standing too quickly and fighting a wave of drunken dizziness before finding his feet. “That’s you guys. You two are supposed to be ushers. Remember the rehearsal?”
Tuck pulled mints from the sport coat of his tuxedo. “Here,” he said, taking two and passing the tin to Henry, who followed suit. “Don’t worry, Parker,” Tuck said, standing and dusting off his pants. “We got this.”
“Thanks.”
The mints got put away and the two groomsmen left the office. Tuck was about to close the door when he stuck his head back in, an eat-shit smile on his face. “Besides, smells like piss in here.”
