Cassie

      I am a passenger in my own car, eyes closed, head lying against

hot vinyl as Clay Taylor drives south through Murrells Inlet toward

Litchfield. Even with all the windows down and Clay easily doing

sixty miles an hour along the straight stretches, the heat feels oppressive.

Sweat pours off my neck. It trickles down the small of

my back, sticks my legs to the plastic seats. I try to imagine sitting

here naked, the top of the car ripped away so that the breeze

would become a tornado and blast away the heat. But I don’t think

even that would bring relief.

      It’s June in the low country of South Carolina. The heat should

be just starting to build in for the season, but instead it feels like

it never left from last year. It’s been hot and dry for so long, nothing

wants to move, animals are laying down dead, the salt creeks

drying up to nothing. Peck talks about the drought all the time,

seven months and counting. He’s a fireman and feels the heat in

ways I could never understand. He’s nervous about the dry land,

worried that a fire will take off and he and his crew won’t have

enough bodies and equipment to put it out.

      The music on the radio is something Kelly insists we listen to,

rock and roll, a scratchy man’s voice screaming out who’ll stop the

rain? The song is annoying, makes me wonder when the rain

might actually come. Everybody who lives on the marsh year-

round prays for as much water as possible to fall from the sky.

Some are even joking a hurricane would be welcome relief.

The storm season started a couple of weeks ago, the Gulf

Stream warming up, pulling bad weather from the far side of the

world toward us. It’s the serious season mixed into the tourist one,

but people down here aren’t thinking straight when they talk

about hurricanes like that. Peck tells them to be careful what they

ask for.

      The drought’s put a sharp edge on everyone except Clay. He’s

not talking about rain. He’s driving with his elbow hanging out the

window, both hands on the steering wheel, a cigarette pinched between

his lips. He’s going on about us all taking a trip to the North

Georgia mountains where a tightwire walker will, in a month’s

time, cross Tallulah Gorge using only his feet and a pole to hold

him there.

      He’s been talking nonstop ever since we left Garden City

Beach because Georgetown Steel is fabricating the cables to be

used in the crossing. “That walk across the gorge is going to make

history,” Clay says, the tip of his cigarette bobbing in the air. “And

we’re a big part of making it happen, Georgetown Steel. You got to

go, won’t see anything like it ever again, not in your lifetime.” I say

nothing, letting the smoke from his cigarette swirl in the breeze

around me. “Besides, it would be easy,” he says. “I’ll come up from

Walhalla, pick you and Kelly up in the morning, and drive on over.

It’s not that far from the Highlands.”

I raise my head then, nervous that he’s looking right at me, not

watching the road, and Kelly right there in the backseat hearing

everything. “It’s not the Highlands,” I say. “It’s just Highlands.

You’re being lazy with that, you know.”

      The car’s tires hum along the packed shell and gravel road. I

shade my eyes to read the sign just past Pawleys Island telling us

Georgetown is still fifteen miles away. I smile, reach over to touch

him so he won’t be offended by the mild scolding. “Let’s just wait

and see,” I say.

      I don’t tell him that I’ve seen acrobats before on The Ed Sullivan

Show, a man walking a wire, bouncing for a moment before

turning a somersault and landing again on his feet. This is different,

though. There is always a net on TV, the distance only ceiling

to floor in some television studio. Clay says the gorge is a thousand

feet deep in places, and one small mistake, one slip or miscalculation

. . .

      I lift myself up in the seat, find sunglasses on the dashboard,

and then turn to face Kelly. She is stretched out, eyes closed,

though I know she’s not asleep. She has heard every word about

Tallulah Gorge and how Clay plans to visit me in Whiteside Cove

when I take her up to visit Momma this summer. When I tell her

to sit up and rejoin the living, Kelly just lays there, eyes closed, her

softball glove propped on her stomach like it’s the very thing holding

her down.

      The land outside the back window runs away from me simmering

in mid- afternoon sun. The whiteness of the road, the sand

edging along its shoulder, stands in stark contrast to the brown beyond.

Here, away from the ocean and salt creeks, trees seem to

wilt, shrubbery, salt myrtle, straggling cordgrass, all dry and brittle.

Once Kelly’s song is through, I run the dial, find a crackling

AM station trying its best to keep Marvin Gaye tuned in. Clay

lights another cigarette, the blunt end of the lighter flaming when

it touches the tip. I smile and sing along. “Ain’t no moun- tain high,

ain’t no val- ley low . . .”

      Our hands touch palm to palm as he passes the filterless ciga-

rette to me. It’s then I hear Kelly turn over in the backseat, the

words good God tumbling out of her mouth in what I know is disrespect.

The harsh smoke burns my throat. I hate the habit, the

nastiness of the taste, but the nicotine has its effect, and I lean

again on the seat letting the song and cigarette be enough until we

are across the Intracoastal Waterway and into Georgetown, where

my baby girl will be an All- Star pitcher this afternoon.

We find the field squeezed in between steel and paper mills,

smokestacks belching black and gray soot into a sky already filled

with an uncomfortable haze. Kelly won’t talk to me when we park

the car, just gets up from the seat and runs out to the field where

her coach gives her a ball, lets her know she’ll pitch the first three

innings. The Bel Air sits beneath a small stand of trees where Clay

spreads a blanket, unfolds lounge chairs for us to sit in while

Kelly’s team takes the field.

      I watch her on the infield dirt, so much like Peck, her arms and

shoulders strong and balanced, skin the color of honey. I’m as

white as sun- bleached shell, skin too pale to do anything but burn

if I’m outside too long. Worshipping the sun was never part of

growing up in the mountains. Whiteside Cove was breezy, cool

enough even in midsummer to wear long sleeves by late afternoon,

a sweater at night. Here along the salt creeks and beaches, the sun

demands that you disrobe to nothing, sink knee- deep into black

mud, dig out oysters, or empty crab pots. Seining nets are like

bridal veils thrown into creeks capturing shrimp and minnows,

their transparent bodies nearly invisible in the turbid muck. It is

all part of the land’s requirement that you become a living part of

the rivers and creeks. But it has never been very livable to me. It is

unbearable at best.

      I watch Kelly warm up, so poised and unafraid at fifteen, so

much like Peck. I wonder if she even needs me. I remember after

she was born, how Peck could calm her when she cried, the way

he would carry her outside onto the dock by the marsh or drive

along the beach until she fell asleep. When Kelly was old enough

to walk, he took her to play in the ocean and later taught her to

surf and fish, catch crabs or dig for clams at low tide. They were

inseparable. When I began our trips back to the mountains to get

away from the heat and the marsh, her time away from Peck was

tolerated. And even though I know Kelly loved being with her

grandmother, the mountains were just too far away. She would

climb up Sunset Rock or to the top of Whiteside Mountain, look

as far east as she could, take a deep breath only to announce that

there was no smell of the ocean in the air, and that would seem to

negate the legitimacy of our stay. Low country is in her blood, but

not a drop pulses through me. It used to disturb me to think Kelly

was more Peck’s than mine. It used to tie me up in knots for days,

but now it seems to matter less.

      I have read in magazines that everyone has the right to go and

find themselves, do your own thing, they say. I tried talking to Clay

about this when we stopped for lunch today, but Kelly was mad at

the world because Peck wasn’t the one bringing her to the game.

She was just ugly—not a good way to start out my new life, but I

didn’t care. I ignored her, ate my Hardee’s hamburger, and told

Clay that today was the first day of the rest of my life. I said, “I feel

like Jonathan Livingston Seagull.”

Kelly looked up from her meal then, said, “Momma, seagulls

are dumb birds. All they eat is other people’s trash.”

Jonathan Livingston Seagull was an assigned book from Kelly’s

high school English class, so I know she read it. I know she doesn’t

think that about Jonathan because she’s the one who told me to

read it. Right then she was just so angry at me. I told her to shut

up, said, “You know what I mean.” Clay sat there with the dumb-

est look on his face. A fireman like Peck, I don’t think he’s read a

thing since college, unless it had something to do with smoke and

flames. “I feel free,” I said, looking at both of them. “I just feel

free, that’s all I was trying to say.”

      I watch seagulls differently now, the way they float out on a

breeze, cut loose, free. No limits, Jonathan, that’s what the book

said. I don’t want limits either, no matter how mad Kelly gets at me.

She’s on the mound when a gust of hot wind gets itself tangled

up on the infield, the sand and shell surface whipping up into a

small tornado. The girls cover their faces with gloves, arms over

eyes until it passes, leaving the air dusty and parched.

“They could have done this in the evening,” I tell Clay. “The

heat could hurt these girls.” He is standing up watching Kelly

throw strikes, smiles at me when I say this.

“You never liked it here, Cassie,” he says. “I don’t think anything

could make you happy.” He looks into the sky, scans the edge

of the field. The whole neighborhood surrounding us seems to be

a victim of the steel mill drowning in grime and soot. “Besides,” he

says. “No lights.”

      “What?” I ask, shading my eyes when I look at him.

      “No lights for a nighttime game,” he says, then yells encouragement

when Kelly’s team closes out the first inning.

In the second, Kelly gets a hit and is then thrown out at second.

When she pitches in the top of the third, a girl from Aynor

hits her good and scores a couple of runs. Clay shouts encouragement,

but Kelly ignores us both. By the time she is finished pitching,

she leaves the mound to applause, pats on her back from the

coach.

      Some people tell me that my daughter is a phenom, that at fifteen

she is better than some seniors who are winning college scholarships.

Her coach says there could be something for her down the

road once college coaches get a whiff of her. I don’t like the way he

put that, the idea of someone sniffing at my daughter like she’s

some kind of dog in heat, but I understand what he means. When

I see her play, the way she’s different on the mound or in the batter’s

box waiting on a pitch, I know she’s not the same girl I see at

home when I ask her to clean her room or help with the dishes. I’ve

been taking her to two- a- days, that’s all the responsibility for her

talent that I can claim. The rest is of her making.

During the next three innings, Kelly is in the outfield. Clay

walks over behind the backstop and talks to some man who’s been

watching the game with a clipboard and pencil, scribbling notes

while Kelly pitched. They talk like they’re friends from way back.

Clay stands with his arms crossed, spitting onto the ground, rocking

on his heels, pointing out at Kelly and then over to me. I act

like I don’t see this because I really don’t like it. Sometimes Clay

will just take over. He doesn’t ask or tell me what he’s going to do.

      He just leaves me unannounced to go somewhere and then comes

back with something new to tell me.

My affair with Clay Taylor has been going on for as long as

there has been a drought in the low country. He keeps joking that

if he quit seeing me maybe it would start raining again. But he

won’t do that. Whenever Peck’s working at the station, Clay makes

sure he’s off duty so he and I can be together. It doesn’t work all

the time, so lately he’s even started calling in sick.

Clay and Peck used to be equals, friends. But he thought he’d

be chief instead of Peck when Garden City opened, thought they

passed over the better man. Now he’s leaving the low country altogether

to become the new chief in Walhalla, South Carolina.

Earlier this afternoon, before we left for Georgetown, Clay came

to me and asked if I would move up there with him.

      I heard his boat come through the salt creeks navigating the

high tide. He called for me by tooting his horn, the reverse of his

engine boiling the water as he glided up to the floating pier. He

waited there, shirtless, the sun sparkling against his heat-

drenched skin, a dark perpetual tan that seems dyed into all men

who live their entire lives along the marsh. We dangled our feet in

the creek, letting the dark water push at our ankles while he told

me about Walhalla.

      Clay made it sound like a new life though he would still be a

fireman. It was closer to the mountains, he said, a new world that

he didn’t know, so it would be like starting all over. That’s when he

asked me to go. “You can be my guide,” he said, “show me the

ropes up in them thar hills.” He smiled, and then lit a cigarette.

“But you know the mountains,” I told him. “You went to school

in Cullowhee.”

      “You should have been there too,” he reminded me. “I expected

to see you on campus that fall, but when I heard what happened,

I couldn’t believe it. Peck stepped up and did the right thing. But

it should have been different, Cassie. I won’t let another chance

get past me.”

      I didn’t know what to say. The fact is, he was right, everything

would have been different if I would have stayed at college and

not come here married and pregnant, just out of high school. That

summer, Clay and I talked about going to school every day. Peck

was always quiet, maybe a little jealous, though he never would

admit it. Clay and Peck were good friends while they were lifeguards,

and after Peck started taking me out at night, Clay kept his

distance. Near the end of summer, though, he would drop by the

cabins when Peck wasn’t around, and we’d talked about looking

for each other on campus. It seemed innocent enough at the time,

flirtatious maybe, but I never told Peck about it. I didn’t want it to

bring up any trouble between them.

      On the pier this afternoon Clay’s eyes were dark, serious, holding

me there until I promised that I would go with him. When I

did, he smiled, breathed heavy like he wasn’t sure I was going to

say yes. He flicked the spent cigarette into the marsh, leaned over

and kissed me hard on the mouth for God or anyone else who

might have wanted to see it.

      We sat on the edge of the dock, the black creek water lapping

against the side of Clay’s boat. I felt there wasn’t a place in the

world that I couldn’t go now. I had met Clay when I was seventeen

years old and from that moment on we were living our lives separately,

waiting to arrive at this moment together. I needed Clay and

he needed me. Walhalla would be a new start.

      When I heard Kelly coming home from the beach, I tried to get

up, but Clay held my wrist. “Let her see,” he said. “If you pretend

nothing’s going on, then nothing’s going on.” He raised an eyebrow

as if he was flaunting some sort of hard- earned wisdom.

Ellen Thomas’s Volkswagen stuttered down the stretch of dirt

road and coughed to a stop in the backyard. Both girls were laughing,

slamming car doors, running into the house when Kelly

caught us sitting like high school lovers, our feet wet, bodies

touching. “Where’s Daddy?” she asked. She averted her eyes,

searched the yard as an obvious and uncomfortable excuse.

      “He’s at work, where else?” I told her.

      “Is he coming with us?” Ellen had walked back down the steps.

      The two girls stood frozen, arm in arm so naturally, so unassumingly

that it angered me how easy it was for them to protect each

other.

      “No,” I snapped, “but we need to leave soon, so go get your

things.” I watched Ellen whisper something into Kelly’s ear. Then

she waved and hurried off to her car.

Kelly stayed put, alone now, shifting on her feet, one arm

reaching behind her back to catch the other at the elbow. She

squinted in the sun, this time looking straight at me, defiant. “I

thought he was coming.”

      “He got called out, a boy drowned or something at the pier,” I

said. “Didn’t you see them down there?”

      “No,” she said, her voice breaking, giving her away. “I should

have gone by there myself and picked him up.”

      “You know what kind of good that would have done,” I said.

Kelly stood there like she was waiting for me to say something

more, like this was one of those moments where if I opened my

mouth, whatever came out would explain the whole world to her.

I know she deserves someone who can give her that, a way for her

to understand what she can’t see through her own eyes yet, but I

wasn’t in the mood. I was caught up in Clay’s offer in Walhalla and

the possibility of a new life. I just sat there, looked at her and

raised my hands. “So what are you waiting for?” I said. “Scoot.”

She turned, running into the house, the door slamming shut behind

her.

      There is no letup in the heat on the field, the high sun bleaching

color out of everything. Stagnant air from the paper mills finds

us when the breeze shifts, making breathing all that more difficult.

The umpires change out for the second time in the top of the

fifth inning. All the girls hover around the water buckets, drinking

and pouring it over their heads and necks to keep cool.

Clay is still talking to the man behind the backstop. They concentrate

on a clipboard, watch Kelly field a pop fly to end the inning.

Clay turns and shakes the man’s hand, then takes an

envelope before he leaves to return to me. Kelly comes in from the

field. I watch her cross the third- base line, throw her glove into

the dugout, and dowse water on her face.

      “I’ve got more good news,” Clay says when he sits down. He

opens the envelope, hands me papers, some sort of application to

be filled out. “Coach Lambert over there,” he says, pointing to the

sheet of paper I am holding, “guess where he’s from?”

      “Where?” I say. I look at the man as he writes on his clipboard.

      “Guess,” he says.

      “Clay, I have no idea. He could be from Mars for all I know.”

      “He’s from Cullowhee,” Clay says, his face broadening into a

smile. “Cullowhee, North Carolina.”

      “That’s real nice,” I say. “But I don’t know what that means.” I

glance back to the papers in my hand looking for answers.

      “He coaches softball for Western Carolina. He likes what he

sees in Kelly.”

      I look toward the man again, this time seeing more of a threat

than anything else. “She’s only going to be a sophomore, Clay.”

      “He knows that. He wants her at his camp this summer.”

      “Where?” I ask, though I heard what he just said. Cullowhee’s

less than an hour from Momma’s house in Whiteside Cove.

      “At Western Carolina,” he repeats while pointing to the application,

tapping it with his finger. “Camp starts on Monday.”

      “Monday,” I say. My heart races when I realize I am holding papers

that give our plans legitimacy, a real reason to leave early and

be with Clay.

      “Monday,” he says, winking at me. He takes a drag from his cigarette

then flicks the ash into the sand. Around us, the trees drop

leaves like it’s fall. “It’s perfect, Cassie. I’ve given Surfside my notice,

so Peck won’t find out until Monday. You can take Kelly up to

Cullowhee. Peck won’t stop you. Then we can meet up in Walhalla

for the summer, get things started.”

      At first I’m elated, my heart racing, remembering the promise I

made to Clay on the dock earlier in the afternoon. Then hesitation

like a cold tide rises through me, a question forming that I did not

expect. It surprises me, almost takes my breath away. Clay Taylor

is a fireman too, and what good would it do to live with him, trade

one fireman for another? It’s odd that I would feel this as soon as

there is a chance to go, as soon as there are no more excuses to

keep me from leaving Peck, but there it is, hesitation enough that

Clay asks me if I’m all right.

      “Yes,” I say. “I’m just hot, this heat is stifling.”

      “Well, if you’re worried about it, let’s talk,” he says. “We’ve

waited too long.”

      “I’m fine,” I tell him. “It’s just happening so fast, that’s all. I

need time for it to sink in. Now let’s watch the game.” I touch his

hand for reassurance, but it’s too brief, a light pat, affectionless, a

touch that I know will confuse him more than settle any concern.

I don’t tell him that after almost seven months of scheming to

be together, I am suddenly questioning my motives. I can’t afford

the doubt. I’m too close to finding a way out of this life for good.

In my reasoning, I remind myself it’s his way out too, so I let Clay

enjoy the moment. “I’m excited about the future,” I say. “It’s all

going to work out.”

      He smiles at me then. “It’s going to be perfect,” he says, then

turns, like a proud father, to watch Kelly come to bat.

      He stretches his lips with forefinger and thumb to let out a

shrill whistle when Kelly steps to the plate. It’s her last at bat. She

looks at me, her stare cold, her stance angry when she lifts the bat

to her shoulder, stabs the ground with the toe of her cleat to plant

it firmly in the batter’s box. And then, taking the first pitch, she

sends the ball out over the fence in deep center field.

      It flies through air hot enough to catch fire, doesn’t stop until it

is in the street rolling toward the steel mill. The crowd sitting

around the field erupts while she stands watching the ball leave

the field. Then, as if Kelly couldn’t care less, she turns and looks

at me, her face expressionless, pale in the heat as she begins to

run the bases. She jogs like what she has just done means nothing,

but I know it does. I know how important it was to her to do well

here today. She is a standout, the one everyone is talking about,

heads leaning to ears, voices whispering about her future.

      Though she no longer looks at me, I can still see her there at

home plate, our eyes locked before the ball had even cleared the

fence. While I watch her run the bases, I cannot help but feel she

is trying to leave me, trying to get away because I am here with

Clay and not her father. Kelly is a child and will not understand for

years what is to come, even though she will have to endure it all. I

have to wonder if I will destroy her very understanding of love and

family. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, apologizing for what I am about to do.

      Clay asks what, thinking my words are meant for him. I smile,

say “Nothing, never mind,” and then watch Kelly touch home

plate, raising her hands to the high fives of her cheering teammates.

Peck is in that girl more than me. It’s as plain as the heat

and sweat of this boiling summer. It’s a shame he’s not here to see

it all, but then he never has been. Peck Calhoun Johnson is first

and foremost a fireman and saving a life is more important than

living his own. I wish he could be here to see Kelly’s home run, but

he has trouble on the beach. There’s trouble everywhere now, I

think. Peck always told me that in a fire there’s nothing good for

anyone, not those caught in it or those that have to fight it. “Flame

don’t choose who or what to burn,” he says. “It burns blind.”

      When the game is over, Kelly walks toward where Clay and I

sit. She drags her bag, the sun blanching the world around us. 
 

Peck

It doesn’t occur to me until we get the call, an eight- year- old

boy off the pier at Garden City Beach. I’m not supposed to even

be here. Clay Taylor is scheduled for rotation, but he’s been about

as dependable as rain lately, so I stick around, take the call. I’m

over at the window that closes off the small office from the rest of

the station when it comes, a feeling that pulls at my stomach,

washes across me like a faint breeze. It makes me wait a second

longer than I should. Intuition maybe, I don’t know. It’s just all

over me when I stick my face into the small hole in the glass and

yell at Lori, the sound of the fire bell and the Pirsch pumper roaring

to life hiding any signs in my voice that I feel something’s

wrong, somewhere something’s not right. “Call Cassie,” I say, “tell

her there’s a drowning. I’ll get there when I can.” I can see the disappointment

when I tell her this. Lori knows what I’ll be missing,

knows what it will mean. I’m last to get into my turnouts, J.D. already

behind the wheel waiting as I lift myself up to ride shotgun.

J.D.’s new, a rookie in his first year, but he’s got an old heart. You

can’t hide much from that boy. “You all right there, Chief?” he asks.

      “Right as rain,” I say.

He looks at me then, a question growing in his eyes that I won’t

let him ask. “Well, are we going,” I say, motioning toward the

opened garage door, “or do you want to sit here all afternoon and

talk about the weather?”

      J.D. smiles at that. “Well,” he says, putting the Pirsch into gear,

“you’re the one who brought up rain.” He turns on lights, pops the

horn twice to let Lori know we’re on the move. I keep quiet about

what I felt when the call came in. I don’t want to raise any concern.

Everything we do out here on the beach is about danger and

death. I can’t tell my crew that something I don’t even understand

myself has come over me. If they think I’m worried, it could put us

in even more danger than we’ll have to face, so I stay quiet and

look around for my sunglasses. A chief has to be a chief, mind

clear and eyes wide open. I yell at J.D., “You seen my shades?”

      He looks over, a smile pulling at one side of his face, his eyes

bright when he yells back, “Yeah.”

He swings the Pirsch pumper out into oncoming traffic, emergencies

flashing, the siren piercing the mid- afternoon heat, warning

other drivers to let us get on through. I pull the hand mike

from its cradle to let dispatch down in Surfside know that we are

on Atlantic Avenue, 10- 76, responding and en route.

J.D.’s young, twenty- four back in April. He’s been with the station

since last fall. It looks like he’s lived on the beach all his life,

even though he grew up in Columbia, his daddy a retired firefighter

up there. I can see by the way Lori watches him that he’s a

real looker. He’s got a strong jaw, sandy blond hair that I need to

remind him to cut. He has a fortress face, looks like it was chiseled

from stone. It makes people turn around and listen when he

speaks. “I ain’t got all day here,” I yell. “Where are my shades,

J.D.?” He taps the top of his head with a hand to say right where

you left them, then grabs the wheel with both to whip the truck

onto South Waccamaw.

      The road across from the beach is full of pedestrians watching

us run up to the Kingfisher Pier. We pull in underneath the decking,

a small arcade and snack bar full of tourists right above us. It’s

the only place on the whole beach where there’s good shade,

where the breeze tries its best to be cool. We’re the first on the

scene—no law enforcement or ambulance yet. I don’t like it, but

it happens.

      “Radio Lori, tell here we’re 10- 23,” I say, “and keep your radio

on. No one else is here yet.”

      I head out toward the end of the pier to assess the situation

while J.D. preps the gear. All the while I’m wishing that I was

going home to pick up Kelly and Cassie for the drive over to

Georgetown. It would be hotter than scorched earth at the softball

field, but that’s nothing compared to what I’m about to confront

out here.

      On the end of the pier, it’s not good at all. There’s a man and a

woman huddled in chairs, the woman hysterical to the point that

she’s probably going into shock. The man is trying to console her,

but he’s not getting anywhere. I can tell they’ve been drinking. It’s

all over them, and it’s not good.

      Out off the pier, a boy is floating limp and facedown in the

water. Several men have him on their lines. They’ve hooked his

shorts to keep him from floating away. There’re kids screaming

and gawkers trying to take pictures. One of the men pulls me off

to the side, his breath full of alcohol when he tells me that the

boy’s been in the water a long time, that he’s got to be dead. He

leans closer, whispers about a spinner that’s been hanging around

that’s nearly six feet long. Even though the shark’s not likely to

care about a dead boy, the idea worries me. I don’t need a spectacle

like that going on down here.

      Another man smelling of hot sun and booze comes up while

I’m looking over the side. “We got a net, but ain’t got no rope to tie

it off,” he says. “Jimmy over here was going in after him, but I said

wait.”

      This guy Jimmy’s wearing a pair of cutoffs and no shirt, his skin

burned a bright pink. His eyes are almost slits. He’s drunker than

his buddy who’s telling me about the net.

      “Show me the net,” I say. The man hurries me around the back

of a small covered shed while I radio to J.D. to bring the hundred-

foot lifeline from the truck. I settle in to the call now, measured

patience taking over.

      The man brings me around the shed to find a round wire mesh

four feet in diameter leaning against the rail. “We got it sitting here

just in case someone hooks a turtle or a skate or something like

that,” he says, “but it’ll hold that boy too. We just need a rope.” He

smells like a brewery when we’re out of the breeze.

      “Let’s see what we can do with this thing,” I say. When we get

back, the father is at the rail. It looks like he wants to go over, and

we don’t need that happening. J.D.’s right there doing what he

needs to do. I can hear him talking, the man’s wife screaming from

her chair. It’s like something out of a bad movie, the screams

notching up the tension.

      Now some man who doesn’t belong on the pier decides to take

charge. He gets up in my face. “Somebody’s got to get that boy

out,” he screams. “What the hell’s taking so long?” I put the net

down and walk him over to the middle of the pier.

      “Sir,” I say, “you need to move on back, right now.”

He seems startled that someone’s put a hand on his chest and

is pushing back on him like this, but I don’t care. I don’t need any

more chaos out here than I already have.

      “Are you in charge of this?” he asks, his words slurred in the air.

      “Yes sir, I am.”

      “Well goddamn, man, get a rope. We got to get that boy out!”

      “We’re working on that,” I say. “Now I really need you to move

on back, sir, please, right now.”

      That’s when I see Teddy coming down the pier. He’s the Horry

County deputy sheriff who works Garden City Beach during his

weekday shifts. We go way back, past high school even, still surf

together when schedules allow. It always helps when he’s on

scene. Teddy’s a stand- up guy. I let him have this one and go back

to the net and J.D. at the rail. The father is down on the decking,

J.D. holding him there asking him to be a good man and go back

to his wife.

      The men who told me about the net have started tying off the

rope to the lead lines. They’ve mangled the job, and that pisses me

off too. It’s part of the problem, being thin in personnel on a beach

that is busting out of its seams. I take a minute to look around, assess

the situation, make sure that everything is falling into place. I

learned a long time ago that you have to pull yourself out of a call

to take account of things, to make sure nothing’s overlooked and

that we don’t invite any unnecessary danger.

      Teddy’s pushing the public back, putting chairs out in a row to

move onlookers a safe distance away from the scene. J.D.’s with

the mother and father, checking vitals, trying to console. The men

with the lines on the boy keep him there, spotting the water just

in case that spinner shows up. With everything accounted for, I

get busy untangling the line, the circus of dunces watching me

undo their mess when Teddy comes over and tells them to leave.

      “You okay?” he asks.

      “Yeah, now that you’re here.”

      He looks at the spaghetti of rope tangled around my feet and

says, “You must have been a Boy Scout.”

      “All the way to Eagle,” I say, and then we both smile.

      When the rope’s ready, I look over to the boy’s parents for J.D.

The mother’s on her knees throwing up, maybe going into shock.

The father’s crumpled down next to her, no help at all. I know this

is a recovery, not a rescue, so their boy won’t need what J.D. can

offer. I leave him where he can do some good and call Teddy in,

tell him what I want to do.

      There’s nothing that can be done to save this child, but we still

hurry, lower the net, the wire mesh slipping beneath the water

when a wave slops past. When I feel the tug against my grip, I say

“Pull,” and Teddy starts backing toward the other side of the pier.

      He’s a mule of a guy, the half- inch line wrapped around his thick

waist two or three times, a firm counterweight to the bloated body

we catch on the first try.

      The boy rolls down into the basket and stays there in a fetal position,

small crabs falling off his back as the rope is drawn up to

the top of the pier. For a moment there’s hope that he’s alive, his

mouth almost in a smile, his eyes opened. The movement of the

net and the lines still attached gives the impression that the boy is

moving. It’s macabre, a little puppet on strings rising out of death.

      The image taunts, fools those on top who don’t know any better.

The father is holding on to his wife, and they have edged out onto

the pier, J.D. standing with them.

      “You might want to get them back,” I say, but he can’t make the

boy’s parents leave the rail. I don’t blame them; if it was my kid, I’d

be there too. I don’t know how you live without your child. I see

this too much, and I still never get used to it.

      An ambulance crew arrives just as we get the boy on the pier.

He flops out of the net like some kind of odd fish, water pouring

out of his mouth. It’s horrible and Teddy doesn’t waste any time

pushing the crowd farther away. The mother starts screaming

again, tries to crawl into the net, the father too. They’re so torn up

they’re just crazy. The ambulance crew holds them back so J.D.

can get to their boy. He’s over the body checking for vitals and

clearing airways, trying to do what he can to find any signs of life.

But the boy’s just dead, that’s it. The father walks over to ID the

body, while the mother is put on a stretcher and rolled back down

the pier. There’s a few on the beach who cheer when the stretcher

rolls away thinking the boy has survived, but the father knows

better.

      He knows they let the boy get away and the most horrific thing

that could have ever happened did. J.D. stops working and lays a

blanket over the body. The man walks to the end of the pier still

holding on to a beer and that sort of pisses me off until he heaves

the can out into the ocean, his cry so full of hurt and grief that it

makes my stomach hurt.

      And though the man doesn’t come right out and say it, I know

he wants to be under that blanket instead of his boy. He’d trade

anything so his boy could live. I’d want that if it was Kelly. It hurts

to see it, but it hurts more to think all of this could have been

avoided. Somehow the boy just got away from them, got on the

beach and then the ocean had its way. Fault will be for Teddy to

figure out, to see if the parents might be charged with some kind

of negligence, though I doubt he’ll want to do anything more to

these people. I mean, my God, what more could be done to punish

them?

      We wait for the second ambulance and Teddy’s backup to

come before we wrap our gear. I call Lori to request a 10- 79 because

a coroner’s going to have to be involved in this. There’s going

to be an investigation, which means more paperwork before I can

get away.

      “How does that happen?” J.D. asks when he comes up besideme.

      “What?”

      “The boy drowning while his parents are on the pier like that.

How does that happen?”

      I look at J.D. for a minute because I forget he’s still a rookie. “I

don’t know,” I say. “It’s just life, brother. And sometimes we get to

clean it up.”

      He looks at me and I can see that’s not going to do it for him.

He’s going to be a good fireman if he learns to let it go. You got to

learn to do that if you’re going to last any time on this job. “Let’s

finish this up,” I say, and he hikes up the gear onto his shoulders,

moves down the pier to the truck where small boys have gathered.

They ask him if he can turn on the siren, but J.D. ignores them,

just keeps storing the gear and dwelling on something he can’t

change.

      “Hey, let the boys have a look inside,” I say. “I’ll finish up out

here.” I stow the ropes and J.D.’s medical supplies. He uses a large

tackle box to carry his gear, and when he pulls it out, it looks like

he might be going fishing instead of heading out to save a life. We

tease him all the time, tell him there’s nothing in that box a fish

would care to eat, that we’d never let him on a boat with that

thing. He’s a good rookie, a good sport with all the shit we dish

out. I look up toward the front of the Pirsch. J.D.’s letting the boys

sit in the driver’s seat with the lights flashing. One of them is wearing

his helmet. They all seem to be having a good time, the tragedy

out on the pier finding a perspective. It’s a good sign.

When the truck is packed, I tell the boys to stand clear, then I

jump in shotgun, and we are on our way back to the station. My

watch says 4:45, so there’s no way I’ll make Kelly’s game.

      “Think she pitched good?” J.D. asks. He looks over. I can see his

eyes, dark pools of blue. He knows Cassie and I are having trouble.

      “Guess so,” I say, “but she’s just fifteen. I don’t think it matters

much.”

      “She’s got an awful good arm, Peck. Fifteen or not, I bet she’s

good.”

      “Still, it won’t matter much,” I say.

J.D.’s seen Kelly pitch. Early in the spring, she called Lori to remind

me about a game in Litchfield. J.D. was rotating off duty at

the same time, so he volunteered to tag along. I was staying down

at the fire station pretty regularly because Cassie didn’t want me

at home. We were fighting then as we are now about disappointments

she felt had ruined her life. I know there are things she

didn’t get to do because of what happened with Kelly, and at times

      I wish I could just tell her to go, come back when you’re finished

doing whatever it is you got to do. But I don’t say that. She has a

daughter to raise, and I’ve told her time and again that Kelly’s more

important than anything bad between the two of us.

She told me she needed space, so I started staying at the station,

checking in when Kelly would come to the beach to surf or

just drop by to let me know how her mother was getting along. I

probably take more rotations than I should, stay at the station

when I ought to be home trying to make it work with Cassie. But

life becomes a habit if you live it the same way long enough, and

we’ve been at this for years.

      We drove over to Litchfield in my truck, rain threatening the

skies, but it never showed up. There were only a handful of folks

at the game when J.D. and I got there, mostly parents of the kids

on the Socastee team. We watched Kelly throw six perfect innings,

miss the no- hitter, and end up losing the game with four

hits in the top of the seventh. Kelly’s only in the ninth grade,

pitching against girls three years older. I can only imagine what

she’ll be like in a couple of years.

The game helped Cassie and me get along that afternoon. She

let J.D. come back to the house, and he took it on himself to cheer

Kelly up. He let her pitch for about an hour out in the backyard

while Cassie and I tried to work things out. I think Kelly’s crush on

him started that day. She’s fifteen, J.D. twenty- four. I know couples

who are married and have more years between them, so I’m

not telling J.D. anything about the crush. There’re some things he

doesn’t need to know.

      When we get back to the station, only Partee’s there for the

shift change. He’s looking around like he lost something when

J.D. kills the engine. “Where’s Clay?” he asks.

      “He called in sick,” Lori says, rolling her eyes. She’s waiting

when I climb out of the Pirsch waving forms in my face that need

filling out already. The loss of life makes the pile of paperwork that

much more urgent.

      “He ain’t sick,” Partee says. “He just ain’t here, again.”

      “I know that,” I say.

      Partee leans a hand against the Pirsch, sweat darkening his

shirt into a half- moon under his arm. “Who wants to stay this

time?”

      J.D. walks around from the front of the Pirsch, gathering and

putting equipment back in order. “I’ll stay,” he says. He looks at me

then. “You go on and try to make some of that game.”

It’s a nice gesture on his part, but I just shake my head. “Nah,

it’s probably over,” I say. “You don’t need to do that.”

      “Rookie wants to stay, let him stay,” Partee says. “Otherwise it’s

going to be you again.” He smiles then, his wide white grin glowing

against his dark skin.

      Partee’s black, the darkest black I’ve ever seen. He still has

family that lives out on one of the old barrier islands. They’ve been

around these parts for generations, descendants of slaves who

worked the rice and tobacco fields. Some of the firemen have a

problem with Partee being black. But hell, Partee’s always got your

back, and that’s a lot more than I can say about Clay Taylor right

now. There’re still a lot of people in these parts who can’t see past

a man’s color. But I hardly ever think about it with Partee, except

when he smiles. It’s just too hard to miss it then.

      “Seems you should be out doing something more exciting than

taking an extra shift,” I tell J.D.

Partee smiles that smile again. “Rookie’s too young to do that,

ain’t he?”

      “They still card him at Maggie’s,” Lori says, turning to leave.

We all get a good laugh out of that, the way she just throws it out

there like it’s truth.

      I look at the boy. He’s doing all right with the teasing. He’s a

good rookie. “You don’t mind hanging around then?”

      “Nah,” he says. “You go on home, see Cassie.”

      I think about that for a minute, but I know I won’t go. “Better I

just head on down to the beach for a while,” I say. “Let Cassie get

home before I do.”

      Nobody argues with that. They all understand my situation.

Partee says, “You go on then, enjoy yourself. We’ll take care of

business around here.” Then he offers to help J.D. finish cleaning

the Pirsch.

      I tell the boys to be safe. J.D. looks out from around the back

of the Pirsch, says, “Let me know about Kelly now. I want to know

how bad she smoked them.”

      I give him a thumbs- up as a promise, then Lori comes out of

the office to tell me she’s radioed Surfside that I’m 10- 42, off duty.

In my truck, I reach over and pop the glove box, fish around inside

until I come up with a small Skoal tin. In it are a few roaches,

good weed that Teddy shares with me when we get together. The

traffic has quieted down, everyone out to dinner or getting ready

to go. I make it across fast, the evening light raking the cordgrass,

burning the back side of the cottages along the shore. I pull a right

onto South Waccamaw, head out to the dunes where the marsh

and the ocean meet. There’s still room on this end of the strand,

Myrtle Beach not yet reaching its tentacles this far south, but it’s

coming. There’s talk of a private beach somewhere out past the

marina headed toward the point, but I haven’t heard much more

than rumors about that.

      I remember 1954, after Hurricane Hazel. We could drive out

here and be on deserted beach for miles, but I was just nineteen

back then. The storm destroyed all but two houses along the

strand, swept across the marsh on an eighteen- foot tidal surge and

wreaked havoc for miles inland, killing more than a thousand people

before it ended its path of destruction somewhere in Canada.

In the aftermath of the storm, many wondered if Garden City

would stay deserted forever. That was nearly sixteen years ago, and

it’s becoming hard to find anywhere along the strand that’s untouched,

where I can surf and not see houses and people crowding

the beach.

      Still, there’s nothing that can take the place of an evening on

the water, the way the light pearls the sky and the ocean so flat you

can see a wave form long before it gets to you. I climb into the

back end of my truck, shed my uniform and underwear right

there, change into my cutoffs, and grab the board. I climb the

dunes and walk down the beach past a few tourists who are starting

to take their evening strolls. We exchange glances, but I don’t

want to think about people who come here for a week and then

disappear, skin burned and nursing weeklong hangovers.

      Right now, I’m looking out on the ocean, watching the lineup

coming in, waves I should be catching. I wish Kelly were here. I

taught her to surf when she was just ten, and I bet if you asked her

where she’d rather have been today, pitching softball or surfing,

      Kelly would say the beach, riding waves with her old man. It’s all

that matters when you’re out here. It’s all I care about once I feel

the water float the board, my arms pulling to take me out beyond

the break, out beyond where anything can get in my way, until the

light is gone from the sky and I have to return to shore. And when

I feel the lift, the push a wave gives me sliding down into its

trough, the board no longer floats still but is caught in motion

moving forward, slicing toward the beach, my mind clear, wet and

cool, easy.

      We live on the other side of the marsh, down along the salt

creeks, but to get there takes time. The roads are narrow, congested

with ribbons of tourists, two lanes not enough to keep the

flow moving. It gives me time to think about Cassie and what she

might be like when I get home. We haven’t talked for a few days.

When I call she’s not there, or just won’t answer the phone. I know

she’s suffering, but I don’t know what more I can do. We’ve been

at it for fifteen years, a love that comes and goes, more going than

coming lately, and now Kelly’s getting in the middle of it. She can

see it when we fight, knows that I stay away from the house, and

that worries me. I don’t want her hurting about her mother and

me; she’s not supposed to. It just seems everything down here is

suffering right now, Cassie and me further apart than I can remember.

I try and do what I can to keep Kelly out of it, keep the

calm.

      Once I turn off pavement, there’s no light at all for about a

mile. The land’s so dark it moans. My truck finds every rut in the

sandy unpaved road as it winds through thick old- growth oak and

magnolia. Kelly and Cassie have often begged to sell this house

and move farther toward Conway. “We need to be closer to civi-

lization,” they complain, but I won’t budge. I just can’t leave this

place.

      When Pops saw the house for the first time, he stood on what

little of the pier was left after Hurricane Hazel came through. He

looked out across the marsh like he was measuring the distance to

open water. On the beachfront a mile or more across, they were

struggling to rebuild where the storm had shifted land and reshaped

the point. He came back up into the yard after a few minutes,

a heaviness already settled in on his life. He said, “This

house was built before Hazel came through and look, it’s still

here.” He turned then, his arm making a great sweeping motion to

take in the whole of the marsh. “You can’t say that about anything

else.”

      Cassie was still in the truck, Kelly not yet born. But already, her

attitude had turned against the place. “If Hazel didn’t get this

house,” Pops said, “nothing will. Now count your blessings and

move on in.”

      And that’s what we did; at least, that’s what I did. It’s the one

place I come home to, where I can leave everything else behind.

Living out here on the marsh helps me get through the rest of

my life. I wish Cassie understood that, and I wish it were true for

her, too.

      I take a curve. Spanish moss, like the fingers of ghosts, pulls at

my truck. The headlights keep me from driving into swamp on either

side until the road abruptly dead- ends into our backyard. The

house is two stories in need of a paint job. It’s surrounded by red

cedar and oaks, tall trees that keep us cool except during the

hottest part of the season. The house looks out onto the salt creek,

seems abandoned in the darkness of night. I park behind Cassie’s

Bel Air, can’t see any lights, but I know she’s up. I know she’s waiting

for me to come home.

      When I step into the screened- in porch, I see the living room

is lit, the pier too. There’s a familiar boat tied up, Cassie talking

real friendly with someone. I know who it is, but I won’t go down

there yet. I want to say hello to Kelly first, see how she played this

afternoon. When I come through the door, she’s stretched out on

the couch, still in her uniform, reading a book.

I head to the refrigerator for a beer.

      “Hey,” she says, the word short like a bark. She holds the book

on her belly, not lifting her eyes from the page. I pull a cold bottle

from the fridge, know I need to answer, but I wait. Down on the

pier Clay Taylor is talking to Cassie, their laughter floating

through the opened windows of the house. “Sorry I missed the

game,” I say. “Did you win?”

      “If you’d have been there, you’d know.” Kelly drops the book

like a curtain, her eyes watery, tired. She holds me in her gaze,

challenging.

      “I got a job, Kelly, you know that.” We look at each other for another

minute before she gives up.

      “Whatever,” she says and then starts reading the book again.

I stay put, look out to where Cassie and Clay are standing.

Cassie glances toward the house then back to Clay, wrapping herself

in her arms like she might be cold, impossible as that is. She’s

never been comfortable here, winter or summer. In the fifteen

years we’ve been on the marsh, I think she’s lived alone, even

when I tried to help her live with me. From the looks of it, she’s

got a new helper now.

      I watch Clay flick a cigarette into the black water. All this is

pissing me off, but I don’t want to take it out on Kelly. It’s hard to

hold back. “You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “I asked if you

won. You want to answer me this time?”

      “It’s not about winning in an All- Star game,” Kelly says.

      “That still doesn’t answer the question, does it?”

      “We lost four to two,” she says, putting her book down to look

at me again. “I pitched three innings and then played center field.”

      “Anyone hit you while you pitched?”

      “Only this girl from Aynor. I really just lobbed one over and she

creamed it.”

      “Little nervous out there?”

      “Yeah, I guess.” Kelly stretches, the couch no longer easily

holding her. She’s not a little girl anymore. At fifteen, she’s starting

to look like a woman. She’s sleepy, bone- tired. I can see it in her

eyes, half- mast and red, so I try to ease up. Even though I’m happy

for how well she’s done in her freshman year, I’m glad it’s over and

she can have some fun again. It’s summer, let her be a kid without

the pressures to be something more.

      “I wish you’d have been there,” she says. “That’s all.”

      “I know you do,” I say. “I couldn’t make it this time, but I imagine

there’ll be others, don’t you?”

      “Yeah, I guess.” She thumbs the pages of her book. Dark outlines

of dirt cross her ankles to mark the shadow of her shoes. “Did

the kid drown off the pier?” she asks.

      “Yes ma’am,” I say, but I don’t want to talk about that. “Rather

have been watching you,” I tell her.

I walk over to stand in front of the couch, lean over and kiss her

forehead. I can taste salty skin, evidence of the hard work done

earlier in the day. “You don’t need to hear the particulars,” I say.

      “Besides, it’s time for bed.”

      “Well, I was just waiting up for you,”

      “To give me a hard time?” I say.

      “You deserve it,” she says, smiling finally.

      “I probably do at that.”

      She closes the book, lifts herself up. “Think I’ll go take a bath.”

      “I caught some four- footers this evening,” I tell her. “Might be

around tomorrow morning if you want to go.”

      “Okay, but Momma needs to talk to you about my softball,” she

says, her words pushed out through a tired sigh. “She’s down on

the pier with Clay.”

      “What’s he doing here?”

      “You need to ask her that,” Kelly says.

      “Hey.” I walk over to the stairs. Kelly stops, her eyes nearly

shut. Her hair falls in tangled curls around her face. She’s growing

up fast, but in the shadowy light of the stairs, I can still see my little

girl. “I didn’t miss your game because I went surfing. By the

time we took care of the boy, your game was over. I don’t know

what your momma told you, but I never would’ve made it to

Georgetown.”

      “She didn’t say anything about that, Daddy. She was too busy

talking about seagulls.”

      “About what?”

      “Just ask her, I’m too tired to tell you.” She reaches down from

the step and wraps her arms around me, squeezes tight.

      “Hey, I’m sure you did just fine today,” I say. “You got a lot more

All- Star games left, so don’t go worrying over lobbing some pitch

to a girl from Aynor.”

      “I won’t, I promise.”

      I can smell her skin, sweet, earthy, and I want to hold her there

forever. I don’t want her to grow up, but I won’t ever tell her that.

I don’t want her to feel guilty for doing what we all do. I just love

her so much because when I look at her I see Cassie before things

went bad. I see in our little girl another chance at life, and I want

to make sure she does it right, college and a career, wherever she

wants to go in this world.

      Maybe that’s one reason I stay out here in the middle of

nowhere. I know, when it’s time for Kelly to go, there will be no

hesitation in her steps. She’ll be okay when she leaves because

she’ll take some of this place with her. The marsh gets into your

bones and settles there, good or bad. I want her to come back

often. I want her to need salt in the air for the world to seem right.

I wait, watching her climb the stairs, the darkness at the top

swallowing her before I turn away. Down at the pier, Clay’s engine

sputters to life, the small flat- bottom scow disappearing into the

marsh before I can join them. Cassie sits alone at the edge of the

pier. The few lights I’ve strung up along the dock fight to push

back the night. From the porch, I can tell she is dressed up more

than she should be for a softball game, her skin white, almost

glowing under the sun dress she wears.

      Suddenly I am aware of the afternoon again, the call about the

boy drowning off the pier, how I felt something wrong, a fireman’s

sixth sense that told me danger was too close. My throat clinches

up as I find the reason for my hesitation this afternoon. I watch

Cassie light a cigarette. She pushes a hand through her hair then

looks toward the house waiting for me to walk down so it can all

begin.

      The sudden feeling of loss takes my breath away.