Late One Night

12

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.

“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.”