Above the Waterfall. Ron Rash
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is a liar.”
“Then why were you up there?”
As soon as I said it that way, I knew I’d made a mistake. Gerald’s face, his whole body, grew taut.
“I’m not trying to pry into your business, Gerald,” I said. “I’m just wanting to smooth this out, for everyone. C.J. Gant could get in trouble over this. He tried to do you a favor by not reporting you in June.”
For a few moments Gerald didn’t speak.
“I like to go up above that waterfall and look at them specks,” Gerald finally said. “That water’s so clear you can see every dot on them. It ain’t about nothing but setting on a rock and watching them.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said. “I’m glad you weren’t poaching, but I’m afraid that still doesn’t change anything. Tucker wants you to stay off his property and that’s his right.”
Gerald’s fingers began rubbing his palms. He’d spent his life trying to figure out problems with his hands instead of with words, even so far as to build his son a house when William left for the Persian Gulf War. I’d always thought Gerald building the house was a sort of wordless prayer to ensure William’s future—as if his son had to have a future if a house awaited him. But William hadn’t come back. I’d been right behind the fire trucks the day Gerald had gotten the news about William. By then all that could be done was keep the fire from spreading. Gerald had been sitting on the ground, a charred door frame and empty kerosene can in front of him. Sparks had singed his shirt and arms but he didn’t move or make a sound. No one could get him to, not even Agnes.
“This ain’t right,” Gerald said, his voice growing angrier. “I’m of a mind to go over there and tell Tucker my ownself it’s not.”
“You don’t need to get put out about this, especially with your heart.”
Gerald pointed at an overall pocket.
“I got my nitro right here if I have cause to need it.”
“I’d rather those stay tucked in your pocket, Gerald,” I said. “Look, I’ll remind C.J. about resort guests wandering onto your property and I’ll let him know you aren’t catching their trout. I can talk to Tucker as well. This economy’s got them on edge, same as a lot of folks. You can understand that. This will blow over if you’ll just wait it out a bit. But I need you to promise you’ll stay away from that creek, okay?”
That seemed to calm Gerald some. At least his fingers no longer rubbed his palms.
“Okay?” I asked again.
“Yeah,” Gerald said.
“Becky been out to see you today?”
“She come by for a minute,” Gerald said, his voice still sullen. “Why? You told her about this?”
“Not yet.”
“It ain’t your business to tell her.”
“I think she needs to know.”
“She’ll take my side,” Gerald said stubbornly.
I nodded at his field.
“You’ve got plenty around here to keep you busy. You take care of that corn and let me deal with the resort.”
Six
There were two photos of Richard Pelfrey and Becky online. One dated July 11, 2010, was of them at a strip-mining protest that had turned violent. Amid fists and tear gas, Becky and Pelfrey faced off. Screaming at him to stop, she’d told me. But in the earlier photo, taken that April, Pelfrey’s arm was around her waist. The way she looked up at him, you could tell Becky loved him. People change, she’d said about Pelfrey, but it bothered me that Becky hadn’t seen any change until he threw a tear-gas canister. You’d think after Pelfrey she’d be less certain about people, but not in Gerald’s case, and now he’d not only trespassed but also put a good man in a tight spot.
Becky smiled as she came up the trail to meet me, but, as always, her cheeks and brow tightened, causing a squint, as if smiling was a bit painful. She’d turned forty-three in April and, in spite of the girlish ponytail, her solid gray hair might cause some to think her older. Her face had creases from all the years outdoors, but Becky’s eyes were youthful. They were blue, but a blue that darkened the deeper you looked into them. We gave each other our usual calibrated hug, neither casual nor intimate. The drab uniform couldn’t hide Becky’s narrow waist and firm breasts and hips. Just brushing against them brought memories of the night at her cabin.
“I’m sorry to hear about what happened in Atlanta,” I told her as I stepped back. “I know it brings back bad memories.”
Becky’s shoulders hunched slightly, hands linked in front of her, as if even after three decades, just the mention of a school shooting caused her to make herself a smaller target. For a few moments the only sound was the stream. A kingfisher crossed low overhead and Becky watched it, though watching didn’t seem the right word for how intently she followed the bird’s flight. She did the same with a spider’s web or a wildflower. The first time I’d seen her do it, I’d thought it an affectation. It wasn’t though, it was a connection. The kingfisher followed the stream’s curve and disappeared.
“Those flowers Friday night were like a Monet painting,” Becky said, brightening, “except better because the flowers were alive.”
“Sorry I missed that.”
“I want to show you something,” Becky said, and took my hand, leading me across the bridge.
“If this is another episode of Nature’s Wonders, it needs to be a short one.”
“It is,” Becky said, and smiled.
We walked up to where the creek curved. The meadow appeared, behind it the road and across it Tucker’s lodge.
“Here,” Becky said, pointing at a blackberry bush.
But before I looked closer, I heard Gerald’s truck, then saw it bump over the culvert where Locust Creek entered the park, dust rooster-tailing in its wake as Gerald turned into the resort’s drive.
“I’ve got to go,” I told Becky.
I walked fast and then trotted, the bridge’s planks shuddering as I crossed. Becky followed, shouting for an explanation.
“Gerald’s gone to the resort to cause trouble,” I said and got in my car, already cursing myself, because I should have known this might happen.
When I got there, Gerald was facedown on the lodge’s concrete sidewalk. A security guard jabbed a knee into Gerald’s back, while his right hand held a Beretta’s muzzle inches from Gerald’s head. Another security guard stood beside them. Tucker shouted at the guard from the porch as I warned him to put the gun on the ground. Becky’s truck door slammed and she ran toward us, shouting as well. The guard looked up at me but didn’t put the pistol down until Tucker nodded. I picked it up and saw the safety was off.
Becky grabbed the guard by the collar and jerked so hard he tumbled off Gerald and onto his back. Sobbing, she helped Gerald to a sitting position. The right side of his face looked like a sander had been at it. Becky talked to him but Gerald was too dazed to understand. His pill bottle lay on the ground and Becky took out a nitroglycerin tablet and pressed it into his mouth.
“He okay?” I asked.
“His heart at least,” Becky said. Tears still streamed down her face as she turned to the guard. “You had no right to do this. No right.”
“He damn well did,” Tucker shouted as he came down the porch steps. “He was doing his job, protecting me.”
Instead of his usual suit and