Above the Waterfall (3 page)

One night the Discovery Channel showed a documentary about sheep in Wales. If the owner sold his flock, he had to sell the pasture as well, because, after so many generations, the sheep would be too rooted in that place to survive elsewhere. Little different for men like Gerald, I thought as I turned off the main road and onto the Blue Ridge Parkway. I'd seen others besides C.J.'s great-uncle leave houses where they and their families had lived for generations. They'd enter nursing homes or move in with sons or daughters. Like I'd told C.J., you'd be going to their funerals within six months.

I turned off the Parkway and passed the sign that said
ENTRANCE LOCUST CREEK STATE PARK.
I slowed and saw Becky's green state truck in the parking lot. I didn't turn
in but followed the main road, soon passing another sign,
LOCUST CREEK RESORT
. On the left, the woods fell away, replaced by grass as manicured as a golf green, farther back the stone lodge itself. With its sixty rooms and three stories, the building parted the woods like a battleship, the same gray color and every bit as solid. A crazy idea, people had thought, turning the Tucker family's best bottomland into a tourist destination, but Harold Tucker had known what he was doing. He was a rich man now, with a second resort in Myrtle Beach. After college, C.J. had worked twelve years with an ad agency in Wilmington, but when a public relations position opened at Tucker's Myrtle Beach resort, he applied and got hired. Even after almost two decades, Harold Tucker had remembered him, and how hard C.J. worked for him as a teenager. The man believed in loyalty, and C.J. had been loyal to Tucker as well, which was why I figured he'd stick by C.J., even in a bad economy.

Where Locust Creek ran closest to the resort, a fly-fishing instructor stood beside a client dressed as if posing for an Orvis catalog, wicker creel and all. Not that he'd need much instruction. Tucker had the stream so well-stocked that all the guy had to do was hit water. Along the road's edge, spaced just yards apart, bright yellow signs:

NO TRESPASSING

ALL VIOLATORS PROSECUTED

I bumped over the culvert where Locust Creek entered a meadow on the state park side. Blacktop ended and gravel clattered as I crossed onto Gerald's property. He owned no cattle now, but the pasture's barbed wire fences didn't sag or the locust posts lean. A tin shed protected a Ford Red Belly tractor that a collector would pay good money for. I knew if I checked the oil stick, it would mark the right level and the fuel filter would be clean as a new sponge. Men of Gerald's generation took pride in such things, which made the patch of land beyond the woodshed appear so out of place. Charred wood and rusty tin poked out of kudzu and honeysuckle. It was all that remained of the house Gerald had built for his son, William.

Gerald was worming his tomatoes. He wiped his hands on his overalls and came to meet me. Even at seventy-six, he was a man not to be trifled with. Six feet tall and easily two-thirty, with little of that weight hanging over his belt. Gerald sheared his white hair and beard with scissors, keeping both short but ragged. Years back, a snapped logging chain had ripped open the right side of his face. The purple scar that stretched from eye to chin looked like a centipede had burrowed under his skin.

The scar and the size of the man, even the desert camo cap William had worn in Kuwait, all these things would have unsettled Tucker's guest. The story of your life is in your face, an old country song claimed, a hard life in
Gerald's case. How could it not be for a man whose only child died at nineteen. Now his wife, Agnes, was gone too. Over the years, he and I had gotten along well enough, but his anger could flare up like a struck match. When it did, people gave Gerald a wide berth. Yet you never saw that part of him when he was around Becky. Watching him dote on her, and her him, you'd think him the mildest of men. He looked that way now, smiling as we shook hands.

“Nice tomatoes,” I said.

“They ought to be. Becky's got me fussing over them enough. But she's near convinced me she's right. I didn't dust a bit of Sevin on them. And feature how dark that corn is. I done it without pesticides too.”

I looked at the field. The shucks had the right coloration, the tassels blond and silky.

Gerald tapped his chest.

“What with this bad ticker, I can't handle but an acre. Doc Washburn got on me for doing that much. Anyway, those tomatoes are riped up good so carry a few home with you.”

“Thanks, but not today.”

“So what brings you out this way, Sheriff?”

“Becky said that Darby's had your lawn mower for two weeks.”

Gerald's smile disappeared.

“What of it?”

“I'm of a mind it's past time for him to bring it back.”

Gerald looked down and scuffed up a bit of dirt with his boot toe.

“If that's why you come out here, I got nothing to say to you.”

“Actually, it's not, Gerald. You scared a woman at the resort yesterday, bad enough that she packed up and left.”

“I didn't mean to spook that woman,” Gerald said. “The trail took a curve and of a sudden she was there. Hell, she give me a jolt too.”

“C.J. Gant warned you not to go up there. Tucker's signs told you the same thing.”

Gerald's chin lifted and his gray eyes narrowed.

“What about all the times Harold Tucker's bird watchers and flower sniffers come onto my land? I never rough-talked a one of them.”

“That may be, but I'm here to tell you the next time you trespass I'll charge you.”

“So you're taking their side?”

“The only side I'm taking is the law's. There are other places to fish. Go over to the park and catch your trout there. Becky's always glad to see you.”

“Who claimed me to be fishing?” Gerald bristled. “Any that says so 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.”

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 paint
ing,” 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 tie, Tucker wore a blue polo shirt and white khakis, probably planning on an afternoon of golf, at least before this happened. I raised an open palm and warned Tucker not to come nearer. I went over and set my free hand on Becky's shoulder. Her whole body shook, but the sobs had stopped.

“It's okay. Just take care of Gerald,” I said, keeping my
hand on her shoulder as I turned to Tucker. “What in the hell happened?”

“He came up here cursing and raising hell,” Tucker said, “saying he'd come to set things straight with me and nobody, including my guards, was going to stop him. I've got witnesses.”

“Did he physically assault you?” I asked. “Did he threaten you directly?”

“I didn't give him the goddamn chance,” Tucker bristled. “Why the hell do you think I have security?”

“Did Gerald have a weapon?” I asked the security guard.

“No, but he said he was going inside to see Mr. Tucker and that we couldn't stop him.”

“So you shoved an old man onto concrete and pulled a gun on him?”

“They were doing their job, Sheriff,” Tucker said.

Gerald muttered something to Becky.

“He wants to get up,” she said to me.

Becky and I helped Gerald to his feet. He looked around but he seemed unable to focus. Becky placed a hand on his arm to steady him.

“Get him to the doctor,” I told Becky.

She kept the hand on Gerald's arm as he shuffled to her truck.

“You're not taking him straight to jail?” Tucker asked
incredulously. He raised a hand to the hearing aid plugged into his right ear, as if it had surely malfunctioned. “Are you shitting me?”

With his heavily creased face, unconcealed hearing aid, and no attempt at a comb-over of what hair he had left, Tucker seemed reconciled to his age, until you noticed his body. He wasn't a tall man, five eight or so, but wide-shouldered, his body veeing to a narrow waist. Tucker had played football at NC State in the late sixties and even at seventy he radiated a running back's compact, barely contained power. It wasn't just golf that kept him in shape. I'd seen him at the Y in town, working with a trainer and always using free weights, not the machines. I felt that power directed at me now, and plenty of frustration.

“No,” I answered. “If your people had handled this right, I might be. That Beretta your security guard pointed at Gerald had its safety off. If I'm arresting anyone, it's your employee for reckless endangerment.”

“Is that right about the safety?” Tucker asked the security guard.

The guard began to mutter something in his own defense, but Tucker cut him off.

“Get out of my sight before I fire you,” Tucker said, and turned to me. “I'm still swearing out a warrant on Gerald.”

“Fine, but I'll not serve it.”

Tucker wasn't a man used to people bucking him. He looked about to say something more, then abruptly turned and walked back up to the porch where C.J. now stood. Tucker passed him without any acknowledgment. I was about to speak to C.J. but he turned and went inside as well.