Nothing Left to Burn Page 15

  On my first trip to Philadelphia to see my father, I carried in my backpack the cards my classmates had made. I rode in the back of Art Kenmore’s Cavalier — he had taken a vacation day from Overhead Door to drive my mother and me. Near Harrisburg, I saw some signs for Hershey Park. I remembered my father’s promise of riding the Superdooperlooper with me. We drove on the Pennsylvania Turnpike for miles and finally merged onto the expressway. We sped along the river and toward the massive Philadelphia skyscrapers. It seemed hard to believe that this city and McVeytown were in the same state.

  My mother tried to visit my dad every week but had to find someone to take her each time. The heavy traffic near Philadelphia scared her — her tiny Chevette would never have kept up with the cars racing along the Schuylkill Expressway, plus she had never driven through a city before. Sometimes Pap took a day off from the prison and drove her and my grandmother. Other times her brother, Jed, or Lucky and Helen drove my mother. Before she left, I always told her to hug my father for me.

  Art thought he knew a shortcut to Hahnemann University Hospital. We drove deeper and deeper into the city, past the Liberty Bell, past homeless men who wanted to wash our windows. My mother looked at a map and realized we were lost. While Art circled Chinatown, smoke and steam spewed from under the hood of the car. He parked along the street and popped the hood. The radiator hose had burst. He closed the hood, looked across the street, and saw a restaurant.

  “Maybe they can help me out,” he said.

  My mother and I waited in the car, the doors locked. Finally, Art ran back across the street with a wad of duct tape wrapped around his hand. He opened the hood again and taped the hose.

  “Where did you get that?” my mother asked.

  “In the bathroom,” he said. “This was wrapped around one of the pipes on the toilet.” He slammed the hood of his car and smiled. “It was all I could think to do.”

  Art told my father the story when we got to the hospital. My dad laughed and said, “You’re a regular MacGyver. I bet that bathroom is probably flooded now.”

  My father looked thinner than ever. He explained that the transplant nearly killed him. The new stem cells depleted his white blood cells to almost nonexistence. Slowly, they would rebuild, and that meant the new cells would fill his bone marrow as well.

  “Getting better,” he said. He adjusted his shoulders, looking uncomfortable on the hospital bed. “Little ways to go before I’m good as new again.”

  “Dad, can you take me fishing this year?” I asked. I remembered the promise I had made to see my father more.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “We’ll see how I feel. But we should go out. It’d be fun. Maybe you could go with Art?”

  “I want to go with you.”

  Art smiled at my father. He nodded and said, “A boy should go with his father.”

  My father rubbed a hand through my hair. “Okay, when I feel better, I promise that I’ll take you.”

  “That’d be great,” my mother said.

  I laid my backpack on his bed and gave my father the get-well cards. My classmates had drawn pictures of fire trucks, Dalmatians, smiley faces, and rainbows.

  When my dad finished reading them, he smiled. It seemed that he knew just how important he was to my mother and me and to McVeytown. Finally, he said, “Teena, maybe you and Jay want to go to the cafeteria and get some food.”

  “I don’t feel like I even want to let you out of my sight,” she said.

  “Jay’s probably hungry,” he said. “Besides, Art and I should talk about some fire-company stuff. Don’t want you two to get bored by a couple of firemen.”

  My mother stared at my father. Her face hardened and I could tell she was hurt.

  “Just for a few minutes,” my dad said. “Besides, it’ll be good for me. It’ll help me get back to normal, you know?”

  As my mother and I ate hamburgers in the cafeteria, I asked her why my father still had to fight fires. “Could it make the cancer come back?”

  “I don’t know,” my mother said. “I wish he wouldn’t. But I always wished that.”

  “Can’t we make him stop somehow?”

  “It’s who your father is,” she said. “He doesn’t know anything else.”

  The doctors in Hahnemann were some of the best oncologists in the country. None of them knew exactly why cancer had formed inside my father’s bones. Their best guess had been the years of fighting fires and breathing in the chemical-laden smoke. By the time my father was diagnosed, he had already spent half of his life as a fireman.

  Years later, my mother told me another theory about the disease. Some people believed stress caused his cancer, though there was no medical proof that this was true. My father carried Lucky’s legacy on his shoulders like one of those SCBA units he wore at fires — it weighed upon him.

  In March, two weeks before my father returned home from Philadelphia, the Oden’s barn caught fire. Dan Oden had driven a tractor into the barn to grind ears of corn into feed for the cattle. A spark flew from the tractor’s engine and landed in some dry hay bales. Within minutes, the entire top floor of the barn was in flames.

  When I rode past the scene in the school bus that afternoon, dozens of fire trucks surrounded the farm — that top floor had been completely destroyed. Black, smoking rubble remained. The other kids on the bus rushed to windows, pressing their hands against the glass.

  The first floor, which held the milking stalls and some of the cattle, had survived because it had been built from cinder block and concrete. It now resembled those burned walls of the house in which Lucky had kept his pigeons.

  Two days later, Amish and Mennonite neighbors arrived at the farm early in the morning. They had brought lumber, nails, and hammers, offering to rebuild the barn at no charge. It was their way of helping the community, of supporting other farmers. My mother and I watched the barn raising with Pap and Nena — we sat in their front yard and ate a picnic lunch. We said little, in awe of the men’s work ethic and their speed. By midafternoon, the crew of three dozen men had rebuilt the entire barn.

  I wondered if that barn would have burned if my father hadn’t been in the hospital. Without their fire chief, I wondered how the McVeytown Volunteer Fire Company could survive — my dad seemed integral to its existence. I wondered if someone else stopped at the firehouse each afternoon like my father had. And I thought back to the day my dad saved the presents when our neighbor’s house caught fire. Maybe if he had led his firemen at the Odens’ barn, they would have saved everything.

  It seemed that everyone waited for my dad’s return. My mother marked each passing day that month with an X on the kitchen calendar. He had been absent for so long, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to hear his voice loud and clear instead of through a telephone line. And it seemed impossible that my father would once again sit at our table for dinner or in his recliner in the living room. I didn’t even care if he left for the firehouse like he always had — I just wanted him back home in McVeytown.

  Still, I understood that when he came back, our lives wouldn’t be like before. My mother warned that my father would still be tired — the transplant had taken a lot out of him. It would be weeks before he could return to work, and the firehouse would be off limits as well, at least according to the doctors. My father would need to sleep a lot and slowly ease back into his regular life.

  A few days before he returned home, my mother tied a yellow ribbon around the English walnut tree in our front yard. She explained that Tony Orlando and Dawn had a song called “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree” in the 1970s, about a man returning home from prison who asked his girlfriend to tie a yellow ribbon on the tree to show if she still loved him.

  “We want your dad to know that we still love him,” my mother said. “And that we missed him.”

  The night before he came home, I barely slept at all, anticipating hearing my father’s voice in the house again. He had promised to take me fishing. And we would r
eturn to Hershey Park and ride the Superdooperlooper together. Things would be different.

  Pap drove my mother and me to Philadelphia to bring my father home. As we approached the city, I was no longer in awe of its size — instead, it looked menacing, an evil place that had trapped my father for months. I hoped that I would never have to return there.

  My dad sat on the edge of his hospital bed, waiting for us to come through the doorway. He looked healthier than the last time I saw him, though his skin was still pasty and his hair looked like brown fuzz. He smiled and seemed to have more energy.

  “It’s about time,” he said. “I was ready to come home about three months ago.”

  My mother walked him into the bathroom and helped him change from his white hospital gown. When he came out, he wore a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and his steel-toed boots. He sat back down on his bed and sighed.

  “I’m still pretty tired,” he said. “The doctor said that I had to take a wheelchair to the car.”

  My mother pushed him down the hallways, into elevators, and toward the car. It seemed that our walk took hours — I just couldn’t wait until we were all home again.

  At the car, my dad stood up from the wheelchair. He looked fragile and a bit unsteady. He turned and stared at the hospital for a minute. Finally, he looked down at me and said, “Let’s go home, kiddo.”

  He slept for most of the ride back to Mifflin County. Mom and I, and even Pap, who was driving, kept looking at my father. It felt almost unbelievable. It felt as though if we let him out of our sight, he might be gone for another four months. As we entered McVeytown, my mother pointed out a yellow ribbon on a telephone pole. Soon, we saw yellow ribbons on highway signs, trees, and on the front doors of people’s homes. A sign in front of the firehouse read WELCOME HOME, CHIEF.

  My dad sat silent, amazed. “They did all this for me?”

  Nineteen

  On Easter Sunday, my parents and I went to church. People flocked to my father, hugging him, shaking his hand, and just wanting to be near him. The medicine had worked, God had answered our prayers. It was a miracle, just like Rev. Goodman had said — most people did not survive bone cancer.

  We sat in our usual pew in the middle of the church. When Rev. Goodman delivered the morning prayer, he stopped and looked toward my father.

  “Today is very special for us,” he said. “As I’m sure many of you saw, Denton Varner is with us this morning. He returned home from Philadelphia last week. We thank God that he’s here today.”

  A few people shouted “Amen” and “Praise God.”

  Rev. Goodman raised a hand toward my father. “Denton, I understand there is something you would like to say to the congregation.”

  My dad stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and cleared his throat.

  “I can’t thank everyone enough,” he said. “Your prayers for me, for Jay and Teena, the cards and love that everyone here gave me, were incredible and humbling.”

  He lowered his head and swallowed. “I know you might not think this is the place, but I heard a joke and I think it’s appropriate to tell about my, uh, about our situation here. There’s a man who hears that a flood is coming. He goes outside and someone in a car stops. They say, ‘Hey buddy, better get in this car, there’s a flood coming.’ The guy says, ‘I’m not worried. God will save me.’ A few hours later, the water’s rising and it’s up to the man’s shoulders. Another a man comes through, this time in a boat. He tells the guy to get in, but he refuses. ‘I’m not worried. God will save me.’ Well, now it’s really raining. The guy climbs onto the roof of his house. A helicopter comes, throws down a rope, and they tell the guy to climb inside. The guy shakes his head and says, ‘No, God is going to save me.’ Well, wouldn’t you know it, but the guy drowns. He gets to heaven and he meets up with God. He says, ‘God, I had faith this whole time that you were going to save me. Why didn’t you?’ God smiled and said, ‘I tried. I sent a car, a boat, and a helicopter. What more do you need?’”

  Everyone laughed, some even applauded. Rev. Goodman smiled and nodded.

  “The point is,” my father said, once the laughter stopped, “I was that guy. No matter what, I believed God would help me. Of course, the guy in the story didn’t take all the opportunities that came along. And I know that sometimes my priorities haven’t quite been right. But I learned a lot from going through this, much of it from people here. And I’m not going to get distracted from the important things in life again. It’s too short for any of that.”

  In the weeks that followed, his strength returned. He gained weight, more than he ever had — the doctors gave him steroids to bulk up and regain his appetite. His hair grew back — it was very thin, but there was almost enough to cut. And he returned to the firehouse, leading meetings and taking care of business, just like before. But he didn’t go out on calls. Sometimes he even turned off his pager while he slept in the afternoons. I wondered if what he had said in church was actually true. It seemed my father was becoming like one of those dads my friends at school talked about.

  On my birthday, we visited Lucky and Helen as always. My mother and I had hardly seen them since they moved to McVey-town. While my father was in Philadelphia, they hadn’t stopped by to see us at all. And when my father returned home, they waited for him to visit them.

  When we pulled into their driveway, I realized that I hadn’t even stepped foot inside their new home yet. The two-story white house sat just yards from the highway. My parents and I walked across the yard. Every time an eighteen-wheeler passed, I could feel the rumble in my stomach. It felt like the trucks would drive right off the road and run us over.

  Helen and Lucky stood on their back porch, which led to a sloping yard and then the banks of the Juniata River. Lucky folded his arms, looking as if he already wanted to go back inside and read one of his pigeon magazines — I heard his birds cooing in the coop he had built for them. The small building sat underneath a few elm trees. Helen, standing next to him, waved and smiled.

  Another eighteen-wheeler roared past and I tensed up, inching closer to my father for protection.

  “Happy birthday,” Helen said.

  Lucky walked down the porch steps and grabbed my biceps. “Come with me.”

  I squirmed out of his grasp. “Why?”

  My mother stepped forward, ready to protect me. “What are you doing?” my mother said. She looked at my father, worried and angry.

  “Just wait,” my father said. He patted her shoulder. “Hold on, you’ll see.”

  “Dad?” I asked.

  He smiled and knelt in front of me. “Go with Pappy. He wants to show you something.”

  Lucky yanked my arm again and we walked across the yard. Weeds grew against the base of the house — it looked like Lucky never used a Weed Eater or trimmed around any of the trees. A truck hummed and rattled on the highway next to us. I felt the warm air blow over my face. The air was thick with diesel fumes.

  I wondered where he was taking me, and even though my father had told me to go, I was unsure. Maybe Lucky wanted to show me his pigeons. Or maybe he was going to throw me in the river — Helen had wanted me to get swimming lessons for several years now. Finally, we stopped by an azalea bush.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  A bicycle leaned against the tree. It was a twenty-inch, with new tires and polished chrome spokes. My heart thumped hard — this was my birthday present.

  “I found this bike along the highway,” Lucky said. “Must have fallen off a truck or something. I thought maybe you’d want it.”

  “You found it?”

  He huffed and shook his head. “Do you believe everything? It was a joke. Your grandmother and I got it for you for your birthday. You want it or not?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Yeah. Thanks, Pappy.”

  He nodded and grabbed the handlebars. “Sit on it. See how it feels.”

  I mounted the bike. I closed my eyes and imagined pedaling down hills and over fields. Maybe m
y dad could get a bike too. We’d ride together.

  “Put your feet on the pedals,” Lucky said. “I’ll push you back to your dad.”

  More trucks rushed past on the highway, and for a moment, I worried that Lucky would push me into their path. But my dad said this would be okay, and I had to believe.

  “Don’t let go,” I said.

  “I won’t let go,” he said. “Just hold on. Get a feel for the bike.”

  We started slow. I felt Lucky pushing the bike. I smelled his cheap cologne and the strong odor of fabric softener. We passed trees and moved back toward my parents.

  “Pedal,” Lucky said. “There’s only one way to learn how to ride a bike.”

  The bike started to wobble. I looked behind me — Lucky stood in the yard, watching me ride away. My hands squeezed the hand grips and my body tensed. If I turned too fast, the bike might go onto the highway. I continued to pedal and pick up speed. I passed the back porch and saw my parents.

  My dad smiled. “Keep going. Keep riding.”

  “Help me,” I said. “I can’t stop.”

  The end of the yard and a line of trees lay in front of me. I slowly turned the handlebar. The bike made a U-turn and I approached my parents again.

  “I want off,” I yelled. “How do I stop?”

  “Pedal backward,” my dad said.

  The bike wobbled a bit and I felt unsteady, as if I could crash at any minute. I passed Lucky — he didn’t even look at me. I kicked the pedals backward and the bike tipped over in the grass. For a few moments, I lay still, unsure of what had just happened.

  “What did you do to him?” my mother asked. “Did you make him ride that?”

  Someone walked in the grass behind me. I looked up and saw Lucky.

  “Get up and get back on,” Lucky said.

  “No,” I said. “Don’t push me again.”

  “If you don’t get on it again, you’ll never learn to do anything.”

  “Leave me alone,” I said. “I want Dad to teach me.”