Nothing Left to Burn Read online

  When he climbs into his truck to leave, my mother walks to the pile of wood he has thrown from the bed of his truck and pretends to sum up the pieces. But she watches him drive out of the driveway, up the hill, and then sink from sight.

  She walks back inside the house, my father’s doublewide, and says, “The woodman was just here.” She smiles and I can feel her excitement. “He’s a hard worker. You know, all the money he earns cutting wood for people, he saves it up so he can take trips out West to hunt.”

  “I bet it’s nice out there,” I say. “You should go out there sometime.”

  “Yeah,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “I bet that’ll really happen.”

  The next night while I mow grass, Reggie pulls into the driveway. I turn off the old Case garden tractor and walk toward his truck to finally meet him. When he talks, I can see the brown tobacco stains on his teeth. His bare back and torso glisten. The elastic lip of sweat-stained briefs creep up from under his sagging blue jeans. Before he leaves, he offers me his large, calloused hand.

  “Nice meeting you,” he says.

  He walks with a limp toward the cab of his truck, and I ask if he dropped a piece of wood on his foot.

  “No, that’s ’cause of my toe.” He says this without embarrassment or humor. “Lobbed it off with a push mower a few years back. Doctors said my balance won’t never be right again.”

  While my mother and I stack the pieces of wood, she tells me about the hunting trips Reggie takes to Montana, New Mexico, and Wyoming, all of it funded by cutting wood on the side. He has brought her pictures of slaughtered elk and antelope, and photographs of sky-scraping mountains.

  “He told me he can’t come tomorrow night,” my mother says. “He’s taking his wife and son up to the Huntingdon County Fair. He wants to see the tractor pull.”

  “Well, I can’t blame him,” I say. “That’s where I’d want to be on a Saturday night.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she says. “He’s a good guy.”

  “Seems like he is. You never told me he was married. I thought you liked him.”

  “Oh, you know.” She smiles.

  But I know she doesn’t like him in that way. It’s been so long since anyone, let alone a man, paid attention to her, she’s just smitten with the chance to interact with someone.

  “This doesn’t make sense, does it?” she asks. “Stacking wood in this stinking heat just so you can burn it in the winter and not freeze?”

  “No, I guess not,” I say.

  “You know where I wish I was?” She stops and brushes the back of her gloved hand across her forehead to soak up some of the sweat. “Alaska.”

  “Well, I hate to ruin it for you, but it’s cold up there too.”

  “Yeah, but they say it’s supposed to feel like a different kind of cold,” she says.

  When the sun begins to sink on the western horizon, my mother asks me for the time. I slip off my glove, and press the button for the light on the side of my watch, that same Timex Ironman that Pap had bought for me before my dad died.

  Semis hum along the highway and their Jake Brakes patter as they slow to drive through McVeytown, the small kernel of a village where the memory of my father endures. A freight train clanks along the railroad tracks, and the metallic beats echo against the hills. It no longer feels that the world continues to pass by my mother and me, but at this moment I’m not sure that it would even matter. After all that we have been through, my mother and I still have each other. We work silently under a crimson twilight that fires over the ridges, burns across the roof of our doublewide, and then spreads a warm glow that washes across cornfields for miles and miles.

  Author’s Note

  During his eulogy for Helen, my father’s brother Curt stood behind the lectern at the front of the funeral home. Before he began to tell stories from her life, he asked a rhetorical question: “I thought yesterday, if I were to write a book on my mother’s life, what would I include in each chapter?”

  He mentioned her time at the hotel, when this woman with little business experience kept the books and acted as much as a manager as a psychologist for the down-on-their-luck tenants. He said that she had survived the most difficult ordeal of her life, my father’s death, with steady resolve and a belief in God. If a friend or neighbor was sick or in the hospital, Helen stopped by for a visit — she never forgot about those who suffered. And no matter what part of the country she was in, Helen would always find the one person at a highway rest stop or restaurant also from Pennsylvania.

  But the best story he told was about Helen’s fear of water. She wanted to make sure that all of her kids knew how to swim because she had never learned. Of course, I remembered how she encouraged my mother to enroll me for lessons at the local pool one summer. Helen wasn’t the prettiest sight in a bathing suit, my uncle said, but she was determined to swim. During her first few attempts at the YMCA, she did little more than flail and splash — she didn’t even drift from side to side, somehow staying absolutely immobile. But none of this deterred her. She went back again and again, bent on making some kind of progress. After a while, my uncle thought that it might be time to take her aside, tell her that though she had tried her best, she just wasn’t getting anywhere. But finally, one day, she did. Amid the waves of spattering water, the churning arms, her pumping legs, she swam. It was only six feet, but it was something.

  “I would want that in a book,” my uncle said, wiping away tears.

  After the funeral, I spoke with both my uncles, especially Uncle Curt. He was divorced now, though he still lived in Ohio. He asked about what I done in the eight years since I had last seen him at Lucky’s funeral. After a half hour or so, when we had run out of news to share, there was a silence. He asked for my contact info, telling me that Helen and Lucky had left an insurance policy behind for me since my father had died, and said that he would send the information. A month later, he called to let me know the paperwork was in the mail and asked me what the weather was like in Virginia.

  As I write this final note, nearly two years have passed since I finished the first manuscript, and most in my family still do not know about this book. I’ve given great thought as to how they will react, along with those in my hometown. Many people there still remember my father — and his parents — fondly. In the case of his mother and father, I do not intend to spoil or ruin what others might recall, only to share my experience and hope that it sheds a greater light on the events many already know. Though questions in this story will never be answered, I know for certain that everything my father did was with the best of intentions. It took years for me to reconcile with the times the fire company pulled him away from our family. This book, I hope, shows his motivations, pulls back the curtain on the very public life he led in our town, and helps explain why he sacrificed so much for so many.

  My mother might not have rushed off into the night or sawed open crushed automobiles. She never drove through town in a parade. But she taught me to unapologetically stand by the right decision, even when an entire town disagrees with you. Though she would never speak up in a crowd, my mother has the strongest voice of anyone I know. She raised a son, largely on her own, but also with the help of two loving, remarkable grandparents.

  My mother only asked that I include one thing in this book. She wants it made clear to everyone in our hometown that she urged me to write none of this. I understand her concern — the town is small and people talk. Unlike me, my mother still lives near there and she worries that many will wonder why she ever told me these stories about our family. And, most important, I am picking open a scab that will never fully heal. Confronting any of this is still painful for both of us. But make no mistake — it was my decision to tell this story.

  Some people will no doubt recall events and dialogue differently. Some might say that portions of this are entirely wrong. But ultimately, I can’t guess how any of them will react. What I know is that everything in this book is my truth. And, for my father, I hop
e that this book only cements what I believe many felt about him — that he was a hero.

  He will always be mine.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Daniel Lazar. I can’t imagine a better agent. You’re a tireless fighter, an excellent reader, and a wonderful human being. Plus, you answer every question with humor and grace.

  Also, thanks to everyone else at Writers House who contributed their guidance and expertise.

  Chuck Adams, you deserve more than a simple thank you. You believed in me and this book. And through it all, you have given me the very best. I am forever indebted.

  Also, thanks go out to Ina Stern, Craig Popelars, Michael Taeckens, Courtney Wilson, and everyone else at Algonquin who helped.

  David Gessner offered relentless enthusiasm, interest, and encouragement. He gave me just the right push when I needed it the most.

  Clyde Edgerton and Phil Furia offered wonderful insights and lessons.

  Wendy Brenner always e-mailed me back within minutes, no matter what.

  Also, thanks to Rebecca Lee, Philip Gerard, Tim Bass, Nina de Gramont, Megan Hubbard, and everyone else at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington.

  John Jeremiah Sullivan, Virginia Holman, and Bill Roorbach all read various and partial drafts of this book. Your thoughts and encouragement were invaluable.

  Thanks to the staff of Ecotone: Reimagining Place.

  Gary Fincke and Tom Bailey at Susquehanna University. You were truly the first people to encourage me. I would not have typed any of these words if not for you. Not a day passes when I don’t think of something I learned in class or in the basement of Hassinger Hall.

  Also, thanks to Karen Holmberg, Kate Hastings, Amy Winans, Mary Bannon, Susan Bowers, Mark Fertig, and Crystal VanHorn at Susquehanna.

  Adam Cole, Nick Ripatrazone, Mark Martelli, Katelen Marr, Devon Persing, Zach Macholz, Jenny Ruth Binger, Hannah Gilbert, Shanna Powlus Wheeler, Josh Lapekas, and all of my peers at Susquehanna offered great advice and friendship.

  For the current and former Wilmington crop: Chris McSween, Jake Hinkson, Bill Carty, Bryan and Heather Sandala, Ben and Emily Gorman-Fancy, Adam Petry, Doug Bourne, Emily Smith, Lauren Breeden Hodges, Miriam Parker, Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams, Jason and Lauren Frye, Rory Laverty, David and Jo Howell, Sumanth Prabhaker, Joel Moore, Patricia Moyer, Julie Overman, Douglas Cutting, Emily Self Brown, Heather Hamilton, Kirsten Holmstedt, Louisa Jonas, MaryEllen Martino, Tom Kunz, Matt Tullis, Stephanie J. Andersen, Stevie Lynne Kohler, Visha Burart, Xhenet Aliu, Daisy Barringer, Erin Bond, Gwendolyn Knapp, Chris Malpass, Lindsey Ronfeldt, Shawna Kenney, Rich Dolinger, Brad Land, Eric Vithalani, and everyone else I should have listed. Without all of them, I would have never survived the Dub.

  Gabe Spece has attended many (and hopefully more) Pearl Jam concerts with me, read all the drafts of this book and everything else, and this is just the beginning.

  Patrick Culliton answers the phone every time I call. He’s the only Buckeye I’ve ever befriended, and coming from a Penn State fan, that’s saying something.

  Matt and Luke Primak — you guys taught me how to play music, and much more.

  Andrew Kissinger will probably never room with a moody writer again.

  Eric Mowery heard all of this before over countless cups of coffee at Red’s.

  Matt Rutherford still debates politics with me.

  And of course Frank Grimes.

  Elaine Siddons took a chance on a shy kid out of college and turned him into a better writer, as she did with so many other reporters.

  Susie Kozar can still call me “Jaybird,” no matter what.

  Carey Goodman, Jamie Estes, Lorri Freitas, and Southern Teachers Agency.

  I owe Adam Peichert about $200 in gas money.

  Mifflin County, Pennsylvania — despite it all, I still love you.

  My cousins Travis, Jeremy, and Jason — you are like my brothers.

  To my family. There are so many others who have impacted my life with their care, support, and kindness.

  Pap and Nena — no words can ever express proper thanks for all that you’ve done and the love you’ve given me.

  To my mother. Somehow, we made it through all of this. I believe it was only because we had each other. You never wanted me to write this story and perhaps you’ll never even make it so far as to read this. I only hope that I got this right. Despite all his flaws, my dad was still a great man who always tried to do what was right. If I ever become half the man he was, it will be because of your love.

  And to my wife, Danielle DeRise, the reader I value most. Your support, comments, encouragement, and love drove me to become a better writer and person. Each day might be possible without you, but none of them would be worth as much.

  Published by

  Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

  Post Office Box 2225

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

  a division of

  Workman Publishing

  225 Varick Street

  New York, New York 10014

  © 2010 by Jay Varner. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  eISBN 978-1-61620-029-9