To Catch A Firefly

By Carol Thompson

Genevive Pearce is eight years old when she moves from Macon, Georgia to Elm Grove, New York. Coping with the death of her brother and yearning to return to her southern roots, Genevive does her best to settle into her new surroundings. She befriends Marty, a neighborhood boy with a vivid imagination and a penchant for adventure. When tragedy strikes her friend, Genevive is innocently caught between the political wrangling of two prominent families, and is forced to testify against the son of the most powerful man in Elm Grove. As Marty lies in a hospital bed fighting for his life, Genevive will give compelling testimony that will prove the truth can indeed set you free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Thompson
• Release date: Nov 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310930836

Book preview

To Catch

a

Firefly

Carol Thompson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Carol Thompson

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1482360969

ISBN-13: 978-1482360967

For Mom

R.I.P.

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,

No birth, identity, form--no object of the world.

Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;

Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.

Ample are time and space--ample the fields of Nature.

The body, sluggish, aged, cold--the embers left from earlier fires,

The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;

The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;

To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,

With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.

Walt Whitman

(1819-1892)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are many people to whom I owe thanks. Terri and Casey, you are among them.

Thank you to Sissy for not only supporting me, but for instinctively knowing when to take me away on a road trip. I love you.

A special thanks to Natalija Brunner, my dear friend who not only supports me, but sends me chocolate from Germany.

Thank you to Charlotte of CLK-Design for the cover art, and a special thanks to Mary E. Manchin for the cover design and text composition. You are both truly talented.

I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Connie Berry for the final edit and proofreading. You made this book better. A special thank you to Kathryn Galán, Wynnpix Productions, for the editing, design, and layout. You are simply the best!

And finally, thank you to Doug. Without your friendship and wit, there would be no book.

CHAPTER 1

HAD YOU STOOD in 1960 at the top step of the courthouse and looked across the river, you could have seen in the woods the majestic home built by Franklin Hubbs. It was a mansion with pillars that looked as if they touched the sky and a stately cast-iron fence that protected the grounds from unwanted visitors. If the foliage was any indication, Franklin Hubbs was clearly the monarch of the forest.

Hubbs’ wealth made him the most powerful man in Winch County. He owned the local lumber mill and became the mayor of Elm Grove after serving twenty years in the state Legislature. Hubbs ruled the weary, bedroom town with an iron fist, governing with a fear and intimidation that he treated as his birthright. Dare to cross Franklin Hubbs, and there would be no escaping his wrath.

I was eight when I moved from Macon, Georgia to Elm Grove, New York so that my father, Alexander Pearce, could take over my grandfather’s newspaper business. I didn’t want to leave Macon or my friends, but Daddy said it was his responsibility to take over the business when his daddy retired. On occasion, I would hear Momma and Daddy talk about moving north, but I figured the time was a long way off. My grandpa, after all, didn’t look so old. He didn’t have gray hair or walk with a cane, and whenever he came for a visit he could kick a ball and run bases just as good as any boy in the neighborhood.

I was born in Macon on the Fourth of July in 1951, when Harry Truman was president. We lived in a small house in a quiet neighborhood on a street lined with cherry blossom trees. Right next door lived my best friend, Jimbo. His name was James Bob, but that had an awkward sound to it, and Jimbo sounded more appropriate. He didn’t take it too well at first, but eventually resigned to it.

I’m not sure how or when Jimbo and I became best friends. I don’t recall formally meeting him, and it was as if he had been my friend forever. If there was something to be said about Jimbo, it was that he would go along with most any idea I came up with. He was timid at times, and although we were the same age, he was a good four inches taller. Jimbo was thin and lanky, wore black-rimmed glasses for nearsightedness, and had small ears that appeared far too tiny for his head. His hair was flaming red and his face was covered with freckles. In the summertime, the hot Georgia sun would turn him lobster red and he would sometimes be housebound for days with sunburn.

We weren’t allowed to wander far, and spent most summer afternoons playing in his backyard. When we were six, we were allowed to cross the street to the park, as long as we stayed together and looked both ways. Most times, my brother A.J., short for Alexander Jonathan, would walk with us. He was two years older and much wiser.

A.J. died when he was nine and I was seven. I was with him when he passed and I never got over the guilt that I could have done something more to help him. We walked to school together every day, and he waited for me by the flagpole at dismissal. Most days, Jimbo would walk with us, but on the day A.J. died, Jimbo had stayed after to help Miss Fisk clap the erasers.

Miss Fisk was no more than twenty-five. She had bottle-bleached hair, large brown eyes, and wore bright red fingernail polish. Her skirts were slender and tight, shaping her petite figure. Her high-heeled shoes made her look like she was walking on stilts.

Miss Fisk began each day by having us write an essay about what we had done the night before. Jimbo said it was to be sure that everyone had had a proper supper and some book reading time, but I was convinced that health and well-being had nothing to do with it. Miss Fisk would venture out of the classroom for a good half-hour. I was sure she was gone to the teacher’s lounge to smoke.

Jimbo would forego ten minutes of lunch every day to wash the blackboard, not because he was smitten with Miss Fisk, but because he wanted to be the teacher’s pet. Once a week, he would stay behind to clap the erasers. He was the only kid who didn’t mind getting covered from head to toe with white powdery chalk. Without question, this made Jimbo the favorite student of Miss Fisk.

I wasn’t favored. Miss Fisk would often remind me that I wasn’t as well-behaved or as academically inclined as A.J. With only one teacher for each grade, I was cast in my brother’s shadow. A.J. liked school and he was a good student. I could take or leave school and most days, I would rather leave.

I stared out the window as everyone else wrote. It was a gloomy day, a sure sign we would not be going outside for recess.

Miss Fisk returned to class and collected our essays. We sat quietly as she reviewed them.

Genevive, did you not eat last night? she asked. You turned nothing in.

I ate, ma’am, I said. Just nothin’ good, that’s all.

Well, what did you have to eat?

I’m thinkin’ that ain’t really none of nobody’s business.

I see. Miss Fisk frowned and shook her head. I mumbled that I meant no disrespect. Meatloaf and sweet peas didn’t make for an interesting two or three paragraph essay.

Miss Fisk read each essay to us. It was rare for her to have us read anything aloud because, coming from Michigan, she struggled with our southern dialect. When any of us spoke, we had to repeat ourselves one or two times before she had a clue what was being said.

The lunch bell rang promptly at noon. Who’s going to stay to help clean the chalkboard? Miss Fisk asked, looking directly at Jimbo.

I will, Miss Fisk. Jimbo’s hand waved high in the air, like a flag blowing back and forth on a windy day.

Thank you, James Bob. Miss Fisk walked to Jimbo’s desk and handed him a small plastic bucket and sponge. Jimbo stood and grabbed the bucket by the handle.

I’ll stay after school an’ clap the erasers if ya’ll want me ta, he offered. Miss Fisk nodded in approval. It was one less task she would have to complete.

We lined up at the door and Miss Fisk excused us to the cafeteria. A.J. was waiting outside the classroom door.

Ya’ll want my lunch, Genevive? he asked.

Why ain’t ya’ll gonna eat it?

I ain’t too hungry.

Well, ya’ll didn’t eat breakfast, an’ Momma’s gonna be mad if ya’ll don’t eat yer san’wich.

A.J’s expression told me that something was wrong. His tanned face was pale and dark circles crested his eyes.

I just ain’t feelin’ much up to peanut butter an’ jelly, said A.J.

Ya’ll sure yer all right? I asked.

I’m fine, he mumbled.

Well, I got my own lunch and I’m not feelin’ much like eatin’ two san’wiches.

A.J. turned and walked away.

Wait up, A.J, I called out. He turned around and shook his head. See ya.

We weren’t allowed to sit in the cafeteria together because we had to sit with our class. The older kids sat on the other side of the room so as not to be bothering the younger students. A.J. sat with his head down, staring at the floor.

I raised my hand. Mrs. Johnson, the lunch aide, quickly acknowledged me.

What ya’ll needin’, Genevive?

Can ya’ll go see if my brother’s all right? He ain’t lookin’ so good Mrs. Johnson, an’ he ain’t eatin’ nothin’ at all.

Mrs. Johnson was a small, wrinkled, elderly woman with a white bouffant and thick dark hair covering her upper lip. She had taught the sixth grade until she retired and came back as a lunch aide after her husband passed. She was kind and motherly.

I’ll go speakin’ to him, Mrs. Johnson said.

Can ya’ll send him ta the nurse? I asked.

We’ll see. Mrs. Johnson patted my back and walked over to A.J. They talked as she placed her hand over his forehead. She shook her head and walked away.

Momma had packed us peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, and potato chips that she had made herself with a fancy deep-fry gadget that Daddy bought for her birthday. Dessert was a homemade peach tart, A.J.’s favorite. It wasn’t a lunch that he would pass up.

I stood as Mrs. Johnson returned.

Ya’ll brother tells me he’s fine. Just a little chilled, she said. He does feel a little warm, but he’s not wantin’ to go to the nurse.

Did ya’ll tell him he ought go? I asked.

I did, but he said he’s not feelin’ that poorly. He’s not wantin’ to miss the afternoon of class.

A.J. was proud as a peacock of his perfect attendance. He hadn’t missed a day of school since kindergarten. He would get an award at the end of each school year and Momma would frame it. There was to be no perfect attendance award for me. If there was a bug going around, I could be counted on to come down with it.

When I asked A.J. why he never got sick, he described some bacteria theory that had to do with drinking a lot of orange juice. His chatter went far over my head and I loathed orange juice, so I dismissed his theory. A.J. was healthy as a horse and never complained about feeling sick.

Miss Fisk returned from lunch with a run straight up the back of her nylons. Everyone laughed when she turned to write on the board.

Does anyone know what this is? Miss Fisk wrote her name on the board in yellow chalk. When she wrote with yellow chalk, she meant business.

Ya’ll wrote yer name, Billy Jenson shouted out from the back row. Miss Fisk shook her head.

You wrote your name, she said, correcting his pronunciation.

No I didn’t, ya’ll did, Billy answered. Everyone laughed.

Try as she may, Miss Fisk couldn’t mend our southern drawl and she couldn’t control Billy, who relentlessly shouted out barbs on cue.

This is a proper noun. Miss Fisk was visibly agitated. I want you to take out a sheet of paper and write down at least five proper nouns and five common nouns.

Miss Fisk hadn’t taught us about common nouns. It was punishment. We all were paying for laughing at Billy, and I would once again bring home a bad grade.

We hadn’t been writing long when Miss Fisk tapped a ruler on her desk.

Hurry along, she said. We have an assembly in the gymnasium promptly at two o’clock, and be sure to bring your coats and books with you as we will not be returning to the class for dismissal.

The topic of the assembly was no surprise. It was late October and that meant it was time to watch Bert the turtle show us how to duck and cover if the Russians drop the atom bomb on us. The school devoted the entire month of October to fire drills, air raid drills and learning about bomb shelters. The cartoon movie was always shown near the end of the month, about a week before Halloween. I guess that was in case the bomb dropped when we were out Trick or Treating.

First you duck. Then you cover. It’s a bomb. Duck and cover. What are you supposed to do when you see the flash? Duck and cover.

When the movie ended, we practiced until we were saved by the dismissal bell.

I didn’t see A.J. at assembly, but he was waiting by the flagpole, as always.

Come on, I wanna get home, I said. An’ ya’ll ain’t lookin’ so good.

I’m fine, A.J. said unconvincingly.

Well then, let’s get a move on.

The further we walked, the more A.J. struggled to catch his breath.

I don’t like those drills, I said. Do ya’ll think we’ll just die anyway if the Russians drop the bomb?

Not sure.

Daddy said that we got ta be prepared just in case. I hope them Russians don’t drop the bomb, ‘cause I ain’t lookin’ ta die.

A.J. didn’t answer.

Are ya’ll afraid of dyin’? I asked.

I don’t- A.J. stood still.

Lemme run an’ fetch Momma, I pleaded.

No.

But ya’ll need help. I don’t think ya’ll are breathin’ too good.

No.

Please let me run an’ fetch Momma. Somethin’ ain’t right.

Don’t go-

Don’t be scared of bein’ alone. I can fetch Momma in a flash an’ she’ll get ya’ll home.

A.J. shook his head. My heart raced with panic. Something was very wrong. A.J.’s skin was white as a sheet, his forehead drenched with sweat.

Lemme fetch Momma! I cried.

No– I’m–

A.J. looked at me, his eyes fixed on mine.

Love ya–

I took hold of his arm and held it for dear life. My weight was no match for his. He fell to the ground.

A.J. was gone.

CHAPTER 2

DADDY WAS THE rock of the family, always sharing words of wisdom at the right moment. He was tall and muscular, having worked his way through college picking cotton. Daddy was born and raised in Elm Grove and had come to Georgia to attend Mercer University. He landed a job as a reporter at a newspaper in Macon and quickly rose to the position of managing editor.

Daddy met Momma, the former Barbara Davis, when she was a student at Wesleyan College. Momma was from Minnesota and had no intention of remaining in Georgia after graduation, but when she met Daddy, all of that changed. They would marry in Minnesota and return to Macon to set up household. Momma loathed the heat and humidity of the Georgia summers. She yearned for a cooler climate and couldn’t hide her happiness when Daddy made the announcement that Grandpa was set to retire.

We didn’t have much family in the south. Momma’s sister Rose had met her husband Harry on a trip to visit Momma. Uncle Harry was a true southerner. He would never leave his roots, so when he and Aunt Rose married, they settled in on the other side of town. I looked forward to going for visits and passing through downtown Macon. It was rare that I got to go downtown and the hustle and bustle thrilled me. I would become mesmerized with the billboards advertising everything from biscuits to shaving cream.

Every Sunday after church, Aunt Rose and Uncle Harry would come to our house for supper. It was a tradition that began long before I was born. Uncle Harry and Daddy would spend the afternoons playing checkers or inspecting one another’s coin collections. They both were collectors and went to coin shows together all over the state.

Uncle Harry liked to drink alcohol and usually by the fall of evening, he was good and intoxicated. Daddy would help load Uncle Harry in the car while Aunt Rose huffed in anger. I never understood why she would get so mad. It was normal for Uncle Harry to be carried out by Daddy. I thought for sure she would be accustomed to it. We kept no alcohol in the house, so Uncle Harry would bring his own. Although Aunt Rose permitted his drinking, she would spend most of the afternoon harping on Uncle Harry about it.

Momma had no other sisters, and despite having two daughters living in the south, Grandma and Grandpa Davis rarely came to visit. Momma said Grandma didn’t like the heat and didn’t like to travel. I hardly got to know them and I sensed Momma wasn’t as close to her parents as Daddy was to his. Grandma and Grandpa Pearce were frequent guests at our home and I looked forward to their visits. Grandpa would play ball with us and take us out for ice cream and treats. Grandma’s suitcase was always filled with presents for all of us and she was good at picking out things I liked.

Everyone came for A.J.’s waking. Grandma and Grandpa Davis, Grandma and Grandpa Pearce and kin from New York and Minnesota whom I had never laid eyes on before.

The house filled with people.