Fueling the Furnace

The December wind burst from the threatening clouds, sending the porch swing of the old farmhouse into a frenzy as smoke filtered from the chimney, declaring the cremation of the oak tree.

The old man stood in the side-yard, chopping firewood, and stacking it just inside the basement door to supplement the coal that fueled the furnace. As the cold, moist wind whipped his frail hands and face and penetrated his tattered jacket, he brought the axe down firmly, splitting the large stick of wood with one strong blow.

“Jarvis! Come and eat!” his wife called to him from the screen door. She pulled her crocheted shawl tightly around her shivering, plump arms.
“In a minute,” Jarvis said, dislodging his axe from the stump. He carried it to the woodshed, filled a large canvas bag with kindling, threw it across his shoulder, and headed toward the kitchen door.

“Looks like snow,” she said, glancing up at the clouds.

“Yeah, it’s comin’ alright.” He wiped his boots on the rug and followed her inside. “Go turn on the radio and see how many inches they’re expectin’. I’d say we’ll get a goodin’ this time.”

As Jarvis went to wash his hands for supper, Viola made her way into the living room and twisted the radio knob.

The announcer was in mid-sentence: “…on the lookout for an escaped prisoner who may be headed toward Southwest Virginia. Rayford Mullins…”
Viola, who was then moving toward the kitchen, wheeled around when she heard the name.

“…escaped from the state penitentiary in Richmond yesterday morning. He is presumed to be armed and dangerous.”

By that time Jarvis stood in the doorway listening to the news. Viola sank into the faded, blue chair. They were silent for a time.

“What should we do?” Viola finally spoke.

“What can we do? We been through this before. Ain’t nothin’ we can ....”
“What will Dorothy think about this?” She wasn’t listening to his reply.

“Well, she ain’t had a lot to do with his raisin’. I can’t see as how she should have much say in what happens to him now.”

“She told us if he ever escaped again, she’d turn him in herself.”

“Sayin’ and doin’ are two different things. When it comes down to it, she couldn’t turn in her own son.”

“You think he’ll come here again?” She almost whispered.

“I don’t know.” He walked over, picked up the iron poker, and punched at the weak embers.

“It’s so cold outside. I wonder what he’s wearin’?” Viola said, looking out the window at the gray.

Silence.

“A deputy sheriff will probably be here tomorrow, Jarvis.” She turned to the fireplace, staring into the flames. “They’ll send Clayton again to check it out.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to check out.”

“Rayford’s been through so much,” Viola sighed.

“He’s brought a lot of it upon himself,” Jarvis said without conviction.

“Well it ain’t like he hurt somebody,” she snapped. “He stole a truck! And that’s just because those boys out the hollow talked him into it. Willard Amos killed a man in cold blood and never had to serve one day for it. And they’re makin’ Rayford out to be some kinda killer, sayin’ he’s armed and dangerous. That boy ain’t never raised a gun to nothin’ in his life.”

“Wrong is wrong, Viola. Rayford knew better than to take that truck, no matter what the reason. You can’t just do bad things and not expect punishment.”

“But he don’t deserve ….” She let the sentence drop, got up, turned off the radio, and then returned quietly to her chair. The two sat in silence for a long time. Neither of them thought of the food that was growing cold upon the table as the mantle clock ticked loudly and the wind whistled against the perspiring window pane.

What could they say? Rayford was their grandson; they had raised him from an infant. Their daughter, Dorothy, had given birth to him when she was only sixteen, while his father, Rex, was away in service. And after Rex died on Omaha Beach, she didn’t want much to do with the baby, so they took him in as their own.

Viola stood up and moved toward the window. Peering out into the darkness that was relieved only by a neighbor’s dim porch light, she could see the snow whirling viciously through the air. A sudden thought chilled her.

“I hope he has a coat,” she whispered.

Later on, Jarvis announced that he was going downstairs to bank the fire for the night. Making his way down the narrow staircase into the basement, he flung open the heavy iron door, and gazed into the melting flames. Reaching down, he picked up the coal bucket and poured the tiny banking coals into the furnace, calming the flames for the night. He then closed the furnace door, pulled the socket chain to the 40-watt bulb, and ascended the steps in the dark.

When he returned upstairs, Viola was already in bed. He crawled in beside her. The light from the fireplace set the walls aglow as they lay there for what seemed hours, watching the life slowly ooze from the flames.

Just before daylight, they were awakened by a loud noise.

“What was that?” Viola sprang up in bed.

“Something under the floor,” Jarvis stated calmly.

“A dog?”

“Bigger.”

The two remained deathly still for a moment.

“Is that old truck seat still under there next to the furnace?” She asked.
“Yeah.”

“Good.” She lay back down and closed her eyes.

Early the next morning there came a knock at the door, and Jarvis peered through the curtains to find Clayton Cantrell standing on the front porch, his deputy sheriff’s jacket salted with snow. The old man opened the front door and talked to his visitor through the screen.

“What can I do for you, Clayton?”

“Mr. Boggs, I hate to bother you,” he squeezed his hat nervously in his hands, “but I’m sure you already know the reason I’ve come. Rayford ….”

“I know about Rayford. He ain’t here.”

“I didn’t figure he was, but they sent me over here to check and see. I know you all are good people, and like I said, I hate to bother you, but they always give me the jobs nobody else wants.”

“It’s alright, Clayton; we was expectin’ you. Come on in.” Jarvis pushed open the screen door, and the tall, burly man stepped into the kitchen.

“Would you like some coffee, Clayton?” Viola reached into the cabinet for a cup.

“No thank you, Mrs. Boggs; I’m only gonna be here a minute.”

Jarvis led the deputy through the house. “Where do you want to look?”

Clayton glanced around the parlor at the faded wallpaper, the worn oak floors, covered with threadbare rugs, and the time-yellowed doilies that covered the scratches on the wooden mantle. He stepped to the bedroom entrance, looked in, and then walked over to the window that overlooked the backyard.

“Snow sure is comin’ down, ain’t it?” Clayton stood with his back to Jarvis, starting out at the white earth.

Jarvis didn’t reply.

“Well, I think I’ve seen enough.” Clayton turned and faced the old man. “They don’t pay me enough to do this job. I’m gonna go now and let you folks get back to your breakfast. Thanks for your trouble.” He headed toward the door, slipping his hat onto his head. “Oh,” he said, as an afterthought, “I’d better warn you, Mr. Boggs, them state boys might be comin’ round in a few days.”

Jarvis nodded. He watched the deputy’s breath trail behind him as he climbed into his patrol car and drove away. He then went over and sat down at the table.

“Well, what are we gonna do?” Viola asked.

“About what?”

“What if the state boys do come?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it.”

“Are you going to tell Rayford to come up?” She stared down at the empty plate in front of her.

“You know I can’t do that. All that boy’s got is his pride. He don’t want to drag us into this and cause trouble for his family. Besides, if he wants to come up, he will.”

“The last time he stayed under that floor he left and we never even got to speak to him.”

“It’s the way he wanted it.”

“Alright,” Viola gave in. “I’ll make him a plate of food. You can set it under there next to the door, and I’ll get him a pillow and some blankets.” She rose from her chair.

“I took a pillow and blankets down last night before we went to bed,” he said without looking up. “Just in case he came.”

“He probably won’t need much cover next to that furnace, though.” She seemed to be talking to herself. “It gets so hot. I wonder if he’s still as heavy as he was—fat makes you hotter.”

“He’ll be okay, Viola.”

That afternoon, the old man lingered around the basement door, snow whitening his brown coat. He wanted so badly to open it and just look inside, but he couldn’t. He had no excuse to enter; Rayford had fueled the furnace, and the house was warm. Jarvis just wanted to see him, to speak to him, but he understood his grandson’s pride and his shame, and would not trespass on either.

Three days passed. No state boys came. Jarvis set meals inside the basement door, and Rayford kept the furnace fueled and the house warm, but there was no contact.

The only sounds that rose from the floor were the stirring of the fire and frequent deep coughs.

“He’s sick, Jarvis. He coughs all the time. We need to make him come up,” Viola pleaded.

“We can’t,” Jarvis shook his head. “Maybe he’ll come up on his own. I’ll take him some whiskey and honey down with his supper. That’ll help his cough.”

That night, Jarvis carried down a tray of food and a jar of homemade cough medicine. At the side of his plate, he placed a harmonica that he had given to Rayford for his seventh birthday. He then set the tray inside the door and went back up into the house.

After dinner, Jarvis entered his bedroom, shut the door, pulled out his hand-made guitar and gently strummed the instrument. Then, in a cracked voice, he began to sing:

I’m just a poor, wayfaring stranger
While traveling through this world of woe
But there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger,
In that bright land to which I go.

As he sang, a faint sound rose from below. It was the gentle sound of the harmonica playing softly, accompanying the old man. Jarvis closed his eyes and listened to his grandson’s reply.

That night he climbed into bed beside Viola. “I’m worried,” she said. “I’m afraid he’ll slip out without us knowin’ it. And where will he go?” She paused. “Take him a warm coat and some boots down tomorrow, alright?”
“Alright.” Jarvis patted her arm, and then rolled over.

The next morning, when Jarvis awoke, Viola was sitting on the side of the bed. The house was bitterly cold.

“He’s gone again, ain’t he?” Her voice quivered. “He left without sayin’ a word; I knew he would.”

“It’s better that way, Viola. Pride’s a strong thing.”

The old man got up, put on his clothes, and went down to the basement to fuel the furnace. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he pulled the light chain and could see a figure lying on the truck seat next to the furnace; it looked strangely thin and frail.

“He must really be sick to sleep so late,” he thought, his heart pounding in his throat.

Taking a deep breath, he moved closer. Rayford was lying on his side, with his back to his grandfather, as Jarvis reached down and touched his cheek. It was ice cold. He stood there for a moment, staring down at his grandson, and then tenderly patted him on the head and pulled the cover over his shoulder. Reaching down, he picked up the harmonica, slipped it into his pocket, and then made his way slowly back up the stairs.