Above the Waterfall. Ron Rash

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      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 painting,” 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.