by Cadle, Lou
“She doesn’t drink at all?”
“A little, rarely, with dinner. Probably all we have in the house is a bottle of wine and three or four ales. But she doesn’t drink in the day. Or in the evenings. Or alone. That—whatever you’re thinking of—wouldn’t be her. But there are a lot of older people in town. Some of them might be disabled.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“God,” he said aloud this time. “I hope everyone got out. But mainly, selfishly, I hope Sylvia got out. I left her messages. I grabbed a hotel room and told her to meet me there. But she hasn’t shown up. I mean, is everyone out now? Did everyone leave the area?”
“Yes. Everyone.”
He knew that sometimes a fire skipped a house, inexplicably. There were pictures he’d seen of whole blocks, burned to ash, and then one lone house, not even scorched, standing there among the ruin. If that had happened to his house, and Sylvia had stayed home….
He knew it was a stupid thought, something a child would hope for, though some part of his mind clung to it. He put his hands over his face and tried to remember how to breathe normally. His brain slowed down and came to a stop. No worry. No thoughts at all. Just … nothing. The state meditation tries to achieve, he would guess, looking back a few minutes later on that moment of blankness. There was no James, no worry, no…anything. A void only.
“Sir? Mr. Chang?” the deputy said, bringing him out of it.
He resented her for pulling him back to the present moment. It was a shitty moment, and he didn’t want to be in it. “Yeah?”
“Do you have any idea where your wife might have gone? Are there friends in the area?”
“She would have come to me.” Yeah, he’d been a dick that morning, for sure. He deserved to have her mad at him. But Sylvia wasn’t petty like that. She wouldn’t punish him. Maybe for something huge, like an affair, which would never happen, but not for this morning. No, it was yesterday morning now. Whatever. “Her best friends are in San Francisco. Her mother is out east.”
“Have you called them?”
“Her mother and I have talked tonight, last time just a couple of hours ago.”
“Maybe you should call her friends, just to see.”
“She would have called me, not them.”
“Cell service went down in Pinedrops pretty early on, I’ve heard. She might not have been able to.”
Again, hope soared in his chest. And then it swooped back down. “If she got out, she’d have come to a clear cell area long before she made it to a friend’s house. She’d have called.” He shook his head, as if to shake the thought away. But he said it anyway, the first time he’d said it aloud. “I’m afraid she didn’t get out.”
“It’s possible she’s one of the few who were injured and taken to a hospital. Let’s check that out first.”
Hope soared again. “Yes! Do you have any without names?”
“I need to see. This might take a while.”
“I’ll wait. I mean, if it’s okay for me to stay parked here.”
“It’s okay.” She rose and patted his shoulder. “Just hang tight.”
The next twenty minutes were about the worst twenty minutes of his life so far. He had a feeling they weren’t going to be the worst ever, though, not by a long shot.
Sylvia. Sweetheart. Be okay. He realized that he should be wishing for her not to be okay, to be in the hospital, unconscious, under an oxygen tent, or something like that. Then she’d be alive at least. In a known location and alive. He was bargaining with a god he didn’t believe in. If she’s alive, that’s enough. It’s the last thing I’ll wish for. And if she lives, I’ll be a better husband. I’ll support her in anything she does. I swear it.
“Mr. Chang?” The sad, gentle voice of the deputy did not make him want to look up at her.
“James,” he said. “If you’re going to give me awful news, I’d just as soon you use my first name.”
“James, then,” she said. “I’m Venita.” She cleared her throat.
He braced himself.
“All of the people in the hospital are identified. Your wife isn’t one of them.”
A spark of hope. “Were you looking under Chang? Her last name is different. It’s Teschler.”
“I know,” she said, in that same too-gentle voice. “I looked that up first in the DMV records. Sylvia Erin Teschler, right?”
“Yes.” He felt deflated.
“I’m sorry.”
He could barely voice the question, but he made himself. “Should I give up hope?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t. Maybe she got out. Maybe she got stuck somewhere. I mean, perhaps she went north, earlier than the main exodus, and she ran out of gas or had a flat, and….” The deputy ran out of pretty fantasies to weave. “Anything could have happened. Or maybe she’s mad at you and you just don’t know it. My husband isn’t always clear about when I’m mad at him, I know that much.”
“It could be,” he said. “I was something of a dick this—yesterday—morning.”
“Big fight?”
“No, a very small one. She was working so hard, and I wanted her to take a break this weekend. Only that. Not money, or kids, or in-laws, or infidelity, or any of the big stuff. Not even housework. We do pretty well sharing that. Just her professional workload.” He thought back. “She didn’t even fight back. It was just me saying things and her listening.”
“Maybe she took your advice and took a break. Wouldn’t it be strange if she decided to spend a night with a friend, and left you a note.”
He did feel hope this time. Real hope. “A note! That I never saw. Never could see.”
“Could have happened,” the deputy said.
“Deputy. Venita. Thank you for that.” It might be nothing more substantive than a straw to grasp at, but he’d take it.
“Sure,” she said. “You should call those friends of hers and see.”
“I don’t have their numbers. But I’ll figure that out. Can I stay parked here?”
She craned her neck, probably to make sure he wasn’t anywhere near the road. “Sure, unless we get bad traffic.”
“I could park at the lot of Hoyt’s Crossing.” There was a small parking area at the trailhead.
“It’s okay. Stay here. I don’t want to forget you’re there in case the fire changes directions tonight, so stay in sight for now.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She went back to her post and he started scrolling through his contacts list, figuring out who he could roust of bed who’d know Sylvia’s friends’ numbers in San Fran. They were her friends she’d be more likely to go to, not his, one from before the marriage and one after. He liked them fine, but they did girl things together. City things. Sometimes two couples went out to dinner in the city, but neither woman was married. It was the guy of the month club with one. A gal of the year club with the other, so occasionally there were couples events, but not often. As it turned out, he’d never made connections to any of their partners either. He liked them fine without knowing them well—certainly not well enough to have their phone numbers.
He had one number only that might work to find them. But he was loath to call it. It was Sylvia’s old boss Flip, a nickname, but all James had in his phone, which is where she’d met one woman friend, at work. He had work and home numbers for the man still in his contacts list. He wasn’t even sure the one friend of Sylvia’s still worked for this guy. But damn. He had to do something, and it was worth a try.
He called the home number. No one picked up. He couldn’t blame them. A strange number, calling at—he checked—almost three in the morning? He wouldn’t answer either. But he left a message, focusing on explaining carefully, on sounding rational and calm, though he was feeling anything but. He also called the work number, leaving about the same information. He wanted the woman friend’s home phone number. Or for the boss/ex-boss to call her and ask her to call James, if he wasn’t comfortable sharing the woman’s number.
It felt go
od to do something. But then that task was done, and there was nothing more to do. He sat there, trying to think of something. But he couldn’t come up with a thing. Unless he tried hiking up into the active fire area at night. And that wouldn’t help. He was almost willing to do such a stupid thing, he was so worried about Syl, but what was the point of dying, and then having her survive and deal with the loss of both a house and husband? Gosh, the paperwork alone!
He smiled wryly to himself. His bizarre sense of humor. He supposed it was normal, a coping mechanism. You couldn’t just be crazy worried for this long without something popping. Better the pop come out as a silent, bad joke to himself than as a two-hour-long scream, which he thought he might also do before too long.
Sylvia. Call me. Please. Figure it out. Wherever you are, if you’re okay, wake up and say, “Hey, I should call James.” He stared at his phone for a long minute, but it didn’t ring. He sucked at telepathy. Sucked at fixing this. Sucked at dealing with it.
He had to do something. Had to. He opened his car door, stood, and went to the deputy. “I’ve left messages,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I hope she calls you soon.”
“Is there any chance they’ll let me up there? Into Pinedrops?”
“Now? Not a chance. I mean, for one thing, you’d be driving through the active fire to get there. Everyone stops here tonight. No one goes farther.”
“Where is it? The fire, I mean.”
“Last I heard, they were fighting it along Sauer Lane.”
A street he knew, running along a little creek he’d hiked along not two months ago. “There are two houses down there. And a lot of houses on Tyler Foot Crossing Road.”
“I know, and some on Ivey,” she said. She gave a little headshake. “And the wind has shifted more to directly from the west. So it’ll burn straight west to….” She was thinking.
“San Juan Ridge,” James supplied.
“And there’s that winery beyond that.”
“Double Oak,” he said, surprised he remembered its name. “I’ve never been there.”
“The winds have died down during my shift. They might contain it by dawn. Before it gets all the way to the ridge or the winery.”
James knew nothing about fighting a wildfire. He relied entirely on the people who did know. “Are all the firefighters okay?”
“No fatalities. I think one was treated and released for smoke inhalation. Thanks for asking. That’s nice of you to care, considering.”
“I don’t want anyone to die,” he said. “Everybody is loved by someone. Sylvia is the person I love most. Someone loves that firefighter, and someone loves you.”
“I really do hope your wife is okay,” she said.
Her sympathy made him break down that barrier of normal person to official person. He confessed, “I want to do something. I need to do something.”
“There’s nothing to do. I’m sorry.”
“Do you think…” he said, then had to stop and swallow. He was on the verge of tears. Worry. Frustration. Exhaustion. “Do you think you’ll let me up after dawn?”
“Not if there’s still fire around the highway.”
“If it’s burned through, I’d like to go up. I need to look at the house. I mean, maybe it is still there.”
“It’ll be dangerous. There’s always stuff smoldering under ash. You can trip. Step on glass. Glass hurts a lot of people after fire.”
“Still, I want to go.”
“You may see things you don’t want to see.”
He looked at her, confused. Then horrified.
She read his expression right. “I don’t mean your wife. I mean…others. What if you saw a dog that had been burned to death? It sticks with you, a sight like that. It’s really best to wait until rescue and recovery has been through. Even then, the devastation is hard to look at. It really is. It is for me, even, for people trained to it.”
“You’ve been through a wildfire?”
“Not personally. But yes. I’ve seen the aftermath of one.” She shook her head slowly.
“Anyone killed in that one?”
“Thankfully not a person. Some goats in a barn.” She grimaced. “But I’m sure you will go up there when it’s safe to. And you’ll see for yourself. It’s a gut punch to see what a fire does, even if your house survived. Even after the dead animals have been removed.”
“It was a nice little town.”
“And will be again, I imagine.”
“I—I don’t know.” He realized that he might not want to live there in the future. Certainly not if Sylvia… not without Sylvia. But did he want to live in wildfire country? Though hell, all of California was wildfire country, from Shasta to San Diego. Catalina Island had a big fire just ten or fifteen years ago. So was Oregon and Idaho and Colorado and every other place he might want to live. Nowhere in the West was entirely safe.
The deputy stayed silent.
“You don’t really think about it,” he said.
“About what?”
“The danger. I mean, in San Francisco, you don’t sit around every day and say, ‘Hey, what if the big one hits today?’ Or you do think that, but not every day, and you think about it for five seconds, and then you shrug and get on with life. You might see a TV report about the Hayward fault or something like that and walk out to the garage and make sure your emergency supplies are in order. We did that after the Camp Fire, made sure everything important was easy to grab at home. But you don’t think about it often.”
“No, you don’t. I doubt everyone in Oklahoma is thinking about tornadoes every day. And it’s always something, isn’t it? Fires, earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes. Volcanoes, even, or landslides. I worked on one of those, too, one that buried a house that’ll never get unburied. Not in our lifetimes.”
“Were there people in it?”
“One. The elderly father of the owner. He had Alzheimer’s. The daughter-in-law said it was a blessing.”
James doubted that. “I hope he didn’t know what was happening.”
“We’ll never know.” A squawk came from her radio and she excused herself.
It left James to worry again about Sylvia. If she hadn’t made it, had she known what was coming? He could smell the fire from here, the smoke. It wasn’t strong, but he knew it was there, and he knew it was generated by an active fire. Sylvia didn’t have Alzheimer’s. She wouldn’t have been dozing. She’d have known if it came for her.
A sickening thought. She’d have known and been afraid. And he hadn’t been with her. He loved life, and he wanted to be alive…and yet he didn’t. He didn’t want to survive Sylvia.
The first time he’d had the thought, he had denied it at some level. Not believed it. As he stood here, twelve hours after he’d been sending her frantic texts, stood here with no more options left, his denial was evaporating. He didn’t want to say “for sure” yet—that was not a step he was willing to take.
The final step would come only when he knew for sure, and he had a—use the word—a body. Or part of a body. Remains. Something to cremate—well, there was a sick damned irony for you—and total certainty.
He’d heard people on the news say they were relieved to know for sure. That they had wanted closure and had it. James didn’t want “closure,” whatever the hell that was. He didn’t want certainty. Not yet. The slim thread of hope was all that was keeping him tethered to sanity.
The deputy walked back. “Nothing to do with your situation,” she said.
He hadn’t for a moment imagined it was, but he nodded his thanks. She was trying to be kind.
“The best thing you can do for yourself, and for your wife, is to get some sleep.”
“I tried,” he said.
She nodded her understanding. “Then go eat. Did you eat dinner?”
He couldn’t remember.
“Get food. Whatever happens next, you need to be in good shape for it.”
“I’m not sure I can eat.”
�
��Force yourself. I know a person can’t really force themselves to sleep, but you can force down a breakfast. There’s no all-night diner in Nevada City, but in Grass Valley there are a couple of fast food joints that stay open all night.”
He supposed a deputy patrolling the county would know that sort of thing. “Thanks.” He pulled himself out of his own head, his own worries, for long enough to focus on her. “I mean it. Thanks. For everything.”
“I wish I could have been more helpful.”
He tried for a smile but was afraid it came out closer to a grimace. He went back to his car, started it up, and retraced his route to the hotel. Maybe Sylvia would be there, waiting, angry at him for leaving her waiting.
He’d take her anger over her absence, any second of any day.
Chapter 17
She wasn’t at the hotel. He stopped in and checked TV news again, and then ran another search on his phone, typing in the names of the streets he and the sheriff had spoken of and limiting the results to today. He got a hit on Ivey Lane. A brand-new update posted at 3:00 on the Bee website said firefighters were engaging the blaze there. There was an evacuation map too with several areas painted red, including everything around his home.
Or where his home used to be.
He looked up an all-night diner, and the best he found was a Jack in the Box. So burgers and a salad were his fate. He left the hotel room and started the car again. It felt like he’d spent most of the last eighteen hours in it.
When he got to the fast food place, he saw they had breakfast food, which he hadn’t even known they did, so he got a breakfast sandwich, orange juice, and coffee. He’d had worse coffee, and for a higher price. He made himself eat the whole sandwich, though the first bite sat heavy on his stomach, and he ordered a second orange juice when he was done. That actually tasted pretty good. He hadn’t eaten, he thought, since lunch out the previous day.
May as well have been a lifetime ago.
His phone rang and startled him. Not the ringtone for Sylvia. He saw the time—4:45 in the morning—and was shocked anyone would call. It was Pasquale.
