Home Fires

by Luanne Rice

  “Get us out of this,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed, and she could feel his disgust.

  “Hey, Fritz,” Kurt said. “Never mind. We’ve really gotta get to Boston.”

  “My father’s waiting for us,” Vanessa said, her voice practically a trill.

  “You got no daddy waiting in Boston,” Fritz said pleasantly. Maggie could see that he’d taken one hand off the wheel. Between downshifts, he had unzipped his fly and was stroking himself.

  “Fritz, man,” Kurt said. “We’ve gotta book.”

  “We’ll have us a little party,” Fritz said. “Teach you boys a thing or two.”

  Kurt was stammering away, trying to change Fritz’s mind, while Maggie looked around the cabin. She felt under the pillow, slid her hand along the bottom of the mattress in search of a weapon. Then she saw it: the bookshelf.

  While Fritz parked the truck Maggie slipped behind Kurt. Very carefully, without drawing any attention to herself, she slid free the slat that kept the books from flying around. Flat and narrow, about twelve inches long, the wooden bar felt solid in her hand.

  “Why’d we stop?” Eugene asked, coming to.

  “No, please, no,” Vanessa said to the back of Fritz’s head. She started to cry.

  From where Maggie sat, she saw Fritz reach into the door pocket. His hand closed around an object; she caught the glint of metal. Later, she would realize that she’d seen a gun. But in that split second, she merely reacted to her own sickening fear. She swung back and hit Fritz across the face with the bar.

  He reeled back, blood spurting from his nose. He dropped whatever he’d been holding to cover his face with both his hands.

  “Little bitch!” he screamed, blood burbling through his fingers.

  Maggie and her friends scrambled out of the cab. Except for one other truck, the parking lot was empty. They ran into the woods, a shallow stand of scrub pines interspersed with trash cans and picnic tables. Two gunshots rang out; they kept running until they cleared the woods and came to a busy strip of gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and a Quality Inn.

  Maggie paused, struggling to catch her breath. The others continued ahead, but stopped when they realized she had fallen behind.

  “Come on,” Kurt said.

  She stared at him with a steady gaze, taking in his handsome face, his strong body, the shame in his wide, green eyes. Then she turned away. Shivering, and not from the cold, she walked in the opposite direction.

  “Maggie!” Vanessa called. “Come on, we have to stick together.”

  Maggie just kept walking. She really expected Vanessa or Kurt to run after her, try to convince her to turn around, but they didn’t. Actually, she was relieved.

  She walked into the Quality Inn. The lobby was warm, and one of her favorite songs by James Taylor was playing on the loudspeaker. The desk clerk was a pretty black girl, not much older than Maggie herself.

  “May I help you?” the girl asked.

  “Do you have a pay phone?”

  “Right over there.” The girl pointed to a bank of telephones along the wall. Maggie thanked her.

  She would call Anne. She’d make up some excuse and ask Anne to cover for her with her mother. She didn’t ask herself why, but she knew she needed to hear a motherly voice. She’d hitchhike back to the ferry, slip onto the island, and everything would be fine again. Dialing Anne’s number, she had to try three times before her fingers got it right.

  “Hello?”

  Maggie clutched the receiver, unable to speak.

  “Hello?” Anne said again.

  “Anne?” Maggie said. And then it all poured out. No excuses, no lies, nothing but the truth about Fritz and Kurt and Boston and having her nipple pierced and the Bailey’s Irish Cream and seeing the seal and how she had never gotten to take Karen alone on the ferry at Christmas. She was crying very hard, and her face was wet from tears and spit.

  “Where are you, honey?” Anne asked, her voice very calm.

  “I don’t know,” Maggie sobbed.

  “Can you find out? Just leave the phone where it is, and ask someone the name of the town and the route number.”

  Maggie pressed the receiver to her breast and tried to stop crying. The sobs subsided, but she couldn’t stop the tears yet. Very carefully, like a beginning gymnast crossing the balance beam for the first time, she walked to the reception desk.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the girl. “Can you tell me the address? Of where we are right now?”

  “Sure. It’s Thirteen-oh-four Memorial Highway.”

  “Um, what town?”

  “It’s Wakefield. Massachusetts,” the girl said with a soft, kind smile.

  “Thank you,” Maggie said.

  She told Anne.

  “Stay there,” Anne said. “There’s a ferry pulling in right now. I’ll be there in two hours.”

  “Okay.” Maggie didn’t even try to argue.

  “Will you be safe?” Anne asked. “Is it a nice place? Do you feel secure?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, looking at the girl behind the desk.

  “Two hours,” Anne said. “Keep warm.”

  After Maggie hung up, she took a seat at one end of the plush sofa at the lobby’s far end. A selection of magazines and sightseeing brochures were fanned out on a long, low table. Maggie just stared at them. She tried to make herself very small so no one would notice her. So no one would ask her to leave.

  She closed her eyes. After a few minutes she heard someone walking toward her.

  Frightened, she started. But it was the desk clerk, smiling at Maggie, setting a mug on the table in front of her.

  “Hot chocolate,” the girl said. “You look like you could use something to warm you up.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said. Reaching for the steaming mug, she tried to smile. She couldn’t quite, not just yet. But it was obvious the girl knew what she meant. The girl pushed the mug closer. Then she picked a discarded gum wrapper off the floor, as if she was cleaning up just for Maggie, and she went back to her desk.

  FOR months Anne’s life had been without shape. Without Matt or Karen. She had navigated her days like a sleepwalker, moving through time with neither hope nor purpose. She never answered the phone, avoiding the calls of even Matt or her closest friends. No one understood what had happened to her. They could sympathize, they could try to imagine her hell, but they couldn’t know. Her silence made everyone doubt her. After a while her phone hardly rang at all.

  Now, in the middle of the coldest winter she could remember, Anne felt something inside beginning to stir. She didn’t awaken hating herself every day. She no longer spent those cloudy blue hours between midnight and three wishing that she would die.

  In the week he was off-island, Anne often found herself thinking of Thomas Devlin. His loneliness, like her own, had driven him to seek even greater isolation on the island. He knew how it felt to lose someone he loved. Trying to save his wife, he had seen her life slip away. Hearing that had given Anne a bizarre kind of peace. She wasn’t the only one.

  She knew she was getting better because she had started reading the classifieds.

  The New Shoreham Star had exactly one-half column of employment listings, and most of them were peculiar to island life. L.P. James’s Shipyard needed a boat varnisher; Spera Seafood was seeking experienced lobster handlers. The Island Convalescent Home needed third-shift nurses, nurses’ aides, and kitchen help. Some mysterious “Wanda” with an island exchange was advertising for “open-minded women who like to talk on the phone.” The ferry company was looking for office help, and the fire company needed a dispatcher.

  Anne hadn’t worked since Karen was born. She had wanted to stay home with the baby, and Matt’s salary and her collage income had made it possible. But now she had the urge to be around people. She could still do her collages, but maybe she could find a friendly office to work in. She decided to call Stanley Gray at the ferry office.

  MAGGIE slept the whole way
from Wakefield to the ferry and through the crossing itself. It was the small ferry, with the open car deck, and they stayed in the car for the ride. Anne kept the engine running for heat, the windows cracked so they couldn’t asphyxiate. Maggie smelled of smoke, sour milk, and liquor. Anne kept glancing at her, huddled in a ball on the seat. The ferry docked with a lurching thump, and Maggie woke with a start.

  She sat up with “Where am I?” written all over her face.

  “We’re here already?” she asked.

  “Home again,” Anne said.

  “Oh God,” Maggie said. She smacked the crown of her head with her right hand and held it there. “Do I have to go home? Did you tell my mother?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” Maggie said, her voice echoing with doom.

  The ferrymen took their places, making fast the hemp docking lines that were bigger in diameter than Anne’s upper arm. Ice glazed the dark brown pilings. Anne watched the men knock dagger-sharp icicles from the stocky bronze bollards, working fast but clumsily in their heavy gloves.

  “I’m not going to tell her,” Anne said. “But you are.”

  Vehement, Maggie shook her head. “I can’t.”

  One of the men signaled Anne, and she shifted into first. The man looked familiar; she had the feeling he had been one of the volunteers she’d seen at the fire. Driving off the boat, she waved to him, but he seemed not to see.

  “Asshole,” Maggie said, staring at him over her shoulder. Anne drove up Transit Street, touched by her niece’s reaction to the snub. Pulling into her usual parking spot, she patted Maggie’s hand.

  “Come on upstairs. I want you to see my new apartment.”

  Anne led Maggie up the narrow wooden stairs and unlocked the door. She hadn’t done much in terms of decorating, but she had scrubbed the place clean, and her worktable looked busy. Stepping inside, she glanced out her window and noted with pleasure that the harbor lights were coming on.

  Maggie didn’t say anything. She stood in the doorway, just looking around.

  “What do you think?” Anne asked.

  “This is where you live?”

  “Yes,” Anne said. She motioned for Maggie to sit on the sofa, and she sat beside her.

  “It’s so empty,” Maggie said. “I always loved your place in New York because it was so you. Your collages, all the stuff you and Uncle Matt brought back from everywhere, all the rugs and colors… .”

  Anne nodded, picturing the apartment. She’d covered the hardwood floors with Oriental rugs, the furniture with bright silk and cashmere throws. Red was everywhere. She had covered one entire wall with picture frames: scrolled, carved, gilded, museum-quality picture frames that she’d picked up at tag sales on the island and elsewhere. Other walls contained her own collages, Matt’s collection of small French paintings, and family photos. They had a three-foot-high bronze replica of the Eiffel Tower, at once monstrous and beautiful. Just looking at it made Anne smile. They had a Webster’s Second Dictionary on a nineteenth-century lecturn she’d found in Newport, Rhode Island. Karen’s toys and books were everywhere, spilling from briar baskets. The rooms were full of life and passion: they were full of the Davises.

  “This is so different,” Maggie said, frowning. “I can’t picture you happy here.”

  “It’s been hard to be happy anywhere,” Anne said in a quiet voice.

  “What’s this?” Maggie asked. Leaning forward, she reached for Karen’s drawing of paradise. Anne had left it on the coffee table, within easy reach; she had been holding it hours before, when Maggie’s call had interrupted her.

  “Karen did that,” Anne said, moving closer to Maggie.

  “She loved to color,” Maggie said. She traced some of the crayon markings with one finger.

  Anne could see that Maggie was engulfed with feelings and memories of Karen. Here was a girl who had known and loved Karen as well as anyone but Anne and Matt. Maggie had babysat for her many times; she had played with Karen for hours and hours. Locked within Maggie were impressions of Karen that even Anne didn’t have, and for Anne it was like sitting with a treasure chest.

  “Tell me one thing,” Anne said. “One thing you remember about her.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said. “Remember one night last summer, when you and Uncle Matt went to Atwood’s with my parents?”

  “Our anniversary dinner.”

  “Yeah. Well, Karen was sleeping over at our house, and she wanted to try on my clothes. She loved to dress up.”

  “I know.”

  “She was looking through my closet, and she saw my prom dress. It was black satin, with lace—”

  “Your mother sent me pictures of your prom. You were beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Well, Karen told me she would have liked the dress better if it was pink. But she couldn’t resist—it’s a real party dress. She wanted to put it on. So I helped her into it and gave her the gloves I wore—very Madonna things, all black net. I mean, you probably hate me, right? Letting a four-year-old get dressed up like a high-school kid. Should I be telling you this?”

  “You can tell me anything about Karen,” Anne said.

  “She was so cool. I could really picture her as a big girl. She wanted me to put makeup on her eyes, and polish on her nails, and she wanted me to call her ‘Julia.’”

  “She loved Julia Roberts,” Anne said. It was a simple story, but for Anne it was cliff-edge suspense. She lived for every detail, every nuance. She knew she should be talking to Maggie about what was happening in her life, but Karen stories had the potency of a drug.

  “She was Julia, and I was Lubie, her younger sister. Lubie! I mean, what a funny name.”

  “Lubie and Shella were her favorite make-believe names.”

  “I asked her why ‘Lubie,’ and she said it sounded pretty, just right for a younger sister. The whole time she was this little kid in black with raccoon eyes, and she was pretending to be a glamorous movie star, and I kept thinking she had the greatest imagination in the whole world.”

  “She did,” Anne said, and her mind clicked off. She felt it happen, and she even knew why: she believed that Karen’s imagination had killed her.

  “I miss her,” Maggie said.

  Anne nodded.

  They sat there in silence, both staring at Karen’s drawing. After a few minutes Anne turned to face Maggie.

  “Thank you for talking about her,” Anne said.

  “Don’t thank me—” Maggie frowned, not understanding.

  “Right after it happened, no one was talking about her. Matt had moved out, and my friends, even your mother, were afraid they would upset me if they mentioned her, which they would have. I hardly ever heard her name. I couldn’t take it. I’d have to go into her room just to convince myself she had really existed.”

  “Honestly?” Maggie was staring at her, unsure of whether Anne was serious or not.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s so sad,” Maggie said.

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, anytime you want to talk about Karen, or if you need to check in with someone who knows she existed like crazy, you can call me. I mean it,” Maggie said, flinging herself at Anne with what Karen would have called a train-wreck hug.

  “Thanks, Maggie,” Anne said, holding on to her niece for a long time, trying to remember how it had felt to hold her daughter. After a long while she gently pushed herself back so she could look Maggie in the eyes.

  “What are we going to do about you?” Anne asked.

  “I know,” Maggie said, hanging her head. “I’ve been really stupid.”

  “Are you just saying that? So I’ll think you’re fine, that this was just another teenage adventure, and forget about it?”

  “It was bad,” Maggie said. “It wasn’t an adventure.”

  “I think your mother needs to know.”

  “She’ll hate me,” Maggie said. “She’s not like you. Mom does the right thing, all the time, and she can’t handle people who don’t.”
<
br />   “I’ll help her handle it.”

  Maggie picked up Karen’s picture and examined it more closely. She rested it on her knees, and Anne could see her drawing comfort from it, just as she often did herself.

  “You don’t understand,” Maggie said, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Mom doesn’t want to know. She looks the other way all the time. I know she loves me, and she wants me to be okay. But in order for her to respect me, she has to ignore things. She’s caught me drunk before. But I tell her I have a cold and I took too much NyQuil, and she lets it go.”

  Anne stared at Maggie, weighing the options. She could tell Gabrielle, and Maggie would never confide in her again. Or she could keep the secret, taking Maggie’s word that she wanted to change, and the next time Maggie could die in a drunken car crash. She thought of Karen, and she realized that no matter what Karen did, Anne would always want to know. On the other hand, she realized that she and Gabrielle were not the same person.

  “I think you should tell the police about that guy, Fritz,” Anne said, realizing that she had made her decision.

  “I know. I wish I’d gotten his license-plate number. It was scary, that book with a picture of a real dead person on it. And the gun …”

  “If you hadn’t hit him,” Anne said, hugging Maggie again, “I hate to think of what he might have done. Your friends are really lucky you thought so fast.”

  “I hope they’re okay,” Maggie said. “I just hope he didn’t drive around looking for them.”

  “They’re bad news,” Anne said. “It’s hard, growing up on the island. There’s nothing to do, it’s easy to get into trouble. Hanging around with the wrong kids. You need to stop; it’s making you too unhappy.”

  “I’m going to try,” Maggie said. “I want to make things better. Thanks for not telling Mom.”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “But I know you won’t. I can tell you care about me, and I know you believe me about Mom not wanting to know. If it happens again …”

  “Deal,” Anne said, hoping she was doing the right thing. “It’ll stay between us for now, if there isn’t a next time.”

  Smiling now, Maggie pulled away. Once again she took a close look at Karen’s picture. She looked from the paper to Anne and back again.