“I woke up and I looked at the clock because I thought it was morning and time to get Mattie ready for school. I feel it’s a wife’s duty to have breakfast on the table, get the family off to a good start. That’s our deal, Jake works and I take care of the house. I mean, nothing personal, you being a woman in a man’s job, that must be hard, especially here in the mountains where everybody’s so conservative.”
That almost made Davidson flinch, but her firewall face kept its grim countenance. “It’s tough enough being a woman no matter what,” she said.
“When Jake woke me up, I smelled smoke, and of course I thought of Mattie first thing. I yelled at Jake, but he told me to stay, he’d take care of her. We practiced, of course. We had fire drills and we put those little child ID stickers on the window and we had one of those rope ladders under the bed. Everything you’re supposed to do. But the real thing is never like a drill, and I don’t think you could ever practice the way it really happens. But I guess you know that better than anybody.
“I followed Jake to the door, even though he told me to stay, because I usually obey him, but I was half-asleep and confused and then the smoke made me dizzy. I was about to go into the hallway when Jacob screamed at me and slammed the door, and I trusted him to save Mattie—”
Renee’s throat caught for the first time, breaking the unthinking stream of words. The fire chief waited, making no gesture of sympathy. Chapped, coarse hands, ones comfortable around an axe handle. And a wet blade of grass clung to the toe of her boot. Lying was easier now. Renee sniffed and continued.
“I waited for maybe a minute, then put my hand on the door. It was hot, and I remembered what they say about fire needing air to breathe. The alarm was going crazy—”
“Excuse me. Did your husband wake you up, or did the alarm?”
Renee shook her head. In the nightmare, the alarm was blasting like a freighter’s fog horn and Jacob had the blanket over her head, pulling it tight, cutting off her air and muffling her screams. “I think the alarm was already going. But it had gone off before, like when Jacob stayed up late and burned some toast or something, and the sound didn’t wake me up right away. It sort of turned into whatever I was dreaming and became a part of it. I told you I was a heavy sleeper. Jacob says I ought to get tested for sleep apnea, because that can kill you.”
“Okay. You’re standing at the door waiting for your husband to tell you when to come out?”
“Yeah. I think he told me to jump out the window, but we had the fire ladder under Mattie’s bed. When we practiced, we all met in Mattie’s room and then climbed out her window, so I thought maybe the fire wasn’t too bad yet, he was going to get everything ready, then take Mattie down and come back for me. I couldn’t see any fire, just the smoke, so I didn’t know what it was like out there.”
“Did you see flames before your husband closed the door? Out in the hall, I mean?”
“I saw a reflection of light in the dresser mirror, right before I stood up. I was still in bed and barely awake. I couldn’t tell if the reflection was the fire or if Jacob had turned on the hall light or something. He yelled at me to call 9-1-1 and I tried to find my glasses and couldn’t, so I punched in the numbers from memory. I must have got it wrong the first time because I had to try again.”
“But you looked at the clock?”
“Yeah. It was one something, but I didn’t have my glasses on, so I thought the first two numerals were a ‘seven,’ which is why I thought it might be morning. That’s another thing that makes it confusing when I wake up, because my eyesight is really bad without my glasses. I can barely even recognize myself in the mirror without them.”
“How long did you wait at the bedroom door?”
“Maybe two more minutes, then I heard something crackling and I guess something downstairs fell over, because there was a loud bang and that’s when I first started getting really worried. I was wide awake by then.”
“We believe the fire started downstairs,” Davidson said. “The sliding glass door was open, and a couple of the kitchen windows. The fire was able to get a good rolling start with a cross-draft like that. It probably had eaten up half the downstairs before the smoke got thick enough to set off the fire detectors upstairs. Tell me, was it usual for you folks to leave the sliding glass door open?”
“That’s Jacob again. He’s restless, he sometimes gets up in the middle of the night and works downstairs. He makes a snack and gets on the computer and sometimes he might be gone half the night. I hardly notice, because I’m a heavy sleeper. But he likes fresh air, and this is a safe neighborhood.”
Renee paused, reminded by Davidson’s stare that she and Jacob and Mattie no longer lived in the house on Elk Avenue. She looked around at the pale walls of her new lifeless life.
“Are you sure Jacob woke you up? Was he in the bed when you first heard the alarm?”
“Yeah. That’s what he told me. And I can see it plain as day, him sitting up with his back to me, the streetlight coming through the curtains just a little, and then he ran and threw on his robe and went out the door, and I was just starting to get out of bed. And I could hear the alarm, I remember that, and then I reached on the bedside table for my glasses but they must have fallen to the floor.”
“So you found them, because I remember you had them on when we arrived.”
“No, that was my extra pair. People with normal vision don’t know what it’s like, but I could hardly find my way out the door. Then when I finally heard Jacob yell at me, and yell Mattie’s name, I opened the door and all I could see was a blur of yellow and red flames and black smoke and the house looked like it was caving in and Jacob told me to run, he’d get Mattie and meet me outside. All I could think of was to get down the stairs, fast, but I should have jumped out the window because the downstairs was one big fire and the smoke was hurting me and I was dizzy, but I was lucky I went when I did because I just made it out the sliding glass door when it sounded like the floor collapsed.”
“Was the sliding glass door open when you went downstairs, or did you have to open it?”
Renee appraised the squat, red-headed woman. What right did she have to act suspicious, play macho, barge in and dance on Mattie’s grave? Davidson had probably watched too many forensic crime shows on television, and now an accident could never be just an accident. Somebody always had to have something to hide.
“It was open,” Renee said. “You already said that.”
Davidson nodded again, the stub of head dipping, the facial features as inflexible as a rubber fright mask. “That’s right. I forgot. I’d better write all this down.”
The fire chief leaned forward and pulled a small composition pad from her back pocket. A tiny scrap of paper fell from the wire rings of the pad. Renee stared at the scrap, which fluttered to a rest beside Davidson’s left foot. She almost leaned over and picked it up, but didn’t want to come near the fire chief’s leg.
“So you’re down the stairs and outside,” Davidson said, marking in the pad. “Then what?”
“I ran into the yard and looked up at Mattie’s window. I couldn’t see anything, and by then the fire was too hot for me to go back inside. I ran to the car—”
“There were two cars in the driveway. Was yours the SUV or the Subaru sedan?”
“Subaru. I grabbed my purse—”
“Your purse. You leave your purse in an unlocked car?”
“It’s a safe neighborhood, like I told you. And I hardly ever carry much money. But I figured I needed my glasses or I’d be useless, I wouldn’t be able to help Jacob and Mattie when they came out through the window. I carry an extra pair in my purse.”
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“Besides the house on fire?”
Davidson’s lips pressed together like those of a meditating toad. “Please, Mrs. Wells. I know this is difficult, but I’m only doing my job. Did you see anyone around?”
“No. Some of the lights came on in the houses down t
he street and I believe some dogs were barking. But all I can remember is the sound of the fire, the wood snapping and the walls creaking and the glass breaking. Then I started screaming and the scream turned into a siren and you guys showed up and I was scared because Jacob should have been out by then. The roof caved in a little and the firemen were beating on the front door with axes and I think I went crazy because all I could do was scream and Jacob and Mattie still didn’t come out and they still didn’t come out and they’re still in there.”
Renee realized she’d forgotten Davidson and found herself staring at the wall as if a film of the event had been projected there.
Davidson stood up, folded her pad and tucked it away. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is the hardest part of the job, believe me. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
Renee glanced at the scrap of paper and followed the fire chief to the door. Davidson stood on the porch a moment, looking out over the mountain ridges. “She’s home with the Lord, Mrs. Wells. It was a hard way to get there, but the getting there is the main thing.”
Renee nodded, eyes bleary, wanting the awkward moment to end. Catholicism had failed her when she needed faith the most. She’d viewed Mattie’s death through the lenses of a dozen philosophies and religions, yet all of them blurred into the same dead end. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, go toward the light, ride the karmic wheel, take the stairway to heaven. None of them made sense. And none of them lessened the pain.
She closed the door and went to retrieve the tiny scrap of paper from the floor, putting what she had of a home into perfect order.
CHAPTER FOUR
Littlejohn Hospital lay on the edge of town, the shining bridge between Kingsboro’s urban future and its rural past. A shopping center and cluster of medical complexes were islands in the sea of asphalt leading up to the front entrance, while a cow pasture sprawled to the rear, waiting for the right developer to come along. In the street three stories below Jacob’s room, Memorial Day traffic hissed in pointless conflict. Someone in the hall spat a tubercular laugh full of fatalistic cheer.
Jacob sat up and stared at the black screen of the television. The tubes were gone now and the burns had mostly healed, though portions of his body still received twice-daily applications of silvadene ointment. He was taking multiple courses of antibiotics, and the worst was over, according to Dr. Masutu. But the doctor was an optimist. The worst had only just begun.
Jacob looked at the tray on the table beside him. A fly landed on the scrambled eggs and tracked across the rubbery yellow surface. As a toddler, Mattie had called them “home flies,” a cute corruption of the phrase “house flies.” He watched the fly reach the tar pit of pancake syrup. It struggled, broke free, cut a lazy circle in the air, then lit again in the same sticky spot.
Renee entered the room. “Knock, knock.”
Jacob closed his eyes and sank against the pillows. The darkness behind his eyelids was far too inviting.
“I hear you’ll be going home in a few days,” she said.
“Home,” he said.
“You know what I mean.”
“The wonderful Dr. Masutu explained the formula to me. One week of hospitalization for every ten percent of body burn.”
“Then you should have been released last week.”
“The burns feel better,” he lied. “They’re trying to fix the stuff that’s broken on the inside.”
“I took an apartment. The insurance company gave me some money until they sort things out. Donald set me up with one. I tried to pay but he said M & W would absorb it, since you own half of it.”
“Which apartments?”
“Ivy Terrace.”
“Nice. We only opened them last year.”
“I didn’t know you built them.”
“Didn’t build them, really. I got a commission on the land sale, subdivided a few lots, went in as a silent partner. M & W just collects the rent.”
“I got a two-bedroom unit,” she said, as relieved as he to avoid conversation. She opened a National Geographic.
Jacob let his gaze crawl back to the window. He’d trusted his partner, Donald Meekins, to take care of her until he got out. Donald had phoned his hospital room but Jacob had refused to talk to him. He was afraid of what he might say. The cash flow would be tight for a couple of months, but at least they had insurance.
He counted the houses on the hillside opposite the hospital. There were at least two good-sized tracts that were prime spots for development. With Kingsboro Hospital opening a new cancer wing and cardiac care facility, more wealthy seniors would be moving from Florida and New York to the North Carolina mountains. Those seniors needed homes, preferably close to health care services. M & W had built a country club outside of town, complete with an eighteen-hole golf course, but those homes had all been sold. New homes were needed for all the future cancer victims. Abnormal growth was a growth industry.
“It’s too quiet in here,” Renee said.
He heard a click and the television came on. One of those stupid morning shows, Early NBC or ABC Sunrise or whatever. He opened his eyes. At least he could focus on the screen instead of Renee. A man in a blue suit was interviewing a woman who kept pulling at the hem of her short skirt, wanting to show off her legs while still projecting wholesomeness and modesty. Cut.
“I really like this commercial,” he said. On the screen, a lizard spoke in an Australian accent, trying to entice the viewer into buying a particular brand of car insurance.
“About the insurance,” she said, as if the commercial had triggered an opportunity to bring up the subject. “I didn’t want to do too much without you. But I needed a roof over my head.”
“She was worth a lot, wasn’t she?”
“You bastard. Don’t start that again. We’re going to have to deal with some things, and we may as well be civil about it.”
“The money, you mean.”
“Shut up. All I’m asking is that you sign the papers and let’s get on with our lives. Whatever we can salvage, that is.”
“We probably saved a ton on the cremation, since the job was half-done when you turned the body over to the aftercare vultures.”
“I had to make arrangements. I couldn’t wait—”
“—for me to attend my own daughter’s funeral?”
Renee jabbed at the television remote and muted the sound. Jacob watched the silent interview guest fighting her hem line. The woman’s knees were a little too knobby for his taste. Back when he had taste, that was. He turned his attention to the fly in the syrup.
Wasn’t there a saying about the fly in the ointment? Dr. Masutu’s tranquilizer worked miracles, freed his mind to explore the foolish. Jacob had stopped fighting, and the injections had been replaced with twice-daily pills. Diazepam. The quicker-picker-upper.
Or the easier-to-forgetter.
Or the don’t-give-a-damner.
“Jake, we’re going to have to talk about it.”
“There’s nothing left to talk about.”
“There’s plenty.”
“There’s nothing. It’s all gone.”
“No. There’s still us.”
“There’s no more ‘us.’ There’s just you and me. Or maybe just you.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ve always despised failure. That’s not the Wells way.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think. Hospitals are good for that, maybe even better than prisons.” Jacob pulled the straw from his milk carton and poked it into the syrup near the fly. The fly’s wings beat frantically.
“I know this is terrible. But maybe we can get through it together. Start over.”
“The way we did after Christine? You saw how that one turned out.”
Renee finally sat, in the oak and mauve vinyl chair near the window. The sun had grown a shade more yellow outside, rising above the fog that hazed the horizon. In the old world, the happy distant past, Jacob would be at his desk at the M & W office, ta
lking on the phone, cutting deals, lining up subcontractors. Or else out on the job site, looking at blueprints as a bulldozer ripped brown gashes in the mountainside.
Developing.
That was an interesting word, with several connotations. Developers made things happen. But development was also the term for a baby’s trek through the cycle, from microscopic fertilized egg to alien peanut creature to bawling, squealing reality.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “The kids were born in this hospital.”
“That’s not so funny.”
“Think about it. They took their first breaths from this very same air. The same sick air.” He waved the hand that held the straw and the fly finally broke free and arced across the room like a crippled bomber returning from a death run.
The door swung open. A nurse came in, a male with a sour expression and two days of stubble. He stared at Renee as if she were the patient, then wiped his palms against his hospital blues and slipped on rubber gloves. He squeezed ointment from a tube and rubbed it softly into the skin of Jacob’s arms.
“You’re looking good, my man,” the nurse said. His ID nameplate read “Steve Poccora” and his picture beneath it was clean-shaven and smiling. The smile looked as if it had been computer-generated in a photo manipulation program.
“The doctor says I’m getting better every minute,” Jacob said.
“Aren’t we all?” Poccora said. Then, to Renee, “We’ll have him home to you in no time.”
“No hurry,” Renee said.
Poccora started to grin at the joke, sensed the coldness in the room for the first time, then rubbed the ointment faster. Jacob barely felt the contact. The skin had roughened and much of the damaged layer had sloughed off. He was new in a way, pink as a baby, slick as a snake after molting.
If only he could shed his soul as easily. He’d read that the body completely remade itself every seven years as cells died and were replaced. That meant he’d been a different man when Mattie was born. A better man.
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4 (Boxed Set) Page 31
