Heartbreaker

by Maryse Meijer

  * * *

  After he puts the TV on and I know he won’t hear me I put on my hoodie and leave out my window. I put the ring in my pocket and head downtown. It’s a long walk but it’s still light and Kessler’s doesn’t close until seven.

  I’m there when she gets off work. I’ve gone through half a pack just waiting for her to get done cleaning up or whatever. When she walks out she has a big black coat on. Two security guards are with her and they look at me for a second but then say good night to her and start walking away. When she turns toward the parking lot I step in her path and say Hi, you don’t remember me maybe but I got a ring here last week for my mom. I say You were right about the ring, it was just what she wanted. The shop lady looks startled but she smiles, that’s how she is, she’s polite. I’m glad, she says, and then we both just stand around, me chewing on my nails and her just looking like she doesn’t know what to do. Finally I say Hey listen, do you think we could get a cup of coffee, it’s really cold, I know a good place right there across the street, but the look on her face is all wrong and what I’ve said is stupid, I know, because it’s like I’m asking her on a date when that’s not what I mean at all. Well, it’s really late, she says, I don’t think so. And like some idiot I start crying and she’s like What, what’s wrong, but I can’t say what, and now the woman is taking a step back, she has this expression like she’s kind of sorry, but her sorriness is slipping and something else is taking its place. I’m sorry, she says, but I have to go, and then she makes as if to touch my shoulder and I, I don’t know, I scratch her, on her wrist, scraping my nails against the bracelet she has on, some kind of gold cuff. Both our eyes go wide. She doesn’t make a sound, she just turns and walks away really fast and I yell something after her, something like You bitch, which doesn’t make any sense because she isn’t a bitch, she isn’t anything bad I could call her, she is the nicest person I know.

  THE FIRE

  She started out tiny, blue, a skinny flame flashing into the world with a hungry little sizzle. I gazed at her as she twisted between my thumb and forefinger, not knowing then what she would be like, if she would love me, or if I would love her—I didn’t even know if she would be a she. That was left to fate. But right away I knew she would last. I could see it, how much she wanted it, as she strained toward the forest floor.

  Leaping from my hand she shot through the parched undergrowth, becoming first a molten red line, then a skirt of orange, then rising, in an instant, into slender stalks of gold a foot high: gorgeous. She was a she, I thought, definitely.

  Hello, John, she crackled, stroking me with her smoking fingers; I held out my hands and returned her caresses, delighted by the fine black skin she laid on top of my own sweating one.

  Hungry? I asked.

  Yes, she sighed, licking her way up the first tree.

  There’s plenty, I assured her. All for you.

  Good, she whooshed, as the wind combed her eastward into the next dry crown of parched pine: Good good. Her heat sucked my eyes dry, toasted the hair on my head. Whispering encouragement I lay belly-down in the dirt, keeping as close to her as I could. Enchanting! I cried as she tossed her flames higher into the night sky. Beautiful! Well done! She had the wind, and she was strong; when I heard the first sirens advance, deep in the city below us, she had already grown far beyond my field of vision.

  Darling, I gasped, ravished, grinning: Run.

  * * *

  The forest threw itself beneath her. That night she burned a thousand acres; the next night she took four times that number. She was relentless, voracious; she jumped fire lines like a girl skipping rope. The state, deep in a budget crisis, scrambled to rally its impoverished fire departments, but the predictions from the outset were dire; moving at fifteen miles an hour, burning at a thousand degrees, she was truly a wild thing. Most of us in the valley could see her flames from our doorsteps, and everyone everywhere in the city could see her smoke rolling over the sky. I kept my windows open, hoping to catch her scent; I drew hearts in the ash she sprinkled on the sill.

  John, she said, when you come tonight, bring me something.

  Anything. What would you like?

  Paper. Gas cans. Hairspray. Your clothes.

  Which ones? I asked, already plunging my hands into my closet, my drawers.

  All of them.

  Only in the first forty-eight hours could I still reach her by one of the secret paths not cordoned off, paths only she and I knew, though even then I had to be careful not to be seen; I drove with my lights off, parked my van off the road. I carried the gifts, in boxes, a half mile up to where she was just beginning to flicker into new territory. By the time I reached her I was panting inside my fire mask, my arms strengthless, jellied with pain, but I didn’t mind; it was worth anything to see her shimmering with delight over the boxes as I peeled back the flaps.

  Paper? I offered.

  Please, she snapped, and I fed a ream to her whole, watching as the pages were sucked high up into the air before flashing into flame. Next came the gas can, which I hurled as hard as I could; it touched the edge of her and burst. I whooped, lobbing the hairspray cans like grenades. The clothes I spread out in a neat heart shape, jeans and T-shirts and underwear and socks and shoes all braided together, a baseball cap in the center.

  These are for you, sweetheart, I said, and she rushed forward as I ran back, grasping the clothing in her eager fists. While she gobbled up my little tokens she was also plunging through the trees, and I pushed up the mask and put my forehead against the ground to feel how the earth shook beneath the tremendous boom and smack of exploding pine.

  Yes! I yelled. My lips had split; blood crept from the dry flesh and I sucked it. She was kissing me. This was the taste of her. I jerked my hips in the dirt.

  You are incredible, I said, her heat bearing down on my back. The forest floor was all ash, soft, hot: I thought I knew how it felt. I thought how lucky the forest was, to feel her so thoroughly, so deeply; it wanted her, it gave no resistance. It had been dry for so long. You’re welcome, I told it.

  I had a fox this morning, she confessed. And rabbits. Hundreds of rabbits. The birds drop down before I even touch them. They curdle in their nests.

  I’m so glad, I said, inhaling the faint tang of scorched flesh and fur among the perfume of hot rock and charred wood. Such richness! She should have all of it and more, I thought; I wanted to drape her in meat and wood as a man might drape a woman in diamonds.

  I lay there for as long as I dared, recklessly abandoning the mask for minutes at a time, gulping great lungfuls of smoke; when I coughed my saliva was black.

  You’re inside me already, I marveled.

  Yes, John, she sighed. Isn’t it nice?

  * * *

  I packed my van with my maps and a radio, a blanket, and a few cans of beans; she was on the move. For days I drove, my radio going nonstop with news of her direction, speed, appetite; I matched it mile for mile, working my way as close to her borders as was allowed. The relentless heat sucked the sweat from my skin; the driver’s seat was constantly damp, as were the blankets I slept on in the rear. I tied a bandanna around my head, and no matter what I ate I tasted only ash and salt.

  Though the emergency security cordons kept me at a distance she felt closer than ever, striking the landscape wherever I looked: she was 20,000 acres strong, then 50,000, then 100,000. She was the biggest, the most devastating news, raging behind every bewildered bleached-blond reporter, flaming the front pages of all the newspapers. There were a thousand firefighters struggling helplessly against her, eating up millions of tax dollars, unable to halt her astonishing progress. Buckets of flame retardant were flown overhead and tipped along her back; I could hear her laughter as they struck her, harmless.

  Look at you, I said, fanning the newspaper clippings across the floor of the van. The satellites can see you from space!

  What’s space? she asked.

  It’s everything around us that’s not a thing.<
br />
  She sighed. I want that, she said. I want all of it.

  You’ll have it, sweetheart, I assured her. It’s already yours.

  Yay, she said.

  Yay, I echoed. I could feel her smiling, and I could see it, too, in the trees, at the very top, all mouth when she wanted to be, at other times all hands, or legs, dancing in the wind.

  * * *

  But as well as I knew her, as constantly as I tried to anticipate her needs and satisfy them, I did make the occasional mistake.

  How’s the woods this evening? I asked one night, early on in our relationship; we were in the habit of eating dinner together after I’d parked for the night, me in the front seat, her blazing off in the distance.

  Delicious, she said. What are you having?

  Egg salad, I told her. The gas-station sandwich was maybe a little spoiled from sitting on the dash all day, but I ate it anyway, then washed it down with the first thing at hand: old water from a half-gallon jug I’d found beneath the front seat.

  What’s that? she asked.

  I paused, the water glugging in the jug. What’s what?

  That sound, she hissed.

  I was just—drinking something.

  Water?

  Well—

  Don’t! she shrieked.

  Sorry, sorry, I said, capping the jug and tossing it out the window, wincing when it hit a boulder.

  Gosh, John, I mean, really!

  I’m sorry. I’m stopping, I stopped. Okay? Honey?

  There was only the sound of the tires on the road, the whip of passing cars. I glanced in my rearview mirror, but saw only smoke, no flame.

  Hey, I said. Talk to me.

  I’m busy.

  Busy what?

  Burning!

  Of course, I said. I’m sorry.

  Another silence, and then: Turn on the radio, she gusted gently. We gasped with pleasure when we heard the chorus of our favorite song, “Burning Down the House.” We sung in unison, as loud as we could, her voice and my voice in perfect harmony inside the cab of the old van.

  * * *

  She was, indeed, busy: at five weeks and 500,000 acres she was busier and busier. Hundreds were evacuated from threatened homes, and though she hadn’t yet taken a neighborhood, she longed for one, bidding me time and again to describe what was in store: glass, garages, tennis courts, palm trees, pools. She had already had a few stray cars. Tires, she enthused. Oh, John, the tires!

  I kept driving, drinking Gatorade and eating bags of peanuts, soaking up the news. We had a lot to be proud of: she was on the cover of several local and national magazines, appeared on countless television shows, broke wildfire records daily. She grinned into the eyes of a hundred cameras, a thousand cell phones; I had a folder full of photos downloaded from libraries, her flames captured from every angle. Everyone for a hundred miles knew the name the papers gave her, but only I knew her true name, which was not a word but both a sound and a sight, a tremendous lightning roar scrawling itself across the parched earth.

  * * *

  In the evenings I would park the van and walk along the hills, as close as I could get to her, just off the freeway, the wind whipping my reeking T-shirt as we talked. There had never been anything like this in my life, nothing to prepare me for the intensity of my love for her, my happiness, my admiration, though there had been, I confessed, others: a half-dozen attempts in dry fields when I was a boy, a few Dumpster fires. Later, in my twenties and thirties, there’d been more serious encounters: a saucy little house blaze in the suburbs, an all-night conflagration at an abandoned lumber mill, the short-lived but brilliant rager at a used-furniture shop in the suburbs.

  Did you love them?

  No, I assured her, never. They were brave girls, all of them, and beautiful, yes, but they could not compare. Loving her was like loving a queen, or a mountain; she dominated me, she made me a subject, and yet when I looked into the van’s mirrors I didn’t see a plain soot-stained face or matted hair or a body encased in filthy rags; I saw something purer, lighter. I was untethering myself from the world of flesh. I was slowly becoming free.

  * * *

  Of course, I was not the only one in her thrall. Other admirers flocked by the dozens to the scenic-view pullouts off the highway: middle-aged men with canvas hats flapping in the high hot wind, teenagers in muscle T-shirts and cutoffs, vagabonds driving dusty RVs; young foreign couples with slick lips and beautiful hair. They carried binoculars, bag lunches, digital cameras, lattes and iced teas and Slurpees, expensive phones, cigarettes. I sat on the hood of my van, and though they took turns staring, no one spoke to me, and I had no desire to speak to them.

  I don’t understand why they don’t have more men on the ground, a woman complained, flipping a gray braid over her shoulder. It’s only twenty miles from the housing complex.

  Who cares about some rich people’s houses, a young man replied, scowling, his matchstick arms sleeved from wrist to bicep in ink. It’s nature’s revenge, man. Humans are parasites.

  You include yourself in that statement? the woman scoffed.

  Hell yes, I do.

  State’s spending as much as they can. It’s a recession, someone added.

  You can’t just let people’s property burn! the woman insisted. Someone shushed her and she turned, catching my eye, and scowled at me, though I had said nothing. There was a huge boom from the fire; a balloon of fresh flame splattered the sky. Everyone flinched and the boy laughed, a high, hysterical sound.

  I heard it was man-made, a Japanese woman said, looking at her phone. They think it was started in the Valley by a homeless person.

  Other voices chimed in: Probably some idiot burning trash.

  Nah, they would have found something at the origin site. It’s arson.

  I heard some guy already turned himself in but they’re keeping his name a secret.

  If I knew that bastard’s name I’d hang him myself. Me and my kids are sleeping on my mother’s living-room floor because of this goddamn evacuation.

  Freaks get off on it, someone grumbled.

  You’d have to be sick in the head to even think about it. Forget about property, it’s people’s lives at stake.

  Why do you people always have to blame shit on someone? the tattooed boy said. There’s been, like, a drought. Fires happen, man. Accept it. It’s not about you and your stupid house.

  The braid lady glared at the boy. He raised his fist and flipped her off.

  Another woman was fitting a camera with a lens; as she raised it to her eye the darkly bearded man next to her said She’s really something, isn’t she.

  My head whipped toward him. How did he know she was a she? He was smiling, nodding to himself, looking now and then through a huge pair of binoculars, nicer than the ones I had in my van.

  As the evening passed into true night the others climbed back into their cars, but this man stayed, a half hour, an hour. I was sitting on a rock, jiggling my knees, moving only to pee behind my van; when I came back around, he was still there. The traffic had thinned at our backs and the only light came from the moonlight trapped in the smog.

  Getting late, I said, loud. No answer. I peered at him; there was something funny about his expression, his eyes fixed so relentlessly through the enormous binoculars, his lips curving into a little private smile I could almost feel on my own face.

  It’s really late to be out, isn’t it? I repeated. For a moment I thought I could see his mouth moving, like he was talking, but I couldn’t hear any sound.

  What? I said.

  He didn’t even look in my direction.

  Hey, I shouted, leaping up from the rock, gravel spitting beneath my shoes. Hey! Knock it off!

  He did a double take, trying to dodge the finger I was thrusting in his face.

  Excuse me?

  Don’t you dare talk to her! Don’t you even look at her!

  He swatted at my arm. Who?

  Her! Her! I screamed.

  I don’t know w
hat—

  You fucking bastard! I shrieked, throwing myself at his chest; then we were both on the ground, grappling, feet sliding over the blacktop. I jabbed my elbow into his stomach, but the angle wasn’t right and I don’t think he even felt it.

  Are you out of your goddamn mind? he spat, chopping at my head with his big hands; I managed to grab a fistful of his hair before a blow to the temple folded me sideways. I threw my leg out as I fell off him, crushing my heel into the meat of his thigh.

  Jesus! he yelled, heaving himself from the ground. Limping he backed his way to the hood of his car, half bent, his eyes wide on my face.

  You—how do you—how dare—I sputtered, rolling to my side.

  Don’t get up! I’ll call the cops! he said.

  I lifted my head, seeing pink.

  I heard the door of his Jeep slam shut; the engine roared. Gravel and dirt peppered my jeans as he peeled into the road.

  You’ll burn! I shouted. I’ll burn you up!

  Nutjob! he called through the window. I watched his taillights rake red through the dark, then disappear.

  I sat up. I’m bleeding, I told her, touching the split skin above my eye.

  Oh, poor John, she said.

  It’ll be okay, I replied, pressing the hem of my shirt to the wound. Did you know that guy?

  She paused. Well, in a way.

  What way?