Set the Night on Fire

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  She pulled to the right. But the other driver did too, staying on her tail. Who was this jerk? She had half a mind to veer off the road at the next exit. She looked for a highway sign, but—of course—just when she needed one, there was nothing.

  The lights drew closer, turning the rearview into a rectangular bar of light. Then something thumped the rear of her car. The Corolla lurched, and Rain nearly lost control of the wheel. What the …? Another whack. The car slipped sideways. The jerk was trying to run her off the road!

  She floored the gas, but the creep was still locked on her tail. Her pursuer hit the bumper again. The sensation made her realize how light and fragile her Toyota really was.

  Shit! She was losing control. She frantically wrenched the wheel to the right, but nothing happened. Somehow the vehicle on her tail was preventing her from turning. Then, without warning, something snapped, and the Corolla veered sharply right. The forward momentum pitched the car over the shoulder to a ditch, where it flipped over. It finally stopped at the edge of a field a few yards from a large “This Property Under Development” sign.

  The van slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. A man opened the driver’s door, jumped down, and ran back to the Corolla. The engine was still running, but he saw no movement inside. He pulled something from his pocket, lit it, and tossed it. He was heading back to the truck when the car exploded.

  FOUR

  “The Christmas lights are busted.” Danny Hilliard pulled the plug out of the wall.

  His sister, Lila, sipped her coffee. “They were working last night.”

  “Well, they’re not this morning.”

  “Weren’t you the last person to fiddle with them?”

  “Oh. So it’s my fault?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Save it for the jury, Lila.” Danny’s eyes narrowed. “You’re always quick to lay the blame on me whenever something gets screwed up. I’m going upstairs. I hate fucking Christmas.” He stomped out of the room.

  Lila watched his retreating back. Maybe coming home wasn’t such a great idea. She hadn’t planned to—not because of her father. He needed her, and she loved being needed. But Danny, her twin, was another story. They’d been inseparable as children. “That’s what comes of being womb-mates,” her father would joke. By the time they were teenagers, though, Danny had become restless, clearly uncomfortable in his own skin. Discomfort turned to self-pity, and Danny turned into a victim, a victim who often made Lila his oppressor.

  In fact, she was surprised Danny had come “home” for the holidays. His Evanston condo was only a couple of miles away, but their father liked having his kids under his roof over Christmas. When Danny acquiesced, Lila figured it was a hopeful sign. Maybe Danny was putting away his childhood resentments. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She hoped he wasn’t into drugs again. It would break her father’s heart.

  She put down her cup, stood up, and went to the tree, a seven-foot Douglas fir. It had been delivered yesterday. She took one of the strands of lights and inspected the little white label affixed to the wire. Not a UL label—only a bunch of letters and numbers.

  She went over and plugged the cord back into the outlet. Tiny bursts of pink and blue and green twinkled through the branches. She frowned. The lights were working now. Must be a short. She looked at the boxes of decorations she’d hauled down from the attic, dozens of ornaments nestled in layers of tissue paper. They were supposed to decorate the tree this afternoon. Hot buttered rum and tree-trimming—it was a Hilliard family tradition. Aunt Valerie would be joining them. Lila decided to drive over to Blaine’s and pick up some new lights.

  She unplugged the lights and went upstairs. Dad had never redecorated her room when she left. High school mementos were tucked into the corners of her mirror, stuffed animals piled in the corner. A framed eight-by-ten photograph of Gramum sat on her bureau. It had been six years, but she still missed her grandmother. Her death had broken a link in Lila’s already tiny universe. Wasn’t living supposed to expand her horizons? Bring in new experiences and people? Then why did hers feel like it was constricting?

  She threw on a thick sweater, jeans, and boots, then went into the bathroom. She brushed her hair back and pulled it into a ponytail. Dark hair, dark eyes. My little gypsy, Dad used to call her. So unlike Danny, with his light hair and blue eyes. No one ever mistook them for twins; some couldn’t believe they were siblings. If she hadn’t seen the baby pictures, photos in which Gramum dressed them alike—at least until they were two—she might not have believed it herself.

  She washed her face. She was on the wrong side of her thirties; she could use some make-up. She settled for a swipe of lip gloss. That was another Gramumism: “Even when you’re in a hurry, try to throw on some lipstick. It gives you a finished look.”

  She clattered down the back steps to the mud room and pulled her parka off the hook. She went to her father’s study and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  She opened the door. Small bars of daylight seeped in around the edges of closed curtains. The only other light in the room came from a computer monitor. Her father was bent over it, his face a pale shade of blue.

  “Hi, Dad. Just wanted to tell you I’m going out.”

  “Okay, sweetheart.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine. I was just checking the news.”

  She looked around for the newspaper, but didn’t see it. A smile tugged at her lips. Along with everything else, her father got his news online these days. Talk about early adopters. He’d been there during the first days of the Internet. He and Al Gore.

  “Anything new?”

  He shrugged. “The Bulls won. The Bears lost.” He looked up, his eyes squinting slightly, as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Where did you say you were going?”

  “The tree lights aren’t working right. I’m going to pick up some new ones.”

  “We’re trimming it this afternoon.”

  “That’s why I’m going now.” She walked over and kissed the top of his head. “Where’s Sadie? I didn’t see her in the kitchen.”

  Their housekeeper since the twins were small, Sadie took care of cuts and scrapes, soothed frayed tempers, and had a big lap to curl up in. Best of all, she baked the most delicious pies east of the Mississippi. Lila remembered when she was seven. Her father and brother were away on a camping trip and she’d been invited to a neighbor’s house for dinner. But Sadie had made a blueberry pie, Lila’s favorite. When it came time for dessert at the neighbors’, Lila announced she’d rather go home for Sadie’s pie. She got a smart slap on her butt when her father came home. By then, though, she’d had several slices.

  “Sometimes she gets stuck in traffic,” her father said, bringing her back to the present.

  “You sure you don’t need anything, Dad?” She pointed to the cane propped up against the desk. “For your hip?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lila, I’m not crippled. I just had a hip replacement.”

  “I know.”

  “I should have had it done years ago.” He shooed her out. “Get out of here. And don’t worry about Sadie. She’ll be here.”

  “She’d better. She promised to make blueberry pie.”

  Her father looked her over. “Tell me something. How do you stay so thin when you’re always talking about food? Something you just ate, something you’re planning to eat, something you wish you could eat?”

  “That’s the secret. You burn all your calories thinking and talking about food rather than eating.”

  Her father waved her out, but he was laughing.

  “Can I take the Miata?” Lila didn’t want to risk alienating Danny further by taking his Jeep.

  He opened his desk drawer, fished out the keys, and tossed them over.

  Outside she sniffed the cold, metallic smell that precedes snow. A dirty gray overcast sky confirmed it. A white Christmas wouldn’t be so bad. She backed the Miata down the driveway. She had to sto
p at the corner of Willow Road while a rental truck made a slow turn onto the private lane. Strange, she thought to herself, who moved a few days before Christmas?

  Blaine’s was a variety store that never changed. Tucked away on a quiet street in Winnetka, it stocked everything people needed, plus things they didn’t know they needed until they saw them. The man who owned it, Sam Blaine, had been bought out by his niece a few years ago, but he still showed up for work every day. Now in his eighties, stooped, with white hair, he knew exactly where everything was.

  “Hi, Sam.” Lila stopped to chat. “Why aren’t you in Florida?”

  “We’re leaving after New Years, honey.” Everyone was “honey” to Sam. Had been for fifty years. She doubted he even knew her real name. “Can’t abandon the fort during our busiest season now, can I?”

  She smiled and asked him where the Christmas lights were. He pointed to an aisle on the far side of the store. She found them easily and picked up two boxes. The store was warm, and she unzipped her parka. She browsed in the aisles, checking out oven mitts, toys, first aid boxes, and cards. She remembered when Danny started a collection of tiny metal cars. He left them scattered all over the house until Gramum, tripping for the umpteenth time, threatened to move out if he didn’t put them all in one place.

  She paid for the lights, wondering how much longer Blaine’s would be around. Prime North Shore property with its own parking lot in back. Developers had to be salivating over the land. If Sam’s niece was my client, she thought, I’d tell her to wait for the old man to die, then sell the place and make a killing. But that was the professional voice. Not the little girl who’d happily shopped in what was then a kid’s paradise.

  She was walking back to the parking lot when she heard a high-pitched, clear voice.

  “Is that you, Lila?”

  As she turned around, a woman lumbered toward her. She was red-cheeked and plump, and her padding of winter gear accentuated her roundness. Something about her was familiar. Especially her voice.

  “It is you!” The woman came closer, her face breaking into a grin.

  Finally Lila recognized her. “Annie Gossage! How are you? It’s got to be fifteen years.”

  Annie had lived a block away from Lila. They’d gone to the same schools: Crow Island, Washburne, New Trier. They’d been in Brownies together, then Girl Scouts, until Lila quit after loudly comparing Scouts to the Hitler Youth. Annie’s mother had been the troop leader.

  “How wonderful to see you!” Annie exclaimed. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to hold a grudge.

  As a girl Annie had been graceless and self-conscious. That was gone now, Lila noted, a sunny cheerfulness in its place. “You look terrific, Annie.”

  “You too!” Annie rested a hand on Lila’s shoulder. “We really should catch up.”

  Lila glanced at her watch. Dad was probably still working. Danny was probably sulking. It might be fun to do something spontaneous like catch up with an old friend. Weren’t these the life moments she was supposed to savor? “You know, I probably should get home … but, hey, what the hell!”

  Annie beamed and pointed to a shop on the corner of Elm next to the book store. “Let’s get coffee.”

  Ten minutes later, Lila was sipping a latte, telling Annie about her job at Peabody Stern, a blue-stocking financial management firm in New York.

  “Did you major in business?” Annie asked.

  Lila shook her head. “Philosophy, which, of course, isn’t practical for anything. Luckily, Peabody didn’t care. Actually, they don’t really want anyone with real experience. Makes it easier to train you in the Peabody Stern tradition.”

  “So now you’re an investment counselor?”

  “Financial planner.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m just grateful to have a job. In this economy.”

  Annie nodded. “You always were a whiz at math.”

  Lila dipped her head. Her life revolved around numbers: P&Ls, financial statements, interest rates, market spreads. Despite the financial meltdown, she trusted them. Numbers were precise, straightforward symbols that people implicitly agreed upon. They offered clarity. At the same time they were flexible. You could make a number sound large or small depending on the context: “Ten thousand dollars would feed a family of four for a year,” or “Ten thousand dollars wouldn’t even pay for the windshield wiper on an F-16.”

  “And a vice-president too?” Annie gushed.

  Lila’s knee pumped up and down. It seemed gauche to dwell on her professional achievements with Annie. She’d achieved a certain success; she’d worked damn hard for it. But she’d paid a price. Her boyfriend thought she was judgmental and cold, so they’d broken up. Now her brother apparently agreed. But Annie didn’t need to hear that. Lila hid behind a smile. “What about you, Annie?”

  “Me?” Annie waved a hand. “Oh, I’m just a soccer mom. You know, three kids, PTA, dinner on the table by six. Boring stuff.”

  “What you’re doing is much more important than steering someone into the right mutual fund,” Lila said, although she wasn’t sure whether she believed it. She’d never seen herself as a wife and mother. She didn’t “keep house.” She hardly even cooked.

  “I know. I love my life. I don’t want to be any other place.” Annie broke off a chunk of coffee cake, stuffed it in her mouth, and chewed with her mouth open. She’d done that in grade school too, Lila recalled.

  “How’s Danny?” Annie asked tentatively.

  She was remembering the Danny from high school, Lila thought. Rebellious, rambunctious, always in trouble. The opposite of Lila: disciplined, conscientious, the girl who colored between the lines.

  “Danny’s working at Dad’s firm.”

  “How nice for both of them,” Annie sounded unenthusiastic. “So … ” A coy look came over her. “Any men in your life?”

  Lila smiled gamely. “Not any more.”

  “Oh?” Annie chewed more cake.

  “There was someone, but we broke up.”

  “That had to be hard. I’m sorry.”

  Lila stiffened. What did Annie know about failed relationships? She’d married her high school boyfriend, a chemistry nerd named Ben. And from what she was saying, they were still deliriously happy.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a siren. A moment later, three fire engines, two trucks, and a rescue vehicle raced down Elm Street.

  Annie frowned. “Oh, I don’t like that.”

  “What?”

  “Sirens.” Annie shivered. “I never like to think of people’s houses burning down. Especially over the holidays.”

  “Maybe it’s a false alarm.” Lila finished her drink.

  “Maybe.” Annie didn’t look convinced. “Three engines, two trucks, that’s an initial alarm. With luck, it’ll be the only one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The higher the alarm, the more serious the fire. For example, a three alarm fire could be as many as nine engines, six trucks … you know, multiples of three.”

  “How do you know all that stuff?”

  “Ben volunteers at the fire department. He loves it.”

  An uneasy feeling spilled over Lila. She stood up and pitched her empty cup into the trash. “Well, it’s been great seeing you, Annie, but I’d better go. Merry Christmas.”

  Annie nodded, as if she understood they’d exhausted the possibilities of superficial conversation, and it was time to go back into their separate worlds. She stood up and hugged Lila one more time. “I knew you’d go places, Lila. You were always such a go-getter. Give my love to your Dad. And have a great holiday.”

  FIVE

  But Lila never did give her father Annie’s love. She drove home, trying to quash her growing uneasiness. She turned on the radio, hoping classic rock would calm her. It didn’t. She snapped it off and cracked open the window. As she turned onto Willow Road, she thought she heard a kind of humming, as if a giant machine or pump had been turned on.

  Wh
en she reached her street, her stomach pitched. Fire trucks and police cruisers lined both sides of the lane. It was impossible to pass. Red and blue lights strobed the air. Tinny voices filtered through radios and walkie-talkies. Firefighters lugged equipment. People, some of them her neighbors, milled at the corner.

  She parked on Willow, threw herself out of the car, and sprinted toward the house. A uniformed cop blocked her path.

  “Miss, miss … you can’t go any further. There’s a house fire!”

  “I live here!” she shouted, and detoured around him.

  The cop yelled and started after her. Lila kept going, her heart pumping. Tiny flakes of soot sifted through the air. Smoke started to crawl into her nose, throat, and eyes.

  The house loomed into view. For a moment, everything looked the same—the stolid red brick with white shutters, and graceful columns in front. Then a plume of orange-red flame, and then another, shot up from the house, and everything became surreal. Hoses stretched from the fire trucks to the yard. Streams of water attacked the flames. Rolls of brownish gray smoke rose in the air. Men in thickly padded brown uniforms with iridescent stripes across their chests gathered at her front door.

  She gazed at the scene, horror-stricken. The adrenaline that had fueled her run evaporated, and she felt dizzy, almost as if she might collapse. The cop who’d tried to block her caught up to her. “Miss, you need to come with me.”

  “What … what happened?”

  The cop steadied her with a hand on her arm. “Don’t know yet, but fire at this time of year is most likely a Christmas tree.”

  She stared at the cop. The Christmas tree? She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The lights. “But I unplugged them.”

  “What, ma’am?”

  “The lights. They weren’t working. I went to buy new ones.” She remembered pulling out the plug to the Christmas lights. Had they overheated anyway? Or did she just imagine pulling the plug out of the wall? An iron band of pain clamped her head, just behind her eyes.

  “Come with me,” the cop repeated.