Gravity Box and Other Spaces

by Mark Tiedemann

  A second shot shattered more glass, and then there was silence. His heaving lungs were the only sound he could discern. He got into the kitchen and pressed up against the stove. Egan swallowed hard around the constriction in his throat and tried to control his frantic breathing. He heard crackling in the distance. Perhaps Edmunds’ car pulling up the road? No, that was wrong, it was too inconsistent.

  What was wrong with these people, he wondered. “When I see Curt—,” he muttered.

  The crackling grew louder and now he smelled smoke. He pushed himself up to peer over the top of the stove. The windows at the front of the house rippled with yellow-red that became black soot as it rose. As he watched, a trickle of flame traced a path through the broken glass in the door.

  “Jesus!”

  He bolted for the stairs, waiting for the shotgun blast that would cut him down. It never came. He rounded the banister and took the steps four at a time to the loft.

  The bed was empty.

  He tore through the small space, searching for Esther. He jerked open the closet doors, pulled clothes out, but she was gone.

  The fire’s roar filled his ears, now. Egan crawled across the bed to the window. Brice stood leaning against a tree, the shotgun ready.

  Egan pulled his boots on and grabbed an extra shirt and ran downstairs. The heat was filling the room. The whole front of the A-frame seemed engulfed. At the kitchen sink he turned on the water, hoping the pump still worked. Water gushed into the basin. He soaked the shirts. He put one on and wrapped the second across his shoulders, then pulled a bucket from beneath the sink. He kept glancing at the encroaching blaze while the bucket filled. Smoke filled the upper parts of the A-frame.

  Brice was out back waiting to kill him. There was only one other way out. A last thought made him grab the axe from the utility closet by the back door.

  He carried the bucket and axe toward the front door. The heat was terrible this close, but the floor was not burning yet. He set the bucket down and wrapped the extra wet shirt around his head, then stepped quickly forward with the axe and swung it at the door. The door buckled. Another blow and it popped loose and fell away. Egan hefted the bucket and heaved the water at the doorway, uncertain if it would do anything at all. He dropped the bucket, ducked his head, held his breath, and ran.

  He saw nothing, only felt the impact of heat and a searing wind. His feet lost touch with the collapsing porch and he dropped. When he struck the ground he staggered, legs flailing, pushing hard to put distance between himself and the fire. The gravel underfoot skittered beneath his tread. He fell once again landing on his elbows and one knee. He rolled away, only then did he open his eyes.

  He glimpsed orange at the corner of his vision just as he felt the bite of burning flesh from his left arm. He rolled onto his arm remembering vaguely that that was something you did if you were on fire. He ripped the wet shirt from his face. He tried to stand, but his legs quivered so badly that he stumbled twice before finally gaining his footing. The left sleeve of the shirt he wore was scorched and smoking. By some miracle of accident everything else seemed intact. He looked back toward the A-frame.

  All he could see through the wall of fire was the very peak of the roof. Egan stood nearly twenty yards away now and even at this distance he felt a wash of heat. He opened his mouth to call for Esther, but his throat caught. He could only manage a painful cough. Picking up his extra shirt, he saw the axe on the ground several feet from the collapsed porch. He sprinted forward, grabbed it, then bolted for the woods.

  He ran deep into the forest. His only thoughts were to run, to get away, to hide. He ran until his adrenalin-fueled legs gave way. He dropped to his knees and fell forward onto his face. He knew nothing but darkness. Time passed.

  When he opened his eyes again, the forest was quiet. Egan did not remember stopping, much less falling asleep. He stayed still for just a moment more, then stood. He glanced toward the sun, but could not tell if it were still early morning or late afternoon. He considered his surroundings, but one tree looked like the next. There was nothing to help him.

  Should’ve taken the Cherokee. Yeah, but your keys and everything else went up in flames.

  He had left everything in the A-frame. Clothes, toiletries, money.

  Esther—?

  His axe lay in the leaves and grass. He hefted it, pondering its usefulness in his present circumstances. It would not be much defense against Brice’s shotgun.

  A sharp sound like birds chirping broke the stillness. Egan turned in a slow circle, staring into the fractal confusion of the woods. Nothing moved. He made the circuit again, and his eye stopped on an incongruity. There was something pale that seemed to rise up from the forest floor. It didn’t belong there. He stepped forward. Now he could see it clearly, an arm. His mind struggled to understand. He grabbed his axe and approached as quietly as he could, wincing at every leaf and twig that rustled and snapped underfoot.

  Esther lay in the ground cover, naked. Here and there ugly red and black welts marred her smooth skin. It took Egan a moment to realize that they were burns. Her feet were charred, the ruin stretching up nearly to her knees. Tears ran freely from her eyes, but she made no sound. She was running her hands along her arms, breasts, and stomach, down her hips. She rubbed her legs together. All the while her entire body twisted and writhed. But for the pain in her face, she looked as if she was cleansing herself, the air standing in as the salve.

  Egan watched, mute, frightened and fascinated. The memory of her earlier, touching him, absorbing him, aroused him at once. He felt a stab of shame; she was injured and all he could think of was having her again.

  Her movements increased. As he watched, the redness faded with each pass of her hands over a wound. The burnt blackness brushed away, like old charcoal. Flesh showed through the scabbing on her feet. She drew deeper lungfuls of air. Her eyes closed and she sighed heavily. Leaves made delicate sounds, disintegrating beneath her.

  Stunned and disbelieving, Egan imagined turning away, moving off, leaving her. He pictured the motions, counted the steps, envisioned retreat, and his pulse accelerated. It needed to be done, he thought, before she saw him, before she opened her eyes and fixed him in place. It was a peculiar sensation, part déjà vu, part self-knowledge, not prophetic so much as expected. He could not look away.

  She opened her eyes; Egan felt a cold line trace the outlines of his skull and down his neck.

  “Help me,” she said. She raised her hand to him, palm up, an invitation. He accepted. He took her hand in his and helped her to stand. The ground where she had lain was gray and black, dead, like old, wet ash. Hand in hand, Esther led him out of the woods.

  Once they had made it to the edge of town, Egan brought them up behind Bert’s house. Feeling like a thief, he crept to her window and inched it up wincing as the warped aluminum runners rattled and creaked their displeasure. When at last he had made enough room to pass through he hoisted himself onto the ledge and stepped in.

  The room was small and cluttered. After several seconds, Egan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he saw that it was a spare bedroom, barely larger than a closet, crowded with chairs, a bureau, boxes and bags, and what appeared to be an old sewing machine mounted in its own desk.

  He listened by the door, but heard nothing until the furnace kicked on, blowing at first chill air from the vents. He stepped into the narrow hallway, licked his lips nervously, and explored Bert’s house. When he was satisfied that she was not home, he went to her bedroom.

  Bert was larger than Esther Miller, but not by much. Egan found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, heavy socks and old sneakers. He bundled the clothes in a plastic bag he found in the kitchen and left the house the same way he had entered.

  Esther sat against a tree about fifty yards into the woods. She smiled when she saw him.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the bag. “They might be a little large, but—”

  There were no traces of burns on her now.

>   She started dressing.

  “I thought—” he started, then bit back, feeling foolish. Obviously she had gotten out before the fire had consumed the A-frame, which was why he had been unable to find her. But the burns—

  “I can’t,” she said cryptically, lacing the sneakers. She smiled. “They flop.” She made a show of how badly the sneakers fit and looked up at him. “What now?”

  “Let’s go back to Bert’s house and wait for her. We don’t know what’s happened since—We need information.”

  “Why didn’t we just go together?”

  “Because—” His voice trailed off. Because you were naked, he was about to say, but immediately realized that made no sense. Why would anyone be any more or less alarmed at a clothed Esther Miller breaking into someone’s house than a naked Esther Miller? The truth was he had not been sure of what to do next. He only knew that he had wanted Esther out of reach, safe.

  Esther got to her feet. “I’m ready.”

  It occurred to him that she was enjoying this. Her face looked eager, eyes bright. Irritated, Egan picked up the axe and led the way back to Bert’s house.

  The storm window went up more easily now. He hoisted Esther up to the ledge, and she pulled herself through and then accepted the axe from him. He climbed in after and shut the window.

  The moment he sat down on the living-room sofa he began to tremble. He closed his eyes and tried to control his fear. He had nearly died today. In the panic-driven flight for safety, he had put off confronting that fact. Now, though, there was nothing to distract him.

  Esther watched him from the hall doorway.

  “Sorry,” he said. “This is my first time being murdered.”

  She sat down beside him and touched his thigh. “Can I help?”

  “Tell me this is just a bad dream and I’ll wake up in my friend’s house.”

  “I can’t.”

  He glanced at her. “What is it with your husband? Can’t he take ‘no’ for an answer?”

  “No.” She sighed. “It’s not his fault. He never wanted me to begin with.”

  “What?”

  “You should sleep.”

  “I—sure. I should.” She eased him over on his side and he stretched out on the sofa. “I should have stayed here last night after all. Pride gets a person into the damnedest trouble sometimes.” He tried to laugh.

  “Sleep,” she said and put her hand on his face.

  “Sleep—”

  “I don’t remember giving you a key.”

  Egan jerked up. Bert stood over him, hands on her hips, frowning. The lamps were all on, throwing shadows across each other in between pools of bright yellow light. He stared at her until his heart began to slow. He wiped his face and his hand came away sweat-slick.

  “Bert—I’m sorry, I—”

  “Is that Esther Miller in my bed?”

  “I—yeah, I guess.”

  Her frown deepened. “You didn’t do anything here, did you?”

  “What? We just needed a place to hide till—”

  “You didn’t fuck her here, did you?”

  The anger in her voice jarred him. “No.”

  “Good.” She let out a heavy sigh and all the suspicion and rage seemed drain away leaving her to look only tired.

  “We all thought you were dead.”

  “You heard then.”

  “You can’t burn your hand on a stove in this valley without everyone hearing about in less than a day.”

  “Where’s Miller? That maniac—”

  “In the woods somewhere looking for Esther. You actually made a good choice coming here. This is probably the last place he’ll think to look.”

  “Why isn’t he in jail? He burned the A-frame down, damn near shot me. I’m amazed Esther survived. I thought she’d gotten caught in the fire.”

  “She can’t. The Sheriff won’t put Brice Miller in jail till he has Esther back.”

  “Why not? He’s a goddamn murderer!”

  Bert shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

  Egan rubbed his face. “We have to get out of Saletcroix. I lost my car keys in the fire.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Well, yeah. Esther can’t stay here. Next time she might not be so lucky.”

  Bert seemed disappointed in the answer, but she said nothing. She went to the hallway and peered into her bedroom.

  “This is as much my fault as anything,” she said.

  “How’s that? I didn’t see you stalking my house with a shotgun.”

  “Esther wouldn’t have run off if I hadn’t filled her head full of ideas.” She came back into the living room and sat down in her wingback chair. “I’d been running The Pumphandle for about two years before I met her. She came in with her husband for a few minutes. He had to talk to Ralph Stimson about something, and Ralph was drinking heavily then. The only place you could find him was my bar. She acted like she’d never seen such a place before. I mean, everything amazed her. Frightened her. Fascinated her. A few days later she came back alone. She asked me what it was I did there. When I told her I owned The Pumphandle, she just stared at me like I was talking Chinese or something. ‘Who’s your husband?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t one,’ I told her. ‘How do you get by like that?’ And it began. About once a week, sometimes twice, Esther Miller came in to learn about—things.”

  “Things?”

  Bert frowned at him. “She didn’t know anything. I mean, nothing, not even what year it was. So I started asking about her. None of the men would say a word. It was Mrs. McCutcheon who finally told me about Esther. Not that I believed a word of it, but I figured that if everyone else around here believed it, this had to be the saddest case of barefoot-and-pregnant I’d ever seen.”

  Bert became silent, staring toward the bedroom. Egan waited until he became sure she had forgotten him.

  “So what did the old lady say?”

  “Hmm? Oh. Lot of folklore nonsense.” Bert drew in a deep breath. “The short version of it is that Esther is the personification of the valley’s soul. When she’s quiet, happy, and cared for, the valley prospers. When she isn’t—”

  “Everything goes to hell.”

  “Basically.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Bert grunted. “Would you? The point is these folks here do believe it.”

  Egan thought about what he had seen in the woods. “I saw—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s not important.” He cleared his throat. “What if it’s true? How do you feel about that?”

  Bert looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. “I’d think how unfair it was that this little pocket of back country should have something that guarantees prosperity and the rest of the country, hell, the world, has to get by on its own. I mean, what did Saletcroix ever do to deserve that kind of special treatment?”

  “Yeah. Other than take care not to lose it?”

  Bert grunted.

  “What do you suggest we do?” Egan asked.

  “Once more I ask ‘We’?”

  “You just finished telling me how this is so much your fault.”

  Bert snorted and shook her head. “I already did too much, and it got me a black eye and sore ribs. I’m not in the rescue business anymore.”

  She turned her back on him and walked out of the room. A moment later, Egan heard water running from the bathroom. He let his head fall back against the couch and stared at the ceiling, a distant ringing in his ears telling him that he was stressed and anxious and frightened.

  I should just walk away, like every other time.

  He crossed to the bedroom door and looked into the gray-on-gray collection of shapes until he made out Esther Miller’s outline beneath the blankets on Bert’s bed. He regretted not staying with Bert the night before, not just because of the complications that had developed since.

  “What do you want to do?”

  Egan turned. Bert stood in the center of her small living room, arms fold
ed, face set in forced calm.

  “I don’t know. Do you have a suggestion?”

  “You could turn her over to the sheriff.”

  “What would he do with her?”

  “Give her back to Brice.”

  “What would he do to her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t get this. What happened to the law? Brice’s responsible for property damage and probably a death.”

  “He’s responsible for Esther, first and foremost. He’s the one who was designated. It’s his responsibility. He can’t take care of her if he’s in jail.”

  “Designated by who? This is making less and less sense. Everybody here is willing to go along with that?”

  Bert shrugged. “What are you willing to go along with for what you believe?”

  “I don’t—”

  He had been about to say that he believed in nothing. He stopped, though, to wonder if that were true.

  “You have to understand,” Bert went on, “that people here don’t think much of abstracts. They’re pretty basic; what affects the community has to be handled first.” She shook her head. “Some would say that makes them simple. I don’t think there’s anything simple about these folks.”

  “Burning down houses seems like a hell of a community problem.”

  Bert raised her finger at him, mouth open to bark in anger, but the sound he heard came from the bedroom behind her. She frowned, as if unsure she had heard anything. It came again, a groan like the distant sound of ice shifting just before it calves and drops into the sea, or the moan of iron in path of a hurricane, but far away and low, so that it blended with the blood in his ears.

  Egan knew it had to be Esther. He pushed past Bert and rushed into the bedroom. Esther lay on the bed in a pose of torment, on her side, back arched and face buried in pillow. One leg quivered.

  “Esther—?” Bert called softly.

  Esther sat up so suddenly that Egan expected to hear the sound of bones snapping. Her eyes were large and desolate.