How she wanted the soft eyes of compassion. Molly, a small bird, had needed them just to get from day to day. Like her father had before her. Dear God, Catherine had often given them hard eyes and a hard heart instead. She hadn't wanted it to be that kind of world, where some people needed more care than others.
She had bequeathed her land to her daughter, but Molly had inherited more than that, she'd been given some of the shaky ground that came from Bill. It was a bigger inheritance, one that carried more weight. Catherine's lack of grace for it showed her own cracks and schisms. She was glad Molly had seen the painting, after all. She hoped it would tell what she needed to say. That she saw all of who Molly was, that she loved all of it, every bit. Todd had wanted to put the painting into the truck bed, but she wouldn't let him. She wouldn't hand it to anyone but Molly. She just couldn't. It had been too long coming.
TWENTY
"What?" Molly asked again, from the passenger seat of Gerard's truck. "Gerard, I can tell something's up—what is it?"
He moved something around in his mouth before answering her.
"It's come over the ridge," he said.
She sucked breath in quickly.
"Oh, no. Shit."
She chewed on a thumbnail and thought. Gerard was bringing one last load of hay to the old cattle barn for the goats.
"And you haven't seen Jefé anywhere?"
"No," Gerard said.
She felt exhaustion creeping through her veins, bringing waves of longing to her fingertips. Longing for what, she couldn't say. There was a metallic taste in her mouth.
"The horses are there with the goats?" she asked.
"Yep."
She could take Moses out and look for Jefé, go see the fire at the ridge. Gerard pulled in at the barn entrance.
"You okay?" he asked. "You're looking kind of tired."
"I am tired," she said, dropping out of the passenger seat onto the dirt. "But I want to see if I can find my donkey before I head out. I'll catch a ride with Jack."
"All right," he said, heaving a bag of feed over one shoulder and heading for the barn. "Just be careful."
"I will," she said. She loped toward the barn, feeling new urgency. She saddled Moses quickly and pointed him across the ranch to the southeastern corner. Moses's nostrils flared as she turned him up the hill to head for the ridge. He was straining, not breathing well. She reined him in, he was pushing it too much. He was nervous, she could see the whites of his eyes and he kept spooking and leaping sideways. They walked in a tunnel of smoke. Molly tried to recognize her ranch, but saw a decrepit, foreign place. In the distance she could see the orange glow of flames. She drew nearer.
This was a different kind of fire than what they had seen in the Park. It was bright, desperate and fierce, sucking at the trees and spitting them out, circling and biting at the wood again and again, rushing and hissing and even roaring. Molly felt real terror, looking at it. A cluster of men stood off to one side, watching. She joined them. Moses was really dancing now, trying to get away from the heat and crackling of the flames. She dismounted and held his reins.
"Mrs. Boscelli!" It was Vincent Conners, the chief. "You should have evacuated by this point! You need to get into your vehicle and go."
"I will!" she yelled. The flames were loud now, and there was a flock of crows overhead, calling all kind of madness. "I just want to see if he—" she jabbed her finger toward Chuck Telus, who stood as if stricken, "—still thinks that your tactics have this under control!" The battalion chief spoke intensely into his walkie talkie. He wasn't really listening. Chuck watched the fire with fearful, vacant eyes.
"I have to head to the western side where the crews are fighting," Vincent Conners yelled. He had to, to be heard above the fire. "You get yourself out, Mrs. Boscelli. Right away!"
She nodded, eyes still on the State Parks Director. He slowly turned as well, as though he was leaving as well. The fire chief strode off toward his truck, fired it up, and sped off.
"You didn't answer my question," Molly said, running after Chuck with Moses. She had to pull the horse, he didn't want to move.
"You heard Vince," he said. "We need to go!"
"No!" she shrieked. "You answer me! Do you feel like this is under control?"
He stopped dead and she passed him before she realized he wasn't walking anymore. She turned back to him. He stared at the fire again with a puzzled look on his face. Molly realized she was furious. She took huge, gulping breaths and held onto Moses' reins like a pole on a careening city bus. As if she was afraid of falling. Chuck opened his mouth to speak, then appeared to think better of it. He smoothed his veined forehead with a shaking hand and looked away. Molly waited, but he didn't say anything.
"There's a tree not too far from here," she said, "that I've always loved. I grew up with it. My grandfather named it Eve because it looks so much like a woman. It's a black oak. The curves of the trunk and the swirls in the bark... it's as though it was made of marble, it seems so thoughtfully done."
Chuck had started walking again. Molly ran to catch up, then followed beside him.
"You have to catch it from exactly the right angle or it disappears," she continued, "but you could almost yell out loud, it's so surprising if you see it for the first time from the right direction. It's terrifying in a living thing, another kingdom altogether, to see one of them looking like one of us. We bring people there, just lead them along the path to it, to see them see her for the first time." They were at the truck. "That's one. One in the path of the fire. There are more, well, thousands more, but there's the tree where the hawks live every year..."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Boscelli, we really need to go. I do, you do."
"...the babies, staggering around drunkenly, their parents on overdrive, trying to keep them safe."
Chuck cleared his throat. His truck door was open now and he was resting his hand on the roof of the truck. "I wish I had known," he said.
"We tried to tell you!" Molly stood beside the truck with the reins twisted behind her. Moses stamped his feet and rolled his eyes, but Molly was beyond caring about danger, it seemed.
Chuck held a hand toward her. "I hear you, I promise. Let's talk more later. It isn't the time, now. We need to go."
She shook her head. "Some people never looked up to see the woman in the tree. Even when we came at the time of day when the light hit every curve and she looked about to move, to open her mouth and speak. You could swear she was reaching straight out at the hills, finding something precious on the horizon. Some people didn't see. Not everyone looks up, and you get tired of pointing."
I can't go now, she said, but she didn't say it aloud.
Chuck shook his head and climbed into the truck, shutting the door after a moment of hesitation. She moved back to give him room as the truck came to life and he turned around, pulling away. She watched the truck out of sight. Here she was, at the ridge which was ablaze. All the trees would cry out, if they could. They didn't need to, the rushing of the flames were enough of a cry.
This forest home had brought her back, brought her to itself and to herself. It was burning now, the house where she had lived since she was born was in danger. She was stiff and bruised as she went to mount Moses.
Before she could climb onto him, a tree on the other side of the ridge torched with a whoosh and a roar. The sound got louder and the ground shook beneath her. Molly threw up her hand, just as Moses reared and turned. For a long moment he stood on his hind legs, then he pulled the reins away from her and plunged through the grasses, down the hill toward home.
"No! Moses!" Molly cried. He didn't turn back. "Dammit!" She cradled her wrist, which the reins had caught and twisted. There she was with her heart beating like a hammer and no one else around. The way to the house was a long descent across a long, dusty stretch of pasture. She started home, stumbling down the hill.
She wished she could have a glass of water. It was midday, her head and face were ablaze and the heat kept on. Sh
e shivered as she heard the fire moving. Will I leave? she wondered. I'll stay. In the house, curl up. The fire can take me too.
But she was afraid. Very small in this big expanse of grass. She tripped over a hidden stone and righted herself. Pain erupted under her ribs. Now she'd twisted her side, on top of everything else.
From her left came another roar, quieter this time. Another tree torched. She saw birds wheeling above her, swooping, diving and calling to one another. A rabbit leapt through the field on her right, almost invisible even in panic. She could see the house now, tiny on the hill. She was close to the road, but she stayed on the shriveling stalks of grass, watching the old earth beneath her boots as she walked on and on.
My name, she said to herself, is Molly Lynne Boscelli and once I was Molly Lynne O'Leary. I was born on this earth. I was born here.
The roar to her left became louder. She stopped and paid attention. The fire had come alongside and was passing her. It would circle and enclose her. She broke into a run, the fear she felt hot like her head, sharp, like the hunger in her belly, parched, like her throat.
Behind her there was another rumble and after a moment she realized it was a vehicle, not more tree explosions. It was a water truck, and through the window she saw Blake, her water truck driver. He thrust his head through the open window.
"What are you doing?" he cried. "Get in the truck!"
She climbed in and he stared at her in disbelief before throwing the truck back into gear and continuing down the road. Molly was sweating, it was just pouring off her. She held her right wrist in her left hand. She couldn't remember the last time she had breathed air that was clean of smoke. Was it an empty space? Didn't it feel cavernous? She began to cough and couldn't stop for a minute or two.
"My horse bolted," she said when she could catch her breath. "Will you drop me off at my house?"
"Is someone waiting there for you?"
"Yes."
She turned to look at the fire behind them. It had made its turn and was curving around the field she'd just left. She imagined what it must have looked like from the height of the birds, herself a small creature about to be snatched up. She shivered and couldn't stop.
When they reached the house it certainly seemed abandoned. The water truck driver frowned.
"Are you sure someone is waiting for you?"
"My husband is coming, any minute," Molly said. "Any minute." Anything, whatever he wanted to hear. He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable leaving her.
"I need to go, need to fill the tank."
"He'll be back for me," Molly repeated. She knew it wasn't true.
When she walked toward the house, not even Jefé was there to greet her.
The house was quiet as gray stones at the bottom of a river. Stepping out of the sun was like stepping into water. Molly moved slowly; this was very important. Soon there would be rushing and roaring and a large clatter. But now: this quiet.
She should have known she would be stopped from leaving, she thought, as she opened a cupboard door. On a shelf inside was a half a loaf of bread. She took it, pulled it out of its brown paper wrapper. Opened another cupboard, pulled out a wine glass with a shaking hand. Took a bottle of wine from the wine rack. There might be thirty-seven motions involved in pouring a glass of wine. Molly felt like she was watching all of them, every one. Her white tipped fingers, the slight angle, ever widening, of the bottle. The splash, the drop of wine on the counter, her finger rubbing it away.
She took the glass and the bread and walked softly to the bathroom. The walls, all those blank tiles, were soothing. All the sweat that had been pouring out of her had run down her face, smudging it black. She watched herself undress in the mirror, wondering if she looked like a woman who was about to die. The floor tiles were warm. She threw her clothes out the bathroom door. Then she locked the door and walked to the claw-foot tub that her grandfather had brought to the ranch as a gift to her grandmother. She turned the tap on, only the cold, open as far as it would go.
Because of the water shortage, she hadn't allowed herself a bath in a long time, but time had run out and rationing wasn't necessary. She got in while it was still filling, when there was only an inch of water on the bottom of the tub. She sat in the small pool and watched the water fall from the pipes. Her glass of wine was on the small shelf she had built on the wall for candles and books. The bread was beside it.
She couldn't have gone even if she'd wanted to. They'd taken all the trucks.
She thought she could hear the crackling in the grasses.
Her life had come up to the edge of a steep ravine and now she was staring straight in. Had she really brought this on with her ungratefulness? Were these mistakes the kind that she couldn't take back? Just outside her house, beyond the green tinge of the copper fixtures and the white of the tub's enamel, was an inferno. Beyond her trembling legs. She had a dark tan line from gardening in her shorts. Jack liked those shorts. I'm sorry, Honey, she thought, but the house was empty.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It was so quiet. She wrapped her fingers around the stem of her wine glass, picked up the bread. A chunk fell off, into the tub. It expanded quickly in the water. She moved away from it so it wouldn't touch her.
This is my body, broken for you. Take, and eat.
Jesus Son of God, have mercy on me.
The water was so cool, but she was thirsty, so thirsty. She took a sip of wine and felt even more parched. She hadn't eaten anything today, she remembered, as she felt a dull pain in her stomach. Her wrist ached.
Broken for you.
Carefully she put her good hand in the water and picked up some of the wet bread. It fell apart. She caught only the smallest bit between her fingers, putting it in her mouth, closing her eyes and moving it around on her tongue until she found the courage to swallow it.
Her eyes flew open as she heard voices in the house. There were men, men everywhere. Not here! She thought. Of course they were trying to save the house. But the trees, they would burn. Not here! Not here. What about her forests?
Of course it was her fault, she had never been good at anything, not even thankfulness. All the horrible words she'd said about hating this place. Her eyes drifted shut.
When she opened them again her feet looked awfully far away.
What was this place her life had come to? Perhaps it would be better if they burned together, she and the old house. She'd taken the long way home, spiraling in on herself, but she was finally here, finally at home. She heard what sounded like the wings of a large bird; a helicopter. Not here, not here.
The wine.
My blood, poured out for you. Drink. On the night of his betrayal...
Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Jesus, blood of God, poured out on me, a sinner.
She swirled the wine but she was too powerful and it splashed onto her belly. She gasped. Consecration. The water was pink with it.
Water into wine. Jesus. Mercy, water into wine.
Someone banged on the door.
"Ma'am?"
Yelling.
"Think she's in here!"
"Ma'am? Mrs. O'Leary?"
Mrs. O'Leary? She wasn't Mrs. O'Leary, that was her mother. No wonder they were all so confused. It was her mother they wanted.
They were still banging on the door, and the water was rising in the tub. She breathed in deeply to keep submerging into panic.
Jesus, Son of Fire, burning for me, a sinner. Jesus, water into wine. Jesus, cool and deep.
"Ma'am!" More banging.
Not burning.
"Don't come in!" she called. "I'm in the bath! I'm naked!"
"Mrs. O'Leary, you need to come out immediately and evacuate the premises."
Ah, but the premise was an assumption. She wasn't a literature major for nothing.
"That's only an assumption!" she cried. They would find that they couldn't get the best of her. But she frowned. The water was still pink. She had only had a sip of
wine, and she was still so thirsty. The walls looked as though they were getting closer.
Whose mistake was it that she was still here? Everyone knew there were no mistakes, not real ones. What electrical charge had caused the lightning that made the first spark? Every fire starts somewhere, even the fire of the sun.
The men clomped away from the door and she sighed with relief, shaking her head. She set her glass down and rubbed water over her belly, her shoulders, her breasts. She could hear them throwing things out of the house. Not here! She didn't want men in dirty boots trampling her flower beds.
"Please go away!" she yelled. "I'm not ready for guests!"
It sounded like they were throwing things out of the house. She shivered. She had been so calm in this tub, but there was a strange fear now, what had happened? Everyone knew she wasn't the brave one, why had she been the one chosen to stay behind?
A walkie talkie blasting static. A man shouting. "Unresponsive... I'm going to break down the door..." More static. "Tell him he has five minutes!"
Jesus, Son of God, have mercy.
Something being dragged past the window, something like a broken leg. Molly was trying to rest her tired eyes, but every time she closed them something else made her jump. The water was getting higher.
There was a carving on the wall, an old burl carving of her mother's. It was her mother's favorite bible verse, from Isaiah. Molly traced the letters with her eyes, straining to see into them, to see what kept her mother on the earth for so many years, what kept her from going crazy with guilt.
You shall no more be called Forsaken,
and your land shall no longer be called Desolate,
The Eve Tree: A Novel Page 22
