A Handful of Fire

by Alexis Alvarez

  “So when I was a kid, I didn’t like poetry either,” I tell him. “Because it didn’t make any sense. There were all these fancy words that rhymed, and it just seemed stupid.”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “It does.”

  “But then my mom started helping me figure them out. They’re like a spy code. There’s a secret meaning hidden inside each poem, put there by the author. It’s a prize at the center of the maze. Your job, if you choose to accept it, is to unlock the code and figure out the secret that the author is hiding from you.”

  “It’s like a code?” He straightens up. “That’s kind of cool.”

  “Yes!” I nod. “Some poems are easy to crack. Others are difficult. Expert level. The kind that only determined detectives can figure out.”

  “I started a spy club with Aryan and Sumith before I got cancer,” he cuts in, his words tumbling out. “We made badges and my dad got us secret ink pens. They ran out right away but it was still fun. We were going to solve mysteries together. We even did one, Shai. We figured out which dog was shefecating on Mrs. Tonni’s lawn.” He stops to check my face. “I prefer to say shitting, but Dad says not to swear. You know that to defecate means to poop, right? We just merged the words. It’s awesome.”

  “Yes, I know that. Very… poetic.” I roll my eyes and he laughs.

  “It was our neighbor Craig’s Chihuahua, he lets it out every morning and says ‘Go play!’ And it runs over and shefecates. Always on her lawn!” He laughs and laughs. I know, poop is funny. I smile, too. “We observed from behind my drapes in the mornings and discovered the perpetrator. They’re just down the block, they’re twins. So they came over every day in the summer to help spy.”

  Twins. Like me and Mani. Sometimes I miss my sister so hard that it hurts in my chest. My vision blurs and I blink hard. “So you already know how to do it,” I encourage. “It’s just that instead of finding clues around the neighborhood, you find them right here in these words. Verbal espionage.” I point at the page.

  “But how does that work?” He rolls the pencil in his fingers and bites his lip.

  “Start by finding a clue. Some word that seems important. Then unravel what it means in the poem. Maybe it stands for something else.”

  “Can you help me do it?” He pulls the book over.

  “The flint. This poem is about the flint.”

  “But she barely talks about it. Mostly about the other stuff.”

  I nod. “Sometimes a thing is so important that it outweighs the other things, even if they get more airtime. So here. In this poem. She talks about these beautiful stones and compares them to lovely, vital things: Grass. Blood. Even heaven. People value those precious gems. They’re worth a ton of money. We wear them in jewelry. They used to be in crowns. People use them as decoration for the fanciest occasions. They’re worthy of being displayed in museums, galleries.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “And now the flint, it just lies in the mud. It’s plain. It’s not as gorgeous as all of those other fancy gems. Maybe it’s overlooked, lying there. Nobody knows how amazing the flint is.”

  “The flint is amazing?”

  “Yes, it’s better than all those others. Because it holds fire. She puts it in the last line because it’s the most important thing she has to say. This lowly flint from the dirt—it doesn’t have the world’s desire, or sparkle like diamonds or opals. But it’s the strongest one after all, because it has power.”

  “But the other gems got compared to important stuff, too. Grass and blood and Heaven.”

  “Yeah. Compared to those things, but they don’t own those things inside them. They just look like they do. The flint, it really has magic inside it. It has fire. That’s its superpower.”

  “Power.” His voice is thoughtful. “In the flint.”

  “Uh-huh. Everyone passed it over, right? It’s not going in any necklaces or museums, or in million-dollar artworks. But when it comes down to it, what’s more useful, more full of real life? Those other gems, those reflect the external desires and wants of people. But the flint holds what we need. Fire is the spark of life. Early man couldn’t survive without fire. It was our protection from wild animals, from freezing, from bugs. It kept us warm, cooked our food, and lit our world. Fire was the thing that allowed us to stay alive. And the flint? It holds that in its dull, rough body. On the outside it’s bland. On the inside, if you know what it really has? It’s got the most beautiful glow of all.”

  My voice has risen and I’m speaking fluidly, gesturing, my voice ringing out like a bell. “So you can make some comparisons. Could the flint stand for anything else? Could she be talking about something else, apart from jewels and flints?”

  “So in this poem. The flint could be… like a person, maybe.” His voice is uncertain.

  “Yes.” I murmur because he’s about to say more, and I don’t want to stop him if he’s getting this. Behind him, the door opens, and there’s Gabriel.

  I startle, but hide my reaction, and Gabe stands still, listening. Arielle is nowhere in sight. He puts down a suitcase, silent, crosses his arms.

  “The flint could be a person.” Michael repeats it, more firmly. “Maybe a kid who wasn’t so popular at school for a while.” He swallows. “Maybe a kid, who, say, got a disease. And maybe this kid missed a lot of school and his hair fell out, and maybe some of the other boys didn’t want to hang out with him as much. I mean, he still has some good friends but there are bunch of mean shitty kids who say things.” He rubs his face hard, and scowls. “Like calling him Chrome Dome and asking him if he glows at night and stuff.”

  Behind him, Gabriel opens his mouth, and I shake my head.

  Michael adds, “And those other kids have, like, cool activities and don’t have to go to get chemo treatments and aren’t ever weak or tired. And they are good at football and baseball and they, like, shine at it. Like the diamonds and stuff shine. And this other kid can’t play for a while because he bruises easily and doesn’t have a lot of energy, so he’s always sitting on the side. Kind of in the mud, you know?”

  I nod, trying not to tear up.

  “So this kid, maybe he doesn’t think he’s good enough anymore after a while, because the other kids are sort of shinier and prettier. I mean, boys aren’t pretty. But you know what I mean. From the poem, right?”

  “Exactly.” I clear my throat.

  “So this kid needs to remember that he’s special, too. He’s a flint. Inside of him is all this great stuff, this powerful stuff, his smart brain and his nice-ness and his general personality, which is a good one, right, Shai? It’s good, right?” His voice quivers, and I jump up and take him in my arms. “I’m good inside like a flint.”

  And Gabriel is there, too, wrapping his arms around both of us, and Michael jerks in surprise, and then he smiles so big and bright that I’m blinded, because this kid’s smile is pure diamonds and rubies and everything beautiful in the world. I pull back to let them have their moment, but Gabriel doesn’t let me go, and it’s the three of us tied together with our arms all wrapped and wound around each other.

  “Dad! You came back.” Michael holds Gabriel’s arm and keeps holding it. “Where’s Arielle?” He peers behind Gabe.

  “She’s at her place.” Gabriel doesn’t explain further. “I missed you, kiddo.” He rubs Michael’s head. “And I felt like a jerk for missing your conference. I came back so I could see you compete tomorrow.”

  “But what about all your people from Asia and your meetings?”

  “I’ll give them different projects to work on and I’ll meet another time. You’re more important to me.”

  “Dad.” Michael’s voice cracks, and he grabs Gabriel so hard I can see the strain in his wrists and elbows. “Dad.”

  Gabe’s voice is strong. “I want to see you go up against that Jimmy Keely person. And I don’t care if you win or lose.”

  “You don’t?” Michael releases his grip and looks up at his father.

  �
�No, Son. As long as you give it your best shot, I’m proud of you.”

  “Okay.” Michael waits a beat. “But his name is Kehoe. Jimmy Kehoe. And I think I probably can beat him if I get lucky with my deck because I have a great strategy. Hey, do you want to see what Shai got me? And maybe we can watch an episode of Adventure Time together, all three of us?”

  Without waiting for a response, he races to the stairs and up them, making those singing sounds he does when he’s happy.

  I stand and stare at Gabriel. “You came back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “What you were talking about? I never knew kids said things like that. If I’d known—”

  “He didn’t tell anyone, I think. I’d suggest not forcing him. Now that he finally said it, I bet he’ll open up more and more, as long as you listen without offering too much yet. Don’t act all gruff protector, or problem solver—not yet. I think right now just getting the words out is a big deal for him. He needs them to sit for a while before we address them, you know? Give him a chance to figure things out first, what he feels.”

  We both look at the table, at the poetry book, and I imagine that we’re both imagining Michael’s words. I see them as made of rough, unvarnished wood, perfectly formed but without any stain. Newly made. Still smelling like the saw, like sawdust, like the forest. I wonder what Gabriel sees.

  “I came back for him,” he tells me, his eyes on mine. “But not just for him. For you, too.”

  My heart skips ahead, falls back on itself, and skips again. “For me?”

  “Arielle and I are done. She’s not what I want. Shai—”

  Michael’s back with the things I got him. He said he was too old for stuffed animals, but I saw him looking at a vibrant, plush Flareon each time we passed a vendor booth, touching it with a finger, stroking its fur. So even though he asked for a plastic sword and a comic book—and I got those—I got the animal while he was in the bathroom. I showed it to him in the car, just in case he might be embarrassed to hold it in public, and it was the right call. He gave it a small hug, and smiled, and let it sit beside him, touching it from time to time. I could see this in the rearview mirror, and it made me smile, but I was careful not to say a single word about it. Instead, we talked about the exhibits, which ones he liked and didn’t care for, which costumes were our favorites.

  Michael displays the sword, the book. He doesn’t make a big deal about the Flareon, but I notice that he brings it to the couch while we all sit to watch the show. Michael sits between me and Gabe and holds the tablet. He’s wriggly and decisive, touching Gabriel’s arm over and over, giving me little hugs sometimes, laughing at funny parts, waving his hands now and then.

  “Shai, can you move your arm? I can’t see. Dad! Watch this part. Watch now. It’s coming now. Oh. Maybe in a minute. Okay, NOW. Did you see that? She talked in Korean! And nobody understands it! But Shai and I googled it so we know, and if you pause the show I’ll recite it in Korean and English, because I learned it right away, because I’m good at languages. Dad, I’m glad you came back. Shai, I love the things you got me. Dad, can you move your leg a little? It’s pushing into mine. Thanks. Okay, now I’m good.”

  His words are pouring out, but I think he’s not telling us about the show and about his comfort level. He’s telling us this: I’m happy. I’m happy. I’m happy.

  Later on, Michael asks both of us to tuck him in, even though he hasn’t wanted that as long as I’ve been coming here. It feels like such an intimate family moment that I’m almost embarrassed by it—the emotion is palpable in the room. There’s the love between Michael and his dad, the affection he has for me, and whatever this is between me and Gabriel, this thing that’s growing each time our eyes meet, every time our fingers brush. It’s the sparks that fly up my arm when his fingers graze my skin, the way my heart flutters when he looks into my eyes. It’s the way he stands a little too close, his body warmth mingling with mine, our two legs side by side, our hips bumping as we say goodnight.

  Champagne fizzes into the two crystal flutes, and I hand one to Shai. “Cheers.”

  She takes it and smiles at me, and I forget everything else. Her eyes sparkle and glow in the low light from the fireplace, and I’m glad I had the thing installed when the house was built. We sit on the couch and she nestles in my arm like she’s always been there. My hand fits perfectly around the delicate curve of her shoulder, and when I reach up to stroke the soft skin on her neck, she shudders.

  I lean in and kiss the side of her temple, my lips lingering, then I slide my mouth to her ear and kiss the silky skin just below it. She moans and almost spills her glass, so I put it on the coffee table beside mine and kiss her full on. Her mouth tastes like the champagne, and I suck on her tongue, bite her lip, run my hands down her curves. She’s eager, too, and she grabs me with her small hands, tugging out my shirt like she did last time we kissed. This time she unbuttons it. I’m startled and pleased at her audacity, and I bite her neck in that spot she liked so fucking much last time and tell her, “No. Your shirt comes off first.” I want to own her tonight, to have her be mine completely, because I’m only going to have her do things that drive her wild—but I want to master her.

  She pulls back, and for a second I think she doesn’t like the dominant thing, but her eyes go wide and she murmurs, “okay,” and fuck. It’s on.

  She starts to pull at the hem of her shirt and I pull her hands away. “Stand in front of me to strip, Shai.” I lean back and cross my arms. I give her a dirty smile and raise one eyebrow, and she makes a breathy sound in her throat, looks questioningly at the staircase. “But if—?”

  Oh, yeah. Fuck. “Upstairs,” I say. “You can strip in my room.”

  She stands and waits for me to lead the way, but I shake my head and whisper into her ear, “You first. Walk nice and slow, Shai, so I can see every wiggle of that luscious ass.”

  She blushes bright red, but acquiesces, tossing a saucy glance over her shoulder. “You coming?” she asks, her voice low and sultry, and I laugh.

  “Soon,” I promise her.

  Now she laughs, and bounds up the stairs, fast, a gazelle running from a lion. But there’s no fear in her face when she looks down at me from the top of the staircase, only desire and a smile. I can’t wait to see her naked.

  When we get into my room I lock the door and grab her, and our kiss is fierce and wild, our lips slamming together, our teeth bumping. I hold her head hard in my hands, not letting her move, and plunder her mouth with my tongue. When we break apart, panting, her face is lit up.

  I sit in the chair beside the bed and spread my legs. “Strip.” I point to the spot in front of me, and she comes closer, swaying her hips as she walks. She pulls her top over her head and tosses it aside, sheds her jeans, and stands there in the most fucking sexy little pair of panties I’ve ever seen. They’re pure white, with lace on the edges, almost transparent. And she’s shaved. Fuck me! I get so hard I groan, just from looking at her in those things, and adjust myself. If I’m not careful…

  She’s got a scar on her lower belly. I’m confused; she never mentioned any accidents or anything. Did she get that at the same time as the one on her face? And I know she doesn’t have kids, so it can’t possibly be a C-section scar. I frown, about to ask, but she seems to clench up so I close my mouth. Yeah, we can fuck first and talk later. I’m good with that. “Shai.” My voice is reverent. I fist my fingers. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

  “You like?” She pulls the bra straps down, turns, and looks at me over her shoulder as she reaches back to unsnap it. She lets the bra fall to the floor and turns back, hands cupping her breasts. “I’ll let you see, but you’re going to have to ask nicely.”

  “How nicely?” My voice comes out hoarse.

  “Very, very nicely. With your tongue.” She smiles and flashes me a quick peek before covering up her tits again. I glimpse taut red nipples and get even harder, so hard it’s painful.

 
; “Baby, I’ll ask real nice. Get on the bed.” I stand up and tear off my shirt. Her eyes widen as she takes in my abs, my chest. I work out and I’ve got a six-pack and that V that women love, and I’m fucking proud that it makes her wet. I can smell her from here. I can’t wait to get inside her. If she wants to be the one in charge for a while, okay. I can deal.

  “How do you want me, Sir?” She’s teasing me, but she has no idea. I like hearing Sir on her red lips. I want to do things to her that good girls don’t do. I want to hold her down and fuck her mouth and come down her throat. I want to turn her over, hand her a vibe, and take her ass until she cries out and comes from the sheer pleasure of being filled like that. I want to tie her up and tease her until she begs.

  But for now all I want is her warm, wet body around me. I’m going to die if I can’t have her tonight.

  “Lie on your back,” I demand. “Feet flat on the bed, knees up.”

  “Like this?” She leans back, locking her eyes onto mine, and opens her legs so slowly I can barely handle the suspense. She’s suddenly a different person. A vixen. Bold and sassy and sexy as hell, all traces of her normal reticence erased, gone. And I fucking love it.

  “I’m sooo wet,” she tells me, reaching down and rubbing under the soaked strip between her thighs. “Drenched, Gabriel.” Now her voice lowers to a whisper. “For you.” She puts her index finger in her mouth and moans. “So wet. Want a taste, baby?” She reaches out her fingers and I lean in and suck them hard. Her taste is fucking amazing, and I can’t wait to bury my tongue between her thighs.

  “Yeah, I like that,” I tell her. “What do you want?”

  “You.” She smiles at me, and something inside me burns hot.