House on Fire (ARC)

by Bonnie Kistler

  The wind was inside the house, too, whistling in through the window openings on one side and whooshing out the other. All the rooms were framed in, but they weren’t drywalled or paneled yet, and the sightlines were clear for a hundred feet from one end of the house to the other.

  They ran out for a second load, and the rain broke only seconds after they made it back inside. The drops beat a rhythm like a chorus line of tap dancers on the copper roof over the back door. “A week ago we couldn’t have done this,” Pete said as he squatted to begin the unpacking. “Good thing the place is dried in now.”

  Kip looked around with a scowl. “Yeah. Awesome.”

  “We got electric in as far as the box, so we can run some cords from there for lamps or whatever. Our laptops.”

  “Super.”

  “There’s only rough-in plumbing, but we got a hose connected out back we can use to wash up. And of course we got the Johnny on the Spot.” Pete grinned up. “All the comforts of home, right?”

  Kip didn’t answer. He had his phone out and was frowning at the screen.

  “Bad news?”

  “No news at all. I can’t get a frigging signal.”

  That was one of the words Leigh wouldn’t tolerate from the boys. We all know what you’re really saying, she’d scold them. But Leigh wasn’t here.

  “Must be the weather,” Pete said. “We usually get pretty good cell service here.”

  Kip held the phone aloft and went off on a circuit of all the ground-floor rooms. Pete decided to set up their cots in the center hall where they could sleep well away from the window openings. By the time Kip circled back, he was rolling out their sleeping bags.

  “Uh, how many bedrooms in this house?”

  “Six.”

  “Any chance I could snag one of them?”

  “The stairs aren’t in. You get up in the night, you’d fall through and break your neck.”

  “So I won’t get up.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Come on.” Kip moaned.

  Pete was slow to understand. They always shared a tent on their camp­outs and motel rooms on their travels. But it occurred to him that those trips were all prepuberty. “Sleep anywhere you want,” he said finally. “As long as it’s on this floor.”

  Kip dragged his cot into the library at the far end of the house and set it up on the other side of the fireplace. The stonework there was the only solid mass in a house full of open stud walls, and Pete wouldn’t be able to see him or probably even hear him back there.

  Stay within sight and sound. The words surfaced suddenly in his memory. That was his constant refrain back when Kip was little and prone to wandering off at the park or the beach or the campground. Stay within sight and sound. He couldn’t remember when he stopped saying it. After he married Leigh probably. He wondered if he stopped saying it too soon. If he’d kept a closer watch and a tighter rein these last couple years, if he hadn’t left him and Chrissy home alone, none of this would have happened. They’d be home together right now, all four of them.

  It won’t be forever, he’d told Leigh. The truth would come out one way or another, and they’d put all this behind them. But she wasn’t going to welcome Kip back with open arms if it turned out he was lying. She might not even welcome Pete back, the man who picked his kid over her and all for a lie.

  Kip was roaming the skeletal rooms again, still searching for a signal on his phone. By the time construction was completed, the house would be equipped with state-of-the-art Wi-Fi, but until then the 4G network was the only link to the outside world, and Kip was starting to look panicky as he scaled the ladder to the second floor.

  Pete moved into the dining room and climbed a stepladder to hang a pair of trouble lights from the ceiling joists. He ran the cords out the window and went outside to plug them into the box on the exterior wall of the garage. The rain was pelting hard by then, and the wind was gusting so furiously he had to put his shoulder into it to get the back door to latch shut. A couple sawhorses stood in the kitchen, and he dragged them to the dining room and balanced a sheet of plywood over them.

  “Check it out,” he said when Kip clattered down the ladder and came into the room. “Dining table and desk all rolled into one.”

  “Hey. Over at the Hermitage?”

  His stupid joke name for the neighboring estate. Pete remembered how Leigh laughed when he first came out with it. She was always egging him on that way. Pete felt like a third wheel sometimes when the two of them got going, riffing on this or that, playing their witty word games. He pulled a wooden crate across the floor. “And these’ll make do for our chairs.”

  “Somebody’s over there.”

  “What?” He dragged another crate into place at the table.

  “I saw a light on.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t see over the wall from here.” The table wobbled, and he dropped to the floor to slide a shim under one of the sawhorse legs.

  “The way the wind’s blowing the trees? From the third floor? I could see straight in.”

  He climbed to his feet. “Well, don’t say anything to Miller, okay? He’s already got the heebies about that place.”

  “Like I ever even talk to the dude.”

  “Hey, I left the pizza in the truck.” He tossed him the keys. “Run out and get it, would you?”

  The rain was still coming down hard after they polished off the pizza. Pete craned his head out of every window to check how bad the gutters were overflowing while Kip walked another loop through the house with his phone held high. “Got it!” he yelled excitedly from the bump-out for the breakfast room at the back of the house. Like he wasn’t facing trial and living in exile. Cell service, a full belly, and a room of his own were all it took to make Kip happy.

  As for Pete, this was usually his happiest time of day, home on the sofa with Leigh, the kids popping in and out of the family room, everyone under one roof. He didn’t know what to do with himself here, alone under this roof.

  Work. That was the only thing he knew. He took note of some spots along the foundation outside where the rain was puddling too deep—they’d need to do some regrading there—then took a flashlight and did a room-by-room inspection of the whole house and made a list of items that needed to be fixed or done over or worked around. By the time he reached the top floor he’d filled three pages of his notebook. Tomorrow his foreman was going to regret that Pete was living here as much as Pete regretted it tonight.

  He went to the double window on the gable end, the one Kip must have hung out of to spy on the place next door. There was no way he could have seen anything inside those walls. The trees formed an opaque green-black umbrella over all the buildings and grounds.

  He took out his phone and held it to the window, and when all the bars lit up, he pressed HOME.

  “Hey,” he said when she answered. “Are you getting much rain over there?”

  “Yes. It’s really blowing hard. I had to bring the horses in already.”

  “I might’ve left a window open in the family room—”

  “I closed it.”

  “Oh, okay.” He paused. “How’s everything else?”

  “Okay. How’s everything over there?”

  “Fine. All the comforts of home.” He winced as he said it. He was only repeating what he’d said to Kip an hour ago, but this time it sounded wrong. Like a rebuke, or a challenge. “Uh, listen, with the way this storm is brewing tonight—”

  “No, of course. You shouldn’t go out on these roads. Stay in. Stay dry.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, though, all right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I love you.”

  “Always and everywhere.”

  He pushed END CALL and sat back on the sill with a sigh. Always and everywhere. It was what she liked to say, to him
and the kids both. It meant unconditional, she told him, and all-encompassing. But he had to wonder. Did always mean even now? Did everywhere include Hollow Road?

  A gust of wind slapped a sheet of rain against his back and drenched him from collar to waist. He got up and shook himself like a dog, and as he did, a flicker of movement caught his eye. The security cameras mounted on the wall surrounding the Hermitage were doing their regular rotating sweeps. The wall was built of cinder blocks and faced with red brick to match the manor house, and it was topped with a little pitched roof shingled in cedar shakes to conceal the strand of electrified wire that wrapped around the entire perimeter. The only break in the wall was where the drive cut in from Hollow Road at the bottom of the hill, and that was blocked by solid steel gates that were always closed.

  “Hey, listen,” he said when he climbed the ladder back down to the ground floor.

  “Yeah?” Kip was doing his homework at the makeshift desk, typing up some notes while his head swiveled from phone to laptop.

  “Just in case. Stay out of sight and sound of those people next door, okay?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said and kept on typing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leigh remembered stories of long-ago pioneer women who were driven mad by the howling winds that swept across the wild empty plains of the frontier. She’d spent most of her life in the gentle rolling hills of Northern Virginia and couldn’t imagine what it must be like, living in that kind of geographic desolation, battered by those relentless prairie winds.

  But she knew what the desolation of her own house felt like, and the incessant whining of the dog had to come in a close second to the wind. Shepherd was driving her insane with his agitated rounds through the house as he sniffed out the corners of every room and reared up at every window to press his nose and paws to the glass. Whining for his family to gather into the fold.

  She thought it was awful when Ted left, but at least then the house was full of people. The kids and all of their friends were there, and all of Leigh’s, too. Her girlfriends were united in their outrage at Ted, and Leigh spent some of the most boisterous evenings of her life those first few months, drinking wine and trash-talking about men with Peter Pan syndrome. Her mornings were full of company, too, since the new kitchen was under way by then and the construction crew arrived early every day. And her days would begin with her handsome builder knocking on the door to go over the work plan and lingering for a cup of coffee and a little conversation.

  Now the house was empty. Hollow House was her stupid joke name for Peter’s latest job, but this was the house that was truly hollow. Gutted, as if a fire swept through and incinerated everything they’d built here. The fire was sparked by Kip, but who fanned the ember into flames? No one but Leigh. It might be Peter’s decision to leave, but it was her fault. It was the worst sin a stepparent could commit. She made him choose between her and his son.

  She felt a thud in her belly like a rock dropped down an empty well when she watched them pack up and go. She was responsible—she’d said the wrong thing, she flicked a domino and all the others had to fall—but it wasn’t at all what she’d intended. She certainly didn’t want Peter to leave, and not even Kip. She wanted to be the one to go, because then she would be the one to come back. When the day came that she could look at Kip and not see Chrissy, she would come back and they would be here waiting for her. But now it was all turned around. Now it was Peter’s decision when to come back. Or whether.

  The second Peter suggested moving to Hollow House, she should have said No. Don’t go. I’ll try harder. We’ll get through this. But all she’d said was I don’t want you to leave. She may have even said I don’t want you to leave. No wonder he left.

  She wandered through the empty rooms of the first floor. The kitchen still stank of smoke and ash, a lingering reminder of the chicken she’d cremated, and she fled upstairs to escape it. Their bedroom was their sanctuary, she always thought, but now it looked like a place hastily evacuated in the path of a wildfire. Peter’s closet door stood open, his dresser drawers gaped empty, the bed was still unmade after three days.

  She closed the door on that room and wandered, inevitably, to the children’s wing. Kip’s door stood open, and she closed it. Chrissy’s door was closed, and she opened it and stood on the threshold, gazing in at the space her child had occupied most on this earth. Where she’d left her deepest mark. Now it was all that remained. It was a dinosaur’s footprint, fossilized in the rock.

  She sat down on the narrow bed and smoothed over the fabric of the comforter. Grosgrain ribbons were stitched into a frame around the edges, and she ran a nail across their corrugated surface. Then her fingers touched something else—a spiraled filament, gossamer-fine—and she plucked it up and held it to the light. It was a hair. A single red-gold hair.

  Every night after her bath Chrissy would run down in her pajamas and sit on a stool at Leigh’s feet to get her hair combed out. She smelled of soap and strawberries, and her firm young back melted into a soft puddle of flannel as she pressed against her mother’s knees. Leigh worked out the tangles, and when she was done she plunged all ten fingers in until a perfect little corkscrew twisted around each one. When she let go, the curls sprang out all over Chrissy’s head. Like a nimbus.

  She cupped the single hair in the palm of her hand to hold in the memory, and when she lay back and wrapped the comforter around her it was like she was spinning her own cocoon.

  He’d stop by every day, he’d said, and though they hadn’t discussed exactly when, dinner was the most likely time. Mornings were when everyone rushed about and scattered. Evenings were when they slowed down and came together. So she forced herself out of bed that first day and made a salad and put on a pot of water for pasta. But the storm blew in that afternoon and he didn’t come. He was right not to—they’d already lost too much to wet roads in this family. They talked on the phone instead, but she was so terrified of saying the wrong thing again that she barely talked at all. The pot boiled dry before she remembered to turn off the burner.

  The next day she marinated a pair of lamb chops and made a fresh salad. She was upstairs doing her hair when she heard Peter’s truck in the driveway, and she ran down to find him in the kitchen, on his haunches, ruffling Shepherd’s fur and accepting his slurping licks all over his face. He stood up to kiss her, and she felt the wet scrape of his beard against her cheek. He hadn’t shaved and his face was covered with heavy black stubble.

  “Would you like a drink before dinner?” she asked. “I only have to grill the lamb chops and we’ll be ready to eat.”

  Peter looked at the table, already nicely set. Then his eyes slid toward the front window.

  The realization hit her like a sledgehammer. “Kip’s outside?”

  “I’m sorry, babe. He wouldn’t come in.”

  She’d made another terrible mistake. Setting only two places on the table, marinating only two lamb chops. There was no way Peter wouldn’t take this as a slap in the face.

  “Shall I see what I can pack up out of the fridge for you?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t bother. We’ll hit a drive-thru.”

  “Oh. Wait a minute.” She went to the desk built into the kitchen cabinetry. Mission Control, she’d described it to Peter when they were designing the space. It was where they kept the bills and the message board and Leigh’s laptop and a little file box, which she flipped open now. “We have some coupons here.” She started to sort through them but finally gave up and thrust the whole handful at him. “Some of them might be expired, though.”

  “Okay.” He stuffed them in his shirt pocket, then didn’t seem to know what to do. Neither did she. They stood six feet apart in the middle of the kitchen and shifted from one foot to the other with their arms folded awkwardly. “I guess I should be—” he began.

  “Okay.” She turned her face slightly when he stepped in to k
iss her, enough to avoid the worst of his beard-scrape.

  He stepped back stiffly. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Good night.” She felt foolish after she said it. It was still broad daylight outside. But after he left, she went back upstairs and into Chrissy’s bed again.

  He didn’t come the next night, even though she dressed and waited and watched for him. He called instead, at seven, and she flew down the hall to answer the phone in the bedroom. But when she saw PETE’S CELL on the display, her hand froze. He wouldn’t be calling except to say he wasn’t coming, and she didn’t know what to say in return. That’s okay? Or Please come! No, she wouldn’t muster anything but banalities. She could only talk of weather and food and coupons.

  Three rings, then four, then voicemail cut it off, and she lost her chance. He’d be worried about why she didn’t answer. She needed to call him back, and she tried to think what to say. I love you, always and everywhere, that much she could do. I miss you. But what next? The fear that she would say the wrong thing again was paralyzing.

  She picked up the phone, and when a rapid beeping told her a voicemail was waiting, she dialed in.

  Hey, sorry, he said. I got held up on the job today. We had a couple snafus, and it took me a while to straighten things out. So I’m running too late to stop by. But I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?

  Carefully, she hung up the phone. There were times in her practice when emotions ran too high and she couldn’t trust herself to phrase her position correctly over the telephone or in person. Whenever that happened she managed the situation by cutting off voice contact with opposing counsel—sometimes even with her own client—and communicating only in writing. Whether in emails or letters or fifty-page briefs, she could control the dialogue so much better in writing.

  She got out her cell phone and typed out a text. Sorry I missed your call— No, she wasn’t sorry, not when he was the one who should apologize. She backspaced to delete that text and typed another. No need to stop by. I’m fine. You?