by Sally John
Claire recalled the blackened, melted kitchen and Indio’s corner. It nearly glowed in contrast to the rest of the room.
He said, “It was like God saying, ‘Hey, you, the bozo firefighter, pay attention.’”
“The wall is special to Indio. At the dinner table a few nights ago, she said it was her gift to Jesus, and that on Monday night, He gave it back to her.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. He’s very real to her. A real Person who lives inside of her.”
“What about for you?”
Claire’s mind spun back to a time when she wept at an altar, in sorrow and in joy. “Thirty years ago I asked Him to live inside me. That was good and wonderful, and He turned my life around. Then . . . I don’t know. He got me squared away, and life was fine. I loved being a wife and mom. I enjoyed being involved with schools and community things. I kept all the rules the best I could. Took the kids to church, didn’t swear, didn’t lie about big things, didn’t drink or smoke, didn’t gossip, didn’t steal or commit murder, didn’t take over for Max as head of the family. What are you grinning at?”
“You just described what I learned as a kid—except the part about not taking over for Max. I don’t remember that rule.”
“Ha-ha.”
“You were saying?”
“That I kept all the rules.” She thought a minute. “I still pray, because I believe God exists. I know He saved us Monday night. But He’s not very real to me.”
He nodded.
“I broke that last rule big-time a couple months ago. I usurped Max’s position by giving him an ultimatum.”
“What’d you say?”
“Choose me or his agency.”
“Ow. That had to hurt.”
“It did. Ben and Indio and my friend Tandy tell me that Max needed to hear some hard truths. They say it’s all right I did that. I don’t think it’s all right with God, though. I mean, I’ve single-handedly dismantled my family.”
“‘Single-handedly’ is a big word. I’d say you’re probably giving yourself way too much credit on that one.”
She shrugged.
“Well,” he said, “I chucked the whole religion thing when I was a teenager. But seeing that wall the other morning sure brought me up short. I’ve been asking myself ever since, if God is real, what does that mean to me?” He paused. “Did you know a dozen firefighters were injured in the fire and eight people died?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“The ones who died were in a similar situation to ours. The fire encircled them like it did us.” He snapped his fingers. “Why them and not me? It’s not fair. It doesn’t make sense. Unless God is real and for some reason chose to give me a second chance at life. Which begs the question, what do I do now?”
She had no reply. Obviously she’d blown her second chance, bailing out on her family.
“I didn’t come up with an answer. It’s probably a step-by-step thing.” He tilted his head, eyeing her with a peculiar expression on his face.
“What?”
“Have you eaten dinner?”
“Uh, no. I haven’t been hungry. I should get going, though. It’s late, and I’m tired.”
“How’s your anger and confusion?”
She smiled. “Less than when I arrived here, thank you.”
“What was the other thing . . . Oh yeah. On the verge of a nerv-ous breakdown. Still there?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then this was a successful support group meeting. We can do it again, if you’d like.” There was no pressure in his kind voice.
A sense of peace settled about her, lessening even further the anger, confusion, and anxieties she arrived with. But she knew the respite was momentary. The unsettledness would return, because her life truly was a mess. One fiery night didn’t fix anything; it only complicated things.
Except she’d met this safe harbor of a fireman.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like.”
He grinned. He had a very nice grin, an ear-to-ear, jovial expression.
Maybe Eddie was indeed a hero of biblical proportions.
Eighty-two
Late Friday afternoon, in the parking lot of a semi-dumpy motel in Oceanside, Max stood beside a brand-new Volvo—pearl white, with a sunroof and a butter-soft, white leather interior.
He held the keys out toward his wife.
Claire stuffed her hands into the pockets of a ratty green cardigan sweater that hung halfway down a long brown skirt.
“Max, I told you on the phone. I don’t need a car.”
“Your car was totaled in the fire.”
She gave him a withering stare.
He said, “I realize this is not news to you, but this car costs less than your rental.”
“I was planning on getting one myself. Next week.”
Her words struck him as ludicrous. She’d never purchased an automobile in her life. She wouldn’t know the first thing about what was a good deal, let alone the ins and outs of financing. Could she even get financing? It wasn’t like she received a paycheck.
But he kept his thoughts to himself and his face passive. He was here to make amends, not to point out her mistakes.
“I can do it,” she said.
Uncanny how she could read his mind.
“I can do it all by myself.”
“But here.” He offered the keys again. “It’s done for you. Try this car for a while. If you don’t like it, we can trade it in.” What was not to like? A shiny new luxury sedan with all the trappings—
“I don’t want any more guilt offerings from you.”
He lowered his hand. “That’s not what this is. This is simply a set of wheels, a practical thing that you need. Claire, I can’t ever make up for what I’ve done and not done. Please just let me take care of your necessities. No strings attached. There are new credit cards and a checkbook in the glove compartment to replace the ones lost in the fire.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel safe?”
“Yes!”
She opened her mouth, seemed to reconsider whatever the retort was, and closed it.
Claire didn’t look so good. Her face was pinched, her hair unkempt, the bohemian-style clothing odd. Well, odd for the woman he knew. Or thought he knew.
He felt as if his heart would break on the spot. “Are you sleeping?”
Again she hesitated to speak.
“Eating?”
“I’m doing all right.”
“Please come home. Let’s go to a marriage counselor and straighten this whole thing out.”
She scrunched her lips together.
“Give me one reason why not, besides selling our livelihood.”
“I rented an apartment. In Vista. I’m moving in tomorrow. And I applied for a job at Macy’s. The symphony alone isn’t enough to make ends meet.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
Anger flared in her eyes.
“Okay, okay. I know why. You’ve told me. You want to play first fiddle. You want to find your own voice again. I understand now! Last Monday night the thought of losing you made me want to die. Yes, I want you to play first fiddle, whatever that means. I want to hear your real voice again.”
Her shoulders sagged, and she gazed beyond him.
“Claire, how do I win back your heart?”
“These past few days, I . . .” She paused, still not meeting his eyes. “My heart shut down Monday night. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Don’t give up on us! We just need some time and some help.”
She looked at him. “You burned your bridges. I can’t trust you. You’ve never been there when I needed you. Never, ever. You were late to all three births. You weren’t there when I woke up from my hysterectomy. You convinced me I wanted to get married in Las Vegas. You weren’t there to help me when Erik broke his arm or when Danny had pneumonia. You missed my birthday dinner in July.”
Fear and anger crashed over him. “That’s right. Blame it all on me. You know
what I think? Your heart shut down a long time ago.”
“Like I could keep it open with you.”
“Just take the new car and give me the keys to your rental. Save me a few bucks.”
“Fine.” She pulled keys from her pocket.
They quickly exchanged sets. She pointed to an ugly blue car and walked away.
Ten minutes later, sitting in the crush of five o’clock traffic on the 78, Max got a whiff of Claire’s perfume. Donna Karan’s Cashmere Mist. He knew the exact kind. How many husbands could say that?
It permeated the car, overpowering even the strong scent of cheap air freshener. It was as strong as if she sat right there beside him.
He lowered all four windows and deeply inhaled exhaust fumes.
Max scarcely tasted the dinner his mother cooked.
Three of the kids had come—the twins and Jenna and Kevin. Erik couldn’t make it; he was back on the news that night, his first broad-cast since the fire. His boss hadn’t been too happy with Erik’s dis-interest in reporting how his family survived.
Of course, Claire hadn’t come.
Jenna said, “I talked to Mom yesterday. She’s moving into an apartment tomorrow. She said you’re helping, Lexi. Want me to pick you up?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I guess Tandy’s coming too.”
“I heard. I guess they made up. Can you believe she called Mom a mean witch?”
“Knowing Tandy, I’m surprised she kept it that clean.”
They laughed.
Danny shook his head at Max. “Girl talk.” He turned to his sis-ters. “Mom doesn’t have any big stuff to move, does she?”
“Not yet. A mattress and bed frame are being delivered.” Lexi winked. “You can skip it.”
Max listened with one ear. The banter struck him as weird. There they sat, discussing their mother’s home—some apartment in another community that had nothing to do with him, their father, her husband. Lexi carried most of the conversation. Strange when, in the past, on a good day, she barely got in three sentences among her siblings. It was as if the fire had burned away whatever wall had closed off her true heart.
To his surprise, he realized it was the same with all of them.
Lexi jabbering like a magpie.
Jenna moving back in with Kevin.
Kevin apologizing to Jenna about reenlisting without telling her first.
Danny courageously confronting Max with hard truths.
Erik quieting.
Max’s parents asking his forgiveness.
And him . . . He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he would do anything for Claire.
Anything.
Jenna interrupted his thoughts. “Okay, Lexi, I’ve waited long enough. You’re not going to mention it, are you?”
“Mention what?” Lexi tossed her hair over her shoulder.
Indio laughed. “He’s awfully cute.”
Ben shook a finger at her. “You promised.”
“Well, he is.”
“This is Lexi’s business.”
Danny nearly choked on a drink of water and spit it back into the glass.
Max said, “What? Who’s cute?”
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Zak.”
“Zak who?”
Lexi tossed her hair again and batted her eyes in an exaggerated way. “Zak the fireman. My hero.”
Indio said, “I still like Chad the best, but that’s all right. He has a wife and baby. Zak is nice too.”
Ben growled. “Indio.”
Kevin said, “I guess Lexi’s idea of Mr. Stud is not the same as yours, Nana.”
Everyone laughed, except for Max.
He said, “Zak. Uh, he’s one of those three who were with you that night.”
The laughter intensified.
“What about him?”
“Lexi!” Jenna cried. “You didn’t tell Dad?”
As if his youngest ever told him anything.
Lexi shrugged.
“Chicken.” Jenna turned to Max. “Lexi went out with Zak for dinner Sunday night.”
Lexi cleared her throat. “Wednesday night too,” she whispered. “Movie and dinner.”
There was more loud laughter.
Max pasted a smile on his face, one of the gang.
He wondered how to get back into the loop he’d bypassed for thirty years.
Eighty-three
Claire flipped on the coffeemaker in the galley kitchen of her new apartment and turned around to face her friend. “Tandy, I want out.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence.”
“I mean it. You are nuts. I know a good shrink. He’s also my pastor.”
“Stop trying to fix me. Just be my friend.”
“Hey, those two go together, you know? Friendship and fixing. You need help. Who else is going to tell you that?”
“I need someone to say it’s all right. That’s what I did for you.”
“My husband wasn’t begging for forgiveness and falling all over himself to take care of my needs. Claire, why can’t you give Max half a chance to prove he’s changed? It’s only been a few weeks since the fire.”
“I forget why I’m talking to you again.”
“Because you know I love you enough to talk straight. I refuse to allow this fit of self-pity to continue. Yeah, so what, he missed out on most of the past thirty years? Maybe you’ve got thirty more with him. You make a good team. Forgive him, and get over it.”
“And go back to being mealymouthed, and asking him how high I should jump, and giving up my music, and waiting for him not to come home for some event?”
Tandy clamped her mouth shut.
Claire opened a cupboard and grabbed two mugs from a mostly empty shelf. She owned a total of four mugs—two more than she needed, but they came four to a box. She clanked them on the countertop.
“Claire, I am not saying to go back to the old ways. I’m saying try a new way with Max, not without him.”
She shook her head. “I can’t trust him to try a new way.”
“Can’t or don’t want to?”
“He’ll get over this so-called change. He’s upset because of the fire. Once it sinks in that his family didn’t die while he refused to help, he’ll be okay.”
“Then give it time. Give him six months to either get over it or not.”
“I don’t have six months.”
“You’re making a huge mistake.”
“Well, it’s my huge mistake, not yours.” She picked up the carafe and poured coffee into a mug. It sloshed over the sides. With a muted cry of frustration, she banged the carafe against the ceramic-tile counter-top and watched a crack zigzag up its side.
Wordlessly, Tandy put an arm around her shoulders and held her tightly.
Claire huddled on the bed under a pile of blankets and hugged the stuffed lion with all her might. She shivered uncontrollably. The clock’s green dial read 1:18 a.m.
The nightmares were getting worse, more intense. They lingered in the daytime. Even when she talked with others, she felt the shadows—as if she still sat alone in that dark hole of a root cellar.
Why would anyone love her? Her parents obviously hadn’t.
Why would Max want to be married to her? He was right. She blamed him for everything, when she was the one who’d cheated on him all those years ago, making Petros her confidant. Now she was confiding in Eddie as though he was a better friend than Tandy. It didn’t seem to matter that he had a steady lady friend and she had a husband.
She’d been a lousy mom, pretending life was all sunshine and rainbows. The kids didn’t stand a chance, expecting the same in the real world as adults.
She had too much money, too many things. She didn’t deserve diamonds and a huge house and a brand-new Volvo.
She’d left her husband.
To top it off, she couldn’t sleep without a heavy-duty pill.
She reached for the bottle and took the last one. Tomorrow she’d see about refilling t
he prescription.
She’d be fine. She would be just fine. What she needed to do was get on with her second-chance life.
Getting the apartment was a huge first step. The job was number two. She’d start on number three tomorrow.
And then after that, for sure, she would feel safe.
Eighty-four
Max heard a step and looked up from his desk. A stranger stood in the open doorway of his office, knuckles poised to rap on the wood.
“Maxwell James Beaumont?” the young man said.
The air shimmied before him, like heat waves rippling above the desert floor.
“Yes.”
The kid stepped across the room, handed him a large envelope, and left.
Max knew what it was. He felt the floor might swallow him whole.
“Max.”
He focused again on the doorway. One of the staff ladies stood there. He couldn’t think of her name.
“You okay?” she said.
“I need to be alone. Shut the door, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she did what he asked.
He read the return address. The female attorney’s name was familiar. Tandy had used her services.
Max laid his face on the desk.
“Dear God, please don’t let this be happening.”
Max sat with his father in the gazebo at the far corner of the back-yard. Night had fallen. Low-to-the-ground solar lamps lit the path. Strings of twinkle lights crisscrossed the ceiling and cast a soft glow. Claire loved her twinkle lights.
“Son.” Ben tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. “I’ve been thinking.”
“I’ve been thinking, if Mom sees you with that thing, you’re in big trouble.”
Max really didn’t want to hear his dad’s thoughts. Claire was filing for divorce. Somehow he had made it through the day. Somehow he’d told his parents. His mother cried quietly.
The world would never be the same. He didn’t want to talk about it.
Ben chuckled. “I figured your mom would blow a gasket when she heard that the one thing I thought to stuff in my pocket the night of the fire was my pipe. But she didn’t. ’Course, we were in the mine when I told her. Then Chad said she had probably inhaled enough smoke to equal a lifetime of pipe puffing.”