by Polly Becks
He had been more physically rough than he needed be with both of the men, pushing one off the other so aggressively that they had stopped arguing and stared at him in shock.
“You got a wife? A family?” he had demanded of the one he considered the aggressor.
The man had nodded sullenly.
“You’re a lucky man,” Ace had said harshly. “Get home to her, to them; stop being a jackass.”
The last remnants of the conflict in Tree Hill Park had been resolved by noon, and by eight o’clock that night he was finally off duty again. He hurried to sign out and drove as fast as he could, his spirits rising at the thought of being back in the arms of the woman he could not stop thinking about.
He parked in the driveway at 18 High Street and climbed up the steep, rocky staircase to the door, avoiding the broken doorbell, and knocked twice.
Mrs. Caulfield opened the door. “Yes?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Caulfield. I’ve come to pick up Lucy.”
“Lucy?”
Ace had blinked. “Miss Sullivan?”
Mildred Caulfield was confused. “I know who you mean, Sergeant. But I thought she was with you already.”
“No, ma’am. Could she be upstairs, asleep?”
Mrs. Caulfield shook her head. “I’ll check, but I’m certain I heard her go out earlier. Sadie can’t open the door on her own.”
Hearing her name, the kitten came down the stairs and rubbed up against Mrs. Caulfield’s legs.
Ace bent down to stroke the soft fur while Mrs. Caulfield climbed the stairs. Sadie began purring, but then started and ran under the nearest armchair when Mrs. Caulfield called down the stairs.
“She’s not here.”
“Where could she have gone?” he asked.
“She’s under the chair. Can’t you see her tail sticking out? They all do that, you know.”
“Lucy,” Ace said, trying to remain calm. “Do you have any idea where Lucy is?”
Mrs. Caulfield thought. “She did say something about wedding pictures. She was admiring the picture of my husband and me, and said something about her parents.”
Ace nodded, but his stomach was turning over. “She must have gone back to her house to get the picture from her bedroom.”
Mrs. Caulfield raised an eyebrow. “Her bedroom?”
“Uhm, yes. I facilitated the removal of her personal effects from her home the day of the flood, ma’am. All those bags and pillowcases you had me leave on the front porch?”
“I see. Very well, go find her. And give me a call if you can. So far, the phone still works. Lucy has the number.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ace turned away and started across the porch toward the stairs when he came to an abrupt halt.
Out in the darkness of the flood zone, sparks were flying.
Tiny little fires, some in the air, most likely on power lines, others lower down, were cropping up, turning the utter blackness intermittently orange and yellow.
“Mrs. Caulfield?” he said, his voice shaking.
“Yes?”
“If your phone still works, please use it to call 911.”
ACE DROVE LIKE a maniac down the steep hill and through the abandoned streets to the edge of the cordoned-off area and threw the car into PARK. He ran to the barricade and saluted the guardsman.
“I’m Sergeant Alex Evans, private. I think you may have a series of fires, electric or otherwise, sparking in the zone. I saw them from High Street. I’m also looking for a civilian, Miss Lucy Sullivan.”
The young guard nodded, looking concerned. “The teacher who saved all those kids? Yes, sir. She requested permission to access her home a few hours ago.”
“And you let her?”
“A badass like her? Yes, sir. She’s been in and out of the zone with you, sir. I assumed she had clearance.”
“Has she come out again?”
“No, sir, not past me.”
Ace ducked under the rope, noting that the water had receded. The height of the flood was clearly marked on each house in the discoloration left behind. The closer to the lake the house had stood, the higher the water, with some homes still completely submerged in the new, wider lake.
In the distance he heard the sound of the fire siren ramping up.
He took off in a dead run as he could begin to see the sparks in the zone now.
As Ace rounded the corner at Marshall Avenue, he could see the flicker of candlelight in the second story window of Lucy’s house again.
Looking past her house, he could see fire. Not the small, smoky bonfires that had been lit throughout the day by people burning flood-soaked debris, but flames, shooting into the darkened sky.
One of the dark houses in the already hurting area of East Obergrande was on fire.
Ace doubled his speed.
The closer he got to Lucy’s house, the closer the fire appeared to be, until he rounded the corner and skidded to a stop.
An entire block of little houses was aflame.
Ace knew that East Obergrande had propane tanks outside almost every home.
Including Lucy’s.
The conflagration that was about to erupt would be an inferno.
He broke into a run, screaming her name.
Moments later he was pulling open the door of Lucy’s cottage, and sprinting up the stairs.
He met her in the doorway of her bedroom, wrapping her parents’ wedding portrait in a towel.
“I thought you were picking me up at Mildred’s, but this is even better,” she said, confused, as he strode toward her. “You can help me carry the pictures—”
He seized her arm. “We gotta go!”
“But I’m not—”
“Fire! We have to go!”
Shock was setting in. “Let me get my other pictures—”
He dragged her toward the stairs. “Lucy, the only thing I care about in this house is you,” he said as they ran down them. “Everything else is just stuff.”
“But—”
“Your whole neighborhood is on fire,” Ace said as they reached the turn in the staircase. “You, and everyone else, has a propane tank. They’re gonna blow, and we don’t want to be here when they do.”
They raced out the door, Ace holding the portrait under his arm like an over-sized football, Lucy holding a flashlight in her other hand, clear, within seconds, of the house.
When they got outside, it was eerily light. The flickering flames cast shadows against the clouds in the sky.
“No,” Lucy was screaming, choking. “Dammit, no! Not again. Not again!”
“Hang tight, Badass,” Ace called behind him. “Come on!”
They ran down the street, the smell of smoke acrid in the air.
The corporal was running toward them.
“There are no other civilians in the area, sir. We’ve been given orders to evacuate. The fire department is on the way.”
The sirens were screaming through the air, growing louder.
Ace stopped and let go of Lucy’s arm. “Do you need a ride to somewhere, Corporal?”
“No, sir. I’m to meet the fire trucks.”
“All right, get clear of the houses.”
When they reached his car, Ace tucked Lucy rapidly inside it with her portrait and looked back. The fire was growing now, spreading throughout the entirety of the zone.
There was a deafening boom, and Ace was nearly knocked over by a wash of air.
Followed by more and more explosions.
Lucy was staring, glassy eyed, at the building inferno as he got into the car.
“I forgot to blow out the candles in my bedroom,” she said dully.
Ace recognized the signs of the shock into which she was sinking, so he kept his voice gentle.
“I don’t think it’s going to be an issue, honey,” he said as he peeled out of the zone and drove like mad for High Street.
Chapter 29
‡
SUNDAY
The village of Obergrande
<
br /> THE NEXT DAY, those who were still mobile gathered at the base of the hill in Tree Hill Park, in shock and covered with black soot.
The fire that had erupted from the power lines had been thorough in its devastation, burning the streets in the eastern neighborhoods that had survived the flood, making it seem as if an asteroid had hit the Earth there.
Amid the ruins of the arts and mercantile district, the pretty streets Lucy had admired from atop Tree Hill Park only a few days before with Glen Daniels, stood a rising black structure, reminiscent of the infrastructure of a high-rise building after a skyscraper fire. From a distance it resembled a work of modern art, a single column leading up to large, dark vertical and horizontal lines, otherwise bare.
Immense.
Most people who came into the town in years to come had to squint very hard, or be possessed of excellent eyesight, or be informed by a townsperson, that the immense structure had actually once been a tree.
A historic and beautiful tree, a Northern Red Oak.
Blackened, but not broken, no longer alive.
But not really dead either.
In a way, some people would say in later weeks, it was actually a blessing that the fire came when it did, roaring through streets and buildings that had already been abandoned. The death toll from the massive blaze was minimal, the same people with heart disease or breathing difficulties that always die in fires.
A lot of silly tongues spoke of acts of God, wondering what Obergrande had done to make Him mad. People whispered words like terrorism or incompetence, blaming the reason for the blaze on the flood, or shoddy building standards, or the dust in the sawmills.
Largely because they did not have any reason to know that it was nothing like that at all.
But on that day, in the shadow of the mystic Adirondack Mountains, the Hudson River, though having receded somewhat, was still rushing south over its banks to bigger, more important places than this tiny little town, a town that was once an outpost of early settlers, long before America was born, people who staked out territory and made treaties among themselves and those who had lived here first, a town of loggers and miners, furniture craftsmen and silversmiths, and later artists and hoteliers and people who just wanted to live in one of the most beautiful places in America.
While the rest of the citizens were wandering around, lost and vacant with shock, one person stood apart, musing about all that had happened, a tragedy that was part Act of God, part bad luck.
And partly intentional.
Obergrande, that person thought sympathetically. Truly, you are suffering so damned unfairly.
But you will be rebuilt, and one day, you will be vastly better than you were before.
Like birth, rebirth was painful, but worth it.
AT NOON, THREE of the same four men that had attempted to comfort the town the day before summitted Tree Hill again.
Every one of them wide-eyed with shock, trembling, but maintaining a respectful attitude.
Rabbi Feist had returned to Lake Placid the evening before, prior to the fire breaking out, and the Obergranders who had invited him initially to come and speak did not have the heart to try to contact him again.
Pastor Fuller and Father Minor climbed Tree Hill together with the mayor, trying to breathe in the low-hanging smoke that was everywhere in the town. It had even moved west, against the currents of the wind, until it came through the window screens of West Obergrande, causing the residents to slam their windows shut and breathe through wet tea towels.
Ray Tibedeau’s eyes were hollow, but his jaw was set. He stood with the two pastors and stared solemnly down at the townsfolk who had come to the park again, looking for comfort, or meaning, or answers, or aid—whatever they were looking for, there was little to none to be had.
Mayor Tibedeau began speaking exactly at noon, cued by his wristwatch, because the carillon of Our Mother of Sorrows was silent.
He did not have any particularly inspirational words; he had only spoken the day before, as he had nervously admitted, because the real leader of the town, Bob Lundford, was recovering from his flood injuries. The mayor limited his comments to the aid plans that had been put together by the Red Cross, the food and water deliveries and other items of information that needed to be shared.
Then he looked out over the blackened town square again for the second time in that place in twenty-four hours.
“I believe we will return, bigger and better from this,” he said gravely. “I also believe it will be the hardest comeback I will have ever seen in my lifetime. Good luck, everyone.”
The pastors offered prayers, but had nothing else to say.
Chapter 30
‡
THREE MONTHS LATER, August
Ginny’s Sleep-Easy, Danville, southern Virginia
JEREMY WAS DOZING on-and-off in front of the TV in the bedroom area of the unit he and Sam were renting by the month in the one-floor motel at the edge of town.
In spite of having moved into a somewhat more comfortable place in life, Jeremy still had trouble sleeping, so any opportunity to doze was a blessing.
Sam was out at the moment, picking up groceries for the weekend. She had landed a part-time job as a cashier and waitress at the diner nearby, and was a lot easier to deal with, now that she wasn’t trapped inside, twitching like a nervous cat, waiting for him to get home every day. She also had some money of her own, which helped make life even better.
Her absence provided a little down-time, time when he could let go of the invisible net of anxiety and regret that he was still entangled in, even after all this time.
Jeremy was growing to love the town of Danville. It had beautiful hills, reminiscent of the tree-covered splendor of the Adirondacks, with the added glory of six different speedways and raceways, places for him to let go of his worries in the scream of NASCAR engines and motorcycle rallies.
He had found work with a road-crew, a non-union job that didn’t pay him half as well as the lazy guys with the highway flags, but still a damn sight better than he had been making in New York, all under the table, of course. Now there was food in the kitchen cabinets and the fridge, cold beer and nachos on Friday nights, like this one.
And Sam seemed happy, which was a plus. The sex had never been better.
Best of all, the reports about the flooding and fire that took out a serious piece of Obergrande, New York, had ceased being featured on the national news for the most part.
The first night they had checked into the motel months ago was the day after the flood. Even as he dozed now, Jeremy still remembered his first sight of the disaster, which had appeared, coincidentally, on the TV screen the moment he snapped it on. He had frantically grabbed the remote and tried to change the channel, but had to flip through five others to get to one on which the news report was not playing.
Then, feeling guilty, he turned back to the first news station and watched the whole thing, Sam sitting on the bed beside him, both of their faces reflecting the pale light and colored graphics on the TV.
Both of them sick to their stomachs.
In the back of his mind, exhausted from the long motorcycle ride and the fumes, Jeremy was convinced then that he could hear the devil laughing at his distress.
That same devil laughed in his dreams still.
He was mostly asleep, his head jerking back and forth nervously, when the door opened and Sam came in, carrying two brown paper bags.
“You OK, babe?” she called from the tiny hallway in their unit.
“Hmmmpf? Yeah.” He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and quickly rose to a stand, shaking off the nightmares. “Yeah.”
He could hear her puttering about in the one-butt kitchen area, unpacking bags, opening and closing the three cabinets over and around the small sink and the efficiency stove. Jeremy rubbed his head, trying to dispel the bad thoughts, and wandered out into the front part of the unit.
Sam was buzzing around, as he had heard, humming an unfamili
ar tune. On the kitchenette’s table were two extra-large cupcakes, one with a grotesque amount of brown frosting, one with the same amount of white.
Each with a candle in it.
“What’s this?” he asked, his brow furrowing deeply.
Sam smiled, her luxurious dark hair pulled up in a high ponytail. She came over to the table, snapped the wheel of a lighter and put the flame to the wicks of the two candles.
“Happy anniversary, Germ,” she said, her face reflecting the glow of the tiny fires. “It was two years ago today that you snuck me out of that bachelor party after I finished the groom’s lap dance and drove me away on your motorcycle—in nothing but a feathered thong, I might add.”
“That guy was a putz,” Jeremy said, walking closer to her and taking hold of the empty belt loops on her jeans. “I didn’t like seein’ his hands on you, especially since he was gettin’ married the next day. An’ I gave you my jacket, so you weren’t topless for long.”
She took hold of one of his hands, freed it from the belt loop, brought it to her lips and kissed it. “Well, for two years exactly, this has been one of only two hands on me.”
He turned her hand over and returned the favor.
“I’m surprised you were able to walk out of there,” Sam said, chuckling. “You were so drunk I thought you told me your name was ‘Germ’ when I asked who the hell you thought you were.”
“It was a bachelor party—duh.”
“Come over here and help me blow the candles out,” she said, pulling him to the cupcakes. “Make a wish.”
She was surprised when he followed her willingly, closed his eyes and blew when she did. Under normal circumstances, she would have expected him to get grumpy and refuse to do something so dumb.
But he had changed since Obergrande.
At least tonight, she thought it was in a good way.
Maybe he felt he needed a wish.
“Which one do you want?” she asked, pulling out a chair from the table.
Jeremy shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Be a sport. Pick a cupcake.”
He sighed. “Fine. Chocolate.”
“Great.” She snatched the vanilla one, then led him to the chair and pushed him down in it.