Honey and Smoke

by Deborah Smith

  “Good night, babe. Get a lot of rest. You’re going to need it.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “Idle threats.”

  She told herself not to worry. She was still telling herself when she got home. She was still worrying.

  Max prowled the attic, limping, his hands clasped behind his back. God, what a bizarre evening. Life around Betty would probably always be surprising. The society babe and her mutant cat.

  He halted and began to laugh, wondering how he must have looked with a deranged, three-footed cat hanging from his posterior. He glanced around the attic and silently said to hell with looking through more cookbooks. He had been grasping at straws. It wasn’t funny, really, for a man of his dignity to use barbecue sauce for coercion, even gentle coercion.

  He sat down on the couch and stared vaguely at the books that remained in the box. He missed Betty and wished he’d tried to talk her into coming inside for a drink. He should have used his injury to make her feel guilty. Max groaned in self-rebuke.

  Dimly he noticed a book that seemed different from the rest. Looking closer, he frowned. An old Bible. Why would it be packed among the cookbooks? He lifted the thick black tome and gingerly opened it. Childhood memories of church services brought a warm feeling of pleasure to him. Immediately he decided to take the Bible downstairs and clean the musty cover. Perhaps he’d even do a little reading. Stranger things had happened.

  In the center of the Bible were several gilt-edged pages for recording family births, deaths, and marriages. Max was surprised and delighted to discover them. Reading the names, he gently turned from one page to the next.

  The frail folded sheet of notepaper was tucked tightly into the Bible’s crease. Max eased it out and spread it with his fingertips.

  He read the recipe a half-dozen times, not believing It. Then he closed the Bible slowly and looked toward heaven. He winked and saluted. Someone up there was rooting for him … and Betty, it seemed.

  Eight

  Betty leaned in the doorway of the restaurant’s veranda, adjusted the mounds of pink tulle and shiny silver rayon that comprised her fairy gown, and waved her magic wand at nothing in particular. She caught herself wishing for Max to appear. Where was he tonight? What was he wearing, thinking, eating, saying? Was he watching the evening star right now, as she was?

  She let the wand droop. She adored the man. He filled her thoughts all the time, distracting her from her work, making her sleep badly at night, making her hold long one-sided conversations with Faux Paw about the consequences of blind, reckless devotion.

  Behind her, the main door opened and several couples stepped out of the front hall. They smiled and commented on her costume. Betty studied their cheerful, satisfied expressions and concluded that they had enjoyed their dinners.

  She idly watched them stroll across the lawn toward the parking lot. Perhaps Max would stop by for dinner sometime. Chiding herself for wanting to see him so badly, she tugged at her scratchy sequined bodice and tried to pay attention to the scene beyond the end of her street. From her place on the veranda, just a few dozen yards from the square, she had a great view of the Halloween festivities.

  Dusk was on the verge of becoming night. The shadows had just finished capturing the buildings. The weather was perfect—almost warm, the sky filling with stars, a light evening breeze lifting the rust-red leaves of the dogwoods that edged the park at the center of the square.

  The merchants, who usually closed up shop by six-thirty, were all open late to host the local children for trick or treat. Main Street had been blocked off to traffic, and already costumed children were hurrying up the streets while their parents watched from benches along the sidewalks.

  The scene made Betty’s throat ache because it summed up so much that she loved about Webster Springs and so much that she wanted to share. It was so hokey and yet so perfect—the parents watching proudly, the children hurrying with excitement. Soon they would make their way to the shops and restaurants on the side streets, and Betty looked forward to greeting them.

  Grace stepped out of the tiny house next door and waved merrily. Jack-o-lanterns and dried cornstalks adorned her shop’s front porch. Grace was dressed as a queen bee, complete with cardboard-and-sequin crown, and antennae.

  “You look majestic,” Betty called.

  “You look cute!” she called back. “You sparkle.”

  Betty shook her head. Flakes of glitter cascaded from her hair. “I overdid it. I itch. And I don’t dare go back inside the restaurant. I’d get this ‘fairy dust’ everywhere. I’ll have to stay out here with my food.”

  She gestured toward the floor, where a tall wicker basket sat, filled with homemade cookies wrapped in individual bags of black foil. The basket twinkled with tiny white lights. She’d propped the veranda’s screened door open and strung lights around the opening, as well as along the rails on the steps, the azalea bushes that lined the front walk, and even the restaurant sign at the street.

  Grace laughed. “Honey, what are you trying to do with all those lights? Draw moths?” She slapped her rounded bee-belly and answered her own question. “Yes! Handsome ol’ boy moths! Well, send some of ’em over here!” She pivoted, her foam-stuffed stinger wiggling, and went back inside.

  Betty smiled pensively. Boy moths. She waggled her wand. A familiar blue Jeep cruised up the back street and stopped by her curb. She nearly dropped her wand. Be careful what you wish for. You might get it.

  Max swung his long legs out of the Jeep and stood with more casual aplomb—not to mention more pure sex appeal—than a man wearing fake buckskins and a raccoon cap ought to have. He gazed at her with equal surprise and stood motionless in the dramatic light of a Victorian-style street lamp.

  Betty smiled at him blankly. She smoothed her dress with anxious fingers, then realized that there was no way to make herself look less ridiculous in a homemade fairy outfit with tulle bursting in every direction and glitter covering her face like a mask of shiny freckles.

  Slowly he placed a hand over his heart. He sighed grandly, looking awestruck. His teasing attitude held an intensity that made her quiver with delight. He reached behind him, took the raccoon tail in one hand, and waved it at her. She gave him a droll once-over and poked her wand at him.

  “Put your remote control away,” he called. “You can’t change my channel. You wouldn’t really want to if you could read my mind.”

  She laughed, while desperation curled around her rib cage. They had to stop teasing each other, provoking each other.

  “Meet my friend,” he called. He went to the Jeep’s passenger side and lifted a small child into his arms. Two small legs stuck out beneath a Batman cape. One leg was covered With denim and a tennis shoe. The other was covered in a bulky white cast.

  Betty watched in puzzled silence as Max carried the little boy up the front walk. Max held the child carefully in the crook of one powerful arm. The boy clutched a trick-or-treat bag and stared at Betty through a slightly skewed Batman mask, his mouth open in wonder.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  “I’m the cookie fairy. Welcome to my home.” She waved the wand, then pulled a pinch of glitter from a concealed pocket in her skirt and tossed it into the air.

  Max carried him up the steps as Betty moved back, her gaze moving from the child to Max’s riveting, approving eyes. He set the child in front of her, then cupped a brawny hand under the boy’s elbow, supporting him. “This is Christopher. He lives with his grandmother, and she’s not feeling good tonight. So he and I are a team.”

  Betty knelt by the child. “You make a very handsome team.”

  “Max is gonna teach me how to burp loud.”

  “Oh?” Betty cocked her head. “I’m sure he’s wonderful at burping.”

  “Yeah! Do one, Max! Go ahead! Show her!”

  “I don’t think girls like that kind of thing.”

  Betty huffed in mild disgust. “What arrogance. I was the best burper at my elementary school.�
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  She and Max traded private smiles. He threw his head back and laughed. “I should have known.”

  “I want to hear you burp, please,” Christopher said to her.

  Still laughing, Max patted the boy on the shoulder. “I don’t think we’d better encourage her. She probably practices all the time. Maybe later, okay? Besides, you and I have a lot of trick-or-treating to do right now.”

  “Oh, yeah! Okay!” The child grinned up at him, and he grinned back.

  Betty glowed. Was this the same man who’d said that he didn’t care about having a family? The careful, unhurried way he treated the boy told her that this retired marine major could be a major teddy bear. Interesting.

  “Trick or treat,” Christopher said shyly, holding out his bag.

  “Treat.” She reached into the wicker basket and retrieved three shiny black packets. “Here are two homemade chocolate-chip cookies for you.” She put them in Christopher’s bag.

  “Remember what I told you to say?” Max prompted, nudging his arm.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  For some absurd reason she had tears behind her eyes. “You’re welcome, Christopher.” Betty stood and handed the third cookie to Max. “You get a treat too, Daniel Boone.”

  He smiled at her, his expression indicating that he had better treats in mind. They gazed at each other wordlessly. Christopher tugged at Max’s buckskin britches. Betty looked down finally. Christopher was trying very hard, through contorted expressions and a secretive nod in her direction, to convey a message to Max.

  “Oh! Pardon me,” Max said solemnly. He looked at his cookie packet, then at Betty. “Thank you very much, cookie fairy.”

  Christopher nodded, obviously satisfied She wanted to laugh, giggle, cry a little, and follow the two of them on the rest of their rounds. Enjoying Max and Christopher would have been her private Halloween treat. She stifled her impulses and merely smiled. “You’re welcome, Daniel Boone.”

  At the first station across the square, sirens began to wail. Betty jumped.

  “A fire!” Christopher squealed in excitement.

  Max stepped to the edge of the veranda, watching as all three of the town’s engines pulled out of the redbrick station. They crept down the street until they exited the square. Then they picked up speed quickly and roared out of sight.

  “They’re headed south,” Max noted. He shrugged. “Probably just a brushfire. Somebody must have been burning trash and set their backyard on fire.”

  The door to the house swung open. Betty pivoted as Andy burst out, waving his hands at her. “The sheriff just called. Your house is on fire!”

  For a horrified moment Betty stared at him in disbelief. Then she swung toward Max, knowing without hesitation that he would help her. “My cat! Faux Paw is in the house!”

  “Let’s go.” He lifted Christopher and handed him to Andy. “Can you see that Batman gets to finish trick-or-treating?”

  “Sure.” Andy lifted the mask and peered at him. “Hello, Christopher.”

  “And then get him home to his grandmother,” Betty added. Her mind was numb. She patted the child’s hand, then left the veranda at a run.

  She was halfway across the lawn when Max caught up with her. He ran ahead of her to the Jeep and swung the door open, then scooped her up and tossed her inside.

  “Take it easy, babe. Nothing’s going to happen to the mutant cat.”

  She nodded Calmly, but hugged herself hard. She could lose Faux Paw and her house. Her home. The night suddenly seemed full of evil that was very real, and very close.

  By the time she and Max arrived, flames were leaping from the upper rooms. The fire trucks sat on the lawn, and long streams of water arched from their hoses, held by calm-faced men with cheeks full of chewing tobacco. Judging by the crowd behind the firemen, most of her neighbors had come to watch the spectacle.

  Sick fear washed over Betty as Max guided the Jeep through a pack of cars and trucks. She shoved her door open and leapt out while the Jeep was still rolling, dimly hearing—and ignoring—Max’s stern call to wait and his harried curses when she didn’t.

  She dodged through the parked vehicles and then the crowd, her pink ballet shoes slipping treacherously on the water-soaked grass. At the edge of the crowd she stepped in a cold puddle and fell. Several people helped her to her feet but blocked her way.

  She groaned in defeat and strained to see her house. The front door stood open. Two firemen trotted out, axes in hand. They shook their heads and motioned to the others to stay away.

  “Did you see my cat?” she yelled to them.

  The roar of the fire prevented them from hearing her. Betty waited for her neighbors to look away; when they did, she bolted past them. She didn’t get far. A large, hard hand clamped onto her forearm. She felt like a small puppy hitting the end of a strong leash. She swung about fiercely.

  “Stop it! I’m going in the house!”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Max ordered, scowling down at her. He’d tossed the raccoon cap. In the firelight his face was harsh and worried. He jabbed a finger downward. “Your life’s worth more than a cat’s. Stay here. I’ll go.”

  A different kind of fear surged up in her chest. She grabbed his fringed leather shirt. “No! No! Max, I can call her! If she’s hiding downstairs, she’ll come to me! I don’t want you to go in there!”

  He picked her up and shoved her into the grip of a burly old farmer and his equally burly wife. “Y’all hold her by the ears if you have to.”

  “Now, Miss Betty, you just calm down, calm down—”

  “Max! Don’t go in there! Max!” She struggled uselessly, her eyes never leaving Max as he ran through the haze of water, floodlights, and firelight. He ducked through the front door while a half-dozen firemen ran after him, shouting and waving their arms.

  They followed him unhappily into the house. With a dull boom the upper story collapsed on itself. Sparks, smoke, and flames billowed in all directions. The house’s lower level trembled. The firemen immediately ran back outside. Max didn’t.

  Betty clawed at the hands that held her. “Max! Come out! Max!” The second-story floor crumbled on one side, dumping timbers into the kitchen below. The kitchen windows shattered and smoke poured out. Burning wood hissed ominously as the firemen hosed it down, sending clouds of mist into the air.

  Betty’s throat hurt. She was screaming silently, watching what remained of her home begin to lurch to the right like a child’s doll house being flattened by a playful hand She didn’t think about the house. She didn’t think about Faux Paw. She thought about Max. There were several people holding her in place now, because she was struggling wildly to get free.

  The house groaned as hundreds of nails ripped from the old boards. The lower level toppled sideways. The porch collapsed with a deafening whoosh. Its tin roof screamed.

  Betty slid to the ground in a heap and buried her face in her hands. Max, I love you. I love you.

  “Look!” someone bellowed. “There he is!”

  She scrambled to her feet and nearly climbed the back of the man in front of her. Max staggered through the backyard. He swayed. Faux Paw was draped over his shoulder.

  Everyone forgot Betty and ran toward him. Laughing, crying, she barely noticed when she fell down twice during her own mad rush to get to him.

  He sank to the ground, holding Faux Paw around the haunches. The cat’s head hung down the front of his torso. She was limp. He slapped her on the back, and she began to cough. Betty pushed through the circle of people and tumbled to her knees in front of him.

  She couldn’t speak. All she could do was laugh in a gulping, slightly hysterical way as she ran her hands over him and Faux Paw. He was covered in grime, and smoke rose from the black patches on his shirt and britches.

  He was gasping for breath, but he finally managed to speak. “I smell … like bad … barbecue.”

  “You smell wonderful.” She grasped his face between both hands and kissed hi
m. Faux Paw coughed louder and began shaking her head. Betty stroked the old cat anxiously. Faux Paw drew several deep breaths and started wiggling.

  “Here.” Max pulled her from his shoulder. Betty sat cross-legged beside him and they stretched the cat across their laps. A fireman brought a bottle of oxygen and held the mask over Faux Paw’s muzzle. After a few seconds of heavy breathing she raised her head and hissed at the world in general.

  “Alive and still sweet,” Max noted.

  With one hand Betty caressed Faux Paw’s dirty, singed fur. She slid the other hand around Max’s waist, then leaned against him. He quickly put an arm around her shoulders and held her so tightly that she felt like asking for an oxygen mask herself. She didn’t mind a bit. “How did you get out of the house?”

  “I didn’t spend twenty years in the marines for nothing,” he said solemnly. “I’m trained to use every resource in a dangerous situation. I react with finely honed skills in an emergency, not to mention superior intelligence and physical perfection.”

  “So how’d you get out of the house?” a bystander asked eagerly.

  “The back door was unlocked.”

  People guffawed and applauded. Betty rested her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes. She felt his arm squeezing her, and she stroked his back with ragged, thankful little motions of her hand.

  The fire chief broke through the crowd and knelt in front of her. She looked at him wearily. “Thank you. I know that you and your men did everything that you could.”

  He nodded. “I sure am sorry. Looks like the fire started in the upstairs bedroom.”

  “I left an electric floor heater turned on. But it was supposed to be one of the safest models on the market.”

  “The wiring in your house was so old, no telling what happened. But it’s a good bet that the heater caused an overload.”

  “But you have insurance, of course,” Max interjected.

  Betty stared at the smoking remnants of what was to have been her dream home. It began to hit her—she’d just watched the destruction of a Quint family legacy. She was almost broke, and now her home was gone, along with most of her belongings.