by Jack Lance
He turned to Eric and Ronald, the two brothers who looked remarkably alike. Eric had been an accountant. Ronald had spent thirty years working on a ranch. Both men were retired now. Despite differences in their choice of a career, they remained close and had plenty of things to talk about. Kayla chatted with them for a while until she saw her father-in-law acting as bartender and excused herself to go help him. Jason, eager to flee Aunt Stephanie’s jabbering, went over to join her.
‘Kayla and I will handle the drinks, Dad,’ he said as he walked through the open kitchen door. ‘You go socialize with your guests.’
‘You’re on, son,’ Edward said as he walked back into the living room. ‘Thank you.’
‘Aunt Ethel was even more straightforward than usual, don’t you think?’ Kayla said as she deftly filled four glasses with various alcoholic mixtures. He and Kayla had always been of like mind when it came to having children. Their lives had consisted of three cherished beliefs: each other, their careers, and their freedom. Having kids would entail radical changes. Did they want that? Were they ready? Particularly in the last year they had discussed it for nights on end, without arriving at a clear decision. And since they could not reach a definitive conclusion, they agreed that they should defer the decision.
Jason felt an urge to tell Kayla, again, not to worry about his aunt: she was a broken record. But as he was about to speak to her, a mental image of the photographs intruded and he went mute.
Internally, however, he realized that in a sense his aunt was right. Parenthood was too life-defining an issue to postpone indefinitely. Truth be told, he wanted to be a dad. It was something he had come to accept about himself during the last few times he and Kayla had discussed the subject.
‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘what do you think?’
She gave him a bewildered look.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘She may have something of a point.’
‘Huh?’
‘Or not, or … well, you know, maybe. What do you think?’
‘She has a point? You think Aunt Ethel has a point?’
He took a deep breath. What he said next could sentence Kayla and himself to a life of changing diapers, sleepless nights, and whatever else was involved in having a baby and raising a child.
‘I think I’m ready now.’
He had blurted it out, come what may.
Kayla’s eyes went wide. ‘Are you serious?’
Jason nodded. He wanted to speak, but no words came. Kayla stared at him, searching for a clue to this sudden epiphany.
‘What about you?’ Jason asked hoarsely. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be a mom?’
Her eyes filled. ‘You’re asking me this now? Here? Great timing.’
‘What’s wrong with my timing?’
‘Jason …’ She groped for words. ‘How would we organize things? With work? With everything?’
He chuckled. ‘That’s a long way off. I’m pretty sure we first have to plant the seed before we start worrying about things like that. Even then we’ll still have nine months to prepare.’
A single tear rolled down Kayla’s cheek. She made no move to wipe it away.
He came to her and wrapped his arms around her. ‘You’re right,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘My timing was rotten.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she whispered back. ‘Any time would have been fine. I love you, Jason. Deep down I’ve always wanted to have your baby.’
Raw emotion clogged his throat. ‘I love you too, Kayla,’ was all he could manage.
A little while later, the Sheehans entered.
‘Mom! Dad!’ Kayla cried out before her parents had a chance to congratulate the birthday boy. She was more cheerful than usual when she saw her parents, no doubt, Jason mused, because of their intimacy in the kitchen. Jason knew Kayla wouldn’t be able to keep the good news to herself for long. Kayla quickly exchanged the latest news with her parents, and then Jason’s father-in-law approached him with a big smile on his face.
She’s told them already, he thought. She really didn’t waste any time. Is this really for public consumption?
‘How have you been, son?’ Daniel Sheehan asked.
‘Fine, Dad.’
‘And what is it you do these days at that advertising agency of yours?’
‘Well, it’s not my agency, exactly, but I’m working on a campaign for a car dealership.’
Apparently Kayla had not shared their secret.
They left the party shortly after midnight. Many guests were still there, and, as expected, they all talked about Uncle Chris until the early hours. Of course, Aunt Ethel was the one who first broached the subject, much to Edward’s dismay. The last thing he wanted was for the festive mood to fizzle out like a stale beer. On the other hand, raising the subject of Chris’s death was understandable. The grief was palpable, and no one, least of all Edward, knew yet how to properly address it. It was like a shark swimming just beneath the surface, ready to strike and inflict pain at the least provocation. Kayla and Jason were two members of the family who preferred to keep their distance from it.
Besides, Kayla’s mind was whirling with the decision they had made. It had unleashed floodwaters of pent-up emotions and expectations. And the fact that they finally had made a decision helped Jason forget about the photographs. Once inside the privacy of their car, she started gushing about all the things that would change once she became pregnant. Should they convert Jason’s study into a nursery? That would involve moving his big desk into the living room. Maybe they could add a little space to the sitting room by stealing a few square feet from the porch. Wouldn’t that be just the job for him and his father? Edward and Jason were both handy around the house, so a small extension should be a piece of cake for them, right? She then went on to describe some ideas she had for the nursery.
Jason listened to it all with a smile on his face. She was utterly absorbed in her inspirations, and Jason couldn’t get a word in edgewise, nor did he want to. He would never dream of protesting. Once his wife had her mind set on something, there was no stopping it or changing it. And when her mind was set on something as glorious as creating a baby together, well, that made him so very happy.
Suddenly, two glaring headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror. The car approaching them from behind at high speed had its headlights on high beam.
‘No bright colors,’ Kayla was saying. ‘We have to keep it light and quiet, because I’m told that’s best for a baby …’
She stopped short, casting a worried glance in his direction.
‘What is it, Jason?’
He peered into the rear-view mirror. ‘I don’t know. Someone’s coming up my tail real fast, and he’s got his high beams on.’
She glanced back.
‘What is this?’
Those were the last words she uttered before hell erupted, as sudden as it was unexpected. The lights behind Jason’s Buick grew brighter by the second and the car, already racing toward then, seemed to be picking up speed.
‘Brace yourself!’ he yelled at Kayla.
The car rammed into them, pushing Jason’s Buick forward and sharply to the right. His safety belt locked hard, squeezing air from his lungs. He gripped the steering wheel and hit the brakes. The car spun around in a full circle. A row of trees appeared in the headlights, coming at him with blinding speed.
‘Hold on!’ he cried out, and crossed his arms in front of his face.
Kayla screamed. When the Buick crashed sideways into the trees, an air bag inflated from the steering wheel. Jason’s head jerked backwards and he fought for consciousness as the world spun around him. He groped for Kayla, found her hand, and, a moment later, felt the heavy gray pillow material of her air bag. ‘Lord Jesus, thank you,’ he muttered.
She said nothing, just sat there, staring at him with wide eyes and open mouth. Then a sharp, caustic stench drifted over them. Jason recognized it immediately: the smell of fire. Smoke inside the car! He gla
nced over the top of the air bag: a jet of flame spouted up from beneath the hood.
He froze. Was he hurt? He felt no pain. He felt nothing at all. Kayla was screaming something at him, but strangely, he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He could hardly hear her. An eerie sound like the chiming of old bells pealed in his ears. And dear Lord was he dizzy! It was as if he were experiencing the wildest roller-coaster ride of his life. But this was no thrill.
Flames from beneath the hood expanded, increasing the heat and suffering, and his sense of utter hopelessness. Still he couldn’t move. Hell was breathing fire on him and smoke filled his lungs; yet he could do nothing. He was bound as though with chains.
Wild-eyed, Jason stared, mute, as his fate gathered strength, bore down mercilessly upon him, and claimed him for its own.
SIX
Fire
Vaughn is rummaging through the basket of kindling next to the fireplace. This wood is dryer than the stack on the floor beside the basket, but it’s still damp. Outside it is cold and wet, and the wood was hauled in not long ago. Vaughn picks up a large bottle of methylated alcohol. He seems drawn to fire. More often than Jason believes is necessary, he hauls spliced wood from the yard to the living room. Also more often than seems necessary, he lights a fire in the fireplace.
Jason hates fire. Its unpredictable crackling. The erratic dancing of the flames. The stench of soggy, moldy wood burning. The awful smoke. It makes him break out in a cold sweat. He is a guest here; there is nothing he can say. At home it’s different. There he won’t allow his own father Edward to light the fireplace. At home he has the power to stop it, but not here. He only hopes that Sherilyn won’t notice how frightened he is. They have been dating for five months now, and as far as he knows she is unaware of his terror, his phobia.
Vaughn, Sherilyn’s father, squirts some alcohol on the wood inside the fireplace. With a practiced gesture he strikes a match and tosses it on to the kindling. Whoosh! An unexpectedly tall burst of flame leaps up. The bottle slips from his hand and lands in the fire. It billows up and then erupts in roaring flames that threaten the oak ceiling beams. Vaughn reacts instinctively. He steps back and pushes his daughter away. Vaughn also grabs for Jason, but misses.
Tongues of fire roll from the fireplace, consuming the Persian rug on the floor in front of it. The flames surge toward Jason, surrounding him. The world suddenly consists of nothing but the hellish fire; in front of him, behind him and on both sides of him the flames perform their ferocious dance of death. The fire quickly towers over him. He stares at it, paralyzed. He cannot run. The flames are creeping closer. Intense heat sears his skin. He can hear someone scream, and only then realizes it’s his own voice. The first talons of fire are clawing at his body. He starts shrieking.
Then Sherilyn appears in front of him. Her face is blurry.
‘Jason!’ she calls.
He looks at her mouth, her face, registering her bewilderment and fear.
‘Jason! Jason!’
Suddenly the fire retreats, crawling away from him like a man-eating lion into its lair. The flames dwindle to small tongues, climb back into the fireplace like a movie playing in reverse. He squeezes his eyes shut a few times and then opens them wide. He can’t believe it.
Behind Sherilyn her father appears, looking bewildered and worried.
Jason looks around. There seems to be no damage. There never was an inferno. He stares at the fireplace and sees flames rising up a little higher because of the methylated alcohol, but that’s all. He must have been hallucinating. He was the only one to see things that haven’t really happened, reinforced with images from his recurring nightmare. The bad dream in which an enormous fire threatens to swallow him and from which he cannot escape. The dream that always drives him mad with fear.
Sherilyn knows nothing about this. Neither do Vaughn and his wife Francisca. Only his own parents are aware of it.
‘Jason, you’re sweating like a …’
The words catch in her throat. Sherilyn stares at him, her eyes wide. Jason sees incomprehension and horror in them.
‘Are you all right, son?’ Vaughn asks, concerned.
Francisca enters the room, drawn by Jason’s screams.
Jason touches his face. Sherilyn is right, the sweat is dripping off him. His knees feel wobbly, his heart is pounding inside his chest. He wants to flee from here.
‘Get him a chair,’ Francisca says. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Jason?’
He has to say something. Three pairs of eyes are gazing at him in confusion. He searches for words.
‘I thought … the fire …’
He had thought, no, he had felt the flames coming for him. He was convinced he was going to burn alive. He could not escape. He had been rooted to the ground.
Sherilyn wouldn’t understand. So he says nothing. Sherilyn’s parents don’t know what to make of him. In Sherilyn’s eyes he sees something else: distance, alienation. She doesn’t understand this Jason, he realizes. She no longer wants him. This sudden change in him has shattered the image she had of her boyfriend. Jason is trembling, sweating and white as a bed sheet. Right before her eyes, he has shriveled up and turned into a pitiful nothing. Sherilyn doesn’t know this side of him, and it has visibly shaken her.
He realizes he is going to lose her, the result of her father accidentally dropping a bottle of alcohol into the fireplace. In his mind’s eye, the flames roar up anew.
The rest of that evening Sherilyn barely says a word to him. She doesn’t seem to recognize him.
When he leaves, the kiss she gives him is perfunctory. He has lost her already. Sherilyn, the first girl Jason Evans, sixteen years old, has ever seriously dated, has no further use for a boyfriend who is clearly so emotionally unstable.
SEVEN
Date of Death
The car door beside him was yanked open, and he gazed up at a look of utter panic staring down at him.
‘Come on, Jason!’ Kayla screamed. ‘Get out!’
Matted strands of hair covered much of her face. Still he remained, as if transfixed. He stared at her as though he had never seen her before and had no idea who she was.
Kayla pulled on his arm, but the safety belt held him in place. Cursing, she reached across him and clicked it loose. Again she pulled on his arm. With a shift of weight, he fell out of the car on to the hard ground. He moaned in agony, but the fresh air seemed to finally lift the daze and revitalize him.
He looked at his car. Flames continued to sputter from beneath the hood and lick along the edges of the metal, but there weren’t many of them and they were beginning to flicker out. Had the raging fire of his imagination ever really been a reality?
‘We must get away!’ Kayla cried. ‘The car might blow!’
He scrambled to his feet, grabbed his wife’s hand, and started running away as best he could from the Buick. When they reached the safety of the other side of the road, he paused, hands on knees, to catch his breath and calm his nerves.
He and Kayla were alone on Monte Mar Avenue somewhere between Cornell and Fernhill, in the desert heart of the Santa Monica Mountains. The car that hit them had not stopped. Jason had not the faintest idea what kind of car it had been. The question did not enter his mind, not even now.
The fire, his nightmare, did, however.
Much later, in the wee hours before dawn, they finally arrived home. After a quick shower, they went straight to bed, Kayla falling asleep almost the instant her head hit the pillow. But not Jason. He lay awake, unable to rest either his mind or his spirit. With an angry motion he tossed the sheets aside and stared up at the ceiling, his tortured mind awhirl.
The events of the night continued to plague him. He had used his cell phone to dial 911, and a police car had soon arrived at the scene. Two officers – Dillon, a tall, fair-haired man, and Herbert, somewhat more muscular and with a crew cut – had used a fire extinguisher to put out the last gasps of flames. They then questioned them.
Jaso
n and Kayla had told the officers that another driver, perhaps someone who had been drinking, had crashed into the back of the Buick. No, they couldn’t provide any details about the driver or the make of car, or even its color. It had all happened in a matter of seconds and at breakneck speed; they had been blinded by the glare of high beams, and it was dark outside. After taking careful note of the facts, the police officers insisted on taking them in the police cruiser to the emergency room at Barlow Hospital. A brief check-up by the physician on duty revealed no serious injuries to either Jason or Kayla. Afterwards Dillon and Herbert had kindly given them a ride home, with a promise to conduct a thorough search for the hit-and-run driver.
They had talked for a short while on the drive home. Tomorrow, he would call the insurance company to have the Buick towed away.
‘If it’s totaled, maybe I should call Tommy Jones,’ Jason had quipped, but Kayla just shook her head, finding no humor in that statement. It didn’t sound very funny to Jason, either.
She had said nothing about the way he had sat frozen with fear after the brief fire in the engine. She knew him and was thus well acquainted with his fear of fire. Who had rammed their car? Someone who had had a little too much to drink, Kayla kept insisting. She had no doubts, although Jason certainly did. And his doubts were centered on the two Polaroid photographs of which Kayla still knew nothing. These doubts were the reason he could not relax and sleep.
At length he slid from the bed, went downstairs, switched on the porch light, and walked outside. The cool night air felt good on his face, and on his bare chest and arms. There was almost no wind. Crickets and other insects had long since launched into their pleasant night-time orchestra. A cloud hid a thin sliver of moon. The sky was no longer tar black; it held a slight yellowish tinge that slowly spread to a deeper blue. The countless stars overhead and the night sounds from the woods made him feel melancholy. His thoughts drifted back to Stu’s philosophies about the non-existent present. But then the flames from his Buick assaulted him, erasing the possibility of any other mental image. When he finally went back to bed, it was to no avail. The blessed oblivion of sleep continued to taunt him.