She was silent for a moment, savoring orange coolness on her tongue. “Well, then, I wish he’d strike tonight.”
chapter 35
I sensed it even before waking. Usually I emerge from sleep fully alert, as a child pops from water after holding her breath. But that night my sleep waters were murky and thick, and I strained against them as I fought my way to the surface. During those last few seconds of sleep, a sluggish mind can play an amazing array of tricks, swirling vague fears into a watercolor of horrors, only then to taunt that you are just dreaming. In the final horrible instant I saw my mother’s face, bloodied and begging me not to leave her.
I broke the surface of sleep, shaking, but could not open my eyes. Danger sparked my nerves.
All was silent.
My eyes flicked open. Dim moonlight filtered through my slanted blinds, spilling onto the small brass clock upon my bedside table. 2:15. I took a deep breath, my heart slowing. I looked out the window again, focusing on a faint glimmer of stars through milky haze. How long did I gaze at it before realizing the haze was thickening? I frowned as I raised my head from the pillow, squinting. Somewhere deep within me an electricity began to hum, a phantasm of unknown evil puddling in my chest. As I watched, the cloudiness slowly darkened. Congealed. The stars flickered off, lowest ones first, then the moon. My room went black.
I could not move, could only listen to the staccato of my shallow breathing. Then from the living room, shrilly pealing through the still night, the phone rang. Its echo rebounded down the hallway, through the walls of my bedroom, my head. It rang again.
With a jerk I was in motion, throwing back the light covers and raking fingers over the carpet for my robe. I flicked on the lamp beside my bed, eyes squinting in affront, feet hastening across the floor. As I opened my door, I saw Uncle Frank yank open the master bedroom’s door as well, jerking on a pair of pants. Our eyes met briefly, mirroring each other’s fear. I followed him soundlessly down the hall, pulled up beside him as he answered the phone with a gruff “Frank Bellingham,” watched sickened knowledge spread over his face. His shoulders slumped.
In the next instant, he was a caricature of purposeful motion, banging down the phone and picking it up again. I knew by then what was happening but was afraid to know where. Fingers spinning, he dialed the volunteer fireman he was assigned to inform.
“Lee Harding’s house,” he barked. “Maple Street.”
My insides fell away. “Oh, God.”
Images of Connie and Miss Wilma and Lee trapped inside trampled through my head. “I’m going with you!” I cried to Uncle Frank as he raced past me to fetch shoes and socks. I ran to my bedroom, snatching pants and a shirt from my closet, fingers trembling over buttons.
“Where is it, where is it?” Aunt Eva shrilled as she bustled out of her room. In the distance a siren wailed, then another.
“The Hardings’, and I’m going!” I yelled, trying to shoot past her. Horrified, she grabbed me by the shoulders.
“No, Jessie! You can’t fight a fire.”
“I’ve got to help Connie and Miss Wilma. They can’t move fast enough.”
“You’ll not get there in time! Lee’s surely gotten them out.”
“Aunt Eva,” I pushed away, “I have to go!”
“Let her be, Eva,” my uncle commanded, shoving into his second shoe.
I cut around her, banged through the back door to the driveway. Uncle Frank gunned the Buick’s motor and squealed onto pavement as I perched on the edge of my seat, gripping the dashboard. We ignored stop signs, glancing from street to sky, now black with curling smoke. As soon as we skidded onto Maple, we could see the yellow-orange greed of the fire, four blocks away. The house was burning like a torch.
“Lord Almighty,” Uncle Frank breathed, “we’re too late.”
Chaos ruled. Neighbors ran down the sidewalk, barefoot, shirt flaps untucked. Cars of volunteer firemen were parked haphazardly two blocks down, the fire trucks blocking the street. We jerked to a stop as close as we could and spilled out of the car.
The noise was terrifying. The fire was a splintering roar above men’s shouts and pummeling columns of water. Two hoses, held by rigid-muscled men, sprayed back and forth, up and down, a bare spit against the flames. Other hoses were aimed at rooftops on either side of the Hardings’ house. Some of the volunteers were clearly tiring, and Uncle Frank hurried to help.
“Stay back, Jessie; you can’t do anything!” he yelled as a breeze blew squalid heat across my face.
I stared at the crackling house in utter disbelief. “Did they get out? Did they get out?” I begged of anyone who could hear. Horror-filled, questioning eyes met my own. Through welling tears I turned back to watch the fire fatten, blur. An entire wall collapsed into black ashes that floated eerily through the night. At the sight of that collapse, panic struck me, as pure and coating as at the instant of my mother’s wreck. The flames, the heat, the crowd crushed me with collective, smothering arms, and my knees turned to jelly. My own weakness infuriated me. I had to see if they were still alive.
Staggering off the street, I flailed over the curb and into the soft grass of a neighbor’s yard, irrationally thinking to duck through shadowed backyards. But as the cloying heat fell away in sudden darkness, I dropped like a stone to the ground, frozen in fear. I couldn’t bear to see them dead, I couldn’t. Memories of stumbling to my mother’s car, banging helplessly on smashed doors, screaming at the carnage inside, raced jagged-edged through my brain. I could not live through such a thing again. Tears squeezing out of my eyes, I rolled over, hugging my knees to my chest. After a moment, self-disgust sucked again through my veins, and I clenched my teeth, willing myself to get up.
A wailing in the distance. I registered it slowly. Another fire truck, I thought, raising my head to listen. Then something moved in the backyard of the house next door. The silhouetted figure of a man. I froze—watching—the cords of my neck straining. At the keening of the siren the man turned, a wan porch light falling across his features. Later, I would question what I’d seen. Had his expression truly been smug? Had his hair really been a grayed yellow, cut bushlike above his ears? Had his nose been too large for his face, his open lips thin, cheeks hollowed? Within a split-second he was gone, tucking down his head and fading into the darkness.
The siren grew louder and my breath caught once more. Bradleyville only had two fire trucks. And the sound was different.
Ambulance.
A tap inside my body turned on, and I pushed from the ground, running through shadowed backyards. When a picket fence emerged before me, I veered back toward the street, jumping off the curb in time to see an ambulance from Albertsville Memorial ease around the fire trucks. Its wail died away like that of a fallen animal. Ignoring the torrid heat, I raced up the street, darting around stricken onlookers and the mania of volunteer firemen. From the corner of my eye I saw Uncle Frank, face shiny from blaze and sweat, feet firmly planted as he gripped a shooting hose with two other men. I heard Thomas shouting orders. The back doors of the ambulance flew open, a gurney was slid out and hurried toward a neighboring lawn. Upon that lawn a woman lay very still, her belly swollen against a thin blue nightgown. Lee was kneeling, shirtless, by her side.
“Connie!”
At my scream Lee’s head jerked. His face was streaked with soot, his thick black hair matted with sweat and grime. A large bruise purpled one shoulder. He pulled to his feet as I reached him, encircling me with his arms. For a moment we clung to each other, trembling. Then he pulled away. I couldn’t speak.
“She breathed a lot a smoke, but she’s not burned.”
I swallowed. “Miss Wilma?”
“They took her over there.” He pointed to the porch next door. “She wouldn’t leave Connie, but she near collapsed a minute ago.”
His mother’s face reflected the fire like a paste-covered orange. She swooned forward as if to erase the distance between her and her daughter. Women stood around her, holding her sho
ulders firmly. “She’ll be all right, she’s all right,” I heard them insist. “Just let ‘em work on her.”
“God, help her,” I prayed. I leaned back into Lee, wishing it all away. Then we were kneeling by Connie’s feet, looking on helplessly as the medics administered oxygen and checked vital signs. I adjusted her nightgown modestly over her knees. Found her hand and squeezed. “It’s me, Connie.”
She squeezed back, faintly.
“What about the baby?” Lee asked thickly.
The medics kept working. “We’ve done what we can here, sir,” one finally replied. “She’s stabilized enough to take her in.”
“What about the baby?”
“We have a heartbeat.”
“But is it okay?”
“It’s alive, sir.”
Quick as lightning, Lee grabbed the startled medic by his shirt and held on. “But is it okay?”
I reached for his arm with both hands. “Lee, don’t, the baby’s fine, calm down.” He swiveled toward me, furious. “Come on, Lee.” Gently I loosened his fingers from the fabric. “Please.” He glared at me, breathing shallowly, until the anger slid from his face like ice from a windowpane. Letting go of the shirt, he pushed back on his haunches. “I’m goin’ with you,” he informed the medic.
“There’s not much room—”
“I’m goin’ with you!”
“I want to go too,” I protested.
“No. Stay with Mama.” He caught himself at his harshness, laid hands against my cheeks. “She’ll need you. Make sure she’s okay, then bring her to the hospital.”
I nodded, throat tightening.
He kissed me, quickly and hard.
Connie’s gurney disappeared into the ambulance. Lee climbed in after her. Twin doors slammed. I backed up as the ambulance’s engine roared, its taillights glowing demon red, siren rising to a keen. As it wailed up the street, I turned away to see about Miss Wilma. At that moment a loud crack tore through my ears, and I spun around to see the back of the Hardings’ house tear apart to crash in flames against the red brick chimney.
It was the only part left standing.
chapter 36
The brown-orange chair upon which I slumped needed new cushioning. After four hours my lower back ached something awful. I leaned my head against the wall, trying to focus gritty eyes on the door of room 347, barely in view before the hall turned a corner to pass the nurses’ station. Miss Wilma was sitting on a small couch to my left, staring blankly at a piece of white lint on the floor. Intermittent whispered prayers spilled from her grim lips. Every now and then she’d push at the lint with one foot, ill-shod in a neighbor’s shoe. She wore a yellow housedress, also borrowed, and insanely bright for the gloom clustered above us like a rain-cloud. Her hair was pulled back in a scraggly low ponytail, a stray wisp against one pale cheek. Lee was next to me on my right. The green shirt I’d brought him was a size too small, pulling tight across his chest and arms. Fortunately, he’d been able to slip into his own shoes before half-carrying Miss Wilma and Connie out of their burning, smoke-choked house. He’d not said a thing to me in more than two hours. I tried to convince myself his mind was so full that words couldn’t empty it. But I knew his anger at me had returned.
Lee had been here the longest. After the ambulance had screamed away into the night, it had taken me almost an hour to calm Miss Wilma, find some clothes to replace her nightgown, and get my car and purse. I’d tried to put her in bed at Elsa Brock’s, who lived just a few doors down. Doc Richardson had lent a hand, pleading with her to take a sedative, but she’d have none of it. By the time we reached the hospital, she looked exhausted, and she’d barely changed positions after collapsing onto the couch.
I watched the clock. The last time we’d heard from Doctor Brights, who’d been Wilma Harding’s doctor for years, was around 6 A.M. Connie was nearly asleep, stabilized by oxygen, he’d told us, when a labor pain had aroused her. She was dilated one to two centimeters. “She might as well have the baby while she’s here,” he soothed at our stricken expressions. “She’s stable enough to handle it, and the fetal heart rate is still normal. But let her rest a while; she can doze between contractions.”
The hands of the clock clicked past 9:15. I wondered if the town had gone back to bed after the fire. I wondered if Aunt Eva was at the post office as usual, if Uncle Frank was with strikers at the mill. The IGA must be open, and Tull’s and the hardware store and dime store. Life went on. My life, however, would have to be put on hold for a few days. There was no way to leave tomorrow morning, not in the midst of this. I’d at least have to help Miss Wilma and Connie get settled somewhere. And Connie would be returning with a newborn to no crib, no clothes, no blankets. I pictured her beautiful nursery and playroom, and wanted to weep. The image of it all in ashes—especially the lamp of golden-winged angels—left me weak and hollow-lunged. And there was Lee, who sat beside me like a stone, edging his arm away should I happen to brush it, rubbing his palms when I reached for his hand. Sighing, I placed a finger between my eyebrows and rubbed.
At 9:45 the doctor finally reappeared, his rubber-soled feet lightly squeaking down the hall. Doctor Brights’s head was half bald and shiny, black-framed glasses enlarging kind eyes. His hands were in the pockets of his white coat. When Lee pushed to his feet, he towered over the doctor, who tilted back his head with a reassuring smile. “She’s definitely in the beginning stages of labor,” he said. “We’ll be moving her to the obstetrics ward, and I’ll inform Doctor Richardson. He’ll come in to take over. I’ll check in on her from time to time, but she’ll be in good hands with him and really shouldn’t need me anymore.”
“Do you know anything more about the baby?” Miss Wilma’s voice was a tremor.
“Unfortunately, no. We won’t know until it’s born if there is any lasting damage, but we don’t think there will be. Wilma,” he walked over and took her hand, “I know you’ve been through a lot and you’ve gotten no sleep. This being a first baby, labor’s likely to take all day. I suggest you go to a neighbor’s and rest. When the pains get close, we’ll call and someone can bring you back.”
“No.”
“Now, Wilma—”
“I said no!” she declared, gathering herself. “That’s my baby girl in there. I’m not leavin’ her!”
“Mama, maybe the doc’s right.”
“Hush, Lee! Doctor Brights, help me up.” She scooted forward, extending her arm. He gripped it and pulled, anchoring her as she reached for her cane. The folds of her dress wafted around her knees like wilted daisy petals. “There.” Straightening as best she could, she glanced purposefully at each of us. “Now let me tell y’all somethin’. I’m no spring chicken, and I been through a lot in my life, even worse than last night. Now I got a job to do and y’all best leave me to it. My mama coached me havin’ my babies just like her mother done for her. There’s jus’ some things a doctor cain’t do.” She took a deep breath. “I’m goin’ into Connie’s room now, Doc, and when they move her, I’ll follow along. Jessie, I hope you’ll stay. Connie loves you, and I could use your help. Lee, there’s not much for you to do here. You could go on back to town and see about findin’ us a place to stay and collect some things for the baby. The churches’ll help. And git Will Abrams movin’ on the insurance. That done, you come on back and check on your sister. And son”—she walked a few steps to stand before him, her gaze intent—”be patient. Don’t let that temper a yours get the best a you. Maybe we’ll find the cause a the fire and maybe we won’t. Don’t go blamin’ yourself. Findin’ the cause don’t matter much anyway; the house’ll still be burned.”
That said, Miss Wilma urged the doctor aside and crossed the waiting room carpet, her cane clicking tinnily when it hit tile. “Jessie,” she added, half turning, “I’d appreciate a few minutes with Connie first, if you don’t mind. You and Lee look like you’ve got a few things to settle anyway.”
As she worked her way down the hall—a woman on a mission—Doctor
Brights shrugged at us good-naturedly. “I guess that’s that. I’ll go call Doctor Richardson.”
Lee heaved back into his chair and wearily put his head in his hands.
chapter 37
The phone jangled impatiently on the kitchen wall, jangled and jangled until he woke from a restless sleep, rolled out of bed to answer its summons. “Hello.” He swallowed thickness as the caller identified himself. “Yeah.”
“It’s near ten,” the voice said, “don’t tell me I got you up.”
“‘Course you got me up; couldn’t go back to sleep till almost dawn. I held that hose so long my arms feel like they’s busted.” He blinked swollen eyes. “Any news?”
“The Hardings’re still at the hospital. I heared Connie’s havin’ her baby.”
“Oh, no. When it rains, it pours.”
“Yeah. And somethin’ else. There’s already a couple a inspectors from Albertsville pawin’ through the wreckage. Got the place all roped off. Bill Scutch and Thomas’re with ‘em. Bill asked for their help to figure out what started the fire. Or who.”
The last two words rang in his head. “What’re you sayin’?”
“Well now, don’t you think the timin’s a mite suspicious?”
“Are you thinkin’ a Riddum?”
“Yup.”
“No. Riddum may be selfish, but he ain’t no idiot.”
“Not in his eyes, maybe.”
“Why would he do it?”
“To warn us. Strike at a leader. And because he thinks he can git away with it, just like he thought he could git away with his greediness.”
He pulled a chair out from the table, sank into it. “You better be careful. We’d have to be sure.”
“I know. Word’s out to wait for the inspectors. ‘Course Bledger’s rarin’ to go.”
“God help us.” He put a hand around his jaw. “What’re we gonna do?”
Cast a Road Before Me Page 17