Torch

by Roxie Noir

  “Straight or sour?”

  I think about it for a moment, but it’s not hard. Jane bartended her way through college — a better choice than working in the library, which is what I did — and makes great whiskey sours.

  “Sour,” I call.

  A few minutes later, she kicks my legs unceremoniously off the couch, hands me a drink, and sits down.

  “Here’s to growing old with cats and spiders and definitely not men,” she says, clinking her glass against mine. “And for the record, if I were a man or a lesbian I’d say definitely not women, because the enemy here is marriage and not one sex or the other.”

  I laugh and take a drink. It’s delicious, because Jane knows how to make a fucking drink.

  “How was he today?” she asks.

  I look into my glass and shrug.

  “He seemed... more good than bad,” I say. “He managed to only say a couple of bad things about Mom, so I guess that’s progress.”

  Jane just shakes her head. She’s two years younger than me, but we’ve had an inverted relationship since we were teenagers: she’s louder, more outspoken, a little pushier. I’ve always been shier than her, and because of that, sometimes I think she feels the need to protect me.

  I keep telling her I don’t need protecting, I’m just quiet. I’m not sure she believes me.

  “I’m glad he’s finally getting his stuff out of there and into his own place,” she says. “Uncle Brandon’s guest room is not a long-term plan.”

  “I don’t get why he even asked for a divorce if he didn’t have a better plan,” I say, leaning my forehead against my hand and my elbow against the back of the couch. “Why not wait a week, until you’ve found an apartment or something?”

  Weirdly, dissecting the logistics of my parents’ divorce makes it easier to deal with. Emotions are tricky and slippery. Apartment leases are not.

  Jane just looks at me, and instantly, I know there’s something she’s not saying.

  “What?” I ask.

  She looks away.

  “Jane,” I say.

  Jane squeezes her eyes shut, her whole face scrunching up. I wait.

  “She cheated on him with a guy she works with at the hospital,” she says, the words coming out in a rush.

  My mouth falls open, and I stare at her. She cracks one eye open.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  All those phone calls, accusing my dad of cheating? All those crazy guesses about the neighbors? It was her, the entire fucking time?

  “Why are you sorry?” I ask, because I’m still processing the rest.

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” she says. “I mean, I wasn’t supposed to know, but I was over there having dinner before they announced it, and I guess they were in counseling at the time, and it just... came out.”

  I take a long, long drink.

  “And, I’ve only gleaned this in bits and pieces, but I think they were trying to work through it, and then she did it again, and he just asked for a divorce on the spot,” Jane goes on. “So he didn’t really have a plan.”

  I stare into my whiskey sour. I don’t even know if I’m surprised, because of course my mom would go on the offensive about something like this, try to get suspicion off of herself.

  I love my mother, but that doesn’t mean she always handles situations well. She’s only human.

  Jane stands and points at my glass.

  “Finish your last sip,” she orders me. “You need another one.”

  I obey, because she’s right.

  Two whiskey sours later, we’re still on the couch. It’s late, and we’re this close to Really Drunk, but not quite there. I feel like it’s justified, though. She’s just finished telling me about the fight she and my dad got in. It was over a dresser, but as she’s telling it, I can tell it’s really because he felt like she was picking our mom over him, and I tell her that.

  She’s quiet a minute.

  “Yeah,” she says, and kicks her feet onto the coffee table. “Fights are never about what they’re about, huh?”

  “You should make that into a poster,” I say, leaning my head back against the back of the couch. “You know those, like, cutesy posters of cheesy sayings that people hang over their bed? ‘Always kiss me goodnight’ and shit? Make one that says fights are never about what they’re about.”

  “For people to hang in their bedrooms?” she asks.

  “For people to hang wherever they have their fights,” I say. “Last dude I dated, it was his car. Dude before that, the kitchen.”

  “Hmm,” she says.

  We’re both quiet for a moment, and of course I think back to Hunter. Jesus, we had some fights, and Jane was right about those, too: they were never about what I thought they were. Not in retrospect.

  Really, they all boiled down to the same thing. For me, anyway. I was just afraid that I loved him more than he loved me.

  Fuck, was it really that simple?

  I sigh and look at Jane’s ceiling.

  “I know, right?” Jane agrees.

  I have the urge to tell her about Hunter, that he’s back and still very hot and actually seems to have matured, and I have too, but I don’t. Dealing with our parents is more than enough.

  “I’m with Mom tomorrow,” I say, instead of telling her about Hunter. “Any advice?”

  “Don’t fucking tell her I told you she cheated,” Jane says.

  “Duh,” I say.

  “She just started watching Game of Thrones,” Jane says. “Talk to her about that.”

  “I’ve never seen it,” I say.

  “It’s the middle ages, a brother and sister fuck, and a bunch of people die while fighting to be King,” Jane says. “That’s about it. Oh, and there are lots of naked titties on TV, and she does not approve.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  After a long silence, Jane stands and takes our glasses to the kitchen.

  “I should get to bed,” she says. “I’m working in the morning. You want help pulling out the sofa?”

  I consider the couch for a moment, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to do anything less than pull out a sofa bed right now.

  “I’ll just sleep on it,” I say.

  “Cool,” she says, and points at a chair. “Sheets and shit. Night, Minty.”

  “Night, Shay-shay.”

  When she was little, she couldn’t say her own name, and it stuck. She sticks her tongue out at me, then heads into her bedroom.

  I manage to brush my teeth and wash my face like an adult human before collapsing back onto the sofa, haphazardly wrapping myself in sheets and rolling onto my side. Then I try to fall asleep, but I can’t.

  My parents’ divorce makes everything feel like it’s turned upside-down. Suddenly, I’m the adult here, the one who’s handling things maturely, and it’s bizarre. When you’re a kid, it’s normal to see your parents as a unit, so suddenly seeing them separate is strange, to say the least.

  Especially when you’re an adult yourself. Once you’re past a certain age, you just assume your parents are stuck together. And then, one day, they’re not.

  Maybe nothing lasts, I think, feeling very dramatic. Maybe there’s no real love. Maybe everyone winds up alone and miserable either way, married or divorced or whatever.

  I burrow harder into the couch, trying to make myself fall asleep.

  Just bang Hunter, I think, half-asleep and drunk. You want to. If it goes bad it can’t be worse than last time, right?

  Drunk me has a point.

  My mom and I go shopping for stuff to replace everything my dad took. There aren’t all that many stores in Ashlake, so I don’t think it’s going to take all that long, but I’d forgotten that my mom is legendarily indecisive.

  Somehow, we debate between two different plate sets for twenty minutes. That’s not that bad, except they’re both white, and the patterns are barely different.

  “I just wonder if it won’t be unpleasant to scrape a fork along this one,”
she says, rubbing the slightly raised design with one finger. “Don’t you think it’ll be a little weird, Minty?”

  “Get the other one, then,” I say, my patience wearing thin.

  “But I do like this pattern,” she says. “I think it’s really nice, and it’s kind of a contrast to the pieces we already have.”

  “I don’t think the fork scraping is a big deal,” I say.

  She just looks at the plates again.

  I’m getting annoyed, and I have to fight the urge to say is your lover gonna be eating off these or something? but I know better.

  Lord, do I ever know better.

  I know her choices have nothing to do with me, and I don’t want to be mad at her. I’m pretty sure people can be complex enough to cheat on their spouses and still love their kids.

  But I definitely feel some kind of way about it, and I’m having a hard time acting normal around her, knowing what I know. Knowing that she was married for almost thirty years, and then she just did that.

  I guess no one’s ever safe, I think. You think things are fine, and then bam.

  My mom takes a couple steps away and starts looking at different plates.

  “These blue ones do add an exciting pop of color,” she says.

  I grit my teeth and follow her.

  10

  Hunter

  I open the cupboard and stare into it. Two days ago, we were fully stocked with every cereal under the sun, but today, we’re down to Grape Nuts and Raisin Bran. I want to be annoyed at the other guys for eating the Lucky Charms like a bunch of children, but that’s what I wanted to eat, so I don’t have a leg to stand on.

  I grab the Raisin Bran, pour some into a bowl, put milk in, then grab my coffee and head into the living room. There are guys sitting in almost every seat, all watching something on the TV, empty cereal bowls and mugs on the coffee table and the floor.

  It feels like a frat house in here. At least, this is what I assume a frat house feels like. We’re older, probably a little less hungover, and quieter, but we’re still wearing nothing but boxers and openly scratching our balls.

  I sit on an easy chair with my cereal, balance my cup of coffee on the floor, and take a bite of raisin bran. It’s gross, but I’m hungry, and to be honest, I eat worse most of the time.

  We don’t talk much, but only because there’s nothing to say. I’m with these guys pretty much 24/7 for six months, so it’s not as if there’s a lot of new information for anyone to impart. Someone gets the hiccups, farts, or sneezes, everyone knows.

  I’m just assuming they know something is up with me and Clementine, even though I’m not exactly sure there is. Not that we talk much about relationships.

  There’s some movie on TV. Something with a lot of explosions, and one guy in particular seems to always be running away from them, then getting thrown forward dramatically. Every time he does, a couple of the guys in the room chuckle.

  Explosions don’t work that way at all. Not even close. Take it from a bunch of guys who’ve seen it.

  I try to concentrate on the movie, but it’s hard. Clementine gets back from Ashlake today, and I haven’t heard from her for two days, even though I almost texted her a thousand times.

  She wanted a couple of days. I gave her a couple of days, even though I hate feeling like this, like I’m sitting around, waiting for someone to decide about me.

  It’s not what I do. It’s not how I operate: I decide on a girl, and I get her. I don’t wait around, hoping she’ll decide she likes me.

  Except, apparently, I do. For Clementine, I do.

  Shit.

  After a while, Silas comes in. He’s fully dressed, and stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. We all look over at him.

  “Utah’s on fire,” he says. “Might be big.”

  “What part?”

  “North of Salt Lake City, close to Idaho,” he says, and points at the TV. “Look at the Weather Channel, they’ve got it.”

  Whoever has the remote flips the channel, but it’s on commercial.

  “Where are we now?” someone else asks.

  It sounds like a dumb question, but we’ve been traveling all summer from one place to another, and they start to look alike after a little while. Hell, in June I thought we were in Idaho for an entire week when we were actually in Oregon.

  “Montana,” I say.

  “Does that border Utah?” he asks.

  “Nah, Wyoming’s in between,” I say.

  “Right,” he says. “I thought there was something.”

  The weather news comes back up, and we sit through the forecast to hear about the fire. We could go get our phones and look it up, but when we’re not working eighteen-hour days, we tend to be pretty lazy.

  At last, they talk about the Wasatch fire. Started sometime yesterday, northeast of Salt Lake City, already thirty thousand acres. Zero percent contained.

  Shit. I guess I know where we’re headed next, unless a miracle happens.

  I’ve only been doing this for two fire seasons, but I keep hearing that this is the worst anyone can remember. The western United States, and especially California, has been in a serious drought for ages, so the forests are pretty dried up. There are places where you could drop a match and a thousand acres would be gone an hour later.

  That’s probably what happened here, actually. Something like ninety percent of forest fires are started by humans. People who drop cigarettes, who leave campfires burning, that kind of shit. I wish they wouldn’t, but then I’d just be working at my parents’ ranch year round, and I like this job.

  “We going?” I ask.

  “Porter says not yet, but get ready,” Silas says. “A couple closer crews are working it, but it’s still up in the air.”

  I look at the map of Utah on the TV. They’ve marked a bright orange splotch where the fire’s burning. I get a weird, bad feeling just looking at it.

  Utah. That’s two states away, and Clementine is here. I just found her again, and even though I understand that this is my job, it’s my duty, and it’s fucking important, I don’t want to go to Utah.

  I want to stay here. With her. As long as she wants me, anyway.

  God, I hate uncertainty.

  “Better be ready to move,” says Jeremy Dashell, Porter’s second-in-command who’s much cooler than Porter. “Looks like that thing could break bad any minute now.”

  Everyone groans, but we get up. We take dishes to the kitchen, we take showers, we get dressed, and two hours later, there’s fire gear all over the living room, the kitchen, and the back yard.

  I get my own kit together pretty quickly, because it’s not like I leave it unpacked. Sometimes we leave with twenty, thirty minutes of warning, so it pays to be ready.

  Once that’s done, I head down to the kitchen, grab a checklist, and start going through boxes of camp stove fuel, MREs, and freeze-dried rations. In the backyard, I can see Silas and Daniel with a tent set up, examining a patch, arguing over whether it needs to be redone.

  I’d re-do it, I think. You never know when your next chance to fix something is gonna be.

  Something bangs through the open door, and I turn as Dashell walks into the kitchen, carrying a heavy-duty plastic box.

  “Got the new fire shelters,” he says.

  I look up from the checklist.

  “I thought we weren’t getting those until next season,” I say.

  He puts the box down on the table and cracks his knuckles, looking at it.

  “After Kaibab, apparently the Department of the Interior decided better shelters were a priority,” he says.

  We’re both silent for a moment, just looking at the thick plastic box on the table. I’ve been trying not to think too much about Kaibab ever since it happened a month ago. At least, I’ve been trying not to think about the details. I think about twelve dead firefighters plenty.

  “These are better than the old ones?” I ask.

  Dashell half nods, half shrugs.

&nbs
p; “That’s what they say,” he tells me. “Apparently some kid at MIT invented an adhesive that can withstand up to seven-fifty degrees, and that’s what’s holding these together.”

  “That’s better,” I say.

  The adhesive is always the weak point on fire shelters. The combination of aluminum, silica and fiberglass can protect you up to a thousand degrees or so, but the glue only goes up to five hundred degrees. Or, seven-fifty, now. Allegedly.

  “Yeah,” he says, grabbing the box by the handles, yanking it from the table with a grunt. “It’s a nice gesture. Seven-fifty wasn’t gonna save the guys at Kaibab either.”

  Dashell leaves the kitchen with the box, and I go back to my checklist, even though my mind is elsewhere.

  The Kaibab fire is named after Kaibab, Arizona, where it started. It’s hot and dry in the summer, and this summer, it’s been hotter and drier than normal. Way hotter and drier, which means that fires catch faster, they heat up faster, and they move faster.

  To make a long story short, a dozen men were on a ridge line when the wind suddenly changed direction, and they were trapped.

  They deployed their shelters, but they didn’t make it. An hour later, another crew finally got there and found twelve bodies wrapped in scorched aluminum foil.

  I go down the list mechanically: provisions, check; batteries, check; flashlights, check. I try to keep myself from thinking about what it must have been like in one of those shelters: your body flat on the ground, breathing in dirt, heat pressing in. How loud the fire must have been.

  How it must feel to know you’re trapped.

  I shake my head and look out the window. There are some nasty clouds in the distance, but Silas and Daniel are still discussing whether or not to re-patch the tent, even though they could have done it twice since they started this argument.

  Most people who do this go twenty years without ever using a shelter, I remind myself. Kaibab was a freak accident.

  I’m not afraid of dying. I spent too long fighting in the desert to be afraid of that. But the idea of being trapped, helpless, in a tiny confined space as a wildfire bears down, with nothing I can do?

  That makes me a little uneasy.