Jack smiled at Molly, which infuriated her.
"I thought it was more about her being elderly," he said.
"She's not elderly!"
"She's over eighty."
"She's eighty-one, that's hardly over eighty!"
"What? Of course eighty-one's over eighty!" Jack said. "There's no disputing the logic, babe." Molly looked into his face and he looked back at her. The late afternoon light was kind to him. As years sputtered by, the smile lines around his eyes lengthened and grew closer to the smile lines that reached up from beside his mouth. Molly wondered what would happen when the lines crossed each other. She hated fighting with him, she hated this sudden rush of anger that always caught her up with it. She looked away first.
"You know what I mean," she said to her empty wine glass. "It's just that you make her sound… old."
Jack gently laid one hand over her clenched fingers.
"She is old."
If only it wasn't so hot. The heat folded over them like an unwanted blanket that they couldn't kick off. It was a fierce August heat wave, and they were baking, along with the grasses and the earth. Even the small spring that was their water supply had been reduced to a depressing trickle. Normally it flowed so plentifully, so lovingly for them.
"It's going to bother me every minute of the day until it's done," Molly said.
Jack tightened his hand around hers before letting go and stretching his arms behind his back with a yawn.
"You've got to put it out of your mind. The others will be here in the morning, and we have a thousand things to do without thinking about the roads."
Molly put her hands over her face.
"I told you that I don't want them all coming here."
Jack sighed.
"Why on earth not?" he asked.
She pulled her hands away and turned to him. "Because it's crazy enough right now and I have a business to run. I can't get all the cheese made this week if the kids are hanging around and my mother isn't going to help things any." She chewed her thumbnail. "I know she thinks this wouldn't have happened if she still had the ranch."
"Even Catherine can't prevent lightning strikes."
"Does she know that?"
"It doesn't matter whether she does or doesn't. She has a right to come. We need help and the family wants to be here. You can't shut them out."
Molly wished she could tunnel into the earth and stay there. She looked at the hills and wished herself away from fire, from disturbances in her routines, from disappointed people. Sam grunted and heaved himself up, settling back down by her leg with a sigh. She edged her foot away from him. All that black hair was terrible in the heat.
"Are we going to have to feed them?" she asked.
"Catherine and the kids? I assume so. But then maybe they'll help with the cooking," Jack said.
She looked at him. "Not them. The firefighters."
"Oh. I don't know. I don't think so. I could ask, I guess."
"Because I'm not sure I'm up to that."
"I don't think you'll have to do it. Besides, you need to help move the goats."
"I don't want them to go anywhere!" She almost moaned it, pounding one clenched hand on her knee.
"Molly!" Jack raised his voice, now. His black eyebrows pulled towards one another, forming a deep divot in the skin between them. Molly stared at the line, fascinated. He took a deep breath. "I need you on board with this. We're really lucky that our ranch is as big as it is—that we only need to move them to the other side."
She was pushing it, she knew. Oh God, she thought. Grow up, Moll, come on.
It was the splintering of their rhythms that she hated. She didn't like not knowing what would come next. A thought came to her.
"Let's go down there," she said.
"What?"
"Let's go see the fire. Meet the enemy."
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea."
"It's a great idea! We can find out for ourselves what it looks like, rather than just listening to what we've been told."
"I'm thinking of you. You seem tired, you're already wondering if you're up to this… what about the goats?"
"Gerard already said he'd take care of milking tonight." She turned and looked into his eyes. She relaxed her shoulders, softened, melted up at him the way she knew would make him give in. "Jack. Please."
He looked back at her, eyes narrowed. He held himself rigidly, and then as she reached out and touched his shoulder, she felt him give way.
"Fine. Alright."
She laughed, feeling giddy, like she'd won a race. "Let's go!"
"Now?"
"Right now."
A few hours later, after the drive down to the State Park and the long walk from the parking lot to the roped off fire area, she was staring straight at the fire in the encroaching twilight.
Close up, it could almost have been a friend.
Flames lapped at the bases of giant fir trees. The fire was no more than a foot high, a warm tide at the feet of the giants; this tiny thing was the threat that had been stealing breath and sleep from her.
It was working sluggishly through the old growth that swept up to the top of the nearest mountain, toward their home on the other side of the ridge, about six miles away. They were standing on ground that belonged to the Humboldt Redwoods State Park, and the untouched woods around them were a vast fortress, canopied by fir and redwood branches, a place where sounds were hushed by the thick carpet of needles and ferns on the forest floor. Many of the trees were taller than city buildings. It was a secretive thing, the forest, there were so many pieces of moss you would never hold between your fingertips, so many trees whose bark would never make an indentation on your palm.
Molly was a tiny thing in these woods. Even Jack beside her looked deceptively small, his tired face pale in the gloom. Sam nosed around the forest, looking for a place to make his mark, to let everyone know he had been here.
Molly wandered away to look at the ground the fire had already passed over. There weren't too many signs, she was glad to see. The blackened feet of the trees, the earth bared of needles. Birds panicking overhead. She sighed. There were signs.
The fire stretched across her line of sight, glinting even in her peripheral vision, a glowing thread in a land of giants. It looked like nothing more than a chain of people, linking arms to search for something they'd lost, weaving toward them fretfully.
"What does it look like to you?" she asked Jack. He put a hand on her shoulder.
"Oh… like fire," he said.
Molly looked up at him, seeing the shadows under his eyes, then tipped her face farther back to watch the night lurching toward them. The fires glowed brighter in response to the darkening air. The tops of the redwoods were feathered black drill bits, chiseling into the violet sky.
In daylight, this fire would be laughable; little childish lights among damp, mossy trunks. Playful fire, like kittens tumbling at the feet of the somber thousand-year-old trees.
"It doesn't seem like it could be so dangerous, does it?" she asked. She knew of blazes from their years in Southern California, she knew of fire that leaped and crackled, that singed your eyelashes and sucked the moisture right out of your mouth. This was a different kind of fire.
"It doesn't now, no," Jack said. He spoke with his chin tucked into his chest, holding a handful of fir needles that he'd taken from the ground beside him. He let them run through his fingers, sifting them.
"I don't know what to think. Will they put it out?" She shook her head quickly, trying to drive back sharp spikes of fear. "Oh, I don't know who to believe."
He didn't answer, possibly because he didn't know either, or maybe because she asked the same question at least twenty-three times a day. There were whispers everywhere among the ranches and homes squirreled into the dimples and dells of their valley and the adjacent hillsides. Many, like Athena, believed that the State Park officials wanted the fire to keep burning until it left the park, so that it would clear da
ngerous brush for them, but Jack said he couldn't fathom it. The fire was aimed straight as an arrow for Jack and Molly's ranch. If it crossed the ridge they'd be fighting it on their side. The State wouldn't let that happen. Surely.
Molly walked over to one small fire and kicked at it. A couple needles burst into flame like tiny missiles. She scrabbled for a clump of dirt and threw it on. A small handful of smoke choked its way out of the space where the fire's heart had been moments earlier. Molly picked up another clod of earth, and dropped it on the section of fire that was still burning, her heart beating faster as she saw another hand-sized cloud leave the fire. She waded in with her boots and stomped the fire the rest of the way out, looking up at Jack in triumph. He was leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his ribs, watching her. In the dark she couldn't see his eyes, couldn't tell what he was thinking. Just beyond him were four or five more small fires, barely linked by tiny channels of flame. She headed toward them determinedly, pausing to look back at her work. Not even a wisp of smoke escaped from her dirt pile. It was as though the fire hadn't even been there.
"Are you going to put them all out?" Jack asked.
"What else are we supposed to do?"
He joined her without saying anything more. They built up a rhythm, wandering from one small fire to the next. The night was full of the scent of needles burning, mixing with Jack's spicy deodorant as Molly bent her head beside him and stomped out all the fires within her reach. It was full of the scent of flame and ash, of moss drying up and turning into the finest gray dust. The dog watched them with wounded eyes from a distance, not convinced that it was safe to be so close to the fire. Jack picked up great big handfuls of damp earth and threw them as hard as he could. Molly used her old leather boots to stomp the life out of the fires. The earth hit the ground almost noiselessly. They were very quiet and focused, fighting the baby flames. Molly was reminded of how guilty she felt when it was apple thinning time, choosing which tiny apples should live and which should become fertilizer prematurely. She started to cry.
"Molly, Molly…" Jack said. He came to her and put his arms around her. She had her hands clamped over her face, angry tears seeping through her fingers. He gripped her shoulder.
"I knew we shouldn't have come."
Molly pulled her hands away and swiped at her face with the backs of them.
"What do you mean, we shouldn't have come? What are we supposed to do, just sit at home and let this wander its way up to us?" She gestured at the fire.
It looked so short and unassuming. She stared at it, almost wishing that it looked more threatening. It would make it easier to fight.
"Molly," Jack said. He was still holding onto her. She dragged her gaze back to his face.
"What?"
"I really don't think you're up for this. Maybe you should go, really go. Stay with someone until it's all over."
"Jack! There's no way in hell that I'm leaving now!" Her voice broke and she stumbled away from him, walking crookedly in between the trees. "Stop worrying about me, you're smothering me. I can't leave."
"You need to be careful," he called behind her. "You know you do. Don't let yourself get so worked up."
She turned back, furious. There was a fire close to him that looked like it could be put out so easily, but there he was, wasting time lecturing her!
"Let it go," she said. "Let it go! It happened sixteen years ago. I can't live under it for the rest of my life. You won't stop babying me and bullying me and then you call everyone in the family to come and rescue us and you want to send me away."
"I don't bully you."
Molly stared at him. His hair was too long, he needed a haircut. She waited to become calm, but she was seething, vibrating under her skin. She worked so hard, this dry summer had been so hot, and all he wanted was for her to leave. As much as she wanted to be gone, to be far away from all this violence of fire and smoke, she needed to be here, now, home. Sam thrust his head under her hand. She let it rest lightly on him.
"I'm not leaving."
Jack lifted his hands, palms out.
"Okay. It's up to you."
There was a pause. Jack kicked at a pile of needles.
"Let's go," Molly said. He nodded. They started the walk back to the parking lot, Sam running on ahead.
The truck's engine took a few minutes to turn over, like it always did. It was her 1964 Ford, her aging baby, the one she had named Martha. If Jack ever drove it, it was for her sake. It was for her sake he was driving it now, but she was ignoring the gesture. He preferred his much newer truck, because it didn't need nursing or coaxing. The kids preferred Jack's truck too. Only Molly loved this old girl of hers. She was always alone.
Oh, it was all so long ago. Why was the taste of it still in all their mouths? She'd been so good, so careful, for so long, for sixteen long years! Her breakdown had been a disaster, but she hated being treated as if it was recent, as if she hadn't rebuilt herself brick by brick, breath by breath.
The truck wound its way through the trees, onto the road, and back up the hill, toward the ranch. She saw the familiar sign at the gate, "O'Leary Ranch," and sank into the seat with relief. Even leaving for a short while made her feel like the land was unprotected.
"Will you help me move the futon?" she asked as they stepped out of the truck. The smoke hid the stars that would normally welcome them home after nightfall. When Jack shut his door hard, with the palm of his hand, the sharp cracking sound took a long time to dissipate.
"Okay," he said.
Molly gave her donkey a pat as they made their way into the house. He lingered in the driveway, rolling his eyes at the smoke in the air. "Simmer down, simmer down," she murmured, close to his ear. He and Sam touched noses before Sam lay on his bed with a sigh.
They dragged the futon from the living room to the screened-in porch. They would need all the space they had when Catherine and the kids got here, and Molly would rather sleep outside anyways. As they were moving the heavy frame, she dropped it on her toes and cussed. Jack quickly picked it up off her foot. She looked at him with her meanest eyes.
The terrible anger was carrying her in its current again. Her toes were throbbing and she could feel the ache of tears waiting behind her jaw, thickening her throat. She willed them away with gritted teeth. She poked around the house, readying for night and bed, pushing herself through heat and weariness, and all the time the anger burned. Then without warning it fizzled, and she was left feeling empty and old, letting her toothbrush hang disconsolately out of one hand as she stared at her face in the bathroom mirror.
They could lose everything. Not only the house, which was her birthplace, after all, but the trees! Oh, the trees with all of the years holding tight inside, the things they encircled when no one else was around. The days slowly slipping by, all the moments they stored up. They could all be obliterated, so quickly, so quickly.
These days everything inside of her felt soft and squishy, the way her belly had been right after she gave birth to each of her kids, all the organs out of place, the whole thing soft to the touch and so exposed. She wanted to curl around herself, keep it all safe. Keep the enemy out. The blame. She knew she was at fault.
She left at seventeen. Ten years ago, Jack had wanted to come back. She hadn't. Here they were. She'd spent too many years resenting the land and its hold on her. Too many years accusing Jack of forcing her hand in being there. Now divine retribution, in the shape of an inferno, was heading her way. She couldn't tell Jack how she felt about it because she knew that there was a justifiable "I told you so," somewhere, buried deep inside him. She didn't think she could bear to hear it. She stood looking at her toothbrush for a long while before she returned it to the old mug on the kitchen sink, beside Jack's.
He was already in bed when she got there, so quiet that she was sure he was sleeping. She eased herself onto the futon. It seemed cooler out in the air. Perhaps it was worth the bruised toes, to be here where they could see the charcoal sky and hea
r the birds when they awoke in the morning. She tossed and sighed. Her husband knew how to keep his body tranquil, when he was sleeping and even when he wasn't. He never threw the sheets around the way she did.
The line of his shoulder, back and hip were a strange landscape; hills that were iron hard and black, silhouetted against a faint light that came from the house. She rested her hand on his hip, and when he reached up and covered it with his own, she realized that he was very still, but not asleep after all.
TWO
Jack was jolted out of sleep by the sound of tires on the gravel. He leapt out of bed before he was really awake, rubbed at his face, rolled his shoulders. He'd slept with his head at a funny angle—those stupid couch pillows—and it was pounding. Was that the kids pulling in already? He peered out the window at the truck that had just pulled into the driveway. It was only Gerard, the ranch hand, making his lanky way to the goat barn. Not the kids. Not Catherine striding in while he tried to act as though he'd been awake for more than five minutes. Of course, she didn't really stride anymore, did she.
He whistled with relief and turned back to the bed. It was lacking a Molly-shaped lump. She was gone. According to the clock he could see on the wall in the house, it was only 7:00. Had she slept at all?
He grabbed a T-shirt that was draped over the nearest chair, pulling it over his head and hopping into a pair of long shorts. He didn't know many other ranchers who wore shorts on a workday, but Jack was an accidental rancher, one who'd grown up on the beaches of San Diego. He'd inherited all of this mess, loving it almost as much as he felt like an oversight, a failed experiment in surfer relocation. He really wouldn't want his mother-in-law to find him sleeping.
She had asked them abruptly, without warning, far earlier than they thought she would. Jack had known, like he would know a buzzing in his skull, that one of these days she was going to ask them to take over the ranch. She had never talked about it, that was not her way. But there was no one else to take it. Still, the timing had surprised him.
The Eve Tree: A Novel Page 2