My Kind of People

by Lisa Duffy

  Leo was working at the other house anyway, she argued.

  Finally Frankie gave in. And they left the tree house, walked straight through the back door of Sky’s house, and nearly bumped into Leo.

  Luckily Frankie came up with a story, and Leo was distracted enough to fall for it.

  Now Sky digs in the junk drawer, looking for two C batteries, but all she sees is a handful of stray AAs.

  “What about this?” Frankie says, reaching in. She holds up a small lighter, igniting the flame. Then throws it back in the drawer as though she knows it’s a ridiculous suggestion.

  “Wait.” Sky digs it out, an idea forming in her mind. “Follow me.”

  They go out the back door and she leads them to Joe’s garage. His truck is gone, and she knows he’s at the other house with Leo.

  Still, she’s quick.

  Frankie keeps watch by the garage door while she hurries inside and grabs the glass lantern off the shelf and tucks the bottle of fuel under her arm.

  She’d asked Joe about it the day she was working on the easel, and he said he’d show her how it worked sometime. He explained how the fuel went in the bottom of it, and she just had to light the wick and the flame would burn for hours.

  She’s out the door in less than a minute, handing Frankie the bottle and cradling the lantern against her body while they both run through the backyard.

  Sky glances behind her once to make sure they haven’t been seen. And then they’re on the path, dusk threatening to turn to darkness just as they climb the ladder and collapse on the bed in the tree house, breathing hard.

  “Okay—you were right. It does get dark fast when the sun goes down,” Frankie says, giving Sky a sorry look.

  She removes the glass from the lantern and unscrews the top while Sky takes the cap off of the lamp fuel.

  “You do it. Your hands are steadier,” Sky says, eyeing the small opening. “We should have brought a funnel.”

  Frankie nods. “Here goes nothing,” she says, putting the bottle close to the lip, tipping it until the clear liquid rolls toward the opening. But she tips it just a little too far, and the fuel spills over the edge onto the wood floor.

  “Crap!” Frankie mutters while Sky searches for something to clean it up. There’s nothing in the tree house besides their bedding and a handful of paintings taped to the wall. She digs a T-shirt out of her backpack and presses it against the liquid, the smell of the fuel making her eyes water.

  She wipes up as much as she can while Frankie screws the top on, then presses the flame from the lighter to the wick.

  “That was a disaster,” Frankie says. “But it’s working.” She puts the lantern on the floor near the wall, and they both look up as a soft light spreads through the room.

  She feels Frankie’s eyes on her, and when she glances over, Frankie lifts an eyebrow.

  “You don’t look any better,” she tells Sky.

  An hour ago, they’d left another painting on the easel. Another half-done picture of Sky, an action shot of her from last summer at camp, riding a speckled pony in a ring.

  “Let’s see if our mystery artist can draw animals as well as humans,” Frankie had said, clipping the actual photograph to the easel.

  Then she looked at Sky and pointed at her face. “You’re kind of green. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, pressing her hand to her forehead. “It’s probably just the leftover tacos we had for lunch. Come on, let’s go.”

  Now, between running into Leo and spilling the fuel on the floor, both Frankie and Sky have been too busy to think about her green face. But she can’t deny that her head is pounding, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, and she wants nothing more than to lie down on the feather bed on the floor and close her eyes.

  “You should lie down,” Frankie says, as though reading her mind. “I can take the first watch. I’ll wake you up if I see anything. Or in a couple of hours. Whichever comes first.”

  “I feel bad,” she says, toppling over onto the bed. Her body melting into the covers. “This was supposed to be fun!”

  Frankie stands, grabs a bag of chips from their snack bag and hangs the binoculars around her neck. “Who says it isn’t? Your company isn’t that great. Close your eyes. Sleep away the green, please. You’re making my stomach turn.”

  Sky reaches for a pillow to throw at Frankie, but when she puts her head down, she’s drifting off to sleep before the door shuts.

  * * *

  She dreams she’s in a burning car, trapped in the back seat. She’s curled in a ball, pressed against the hard cushion, the heat searing.

  She tries to scream, but nothing comes out of her mouth. Then something slams into her leg and she opens her eyes, swimming out of the nightmare until she blinks herself fully awake, screaming when she sees the fire.

  Her nightmare isn’t a nightmare.

  The tree house is on fire. A roaring wall of yellow and orange flames across from her, so hot she can barely look at it.

  She doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep. The last thing she remembers, Frankie was outside on the landing, waiting for the mystery artist.

  She blinks through the smoke and sees Frankie standing above her. Frankie turns and steps on Sky’s leg, in the same spot that woke her out of her nightmare, and Sky gets a look at Frankie’s face, slack and expressionless, and she knows immediately that Frankie is sleepwalking.

  “Frankie!” she screams, reaching for her, but her hand grazes Frankie’s fingers, the fire pushing her back against the wall.

  The lantern is shattered at Frankie’s feet. She must have kicked it over, the glass broken, fire climbing up the far wall.

  She lunges forward, grabs Frankie’s arm and tugs, pulling her down to the bed next to her, where she watches Frankie snap out of sleep, blinking until terror flashes in her eyes and she looks at Sky and lets out a scream.

  “Get up!” Sky shouts and they start to stand, backs pressed to the wall, when there’s an explosion in the corner by the door, knocking them both down.

  An orange light blinds her, smoke filling the room.

  She pictures her T-shirt. The one she’d used to clean the spilled lamp fuel. The one that was soaked and balled up in the corner, now a bonfire, loud and crackling.

  She can’t see Frankie anymore, the smoke from the fuel black and dense, her eyes burning. Her throat closing. She tries to move, grabs for Frankie, but the fire is big, too big—the wall across from her too hot to even look at.

  The fire is headed for the door, trapping them in the tree house.

  She’s paralyzed. A hot glow blazing in front of them. The heat suddenly unbearable. Black, thick smoke all around them.

  She hears Frankie call her name, and they fumble in the dark until they grab hands. Sky tries to stand but Frankie yanks her down.

  “Stay on the ground!” she hears Frankie shout.

  But her throat is closing. She gulps for air. Fire fills her lungs. She gasps again, but there’s nothing left in the room but heat and fire and darkness.

  And then nothing. Just a black hole tugging at her, swallowing her until she curls in a ball, closes her eyes.

  * * *

  Her body is being dragged. She feels the wood under her heels and hands underneath her armpits. She wants to scream for it to stop—the heat on her face is too hot. But she can’t speak.

  Can’t do anything besides die in this fire.

  Then she’s outside. A surge of air fills her lungs and she gulps, coughs, clawing at her throat. She presses her hand into her eyes, forcing them to open so she can see. She’s lying on the tree house deck, the black night in the distance, flames touching the treetops above her.

  Someone is shoving her to the edge of the landing to the ladder. But there’s no way she can climb. She can’t even feel her arms or legs.

  Her body is pushed forward, her legs fall over the edge, and suddenly there are hands in her own, a foot pressing against her lower back until
she slips over the edge into the air where she hangs, the hands holding her tightly, then loosening slowly when her body is fully stretched out, closer to the ground.

  She holds her breath when she knows she’s going to be dropped.

  How far is it to the ground? she wonders briefly, and then she’s falling through the air. She doesn’t even have time to scream before she lands on her side, her body bouncing off the hard earth. She can’t feel anything, just a buzzing in her head.

  “Crawl!” someone shouts from above, and she listens, gathering all her strength, willing her body to move. She turns over and claws at the dirt, drags her body away from the tree house.

  She doesn’t know how far she’s gone when she turns, squints up at the fire, now a blazing ball of orange in the trees.

  She screams Frankie’s name. Over and over.

  Then two figures appear. Straight out of the fire. She watches as they stumble through the door and onto the narrow landing in front of the stairs, the fire blazing behind them.

  She stares at the figure behind Frankie. Tall and thin. Long hair. A woman, though she can’t see her face.

  Suddenly a noise rips through the forest. A SNAP so loud, Sky screams, reaches her hand out just as the tree house buckles, folding in on itself.

  A body is launched in the air. Pushed, it seems, with such force that arms and legs flail, and hang suspended in the air for a moment, before dropping.

  Frankie.

  Darkness dots her vision, but she rises to her knees, starts crawling, inch by inch, toward her best friend, who’s motionless.

  A body crumpled on the ground.

  42

  She hears the screams before she sees the fire.

  This was going to be her last night. She’d packed up all of her belongings into her duffel bag. Not one thing left behind in the studio. Then she’d walked to the cliff, threw it over the edge into the ocean, and watched as it splashed into the sea. Next, she went to the easel, left all the paintings in the box. She wrapped them in a clean sheet of paper and tied them with a piece of string she’d found in a drawer.

  She saw the unfinished painting they’d left on the easel. The photograph next to it. She smiled, traced her finger over the girl on the pony, then unclipped both from the easel and placed them on top of the other paintings in the box.

  It’s time. She can’t finish this one for the girl. What she’s left in the box will have to be enough.

  She stands on the edge of the cliff. The portrait she’d painted of her daughter in her hand. She’s ready. Counts backward from three.

  A scream breaks the silence. And she turns, watches as fire shoots from the treetops.

  By the time she sprints into the forest, it’s impossible that the ball of orange before her is the tree house, but she hears the screams.

  She’s watched the girl climb up there so many times from her hiding spot, she has the number of rungs on the ladder memorized.

  Good thing too, because the smoke is so thick—the fire so hot—she can barely open her eyes, barely breathe. She finds them in the corner, huddled together, both of them unconscious.

  She doesn’t think—just moves. Lifting and pulling. She’s weak. Too weak. All she can do is drag and pull and tug. Finally, she’s holding the girl over the edge, the weight of her almost pulling her off the landing. It’s a drop, but not too far with the way she’s lowered her. She shoves her as hard as she can with her foot, and when she lands, she screams for her to get away from the flames.

  When she looks behind her at the tree house, she almost gives up.

  But there’s another girl trapped. Someone’s daughter. She runs through the door, the heat searing, burning her legs and arms and face. The girl is screaming—awake now, trapped in the corner. She grabs her and pulls her out of the door just as the roof splits and the floor beneath them tilts, threatening to give way.

  They’re going to crumble with the house.

  The girl screams, and their eyes lock. She takes a step forward, and with all her might pushes the girl off the landing, watches her fly through the air toward the ground.

  Before the flames engulf her body, she looks down at the girl who’s crawling, trying to reach her friend.

  When the floor beneath her gives out, she falls into it.

  Willingly. Finally.

  How glorious it is to die in this way. How her last moments on this earth have proven to be her best.

  How, for once, she’s the mother her daughter always deserved.

  43

  They’re sitting on Leo’s patio sipping cocktails and waiting for the burgers on the grill to cook.

  Maggie accepted Joe’s invitation to join him for dinner at Leo’s even though what she really wanted to do was put on her pajamas and disappear in front of the television.

  But that’s what she’s been doing most nights lately. So she made herself walk across the street, a bowl of homemade potato salad in her arms.

  It was Saturday night, after all.

  Leo’s sitting next to her at the table, and he sniffs at the air and looks at them, stands abruptly and walks to the grill.

  “I think I’m burning our dinner,” he calls out.

  “That’s a fire somewhere. Must be some idiot burning leaves when he shouldn’t be.” Joe looks at her. “Speaking of idiots. Has your husband come to his senses? Begged you to forgive him?”

  She feels herself bristle. “I thought you liked Pete?”

  “I do like Pete,” Joe says. “I can like him and think he’s an idiot for letting you go.”

  “He’s not letting me go,” Maggie corrects. “Nobody has to be in the wrong here. We’re just two people who want different things.”

  She feels her face redden, aware that it wasn’t long ago that she asked Joe to pick sides. Hers or Pete’s. Now listen to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says to Joe. “I’m all over the map lately.”

  But he’s not listening to her. He’s on his feet, stepping away from the table, looking at the woods behind them.

  “What?” she and Leo ask at the same time, turning to see what he’s looking at.

  There’s a moment when nobody speaks. All three of them staring at the ball of fire spurting out of the forest.

  In the exact spot where the tree house sits.

  “Thank God Sky’s at Frankie’s house,” Leo says. “I’m calling it in.” He turns to leave when Maggie says his name.

  “Frankie’s parents are taking their sons to college,” she blurts. “Frankie’s brothers. The twins.”

  “I thought Frankie’s mother picked them up—” He stops, looks at the woods, as though something has just occurred to him.

  The same thing that occurs to all of them at the same time. They take off running for the woods without another word.

  “Someone should stay and call it in!” Joe shouts, but the sound of a siren wails in the distance, growing louder.

  Maggie hasn’t sprinted like this in years, and her side is throbbing when they see the flames in front of them.

  The tree house is no longer a tree house. Just a burning ball in the trees.

  “Jesus,” she hears Joe say.

  But when she turns, Joe’s not looking at the fire. He’s running in the other direction. To two girls on the ground.

  She reaches for Leo, but he’s gone, following Joe. She can’t move. Her feet are lead weights attached to her legs.

  “Maggie? Is that you?” someone calls. She turns to see Lillian rushing toward her. “I saw the fire from the house.”

  “Me too,” says Agnes, joining them, a fire extinguisher in her hand. “It’s probably silly but I thought I’d see if I can help. Oh, Sky’s going to be heartbroken,” she says, looking at the tree house, then at Maggie. “What’s wrong? You’re as white as a ghost—”

  Maggie pushes past Agnes and stumbles over to the girls. Frankie is sprawled on the ground, her eyes closed, her arm bent at an angle. Maggie drops to her knees, next to Joe, who’s cro
uching over Frankie.

  “She’s breathing,” he shouts.

  Agnes appears, kneeling on the ground across from Maggie, her eyes searching Frankie’s body. “Go help Sky. I have her.”

  Someone is screaming. A howl so raw, Maggie’s heart feels as though it might burst out of her chest.

  She crawls the few feet to where Sky is lying on the ground. Leo has Sky’s head in his lap, and he’s yelling at her to stay still. He doesn’t know what’s broken.

  But Sky’s not listening. She’s screaming, pointing at the tree house that’s exploding in front of their eyes.

  “What is she saying?” he shouts at Maggie. “Sky—I can’t understand—”

  But Maggie is right next to Sky’s head. So close they’re almost touching. And she hears her. Hears exactly what she’s saying.

  She grabs Leo’s arm, holds on to it so she doesn’t collapse.

  “She’s saying there’s a woman in there,” Maggie says. “There’s a woman in the fire,” she says softly at first. Then loud.

  As loud as she can.

  Maggie stands, shouts it at the top of her lungs. Over and over until the firefighters who rush by hear her too.

  Then she’s on the ground, shielding Sky from what’s happening right in front of them.

  The tree house dissolving. The ladder brought in by the firefighters dropped to the ground.

  There’s nothing left to climb. Just a ball of fire that’s burning. Waiting to become a pile of ash.

  44

  It’s his fault the girls were in the tree house. All his fault.

  He didn’t have a second to think in the ambulance on the quick ride to the hospital, and then doctors and nurses were in the room and then they’d kicked him out to examine Sky and sent him to sign forms. By the time the nurse brought him to the waiting room, he hadn’t even processed what happened.

  Maggie and Agnes and Lillian are sitting in the windowless room with him. Joe stayed behind with the firefighters, and Leo wonders if they’ve put out the fire by now.