House on Fire

by Bonnie Kistler

  “The last thing Hunter would do is hurt you.”

  “Sure. Until the baby’s born. Then what?”

  “Are you planning to stay away until then?”

  “Maybe I’ll just stay away forever.”

  Leigh dropped her head into her hand. There was nothing she could say to talk her out of her paranoia. “Are you someplace safe?”

  “Oh, I’m safe, all right. This place I’m staying? It’s like a fucking fortress. I even got one of those Bluetooth panic buttons.”

  “Okay, good.” She’d read about those. Push a button on a key chain or a piece of jewelry, and the device automatically dialed 911, sent out a GPS signal, and transmitted the audio from the crime scene. That sounded like a good security blanket for Jenna.

  “And I’ll tell you what else.” There was a self-congratulatory smugness in Jenna’s voice. “I got a gun.”

  “Oh, no. Jenna. That’s too dangerous. You’ll end up hurting yourself.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Leigh didn’t believe that at all. She sighed. “Do you have enough money?”

  “I was stockpiling cash for months before I took off. It’ll last me until the divorce comes through and I get my settlement.”

  “Well, what about medical care? You need to keep up with your obstetrical visits.”

  “I am. I found somebody else. Somebody who doesn’t know me or Hunter.”

  “Well—” She didn’t know what else she could do. “Promise you’ll call me. Every week.”

  “God, you sound like my mother.”

  Leigh flinched, and for a moment she couldn’t respond. “So I can keep you updated on the legal proceedings,” she said tightly.

  “Whatever.”

  Leigh felt so drained after that call she had to drag herself up the stairs and burrow deep into Chrissy’s comforter.

  She woke to darkness, with no clue what time it was or even what day. She’d drifted in and out of sleep and somehow lost her bearings on both the calendar and clock. She lifted her wrist and squinted at the glowing digits on her watch. It was after nine. PM, but which one? It was the weekend, she thought, but was it Saturday or Sunday? She’d forgotten to eat, she had no idea for how long, but she had a nagging sense she’d forgotten something else.

  She hauled herself off the bed and wandered through the maze of the house. A dozen chores needed to be done, but that wasn’t what nagged at her. It wasn’t until she got to the kitchen and looked out to the back garden that she remembered. She’d forgotten to feed the horses. She’d forgotten to bring them in. And if this was Sunday, she’d forgotten for more than thirty-six hours.

  She jammed her feet into her shoes and ran out the kitchen door and over the lawn to the gate. The horses’ silhouettes rose black against the dusk on the far side of the pasture, as still as statues in a midnight garden. Leigh clucked her tongue, but they wouldn’t come—punishment for her forgetfulness—so she had to go and fetch them and lead them into their stalls. They had plenty of grass in the pasture and the water trough was still half full, so they hadn’t suffered from her neglect. But it wasn’t until she grained and watered them that they deigned to acknowledge her with head-butting nuzzles against her shoulder. Goodness and Mercy paid her no mind at all. They sat on their perches up in the rafters, their eyes unblinking and glowing yellow in the dark.

  She should sell the horses. Nobody was riding them, and the expense simply couldn’t be justified. She nearly sold Licorice once before, after Ted left and the feed and veterinary bills threatened to overwhelm her. But it would have broken Chrissy’s heart, so she dawdled and delayed until along came Peter, and they didn’t have to sell him anymore, and not long after that they even added Romeo to their stable. Not to mention Shepherd. Those were the days when their household seemed capable of infinite expansion. Like those little hydrogel balls the kids used to play with. Drop them in a bowl of water and they expanded to two hundred times their size. But take them out of the water and they shriveled down to nothing. Eventually they disintegrated altogether.

  She slid the bolt on the barn door and latched the gate and headed back to the house. It was a warm night, nearly summer, though still too early in the season for the fireflies to come out. Too early in the night for the stars to come out either, and the gloom was sinking in darkly over the pasture and lawn. There was nothing but a square of light from the kitchen window to guide her way back to the house. The peepers were in the tall grass and sounded like a chorus of sleigh bells as they sang their nighttime songs. Another few degrees hotter and the crickets would be chirping, too. That was when it would be time to reverse the horses’ routine and keep them out of the heat in the barn during the day and turn them loose to graze at night.

  The path from the pasture gate to the house curved around the big weeping cherry tree in the garden. For a moment the beacon of kitchen light was extinguished behind it, and in the sudden blackness Leigh heard a noise. Or more like—felt it. She strained her ears to find it again, but all she could hear were the chorus frogs singing in the weeds and the slam of a car door in the Markhams’ driveway down the road. Still the skin crawled at the nape of her neck.

  She broke into a run around the cherry tree and across the lawn to the kitchen door. Inside, she threw the dead bolt and ran to each of the open windows and closed and locked them, too. She peered out the front window, but all she could see was her own reflection in the glass. She switched off the lights and looked again. There were no streetlamps on their road, and the only illumination came from the distant glow of other houses.

  Her hands shook as she poured herself a glass of water at the sink. If only Shep were here. If anyone were creeping around outside, anyone whose scent or sound he didn’t recognize, he’d be at the door with a growl buzzing through his whip-tense body. But Shep wasn’t here. He had to choose sides, and he chose Peter.

  She should have had the baby they talked about the first year they were married. A small child wouldn’t get to choose; it would simply be hers. But Leigh was past forty by then and their house was already overflowing with children to love and they decided no. Now, though, Peter might not have left if they had a child together. It would have been harder to split up a shared genome than it was to divide up their separate clusters of chromosomes.

  She crossed the darkened kitchen to the rear window and gazed out into the backyard, through the wispy shadow of the cherry tree and past the hazy outline of the clematis arbor and the pineapple fountain standing dry in the middle of the garden. And there, above the bench, came a tiny burst of light.

  It was only a brief flare, like someone struck a match and quickly shook it out. Almost like a firefly, except it couldn’t have been, not in May in Northern Virginia. She grabbed the phone and dialed 911. Someone was out there, she knew it.

  Stay by the phone, the dispatcher said, so Leigh kept it in her hand as she ran through the rooms, turning on all the lights. Somewhere in the house were baseball bats, lacrosse sticks, tennis rackets, and she ran to the kids’ rooms before she remembered they were all stowed out in the garage, a breezeway away from the house. She ended up arming herself with a golf umbrella from the hall closet, and she was still holding it, pointy end out, when the phone rang in her hand.

  It was the 911 operator, reporting in a monotone that an officer had arrived at her address, parked down the street, and was currently approaching her rear garden on foot. She should remain inside. Leigh ran to the front windows, then the back, but all she could see was herself in the glass. It was ten minutes before the operator called again, this time to tell her the officer was approaching her front door and to please disarm any weapons.

  Leigh propped the umbrella in the corner when the doorbell rang. It was strangely comforting to hear a woman’s voice call “Police!” through the door, and even stranger to open it and see Officer Ballerina Bun on the doorstep.

  “Evening, Mrs. Huyett. I’m Officer Mateo.”

  “Yes. Yes, I remember
.”

  “I conducted a search of the property, the yard and the pasture and the barn, but I didn’t find anyone out there. Would you like me to search in here?”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I was in here with the doors locked when I saw him strike a match— Did you look for a match in the garden by the bench?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t see one. And no tracks in the garden soil either that I could see.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’d be happy to take a look around inside. Just in case.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Is anyone else at home?”

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  She trailed after the young woman as she swept through the house. It wasn’t like on TV. She didn’t unholster her weapon or shout Clear! at every threshold. She moved through the rooms like a casual shopper at a Sunday open house, one who was only looking, thanks, but took the time to peer in every closet. When she finished the ground floor, she climbed the stairs and did the full circuit of the second floor, too, but it was obvious there was nothing amiss up there either, nothing beyond the unmade bed in the master bedroom and the rumpled comforter in Chrissy’s room.

  It was at the threshold of Chrissy’s room that Officer Mateo stopped and looked at Leigh. “I don’t see any sign of an intruder, ma’am.”

  “No.” Leigh flushed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I was so sure there was someone—”

  “No need to apologize. That’s what we’re here for. If you like, someone could come out in the daylight tomorrow and take a closer look in the garden.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Leigh followed her down the stairs to the front hall. “I must have imagined it.” Maybe she had. She was so groggy from her lost weekend she could have seen anything.

  The officer hesitated at the front door. “Mrs. Huyett, I never got the chance to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Oh.” Leigh went still. “Thank you.”

  “She seemed like a very special young lady. That night at the station? Before you and your husband arrived? You could tell she was scared, but she was being so brave about it. And yet still so courteous to all the officers. I thought at the time what a lovely girl she was.”

  “You’re kind to say so.”

  “Later I found out she went to school with my husband’s niece, Lacey. She couldn’t say enough good things about her. Like that club she started, the antibullying thing?”

  “The Defense League, right.” The Spring to Everyone’s Defense League, Leigh used to call it.

  “My husband, he’s hoping it’s a girl, but I always thought I wanted a boy. Until I met your daughter.”

  It took a moment for Leigh to understand. “You’re pregnant?” She dropped her eyes to the woman’s waistline, but it was too thick with her equipment belt to reveal anything.

  “I’m only four months along. We don’t know what it is yet. But I’ve been thinking how lucky I’d be, if we have a girl and she turns out anything like yours.”

  The radio crackled on the officer’s shoulder, and that finally moved her out the door. It was late now and the night was completely black outside. Leigh switched on the porch light, and it shone a warm glow over the front walk and its tidy edging of little globe boxwoods.

  “Don’t hesitate to call if you hear or see anything again.”

  “Thank you, but I’m sure it was nothing. The wind probably.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night. Good luck with your baby.”

  Leigh locked the door and went through the house, turning off all the lights she’d turned on earlier, first floor up to second. When she reached her own room, she hit that switch, too, but switched it back on an instant later. It was a disgrace how long she’d left the bed unmade, and she was embarrassed that Officer Mateo saw it. She stripped off both sheets in one violent pull and carried them down the back stairs to the laundry room and crammed them in the washer. The water came on with a cleansing whoosh to fill the tub.

  At the bay window in the darkened kitchen she knelt on the window seat and gazed out at the spot where the bench stood in the night garden. The wind could explain the noise she heard, but what could explain the spark? She knew she hadn’t imagined that. It was like a little wink of fairy light in the darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Daddy?” Mia studiously stirred her ice cream to soup. “Did Kip do something bad?”

  Pete threw a startled look at his daughter then a wary glance at the other families in the booths around them to check that no one was eavesdropping. “Well, what does Mommy say about it?”

  This was the protocol he’d learned since the divorce. The parent with primary custody got to set the rules regarding bedtime, diet, TV, and what the child was allowed to know and not know. In the early years Mia arrived every other weekend with a set of printed instructions like a new appliance. But Karen hadn’t passed on any instructions on this subject. How to couch her brother’s arrest for homicide.

  “Mommy says she can’t talk about it. And Gary says I don’t need to know. So does that mean it’s really bad?”

  Her face was the same shade of pink as her Hello Kitty T-shirt. They’d spent the day at the zoo, and it looked like he hadn’t applied enough sunscreen. She had the coloring of her Irish ancestors—black hair and pale, pale skin—and even in May, she burned easily. He should have been more vigilant, or, better yet, planned an outing that didn’t subject her to the sun all day. But he was still new to this kind of visitation and so far not very good at it. Things were so much easier when she came to the house every other weekend and they simply lived their ordinary hectic weekend lives. But after he moved to the job site, Karen vetoed overnight visitation. What he had to do now was drive to Karen’s every Sunday to pick up his daughter and drop off his son. Mia skipped out to the truck while Kip trudged to the front door, and a high-five in passing was the sum of their sibling interaction.

  “He made a mistake,” Pete said finally. “It wasn’t bad. But he broke some rules.”

  She considered that while she swirled a stripe of chocolate syrup through the cream in her dish. “And Chrissy died ’cause of it?”

  “No!” He checked himself to add in a softer tone, “No. Chrissy died because she had a problem inside her head. The accident had nothing to do with it.” He didn’t know whether he believed that or not, but the important thing was for Mia to believe it. “Sometimes bad things happen and it’s nobody’s fault at all. It just—happens.”

  Her pale eyes bored straight into his. “Did God make it happen?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “But why would he?”

  Kip never asked questions like these at her age—or ever—but Mia was a different, more contemplative child. He wished he could give her some kind of answer. Something better than mysterious ways or Deus Vult. He remembered something his grandmother had said at the funeral of a teenaged cousin when Pete was maybe six or seven. God likes to have pretty young flowers in his garden, too. Even as a little boy, he saw the flaw in that argument. Then why doesn’t he just make the old ones young again? “I don’t know, sweetie,” he said.

  “I bet Leigh knows. She knows all the hard stuff. Let’s call her.”

  He wondered. If Leigh heard Mia’s voice on the machine, would that finally make her pick up? “No, we shouldn’t bother her. She’s going through a really hard time right now.”

  “Is that why I’m not allowed to see her?”

  “It’s not that you’re not allowed—”

  “Mommy says I can’t go there.”

  “Just for a little while.”

  “But I miss her.”

  “I know.” He cleared his throat. “Me, too.”

  Mia sighed and let her spoon sink into the liquid. “I miss Chrissy, too. Most of all. At night in bed I close my eyes and put her face inside my eyelids so I can remember her. But I’m a
fraid someday she’ll just—flicker out.”

  Pete sat back against the hard vinyl of the booth. What a thing for a ten-year-old to say. He had no idea how to respond. Finally he pulled out his wallet and flipped open the photo strip. Chrissy’s photo was there, right next to Leigh’s. He slid it out and passed it over the table. “Would you like to hold on to this?”

  Mia pursed her lips. “It’s not the same,” she said, but she tucked it into her tiny Hello Kitty pocketbook anyway.

  After the divorce, Karen and Gary had moved to Silver Spring, into a new development of mass-produced, cookie-cutter houses called “executive-style” that came with small lots and zero character. It wasn’t where Kip grew up or where his childhood buddies lived, and even in the best of times he didn’t much enjoy his every-other-weekends there. Today he was waiting out front with his hands in his pockets and Karen was behind him hugging her ribs and Pete could read their body language from the end of the driveway: there’d been some kind of blowup with Gary. He leaned over to kiss Mia good-bye in the truck.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Are you always going to have a beard now?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Nothing’s the same anymore.” She sighed and slid to the ground.

  Kip swung up to take her place and slammed the door harder than necessary.

  “Trouble?”

  “Friggin’ asshole.” He scowled and slumped against the door.

  “Seat belt,” Pete said as he backed away.

  Chapter Twenty

  On Monday, Leigh’s email from Polly had an attachment: Rob Canaday’s opening brief in the case of Beck v. Beck. Leigh read it through in an hour. It was nothing more than a rehash of the arguments she’d already shot down in the lower court, and one of her young associates could easily draft the responsive brief. But she decided to do it herself. More than ever she felt that the mother-child relationship was something primal, sacred even, and not to be intruded upon by others. Even by the father. After all, his connection to the child was solely genetic. All he did was contribute half the blueprints. While the mother supplied an equal part of the design along with the building site, the construction materials, and all of the labor. She was connected to the baby through blood and nerves and every corpuscle of her being.