Heaven's Fire (21 page)

Paramedics checked them out. Firefighters passed by. Someone asked what was in the basement. Paint, Simon said, lots of paint. And thinner. The guy gave him a
"
You stupid fuck
"
look and moved on. Simon just shrugged.

At about 4 a.m., Irish got hungry. Simon found the pasta and chicken in the back of the Explorer and, after offering it first to Jake, took the chicken off the bones and fed it to Irish. Jake volunteered to eat the chocolate off the éclair when Simon explained that chocolate could kill a dog and Irish already had gotten into the Oreos that week. Then Jake tossed the remainder of that to Irish, too.

By 5 a.m., the fire was controlled, though controlled was probably the wrong word. All that paint, all that thinner. The firefighter was right: he
was
a stupid fuck. He’d burned down his own house. Must be against the law. Housal abuse. Simon almost laughed at the thought, but figured Jake would think he was nuts. And she'd probably be right.

The sun was up when the firefighters picked up their hoses and went home. The game, for now, was over.

*****

Jake’s neighborhood was quiet as they pulled up behind her car in the narrow driveway. Simon was so out of it that he didn't even comment on her Jaguar. The classy black convertible with its tan roof never failed to elicit male comment; but, for now, Simon seemed oblivious.

And Jake was exhausted. After she let the three of them--Simon, Irish, and herself--into the house, she turned and wrapped her arms around Simon. He held her, resting his head heavily on the top of hers.

Jake was glad Simon was alive. And Irish, too, even if the dog had gotten most of the éclair. But beyond that, Jake didn't know quite what to say. Platitudes--like the only thing that mattered was that everyone was okay, and that houses could be replaced--seemed lame, even if they might be true.

So they hung there like that, not talking, until Jake thought Simon's weight was going to compress her spine. Finally, as she rubbed his back and started to wish someone was rubbing hers, he straightened up.

"
You're okay?" he asked, for what had to be the tenth time that night. He tipped her chin up to trace the scratch on her cheek. "You're not hurt except for this?"

"I'm fine, thanks to you. And you? Are you okay?"

She meant beyond just the physical, and he seemed to know it. He rubbed at the stubble on his face and closed his eyes. When he opened them a fraction of a second later, there was more "Simon" there, and he smiled. "We're both alive, and houses can be replaced."

Jake smiled back. "I was going to say that, but I thought you'd smack me one."

"You're the one who should smack me for treating you to dinner, sex and a smoke."

That made her laugh. "I'm just thankful it was 'le petit mort,' and not just 'mort.'"

Simon's mouth dropped open, and then he laughed, too. "That is very, very clever. I just wish I was a little less tired, so I could show you how much I like it."

"I'm tired, too, or I'd take you up on that." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. "What do you say we go to bed? To sleep this time."

"To sleep, perchance to--"

Jake covered his mouth. "Ay, but there's no rub tonight, Hamlet." Simon put up a token objection, and Jake led him to her bedroom, which was the only one of the three in the house that actually contained furniture.

"Maybe we should shower before we smoke up your sheets-- literally, if not, sadly, figuratively," he said, surveying her neatly made-up bed and sparse furniture.

"I truly don't care about the bedclothes, but if it will make you feel better..."

"Sounds good." Simon sat down on the edge of the bed, the weariness seeming to overtake him after his show of Shakespearean bravado in the face of modern disaster. "Why don't you go first?"

Jake went into the bathroom and stripped off the stinky T-shirt, then showered and washed her hair as quickly as she could, before sticking her head out the door. "Your turn."

No answer. Coming out of the bathroom, she saw Simon fast asleep on her bed. Still smudged with ash from the fire, he looked like an extremely grubby eight-year-old, albeit a very tall one.

Jake pulled a spare blanket out of the closet, thinking that maybe Simon's concern over Jake being cold was because he, himself, was chilled. She covered him with the blanket and then slipped into bed, spooning around him like he'd spooned around her earlier. Simon roused momentarily and took her hand, pulling her in even closer. Within seconds, though, he was asleep again.

Irish, having taking stock of her new surroundings, padded in and dropped to the floor next to the bed with a thud. Soon her breathing slowed and became regular, too.

Jake lay awake. Worrying.

About Simon, certainly, but also about herself.

*****

Angela was staring at the young JFK.

Though her own bedroom had been turned into an office when she'd left her parent's house to marry Ray, Pat's room had been kept virtually intact after he moved out.

Mamma pretended it was "the guest room," but the only concessions to guests were the white chenille bedspread and frilly pink throw pillow that covered the DUKES OF HAZZARD sheets Angela slept on tonight. The crucifix still hung at the head of the bed, facing President Kennedy on the opposite wall.

Funny, how some things had changed not at all. And others, they had changed completely in the blink of an eye.

Her father was dead, and the company he had built was in terrible trouble. Customers that Angela thought would forever be loyal to her father and to her family were running like frightened rabbits. She was glad her father wasn't here to see it. That he, at least, was beyond the heartache and confusion. She worried, though, for Pat. And for herself.

Angela studied the portrait of JFK. It was actually an election poster her mother had glued to a piece of corrugated cardboard salvaged from an old appliance box. Long ago, the glossy paper of the poster had buckled and pulled away from the backing to reveal the word "Kenmore" above JFK's right ear.

Angela had begged her mother repeatedly to let her replace it.
"
Mamma,
"
Angela would ask,
"
why do you keep that old thing?
"

"
Oh, Angela,
"
her mother would say. "he was
so
good-looking. So much better than that Tricky Dick. What a man, my Johnny was." Then she'd blow a kiss to the late president.

Angela's father sometimes would pull out the yellow thumbtacks that held the poster and hide it, just to tease his wife.

"Pasquale," Mamma would scold as she scurried around in her housecoat and slippers looking for the poster, "did you steal ‘My Love’ again?"

And Angela's father would say, every time, "No, Sadie. Don't you remember? You gave me your love of your own free will." And then he would give her the ratty old picture, and they would kiss.

Angela smiled at the memory. Pat would snort and say it was corny and walk away, but Angela thought it was romantic. Her father and mother had been a true love match, and she had imagined they would be together forever.

Because that was the way it was in the Firenze family. Marriage and love were forever. Angela had expected that for herself, too, had even planned for it.

But sometimes, she told herself, sometimes we don't get what we expect. Through the open kitchen window tonight, she had overheard Pat telling Simon that Ray put sand in the lift charge of the shell that killed her father. That her husband might have stolen money, too.

Angela shivered and made the sign of the cross. God help them all, she wouldn't be surprised if Simon found evidence that Ray had done just that. And now Pat would take over Firenze Fireworks, but Angela didn't think that would be what he expected, either.

Angela turned over, pulled up the chenille bedspread and buried her face in her brother's pillow.

*****

The sound of punk rock propelled Jake out from under Simon's right arm and halfway across the room before her eyes were fully open. That posed a problem, since she'd forgotten Irish was sleeping on the floor.

Nearly tripping over the dog, she managed to catch herself on the edge of the dresser and turn off the radio alarm in one fell swoop.

Jake kept the alarm clock on the dresser instead of the bedside nightstand, so she wouldn't be tempted to lean over and hit "Snooze." She also kept it tuned to a punk-rock station, so she wouldn't be tempted to lie there and listen. Odd thing was, she was starting to like the stuff.

She looked at the time: 9:30. She'd slept for maybe two hours. She and Simon simply did not fit on her queen-size bed. Actually, that wasn't quite true. Simon fit just fine, he just didn't leave any room for her.

Jake yawned and wandered into the bathroom. It had been quite a night, but she needed to be in early this morning for an eleven a.m. planning meeting. That meant getting to the Y by nine-thirty in order to swim, something she wanted desperately to do in order to clear her head.

She quickly and quietly washed her face, brushed her teeth and pulled on some sweats. Then she grabbed her gym bag and work clothes from the chair next to the door, and started out of the bedroom. She was in the hallway before she realized she should leave a note for Simon.

She looked back at him. If he'd awakened at all when she'd launched herself out of bed, he'd recovered. He was fast asleep and snoring--the blanket scrunched up under his head on one end of the bed, his bare feet hanging off the other, and Irish snuggled up next to him in the spot Jake had just vacated.

*****

When Simon woke, Jake had already gone, leaving a scribbled note saying she had an early meeting, and he could reach her on her cell phone. She'd signed it simply, "Jake." No "Love." No "Cordially." Not even a "Sincerely."

To be honest, Simon was relieved he hadn't needed to face her this morning. The morning after was always awkward, but especially when you've moved in--lock, stock and Setter--a mere four-and-a-half hours after making love for the very first time. Oh, and your house had burned down with the two of you nearly in it.

What did one say under the circumstances? Thanks for letting me stay? Sorry you were almost incinerated? And by the way, you are one
hell
of a lover?

Simon rolled over on his back, dislodging Irish who grunted sleepily at him, then settled her head on his stomach. He scratched her behind one ear and stared at the ceiling.

Funny, if someone had asked him, he would have said he didn’t give a shit about physical possessions. Easy to say when you have them.

Now Simon didn’t have so much as a toothbrush, much less all those
"
sentimental
"
things one thinks about losing in a fire: Photos. His favorite T-shirt. His old chair. His ‘70s soft porn literature. They didn’t write classics like HOT PANTS KAREN and TONGUES OF LUST anymore. Those things were damn near irreplaceable.

Simon had an uncontrollable desire to get to work all of a sudden. At least he had "stuff" there--things that were familiar, untouched by what had happened.

He sat up, and Irish hopped off the bed and turned to look at him, tail thumping. "Gotta go out?" Simon asked. The setter turned around gleefully and headed for the door. The closet door, from what Simon could tell. "Wrong door, genius," he told her, and then realized he wasn't sure himself where the outside door was either. Luckily, Jake had a small house and they managed to find their way out in time.

He left Irish happily investigating the fenced-in backyard and went back in the house to shower. The bathroom was original to the house, spare and functional like the rest of the house, with those funky pinky-beige fixtures from a few light-years back. He ran the water hot into the tub, then hit the trigger to divert the water to the shower head. Also original, thank God, not of those wussy water-saver things.

As he ducked his head under the torrent, Simon sucked in the stench of ash and fire that the shower raised from his hair and almost gagged. He put his hand on the wall and waited for the feeling to pass. Then he lathered up over and over again until all he could smell was the scent of Jake. Or Jake's shampoo to be exact. He stood a while longer and let it wash over him until the water grew cold.

Out of the shower and feeling substantially better, he rummaged around the medicine cabinet until he came up with a new blue Bic razor, plastic cover still intact. At least it looked new, though he couldn't be absolutely certain it hadn't been used on female legs. He’d be able to judge by how many pints of blood he lost when he shaved.

He rinsed around the grit in his mouth and spat into the sink. God, do people who smoke and purposely inhale this stuff have
any
idea what they were putting in their lungs? He considered using his finger with toothpaste on it, but found a toothbrush--the cheapo kind you get from the dentist--in a drawer filled with miniature bottles of hotel-labeled shampoo, mouthwash, lotion and shower caps. Jake apparently cleaned out the bathroom freebies in every hotel she visited. Bless her.