On Fire (2 page)

“You're sure you've got the direction right?”

“Of course.”

Marsh blew out his breath once or twice and looked off somewhere just past my shoulder. Eventually he said, “What are you expecting to do with him?”

“Look after him, obviously,” I said. “He asked for my help and he's going to get it.”

Marsh smiled in this sad way he has that makes you think you can see his heart in his face. He took off his sunglasses and perched them up on top of his head. Then he rubbed the marks the glasses left on his nose a few times. After that, he went back inside the jail and watched the on-fire guy sleep.

Eventually Marsh rolled him over. There were rows of round, red marks on the backs of his legs. Some of them had scabbed up. Some were weeping clear liquid.

“Are those burns?” I asked.

“Yes,” Marsh said. “But not from a wildfire. He's banged up, but he's not burned like that.” He slid his glasses back onto his nose. “And I'm pretty sure it isn't because he flew down here.”

Marsh got up and motioned me outside again. The bench in front of the town office was in the sun, so we sat on the ground in front of a fir tree. It was still hot there, but the shade at least gave us the idea of coolness.

“We can't keep him here, Matti,” Marsh said.

“Why not?”

“He needs to see a doctor.”

“You were a medic in the war,” I said. I wasn't supposed to mention those days, but I'd seen the medals he kept in the glove compartment of his truck. And Frank told me once that Marsh had saved his life. “Didn't you just give him a checkup?”

“I wouldn't call it that. And my medic certificate isn't up to date.”

“Okay,” I said. I was trying to think fast. “Then you really don't know what he needs, do you? Professionally speaking, I mean.”

Marsh started to comment, but I went right on. “Besides, it's like I said. I'm going to save his life. You ought to understand what that means.”

A whole flock of ravens flew down and landed on the roof of the post office. I couldn't remember seeing so many together there before. They bobbed up and down and made little clicking sounds. “Fire's driving them down,” Marsh said.

The ravens got louder and louder, like they knew something we should and wanted to get in on the conversation.

“All right. We'll keep him here overnight. I'll park my truck out in front so I can be close by. But after that . . . ”

“I could sleep here,” I said.

“No, you couldn't.” Marsh got up and dusted fir needles off the seat of his shorts. “Cripes, Matti, you're only fourteen. And if he's not better in the morning, I'm driving him down to the hospital in Kingman.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I'll also have to get in touch with Frank.”

“Good luck with that,” I told him.

What Marsh meant was he'd promised to look after me while Frank was gone and he'd have to make sure Frank agreed with what he was doing. That was nothing new.

And what I meant was that out where Frank was fire-fighting, and even most places here in the village for that matter, cell phones and even TVs and computers didn't work very well because we lived in what you call a blackout zone. It would take a few days to get a message through to Frank on Allard's CB radio. Then probably a few more to hear anything back.

Marsh told me to go home and come back around seven, when it was at least a little cooler. “I could just wait here,” I said.

He told me I couldn't because I didn't know how to wait.

He was wrong about that.

It's true, when I was younger I didn't. I'd stand and stare at the clock in the kitchen until I got a nosebleed, trying to make the hands go faster. But as I got older I understood how time worked.

If I absolutely had to wait I went off somewhere to be alone and blow off a little steam. Sometimes I made sounds like a teakettle when it's boiling. Other times it was more like I was pushing a big rock up a hill or pulling back a hiccup.

Then there were my hands. They were hardly ever still.

I pretended to people that I was practicing sign language when I made shapes with them. But I wasn't signing anything. Just releasing energy.

When you have Tourette's, it can feel really good not to be in control of everything your body does.

4
M
RS
. S
TOA

T
HE OTHER REASON
I
COULD STAY
at home while Frank was away was an old lady named Mrs. Stoa. She was Frank and Marsh's English teacher in high school. They'd brought her down from Riker's Creek at the first of the week when it got too smokey to breathe up there.

She'd made a fuss about leaving, of course. Most of the old-time mountain people did. But now she was here, she seemed to think she owned the place.

I went out on the front porch about five-thirty to kill some time. I like sitting in the swing out there. It helps me stay relaxed. Mrs. Stoa got there before me, though. She's as quiet as a lynx when she wants to be, and tiny compared to me. I'll admit I was a little jealous of that. I've been wearing women's clothes since I was ten.

I'll also admit I'm not very good with the elderly. But I swear I did not mean to sit down on top of her.

“Good Lord, Matilda,” she said. She swatted me with a paperback book she was reading and I jumped a mile.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

“Reading,” she told me. She was wearing a light green surgical mask like we're all supposed to as protection against the smoke in the air.

I thought it looked revolting when she moved her mouth underneath the mask to talk. “Please take that off,” I said, “if you're addressing me.”

She pushed it up on top of her head like a little green party hat. “What I'm doing is called reading,” she said. “You should try it.”

I scooted over to the opposite side of the swing. It wasn't the same as being alone and I was nervous about going down to the jail, so I suppose I made a few noises.

“You sound like both sides of a wrestling match,” she said. I thought that was pretty harsh.

“I have Tourette's Syndrome, as I'm sure Frank told you. I come out here to be alone and ticoff.”

“Who is it you're trying to tick-off, as you say?”

I didn't bother to answer her question.

“A tic,” I said, “is like a twitch or a spasm. Some people with T. S. show it in their muscles. I mostly have vocal tics.” I didn't mention about my hands. She could figure that out herself.

“As long as you don't start swearing,” Mrs. Stoa said. “I draw the line there.”

“Most people with Tourette's don't burst out with four-letter words,” I told her. “If you don't know any better than that, you should start reading hardcover books that are more educational.” She puckered up her lips, but neither of us said anything for a while.

Then I turned and looked at her. “I don't really need you here, you know. I'm okay on my own as long as Marsh is around.”

“Your father feels you need someone close by who's better socialized than Marshall.” She smoothed out a little wrinkle in her shorts.

I felt like saying, “You missed a few,” and pointing at the creases of skin around her knees.

“I won't be here for long, anyway,” she said.

“Fine by me,” I told her.

“You won't, either.” Mrs. Stoa set her book face down in her lap.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I'd just been rocking slowly up to then. After that I tried to go fast enough to make her dizzy, but she was tough.

“It means you need to prepare yourself,” she said. “I've lived in these mountains all my life and I've never seen a summer like this one for mean weather.”

I gave up trying to swing and stood up.

“Sit down, Matilda.” Mrs. Stoa had a stubborn, teacherish kind of look in her eye. That may be why I did what she asked me to.

“What we have between us is called an impasse. You'll never get the best of me and I don't have the energy to get the best of you.” She lifted her eyebrows and curved her lips above her chin like she was trying to smile. “So we may as well get along.”

“If you stop calling me Matilda and use my real name.”

“Which is?”

“Matti Grace Iverly.”

“And I suppose you want to be called all three of those names every time I need to talk to you?”

“Matti's enough. But not Matilda.”

“Hmmf,” Mrs. Stoa said. She went back to her book and started reading out loud. “‘
Hey, Crazyred,' the crew of Demons
cried all together, ‘Give him a taste of your claws. Dig him open
a little. Off with his hide.
'”

“What are you reading?” I asked her. “R. L. Stine? Aren't you a little old for that?”

She snapped her head back in my direction. “I was reading from a paperback called
The Divine Comedy.
The
Inferno
section. What are they teaching you in school these days?”

“Not that,” I said. “We read
Romeo and Juliet
this year in the eighth grade.”

“And?”

“It was okay
.”

“
The Divine Comedy
was written in the Fourteenth Century so it's older than Shakespeare. It's about a man named Dante who travelled through the underworld to save his soul. He found demons there. And unspeakable horrors.”

“What underworld?” I asked.

“Hell,” she said. “I imagine you've heard of that?”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “I can say this Dante guy went through hell without you accusing me of swearing?” I purred like a cat, entirely for her benefit. You can be creative with your T.S. if you're willing to make an effort.

“That's correct,” Mrs. Stoa said, but I thought she looked annoyed. “Now why don't you jump up and get us some lemonade? And don't stint on the sugar.”

I took out my credit card and pretended to clean my fingernails. “I'm tied up right now,” I said. “Maybe later.”

5
H
OW TO
S
TOP A
P
ICNIC

I
NEEDED TO ESCAPE FROM
M
RS
. Stoa so I was a little early arriving at the jail. Marsh sat on the bench outside reading something — probably a girlie magazine. I ‘d found some hidden under the seat of his truck before.

The air was still very hot and the sweat ran down under his ball cap and pooled in his neck. “He's asleep,” he said. He folded up whatever he was reading and sat on it.

“Still?”

“Again.”

“And that's good?”

“It could be. He was awake long enough to have some chicken soup and crackers and take a walk with me around the room. Then he got back into bed.”

“Where'd you get the soup?” I said.

“Allard brought it by from the Hot Spot.”

“Allard?” I said. “Is he going to make trouble?”

“He's just interested.” Marsh shifted over to cover a corner of the magazine that was showing. “How old do you think this kid is?” he asked.

“Older than me.”

“Seventeen or eighteen, I'd guess,” Marsh said. “And he's already been through something bad.”

“It's called an ordeal, Marsh. You don't have to talk down to me.”

“All right. He's been through an ordeal, then. He may come out of it okay, but . . . ” Marsh slid his watchband up his arm. It left little dents in his skin and he massaged them for a moment. “We already have a problem.”

“Which is?”

“He doesn't know who he is or where — ”

I interrupted him. “You mean he has amnesia.” That didn't sound like a problem to me. “He'll have to stay here, then, won't he? Because if he doesn't remember where he's from there's nowhere for him to go.”

Marsh smiled again the way I described. “How would you feel about running to the Hot Spot before Allard closes and getting me a burger? Or whatever he's got going. I'm starving.”

“How would you feel about doing that and I'll stay here?” I said.

“You'll have to promise to stay outside.”

“Why? He can barely stand up. Do you think he's dangerous?”

“I don't know what he is, Matti, but you'll have to promise not to go inside.”

Standing in the doorway isn't the same as going through the door so I kept my promise. I took a long look at the person I'd rescued. He was sprawled out flat on his back with his legs hanging off the end of the bed because it was too short for him. He could have been dead except I saw his right hand moving up and down on his chest when he breathed.

He looked different already. Marsh had washed the blood and dirt away and put him in a very large t-shirt over what looked like plaid pyjama bottoms cut off at the knees.

He'd washed the on-fire guy's hair and buzzed if off. It made his face look long. And thin. And sort of . . . I'm going to say
helpless
. I don't know if that's the word I want.

I also don't know if it's right to stand and stare at somebody like I was doing. Kind of make a picnic out of it, I mean, when they can't do anything to make you stop.

I guess you have to stop yourself, which is what I did.

And then Marsh came back and sent me home.

6
T
HE
G
OLDEN
A
GE OF
S
UMMER

I
T CLOUDED UP AND COOLED OFF
a little just after the on-fire guy came. I think they even got some rain a little higher up. I could actually see across the lake again to the forest and the high, grey mountains on the other side. It was like the Golden Age of Summer had suddenly arrived.

The on-fire guy was well enough the next morning that Marsh said he could stay another day. And another day after that. “But don't get attached,” he kept telling me. “We may still have to take him to the hospital.”