The Fire (11 page)

“It’s too bleak,” Val whispered. “I’ve always been afraid of the ocean. It’s so noisy. It yells at me. Calls my name.” Val pulled the window shades down and yanked the crimson curtains shut.

“You shouldn’t do that,” said Christina. “That’s evidence. If they look in this guest room, and they will, because they gloat every day, they’ll see the curtains have been moved.”

“They look in here every day? You put me on purpose in a room the Shevvingtons look in every day?”

Christina twitched the curtains back and yanked the shade up again. Against the aspirin sky, a dark thundercloud began to form.

“Chrissie, don’t do that. I can’t have an open window where things can look in at me. That cloud is pointing straight at me.”

“There’s nothing out there but cliff and air,” said Christina. “The only thing that could look at you is a sea gull.”

“They called the fog,” said Val. “They could call a sea gull. They could come as sea gulls. They could float in on the tide, like
the alone.
Like the fog.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Christina. “Get a grip on yourself.”

Val laughed again. It sounded like a tourist, somebody from a pickup truck throwing a glass bottle against the sidewalk. Tourists loved to break glass.

Will this break Val? thought Christina. But there isn’t anyplace else. I can’t take her back to the storm cottage. The Shevvingtons —

—
were planning even now to set fire to the storm cottage.
Where they expected Val to be. They had to be stopped. “Remember my rules,” said Christina fiercely to Val, and she ran back down the stairs.

In the dim half-light of the front hall, with the forest of white-carved banisters curling above her, she began dialing the phone. Nine, one, one. Her fingers shook. The phone seemed remarkably heavy.

Above her, on the middle landing, Val leaned over the railing. “I’m dizzy, Chrissie,” she muttered. “It’s dizzy up here.” If Val fainted, she’d do a swan dive down the stairs.

“Emergency,” said a solid, sure voice. The kind of voice that knew how to do things with hoses and ladders and horrors. It had a heavy Maine accent: almost an island voice. A voice whose twang spelled comfort and safety to Christina Romney.

“I need help,” said Christina, and the moment she admitted it, her own voice broke and she burst into tears.

“I’m here,” said the voice, “don’t panic. Tell me where you are and what the emergency is.”

On the upstairs balcony, Val began sobbing in harmony with her. It was eerie, like weeping through stereo speakers. “There isn’t a fire yet,” said Christina, struggling to control the sobs. I can’t break down, she thought, I’ve been so strong so far. “I was playing house in a summer cottage. A storm cottage up the shore. I know I shouldn’t have been there. But when I went up today, somebody had splashed gasoline all over the house. I think they’re going to set fire to it.” Did she dare tell the good twanging Maine voice that the Shevvingtons were going to set the fire? The principal everybody loved versus the mad little island girl whose pockets were stuffed with matches? “Please — please — ” What am I saying
please
for? wondered Christina as she said it. Please save me? Please save Val? Please end this?

The voice was slow and easy. It coaxed Christina to give her name and location, the address of the storm cottage, the number of times she had played in the house.

Val crept down the carpeted stairs, sidled up to Christina, and stood with her head pressed against Christina’s thick hair, soaking up equal comfort from the voice inside the phone. “Go back upstairs and hide,” hissed Christina.

Val shook her head. “Too scary up there.”

A few moments later they heard sirens, but the voice kept on talking. “You’re a good brave girl, Christina,” said the voice. “You did the right thing. I’m a friend of your parents, did you know that? I’m Jimmy Gardner; I went to high school with your mom. I’m in the fire department. Volunteer, of course. My real job’s running the cannery.”

The cannery. Wharf rats. Empty shells.

“Now you stay on the phone with me. I had somebody get on another line and call your school. Mr. Shevvington is coming right down to be with you. He’ll be kind and understanding. He’s a fine man.”

Christina began laughing.

“Don’t get hysterical on me,” said Mr. Gardner. “You’ve been calm so far. You probably prevented arson. We had some trouble with that last year in empty houses, and we certainly don’t want it again this year.” He paused, but Christina had nothing to say.

The front door to Schooner Inne opened.

Val leaped backwards, falling into the parlor with the cold fire.

Mr. Shevvington filled the hall. Today’s three-piece suit was a deep, rich, navy blue. One of the colors of Val’s room. Had he seen Val? Did he already know? Would he tell Mr. Gardner to send an ambulance for Val as well?

Mr. Shevvington took the phone out of Christina’s hands. “I’m here, Jim,” he said into the receiver. “Good of you to handle her so gently. Poor Christina often does not entirely understand what is going on.”

His mad blue eyes rotated in his head as if they had come unattached. He was not only insane-mad; right now he was furious-mad. His fingers dug into Christina like lobster claws until she cried out in pain. In sympathy, Val moaned behind the parlor door.

The phone mumbled.

“Your wife is what?” repeated Mr. Shevvington into the phone. “Your wife is the personnel secretary?”

Christina went limp. It was easy to forget what a small town this was; how everybody knew everybody, or was married to somebody’s cousin, or had been to school with somebody.

“And Christina was in the personnel office getting addresses of my previous schools? For a surprise party?” Mr. Shevvington’s lips began to curl back away from his teeth. They drew out into a horrible lifted oval, so all his teeth pointed at her. He began bending over her, bringing his twisted face closer and closer to hers. Christina shrank back against the flocked wallpaper. Through the crack of the door Val’s single brown eye watched in horror.

“But your wife asked other seventh-graders and there was no surprise party planned?” Mr. Shevvington straightened up. The lips closed again and then folded over, making several smiles — a whole series of smiles — like evil plans. “Why, Jim, how thoughtful of you to become concerned. And of course, you are so intuitive, you and your dear wife … yes … poor Christina … you’re absolutely right, these island children are ingrown … warped … a sort of wharf rat mentality … frightening in certain ways … thank you for telling me … my wife and I will certainly bear this in mind.”

He hung up.

The storm cottage was safe.

But Christina and Val were not.

C
HRISTINA COULD HEAR THE
double breathing. Her own shallow and moist; Val’s quick and dry. It seemed impossible that Mr. Shevvington did not hear both girls.

It was on Christina alone that his hands tightened, and his fury mounted.

She tried to get the telephone back, to call 911 again.

“And what would you say?” asked Mr. Shevvington sweetly. “Dear Mr. Gardner, I think Mr. Shevvington is annoyed with me! Please send help.”

Christina bit him.

It was the most disgusting thing she had ever done in her life. Even the time two summers ago when Michael dared her to eat a jellyfish raw from the beach, and she did, it had not been so disgusting. She was the one who screamed, not Mr. Shevvington. He yanked his hand back and stared at her.

“I’m rabid,” Christina told him. “You’ll need shots. Right in the stomach. Hundreds of them.”

The doorbell rang.

Mr. Shevvington looked at his watch and muttered to himself. Quickly he wrapped her tooth marks in his handkerchief. He always wore a lovely silk hanky whose tips decorated his lapel pocket. The crimson and royal-blue paisley seemed stolen from Val’s room. “It’s a potential buyer,” he mumbled. “A couple coming to look at the Inne.”

Christina smiled. “I’ll be sure to tell them what it’s really like here.”

But when the door opened, before Mr. Shevvington could go to answer it, Robbie and his mother peeked into the front hall. Christina squeaked. Behind her door Val swallowed as loud as an engine. The thunderstorm that had been brewing between the island and the coast, broke. Rain came down in sweeping torrents. Val could lie down and groan now and nobody would hear, thought Christina. They would still see, however.

“Come in, come in,” said Mr. Shevvington testily, worried now about his wallpaper and his carpet getting wet.

Mrs. Armstrong looked like Val, but haggard — the way Val’s grandmother ought to look. The Shevvingtons did that, thought Christina. They aged her, when they chose Val to ruin.

“We haven’t found a trace of Val. Can you think of anyplace else to look?”

Mr. Shevvington put his good arm around her shoulder, protectively cradling his bitten hand. “Poor, poor Genevieve,” he said.

So that was her name. It was a good name for her. Gentle and old.

Genevieve wept. Not the lumpy crying of Christina’s panic with Mr. Gardner. Nor the homesick tears that had drenched her pillow at the beginning of the school year. But old tears, as if she were recycling them from a previous disaster.

Val won’t be able to stand this, thought Christina. She’ll come out from behind the door. I would, too, in her place. Her mother needs her. Anyway, any institution would be less risky than the Shevvingtons.

“My father’s driving around town,” Robbie said. “He thinks maybe he’ll find her hitchhiking.”

“Poor, poor Alan,” said Mr. Shevvington. His eyes were half hidden under folded lids, as if he were resting in there, swinging in a hammock, enjoying himself.

Why, he has two extra victims I didn’t even know about, realized Christina. He uses their first names to make them littler, younger. Because that’s what he’s reduced them to: They’re hardly more than seventh-graders themselves. Genevieve and Alan. Not Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong. Not grown-ups.

One good thing: Val was only a few feet away. Either she would surrender or she wouldn’t. The choice was no longer Christina’s.

“They’ve explained to us,” said Val’s mother sadly, “that Val has to spend her life at the Institute. We have to get her back there.”

“Her
life
!” cried Christina. “She’s only seventeen.”

Robbie shrugged. “There’s no other answer.”

“There has to be another answer,” said Christina.

“Robbie, let’s go, honey,” said his mother, sagging. “I don’t know why we came here, really. Except we’ve been everywhere else.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” said Mr. Shevvington, opening the door again. The rain was even heavier. He hoisted a huge British umbrella and held it over Mrs. Armstrong.

“Oh, Arnold, you’re so kind,” she wept. She leaned on him as they went down the granite steps, crossed Breakneck Hill Road, and stopped at the old economy-model Ford.

Christina jerked Val out from behind the parlor door. “Run upstairs!” she hissed. “If they’re showing the house to buyers, they’ll look everywhere. Hide in your room.”

Val wouldn’t budge. “They’ll look there, too, Chrissie. Did you hear what my mother said? My own mother? She is going to lock me up forever. And I’m only seventeen.”

“The Shevvingtons probably told an all-new set of stories about you. Probably convinced the whole staff whatever it is is true. We’ll get you away.
Just hurry up the stairs.
”

Val was thin from her hospital stay. Her skinny little legs churned up the long staircase.

As thin as Dolly, thought Christina, or as Anya when she was at her most faded. Perhaps food and energy is the real key to keeping sane. So I’ll be sure to have a big dinner. Plenty of roast beef.

Knowing Mrs. Shevvington they would be having eggplant lasagne instead. Ugh.

Mr. Shevvington came back in. Gently he shook the umbrella. Gracefully he closed it, setting it to drain in the elegant Chinese vase the sea captain had brought back from his voyages to the Orient. Mr. Shevvington’s smile peaked and valleyed on his face like the crest of a wave. Christina moved down the hall, to a place where she had several choices: kitchen, back door, stairs. “So, Christina of the Isle,” he said softly, “where is our little Valerie?”

“Val? I haven’t even met her. She’s been in an institution since I came on the mainland, remember?”

The evil inside Mr. Shevvington glowed. She could see it through his skin: lanterns of it. If she touched his glow, would it be hot or cold? Would it, once touched, pass into her body, too, like an electrical current? Turning even Christina of the Isle into someone evil?

Upstairs a door snicked shut. Mr. Shevvington did not appear to hear it. The hand she had bitten came toward her. The paisley silk kerchief dangled on it like a flag over a coffin. The blue eyes fell down, as if unhinged, and the lobster claw fingers caught the fabric of Christina’s shirt.

Christina did not dare leave Val alone — but she could not stay here, either.

Val was on her own.

Christina tore loose. She burst out the door into the pouring rain and ran to the gas station. The rain soaked her. The thunder jarred her joints. Lightning bristled in the sky like rocket launches. I’ll get Benjamin, she thought. He’s safe, he’s strong. I’ll tell him, he’ll know what to do.

With the confusing abruptness of summer storms, the rain moved on up the coast to attack other towns. The sun came back out, the ocean turned blue-green again, and the road surfaces steamed. Christina sprinted through puddles and splashed herself with mud. I probably look about ten years old, she thought. And I still have teary-red eyes. What will Benjamin think of me?

It was the first time in her life she had really wondered what a boy would think of her looks. Or cared.

Christina ran through the empty lot behind the gas station. Tall weeds brushed her legs. A small white butterfly fled from her thrashing feet. Behind the garage was a car storage yard, fenced like a prison. Barbed wire curled on top. Far above, in the suddenly blue sky, was a bird, floating.

Benjamin! Benjamin!

She planned to fling herself on him, tell him everything, stand still while he solved it.