The Fire (15 page)

“Here I am,” she said to the house and the sea.

When her eyes closed, she knew she would never open them. She lacked the desire. She would stay deep inside herself, where all was known, all was safe.

She thought of Christina Romney, but even Christina Romney did not seem to matter. She was a person, but the person was not Chrissie Romney, nearly fourteen, end of seventh grade, Maine, USA, the World. She was someone else, floating through time and weather.

Someone ancient and new.

Someone at war and at peace.

“Here I am,” she said to the house and the sea.

She lay quietly in the inside of her mind. It was not muddy dark at all, but soft and rocking, like a hammock in the shade.

Outside in the hall, the brass numbers on each guest room door winked and went out like candles. There was a creaking and a sighing, like the footsteps of ghosts.

I am a shell, thought Christina.

She did not mind. It was safe and easy, being a shell. No insides to worry about.

“I’ll stay,” she said to the house and sea.

“T
ODAY’S THE SEVENTH-GRADE PICNIC
,” said Michael at breakfast.

Mrs. Shevvington had made runny poached eggs. Michael and Benj liked them that way, but Christina did not. But today it didn’t matter. Christina had not gotten up. Benj had gone into her bedroom and told her it was time for school. Michael had gone in to say it was time for breakfast. But Christina just lay there.

Mr. Shevvington said, “What a shame. Since Christina won’t be in school, she cannot attend the picnic in the evening. For of course the school rule is that you cannot participate in after-school activities if you choose to skip school by day.”

“Won’t be in school?” said Benj. “Of course she’ll be in school. I’ll go drag her out of bed.”

“She needs her rest,” said Mrs. Shevvington. She smiled at her egg and stabbed the little yellow mound with her fork. Yellow yolk spurted over the egg white and ran into the toast. Mrs. Shevvington cut a little square of bread and sopped up the egg yolk with it. It was the kind of thing that made Christina gag. “After the way Christina has been acting,” said Mrs. Shevvington, “running away from Mr. Gardner, locking us out of our own house, playing with candles and matches — well! — you know, at the very least, the girl is overtired.”

“Overtired?” repeated Mr. Shevvington. His eyebrows reached into his forehead and hid beneath his long, silvery hair. “It’s certainly more than that, my dear. We do not wish to frighten her parents unnecessarily. But there is a strong similarity between the mental collapse Anya suffered and what is happening to Christina. Of course, Christina’s is so much more serious. So much more dangerous. I have spoken to school and fire department officials and everyone agrees that there is a strong possibility that Christina is the one who —”

“There is not!” shouted Benjamin. He threw his plate across the room. He stared at the plate, broken in two large and several tiny pieces. At the egg on the wall and the flight pattern of yellow across the floor. He had never before in his life thrown anything in a rage.

Mrs. Shevvington smiled at him. “You knew what Mr. Shevvington was going to say, though, didn’t you, Benjamin? You cannot deny the thought has passed through your own mind. That Christina’s affection for fire borders on the insane. Look at you, making excuses for her, hiding matches from her, snuffing out candles for her.”

“She says
you
hid the matches,” Benj said.

In the voice of a sad angel, Mrs. Shevvington said, “Benj, Benj. And you believe her? Hers is a true case of paranoia, of believing the world is after her. Here it is the end of the school year. Christina has been studying so hard for exams. It’s a struggle for all you island children to keep up with the mainlanders. And poor Christina is desperate to catch up to girls like Gretchen and Vicki. Jealousy eats away at the soul, you know, Benjamin. Poor Christina has the acid of jealousy rusting her heart.”

“She’s dying to go to the picnic,” he said. “And besides, we have a Band Committee meeting today right after school. She has to come.”

The Shevvingtons regarded him silently. The silence built, and became a space in the room, something Benjamin could hardly see through, or think past. His mind fumbled to understand what was going on. There were questions to ask; questions to ask Christina; but he did not know what they were, and the thick, hanging silence of the room stilled his tongue.

“And I think it’s time you accepted your part of the blame, Benjamin,” said Mrs. Shevvington.

“My part of the blame?” repeated Benj. The woman put her arm on his. It felt as sticky as suction cups. He had the creepiest sense that she was attaching herself.

“You demanded that the poor child try to keep up with seniors like Megan and Astrid, Benjamin! Was that not an act of cruelty on your part?”

Benjamin was taken aback.

“And then — you asked her to your sophomore dance. You — age sixteen! Inviting a child, forcing her to try to be sophisticated and adult almost overnight.”

“She said yes,” Benj defended himself.

“Of course she said yes! You’re older and exciting and intriguing. How could she turn you down? Nevertheless, look what all this combined pressure forced her into, Benjamin!”

He was flattered, in a sickening way, to be called exciting and intriguing.

“Coaxing her to do this, pushing her to do that!” Mrs. Shevvington shook her head, appalled. “When you knew — better than any of us — how fragile Christina is! Then purposely adding pressure —
pressure! Pressure!
Demands —
demands! Demands!
On a thirteen-year-old, Benjamin!”

Benjamin mumbled something, ashamed. Michael shifted his weight around on his chair, looking at nobody, as if afraid of infection through eye contact.

“I am shocked, aren’t you, that her parents didn’t mind?” said Mr. Shevvington. His voice was as cold as glaciers. “Had it been up to us, Benjamin, you may be sure we would have put a stop to your behavior.”

“What do you have to say for yourself, Benjamin?” said Mrs. Shevvington softly, forgivingly.

“I guess I used bad judgment,” he said helplessly.

“At least you admit it. Although it’s too late to help Christina now. The only decent thing for you to do, Benjamin, is to let the poor child rest. Leave her alone. Completely alone.”

Benjamin swirled the orange juice in his glass without drinking it. Michael tore his toast up into little shreds, as if planning to feed ducks.

Mrs. Shevvington said to her husband. “It’s a continual surprise to me that a little girl’s own parents have so little concern for her emotional well-being.”

“At least she’ll sleep,” said Mr. Shevvington. “Probably the only rest she’ll have before the truth comes out.”

“What truth?” said Michael nervously.

The house creaked.

Steps above them bent and shuffled.

“She’s getting up!” cried Benj, and he ran out of the kitchen, to the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Nobody was there. He ran on up the stairs, taking them two at a time, barreling open the half-closed door to Christina’s room. But she was still motionless under the white sheet, as if laid out in a funeral home.

Benj said, “Chrissie, you’ve got to get up. Pull yourself together!” He wet his lips. He started to say,
I’m here, I love you, I’ll stick by you.
But Mrs. Shevvington came into the room, and he could not say words like that in front of witnesses. He was not sure he could say words like that at all.

He meant to give her a hand; haul her bodily out of the bed, prop her on her feet. But how eerily still she lay. He could not bring himself to grab her fingers and pull. She hardly seemed like Christina — more like a shell from which Christina had fled. He caught himself hunching down, peering nervously around, as if Christina’s ghost were being prepared in the air above his head, were floating by.

Mrs. Shevvington crossed the room, passed the bed, and reached behind the draperies to find the cord. She pulled them shut slowly, as if closing a lid. The room was dark now, all natural light extinguished. Christina, who gave off light herself, from her golden hair and her shining personality, was dark also. The colors of her hair were meaningless.

Mr. Shevvington emerged silently from behind Benj, as if he had not used his feet to climb, but glided up. “Now, Benjamin. Cheer up. You have a big band meeting today after school for the Disney trip. You’ve received permission, remember. And you have to put together the fund-raisers.”

“Christina was going to work on that,” said Benj numbly.

“What a shame,” said Mr. Shevvington sadly. “But the senior girls can easily handle it without her.”

From the hallway below, Michael yelled, “Come on, Benj, we’ll be late.”

Benjamin backed onto the balcony. The Shevvingtons came out with him. “Don’t worry about her,” said Mrs. Shevvington gently. “We all make mistakes. It was a serious one you made with Christina, but as for the fires, you know Benjamin, that was her own choice. So don’t feel too bad. And I’ll come home at lunch to check on her.”

They shut the door to Christina’s room.

Down the curling stairs they went, down, and down, and down. Benjamin had the queerest sensation that he was sinking into the bowels of the earth, that he was going down flight after flight after flight. The house whispered and folded around him, its darkness coming up the cracks, crawling upward, seeking light.

He remembered once he had gotten silly on his lobster boat, playing games with Michael, knocking them both overboard. They were both fine swimmers, but it was a long, long way to shore. The boat lazily motored on; the boys swam after it. Swam, and swam, and swam, while the boat teasingly circled out of reach. The boys grew colder, their strokes shorter, their lungs tired. The sea seemed to laugh, tossing waves over their eyes, throwing seaweed over their faces, yanking their feet down.

He felt as if the house were in control of him, as the sea had been once. That he was as close to drowning now as he had been that terrible day.

With relief he reached ground level, followed Michael to the door, stared out into a real world, with real cars and noise and people.

Behind him Mr. and Mrs. Shevvington paused to enfold each other. It was not a hug. It was a wrapping of one around the other. They spread each other’s evil and lived on it.

The day was hot. In the parlors and sitting rooms of the old mansion, curtains blew softly in the sea breeze. “The next owners will probably replace all these old drapes,” remarked Mrs. Shevvington. “What a shame. They’re so historic.” She picked up a sheaf of seventh-grade papers, corrected, ready to return, and walked out the door. Mr. Shevvington cradled in his arms the briefcase Christina had so wanted to steal. His fingers lingered on the smooth, supple leather as if stroking a loved one.

The great green doors were shut fast.

Christina was alone.

A shaft of gaudy yellow sunshine, golden as Christina’s hair had once been, shot from the cupola glass above to the guest room doors below. Like diamonds, the brass number 8 glittered. Tiny rainbows — shattered pieces of Christina — danced on the balcony walls. Then the sun passed on, the rainbows vanished, and all was quiet.

Christina was gone.

S
EVENTH-GRADERS SPLASHED DOWN THE
hallways like waterfalls tumbling. They bubbled and pushed and chattered and laughed. It was an end-of-the-year sound. A we’re-almost-free sound. A summer-soon sound.

It ceased at the door to Mrs. Shevvington’s English room.

But Mrs. Shevvington amazed them. She was laughing and light herself. She actually joked. She even said they would do no work today, but would be reading a play aloud. She had chosen a play in which there were enough parts to go around for the entire class.

There was one empty seat.

Jonah said, “Where’s Christina?”

Mrs. Shevvington said, “She’s been feeling a little run-down lately. She decided to sleep in instead of coming to school today.”

The class was shocked. They exchanged glances. The picnic wouldn’t be any fun without Christina. Even for Vicki and Gretch it wouldn’t be; the whole seventh grade revolved around Christina.

Jonah said slowly, “I can’t believe Christina wouldn’t be in school today. She knows as well as any of us that if she doesn’t attend classes she can’t come to the picnic.”

“I’m not sure the picnic is quite as important to Christina as it is to you children,” said Mrs. Shevvington kindly. “You must remember how homesick these island children become, how desperate she is to get back to Burning Fog.”

“But she planned the picnic,” said Katy. “She planned the games and she got the grocery store to donate chocolate bars, graham crackers, and marshmallows for the S’mores.”

“She got the Sailing Shop to donate prizes,” said Gretch suddenly.

“And the Gift Shoppe,” said another girl.

Mrs. Shevvington said, “Open your play scripts please. Vicki, I am casting you as Lady Roxbury. In this play, you are a very elegant and beautiful Englishwoman. Can you imitate an English accent, Vicki?”

Jonah said, “I’m going to check on Christina.”

Mrs. Shevvington stared at him. Her black pebble eyes glittered. Her thick fingers dripped blood red polish. She took one step toward Jonah. The class flinched. She took another step.

Jonah said, “I want to be sure nothing has happened to Christina.”

“ ‘Happened to Christina’?” repeated Mrs. Shevvington. “What on earth do you mean by that, Jonah?”

Jonah stood up. How scrawny he looked. Mrs. Shevvington was solid as a small refrigerator, or a stacked washer/dryer. Jonah was all dangling bones and uncoordinated joints. “The way things happened to Anya, Mrs. Shevvington.”

Her eyebrows flattened.

“The way things happened to Dolly,” said Jonah. He was losing his voice; her eyes were freezing him over like ice on a pond. “The way things happened to Val,” he whispered.

Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes were gone. Her lids closed over them like cracked tan paper shades.

The class shivered.