The Things That Keep Us Here (17 page)

Her skin felt taut with the cold, and she drew the wool tighter around her. But the chill felt good, welcome. A sharp reminder that she’d let down her guard. Again.

The quiet slide of the door behind her released a burst of noise—the girls squabbling and Shazia’s low, interceding voice—then the door closed again to silence. Footsteps crunched toward her.

“Mind some company?” Peter said, coming close but not touching.

A narrow strip of salmon pulsed along the horizon, broken by the dark shapes of her neighbors’ houses. A delicate web of clouds floated above. Now only the barest shell pink remained above the spiky treetops, and higher still, a deep band of violet.

“Beth hasn’t called.” It was a three-hour trip, and it had already been seven hours. Beth knew Ann would be watching the time. Beth knew Ann would want to hear the moment they’d arrived.

“Maybe she’s not there yet.”

“What can they do for Mom?”

“Put her on a respirator. Give her antiviral medication.”

If they had any. And maybe not even then. Her mom wasn’t in a category to merit special consideration. She wasn’t a first responder. She wasn’t a politician. She wasn’t a scientist working on a cure. She was just a retired schoolteacher. A nobody. Just like everyone else Ann loved.

TWENTY-ONE

P
ETER STEPPED OUT ONTO THE PATIO
.

Three days had passed since Beth had called. Ann had been phoning every hospital between DC and Charlottesville, with mixed results. Sometimes the phone rang endlessly; sometimes it was answered but no assurance given that Ann’s mother had checked in. Yesterday afternoon, she’d picked up the receiver to make another round of calls and had turned to Peter with an expression of mute horror. He’d grabbed the phone from her and pressed it to his ear, hearing for himself the dead silence on the other end. The dial tone had vanished, taking with it their sole remaining lifeline to the outside world.

“Oh, Peter,” Ann had said, her voice hushed. “What will Kate do now?”

Crusted snow squeaked beneath his boots. He took a few steps and leaned to look at the far window at the back of the house.

Ann was doing laundry again. That was all she did these days, it seemed. She was keeping herself busy. It was a mindless task, yet she’d be so fiercely intent on it, measuring out the soap, dropping the clothes to bob in the sink, that she wouldn’t be looking out the window. Still, he checked the laundry room window, then the sliding glass door in case one of the girls was walking past, and finally the row of family room windows. The glass panes stared blankly back through a freckled film of frost and soot. No one stood behind them.

A small grating noise made him glance toward the street: Kate, opening the mailbox for what had to be the tenth time that day. Of course, the box was empty. They’d have heard the irregular rumbling of a mail truck making its rounds. The sound would have galvanized them all. He saw her shoulders slump. Then she turned and trudged back to the house.

When he was sure she was back inside, he stooped and reached beneath the stiff khaki of the grill cover. Dragging the bowl forward, he discovered it filled solid with ice. The water had frozen before the dog could get to it. But the second bowl had been licked clean. Peter crouched and scraped the insides of the cans he’d smuggled into the bowl, tapped the fork on the rim, and straightened. He checked the windows again. No one.

A gust of wind whipped past, carrying the odor of smoke. Someone had their chimney going. He sniffed. Not wood smoke. This had a bitter tinge to it. He turned around and lifted his gaze. There, above a peaked roof, he saw a plume of black smoke bullying its way into the sky.

The cans clattered to the patio pavers. He ran around to the garage, grasped the handle, and heaved the door, shuddering, upward. He plunged inside. The hose was around here somewhere.

Ann appeared in the doorway, the cuffs of her sweater pushed up, soap bubbles clinging to her knuckles. “What is it?”

“The Guarnieris’ house is on fire.”

She went pale. “I’ll try the phone again.”

He spied the garden hose lying in great loops on a back shelf. He yanked it free and raced across the street. Neighbors were collecting.

Singh appeared. “Use mine.”

They ran between the two houses. The reek of smoke grew dense. Singh threw himself to his knees to twist the hose onto the spigot and turn the handle. Peter stood back, gripping the nozzle, and stared aghast at the smoke billowing behind the windows. A pane snapped, then cracked. The flame was out, licking at the sill. Orange raced along the eave.

Water sprayed from the nozzle, a pitiful stream useful for watering a lawn, useless to quell a conflagration. Still he aimed the hose at the roof. The water splattered against the siding and dripped down. He pressed a thumb to the nozzle to intensify the flow. Not good enough. They couldn’t wait. He thrust the hose to Singh and stepped forward to force his way inside.

“Peter.” It was Ann. “No!”

The front door was locked. The metal handle was hot. Peter lifted the heavy, dirt-filled flowerpot squatting beside the mat and heaved it at the window beside the door. He raised his foot and smacked his heel against the crazed glass. Crooking an elbow over his face, he reached through, fumbling for the lock. He found it, twisted it, withdrew his hand, and swept the door open. Smoke billowed around him. Blinded, coughing, he pushed forward. The heat shoved him back.

Someone had his arm and was pulling, screaming at him. He stumbled down the steps and fell to his knees.

Ann was beside him, wiping at his cheeks and forehead with her shirttail. She hissed, “What were you thinking?”

He rubbed his eyes and looked around. Singh stood aiming the hose at the house. Other neighbors had their hoses going, standing far apart on opposite lawns, eyeing each other nervously as they soaked the roofs on either side. He looked back to the small brick house. Flames leaped in every window. The entire roof was ablaze. Helpless, he watched the fire engulf the front door. A timber on the porch collapsed in a shower of sparks.

A gasp went up.

He’d been standing there only moments before. He felt for Ann’s hand and squeezed it hard.

A kind of hopeless frenzy filled the afternoon. Everyone ran around, yelling, aiming hoses, dumping buckets of water, smacking at errant sparks with brooms. But the flames were ravenous. They whooshed across the bricks and leaped to the bushes lining the front path, driving everyone back. The fire roared and hissed and sputtered, and finally subsided. All that remained was the eerie outline of a home, the doors and walls and windows still standing but the roof and floors gone, the interior burned down to ash and tall spectral things poking skyward that had once been pipes and beams. Al and Sue had never appeared. Maybe by some miracle they’d escaped unharmed. They could have gotten in their rental car late one night while everyone was sleeping and headed somewhere else, somewhere with fewer painful memories. But even as Peter had the thought, he dismissed it. He’d seen the hulking thing in what used to be the garage; he knew it was a four-door sedan with Nevada license plates.

Dusk arrived. One by one, neighbors picked up their hoses and buckets and dispiritedly traipsed back to their dark houses. Peter came around the house and saw his daughters standing between Ann and Shazia on the sidewalk. His heart leaped at the reassuring sight of them.

Maddie began jumping and waving. “Daddy!”

His precious child, made so joyful by such an ordinary thing, her father appearing out of the gloom. He smiled tiredly at her. “Have you been standing there this whole time? You must be freezing.”

“I’ve been
looking
and
looking
for you.”

“I told her not to worry,” Ann said. “I told her there was no way you’d get too close.”

He heard the accusation in her voice. He
had
tried to get too close. He’d done it without thinking. “I’m fine, princess. See?” He held out his arms in a wide gesture of bonhomie.

Kate stood slightly behind her mother, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her ski jacket, watching him intently. When she realized he was looking at her, she lowered her head and turned away.

“It’s late.” Ann put her arms around the children. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be in soon.”

She nodded, and they all crossed the street and went inside. Peter rolled up the garden hose. He coughed and spat onto the ground.

A small light bobbed in the distance.

“Singh?” Peter called. “Is that you?”

The line of light turned and flared. “Be careful. There are hot spots everywhere.”

Peter worked his way around the building, stepping carefully around the smoldering tide of debris and the slippery patches of refrozen snow, and came up to where the man stood in a ghostly doorway.

“There,” Singh said.

Peter peered into the murk. He followed the bright beam of light as it dove past cobwebbed sheets of ash, timbers corrugated and puckered from the heat, greasy puddles speckled gray, to hover on the rounded corner of a white porcelain sink. So this had been the kitchen. The wind shifted, bringing with it the stink of melted plastic, sulfur, copper, and something richly sweet. His eyes watered. “Is that…?”

“I’m afraid so.” Singh held the light steady.

Peter cleared his throat and leaned forward. There, nestled by the foot of the sink, he saw the instantly recognizable curve of a human skull burned to mahogany with gaping holes where the eyes had once been, the mocking grin of teeth.

“That’s Al.” Singh shifted the beam, and Peter glimpsed a second skull and a length of hunched spine wrapped in brown ropes of sinew. “The smaller one’s Sue.”

Peter looked away, sickened. It felt wrong, looking. He thought of Jodi rocketing into her mother’s arms Thanksgiving Day, Sue laughing with pure delight, Al slinging an arm around his wife’s narrow waist and following his dancing daughter up the path to their front door, all three of them so glad to be safe and together and home. He swallowed, hard.

Singh shook his head. “First their little girl. Now this.”

Peter realized his face was wet, that tears were sliding effortlessly down his cheeks. He made no attempt to stop them or wipe them away.

Singh patted him awkwardly on the back. They stood close together as the smoke twisted into the night sky and embers flared red and hissed into the kiss of slush.

At last, Peter said, “You think it was smoke inhalation?”

The man’s fingers dug into the material of Peter’s sleeve. “We can only pray so, but we’ll never know. They’ll never get to a morgue.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Things are that bad?”

“We’re almost out of medicines. The morgue is overflowing. Our director died two days ago.”

“We can’t just leave them here.”

“When things cool down, I’ll collect what I can and keep them for any relatives who may wish to bury them.” Singh shook his head. “At least they were together.”

Peter was frozen by the time he returned home. The sweat of exertion dried icy across his back and down his sides. He felt impossibly tired. Coiling the garden hose in his hand, he heaved the length of rubber inside the garage. A yelp and then a dark shape streaked past. Finn’s dog? The animal was gone, swallowed into the shadows that claimed the sidewalk. He’d probably been looking for a place to sleep. A shame Peter had frightened him away. No chance he could coerce the dog back. Barney was long gone by now.

He dragged down the garage door with a mighty clatter, kicked off his boots, stripped off his outer layers and spread them out in a far corner of the garage to air. Shivering, he opened the door into darkness.

“Peter, is that you?” Ann called.

“Be right there.”

Groping in the shadows, he washed up in the laundry room, his teeth chattering harder now. His head ached. He located a pair of pants Ann had washed and hung to dry. A bathrobe hung there, and he pulled it on. When he stepped into the kitchen, he saw a glow from the hearth. Used to be he was the only one in the family who could lay a fire.

The four of them sat there in the golden glow, cross-legged on sleeping bags, their faces turned toward him and deeply shadowed. He took his place beside Ann, and she handed him a plate.

He lifted it and sniffed. No use. He couldn’t smell anything but smoke. Looked like crackers with something piled on top. He brought one to his mouth. He chewed and swallowed with effort, his throat dry. He wasn’t hungry. “What is this?”

“Tuna,” Ann said, watching him. She handed him a smooth small box.

He squinted at it.

“It’s a juice box,” Maddie said happily. “Mom’s been saving it. Because it’s Christmas Eve, Daddy.” That’s right. He’d forgotten. “Here we go again,” Kate said. “Shut up,” Maddie said.

“I wonder when Santa’s going to get here,” Kate chanted in a singsong. “I sure hope Rudolf doesn’t have the flu. That’d slow things down for sure.”

“Kate,” Ann warned softly.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it,” Kate persisted. “And I’ve decided I’d like an iPhone. What about you, Maddie? What do you want Santa to bring you?”

Maddie looked up at Ann. “Does this mean no Santa?” she said tearfully.

“Shh.” Ann patted Maddie’s knee. “You know how sometimes we have to postpone birthday parties?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, it’s the same thing with Christmas this year.”

“Does Jesus know we’re putting off his birthday?” Kate said.

“Enough,” Peter snarled, and she sat back, surprised.

He peeled the cellophane from his straw and tried to poke it into the tiny hole. His fingers were clumsy with cold, and the dancing shadows from the fire weren’t making it easy for him.

Shazia reached out. “May I help?” She poked the straw into the tiny hole.

He drank. The cold, sweet liquid slid down. Under the sweetness, though, he tasted ashes.

Ann said, “How do you think it started?”

“It was probably their camping stove. Singh thought they’d been using it for heat.”

Everyone was quiet.

“Are they … dead?” Maddie’s voice wobbled. “Honey,” Ann began, but Maddie insisted, “All of them, Daddy? Even Jodi?”

The firelight played over their young faces. Kate had her head lowered as she jabbed the rubber of her shoe with the tines of her fork. Maddie’s gaze was full on him, her eyes shiny with tears. He made his voice gentle. “You know, you’ve got to be very careful using a stove indoors. We wouldn’t do it.”

“That’s right,” Ann said.

Kate twisted the fork into her shoe.

The truth had come out about Jodi, though not in the way he’d have predicted. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe it was better for the girls to believe the fire had taken Jodi. He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. The girls had given him no signals at all as to how deep their awareness ran. Ann had been right. Kate and Maddie were both unnervingly quiet on the subject.

Maddie rubbed her nose. Then she sagged into Ann and her shoulders shook. Ann put her arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Shh,” she crooned. “It’s all right, honey. It’s going to be all right.”

Kate hurled the fork clattering across the floor and pushed herself up.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. He started to follow her, but Ann said, “Give her a few minutes.” A door slammed. Maddie wept. “I hate Kate.”