کتاب 09-05

5

Harper found fishing line and a hook in a tackle box under the worktable, and used them to put two stitches in Allie’s upper lip. Allie sat rigidly while she sewed, gaze pointed toward the ceiling, eyes welling with angry tears. She made not a sound the whole time. Harper wasn’t sure if that was the silent treatment or stoicism.

When she was done, Harper worked on Nick. He was deeply asleep and only frowned while Harper put four stitches into his torn forehead. She used the same needle, but she sterilized it by holding it between thumb and forefinger until the steel glowed hot and white.

After, Harper went outside to sit on the stoop and watch the clear night sky. Sometimes it seemed that one of the stars came loose from the firmament and sailed off with dizzying speed to a far corner of the night. In the dark hours before sunrise, constellations came apart and reformed and fell in burning streaks.

At last, in the gray light of dawn, a small sparrow of fire zigged out of the trees behind the graveyard and exhausted itself in a whiff of smoke. A moment later the Fireman followed it, staggering from the forest and into Harper’s arms.

The sight of him appalled her. The long gash on his left cheekbone was a ragged line of black gum. The side of his neck was baked red with what looked like an agonizing sunburn. He stank as if he had rolled in the ruin of a campfire.

In his left hand swung a steel bucket full of coals.

“I saved her,” he gasped. “We need to put her someplace safe and get her some fresh wood.” He gave Harper a frantic look. “She’s starving.”

He only reluctantly allowed Harper to pull the bucket out of his hand. The tin handle was hot—maybe searing—but Harper’s palm lit softly and she felt no pain.

Harper set the pail on the stoop and guided him inside.

He passed out almost as soon as she was done sewing up his slashed cheek. She left him on the couch, where he slept with his own turnout coat as a blanket.

She went outside again, feeling very tired and very pregnant. The small of her back was a continuous shriek and she was experiencing sharp pains of a gynecological nature.

The bucket of glowing coals sat on the rear step, next to the tape deck. Mick Jagger promised he was going home, over a strutting bass line. Those coals swelled with brightness, faded and swelled again, matching the rhythms of the song.

Harper had an urge to kick the bucket over into the grass.

Instead she carried the pail to a big steel drum, standing in the weeds behind the garage, one in a cluster of garbage cans. She poured the coals in on top of old rubbish: splintered boards, rusting beer cans, oily rags. Flames guttered and jumped, the garbage igniting with a soft, hungry whump. Harper found some sticks and a rotten log crawling with bugs, fed them to the blaze.

“What’s that?” Renée asked. “Cook fire?”

“More like one of these fires you light to remember someone by.”

“An eternal flame?”

Harper said, “I hope not.”