Mittman, Stephanie (33 page)

What
a child Willa was, wanting to burn nuts and thinking it had any meaning at all.
But Annie had gone along with it, naming in her head one nut for herself, one
for Miller, and, just because the game called for three nuts, one for Noah
Eastman. Willa had insisted it only would prove true if Annie put them on the
stove grate herself, explaining that if a nut cracked or jumped the lover would
be unfaithful, if it blazed and burned he loved the girl, and if two burned
together, those two would marry.

It
was a stupid little superstition, which Annie had never abided. It meant
nothing to her that Miller's nut just lay there, turning browner and browner
until it went black without ever catching fire, while the ones named for her
and Noah rolled toward each other and, when they met, burst into flame. Silly,
foolish game, she had told herself before bed.

But
she'd been unable to concentrate on her book, despite the lessons, and she was
tired and cranky this morning as a result. And cold.

She
wished Bart would come into the nineteenth-century before the twentieth was
upon them. Maybe when there was a baby in the house he'd see the value of
putting in a furnace rather than relying on little stoves that couldn't hold
enough coal to last through the night.

Well,
this would be her last winter of trying to slip into her drawers without taking
her nightgown off. The thought of dressing in the same room as Miller was
sobering. She supposed, being a man, he'd have more interest in seeing her than
she would in seeing him. Was there a measurement for none? She had only thought
about undressing for bed and was counting on night to shield her. But when
spring rolled around she'd have to get up pretty early to beat the light.

She
sure would like a new pair of slippers for Christmas, she thought. The ones she
had on were so worn she could feel the cold wooden floor right through them.
She pulled up her woolen stockings and looked for her warmest dress. The first
days of winter were always the worst. Soon her body would get used to it, and
by December the window would be open a crack at night to let the fresh air in.

But
those first few days were "oatmeal days." That's what the children
had dubbed them because she always insisted they go off to school with
something warm in their bellies that would stay there a good while. It had been
a long time since she made oatmeal, she mused, as she slipped the dress over
her head. Francie had rebelled against the hot cereal at an early age in favor
of a seventeen-inch waist. She hadn't made oatmeal since Ethan was lighting the
furnace at the school for a few extra pennies a week.

Well,
she guessed, someone else must be doing it this morning.

"Oh,
my God!" she said aloud and tore down the stairs and from the house like
her tail was on fire.

***

His
shouts must have awaked somebody, because he could hear the fire bell ringing loudly
as he ran down the steps to the cellar of the Fourth Ward school. He'd seen the
smoke from a block away and rode the rest of the way down Central Avenue
screaming his fool head off.

"Is
anybody in here?" he called when he pushed the door open and a cloud of
smoke came billowing out at him. "Hello? Are you down there?"

A
cough was his answer.

Shit.
"I'm coming," he hollered through the haze. He lifted the collar of
his jacket and covered his mouth with it. "Where are you?"

He
couldn't see worth a damn. His eyes burned so much he could hardly keep them
open, and it was barely worth the effort. The smoke was so thick he couldn't
make out his hand in front of his face.

The
fumes were racing for the open door and he got down on all fours and crawled
along the floor, feeling for someone, listening for a cry, a cough, anything.

A
wheezing sound came from his left. "I'm coming," he reassured whoever
it was. "I'm gonna get you out of here. Can you see me?"

There
was nothing, no sound except the whoosh of smoke rushing for the door, no
motion except for the steady stream of haze that whirled around him and moved
on.
Hold on,
he thought.
I'm coming.

From
behind him somewhere, a woman's voice screamed out in panic. "Paulie? Oh,
my God! Paulie's in there!"

The
child had a name. He added it to his litany.
Hold
on, Paulie. I'm
coming.
He couldn't waste his breath on saying it aloud. His lungs seemed
ready to burst and his nose and throat felt like he'd been down in the smoke
for hours instead of minutes.

But
he crept on, hoping he was going in the right direction. He felt a foot, so
small it fit into his hand. "Paulie?" he asked. His voice was a rasp
he didn't recognize.

There
was no answer.

"Let
me go! It's my baby down there. Paulie!"

He
pulled the child closer to him and felt his chest. It rose and fell and he felt
a lump in his throat that bore no relation to the smoke he was inhaling.

"I
got him!" he yelled out to the woman, no doubt the child's mother.
"He's alive." His voice was a whisper despite his effort.

He
crawled back toward the door, half dragging, half carrying the child along with
him, sheltering the boy's body with his own.

When
he got to the steps he collapsed and two men grabbed the boy and passed him
along, then reached in and hauled him out.

"Eastman?"
someone said, as though he was the last person he expected to see. Over his
shoulder the man told the crowd that was quickly gathering, "It's
Eastman."

A
moment later he felt the angelic touch of someone wiping his face with a cool
cloth. It was hard for him to take in any air. "Annie?" he asked.

"I'm
right here," she said. It was the last thing he heard before losing
consciousness.

***

Risa
was there, comforting Annie as she ministered to Noah. Charlie was there,
seeing to Risa. There were others, Annie knew, a whole town's worth, but she
wasn't aware of them. Oh, she heard the new Ahern steam engine rolling down
Central Avenue from City Hall, four big horses pulling it. She heard Zack
Hartman's dray following with the old hand pumper and all the men rushing for
their assigned places at the long handles, heard Jake Fronfield, the fire
chief, yelling directions and the whoop when the stream of water began to gush.

But
Noah's head, his face still sooty despite her attempts to wipe it, rested in
her lap, his even breathing a counterpoint to her own quick breaths. The lashes
on his right eye were singed, as was his eyebrow and some of his hair, but his
skin seemed untouched by the fire. Soot collected in every crease he had,
making him look like a charcoal sketch of himself. With the missing hair it
looked as though the artist had almost finished and then been called away.

His
chest rose and fell steadily, but every now and then a cough seemed to erupt
from his chest and his head would rise and fall heavily against her.

Her
nostrils burned with the scent of singed wool and charred wood. Around them the
air grew darker as gray smoke poured from the small basement door with the fury
of a river overflowing its banks. It rolled out the door and spread itself
wider and wider, washing over everyone in its path before rising toward the
sky.

Noah
coughed again, and Annie felt the clutch at the back of her own throat and
tried to clear her windpipe.

"He
doing all right?" Doc Woods called over to her as he saw to the small boy
who lay motionless a few feet away.

"I
don't know," Annie admitted. "He's alive, but he ain't—"

"Isn't"
a
hoarse voice croaked from her lap. He opened one eye and gave her a half smile
before closing it again. Ugly black spots appeared on his face like warts. When
she touched them, they were wet. Charlie pulled out a hankie and bent down to
wipe the tears from her face.

"Here
comes Reverend Winestock," he whispered to her. "Blow." He held
the fine white cotton to her nose and she did as she was told. Then he hurried
off to help the others fight the blaze.

She
pulled her gaze reluctantly from Noah's gray face. Down the street, Miller was
making his way toward the school, his face white, his hands shaking visibly as
he raised them to his face, smoothing back his silver hair. From beneath his
coat peeked a dressing gown and slippers. He stopped beside Paulie Mitchell's
limp body first, laying a hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Is
he—?" He choked on the words.

"No."
Doc Woods said. "He's got some bad burns on his hands and face, but I
think he's gonna be all right. Fool kid probably tried to put the fire out
himself."

"But
he's not—"

"No.
Just passed out from the smoke is my guess. A blessing, too. When he comes to,
he's gonna be in an awful lot of pain."

Paulie's
mother sat beside him on the ground, rocking back and forth, a sob escaping her
now and again. Miller squeezed her shoulder, but when she raised her
tear-streaked face to him, he looked off into the distance as though he
couldn't bear to see her pain.

Maybe
it was knowing that beneath his coat he still wore his nightclothes, but to
Annie it appeared almost as if he were sleepwalking toward her. When he stood
just a few feet away, he stopped and the head in her lap came into focus for
him. What little color had returned to his face with the reassurance that
Paulie would live seemed to drain at the sight of Noah Eastman lying with his
head resting on Annie's lap.

"Is
he all right?" Miller asked, keeping his distance as though he was somehow
intruding where he didn't belong.

Annie
nodded.

"He
knew. He knew, and he warned us, and I wouldn't listen," he said. There
was no guilt in his voice, no emotion. It was as if he was trying to understand
what had happened. "A boy could have died, and it would have been my
fault."

"The
floor's going," someone yelled from inside the building. "Get
back!" Men scrambled out of the school-house, where they had been trying
to keep the fire from spreading to the main floor.

Dazed,
Miller stood there while men rushed around him. His coat flapped in the wind
and he made no attempt to control it. He stared beyond Annie, beyond the
townsfolk, beyond the town, his eyes on something Annie could never see.

"I'll
take over now," Doc Woods said gently by her side. He slipped a folded
blanket beneath Noah's head and encouraged Annie to slide out from under him.
"Looks like the reverend needs you, Sissy," he said, jerking his head
in Miller's direction.

She
looked down. Noah appeared to be sleeping, but his hand searched for hers and
she grasped it in her own. "Go ahead," he whispered and squeezed her
hand gently. "I'll be fine."

"All
right," she agreed. "But I'll be back, soon as the doc is finished
seein' to you."

He
nodded slightly. With a quick touch to his cheek, she pulled herself together
and rose.

"Miller?
Are you all right?"

***

He
heard her, felt her presence next to him, but still he was all alone. What had
he done? In the name of God and all that was holy,
what had he done?

"Miller?"
She took his arm and tried to usher him away from the bustle around him.
"Come on."

"Sissy?"
he said when he realized who was beside him. "What are you doing
here?"

"It's
all right, Miller. Come away from the men. We're in their way." She pulled
at him and he let her lead him.

"Did
he come for you, then? Or were you with him? Do you live there?"

"What?"
she asked as though he was being incoherent. It was a perfectly sane question,
he thought, under the circumstances.

"He
knew. I understand that. But you? How did you know?"

She
babbled about Ethan and the furnace and when he was a boy. It was hard for
Miller to follow what she was saying. It would have been such a simple thing
for him to have given the list of Elmer Wells's customers to Mr. Eastman. He
had decided against it just to save Elvira's good name.

She
had come to him with her father's reputation heavy in her heart, and he had
lifted her above all that when he married her. Oh, how she delighted in being
the minister's wife! He had little to offer a woman besides that: that
elevation of status, instant acceptance by the community. It was his one prize
possession to give a wife—respectability.

And
Noah Eastman had wanted to take it away from her. To let people remember her as
the daughter of a man who was responsible for fires and death and destruction.
Had there been a Wells furnace in Brian Kelly's cellar? Elmer's papers said
there was, but then there was one in the Webbs', the Taylors', the Gibbses'.
There was one in his own home and one in the church. None of those had caught
fire, so he'd had no reason to believe that any of them would.

And
no one had been sure what had caused the fire at the Kellys'. If they had been
sure—