The Fire Night Ball (9 page)

December 21, 1977

Marlena awoke on the morning of the winter solstice to the loud chirping of birds and the intermittent shriek of buzz saws.

She'd stayed out late, partying into the wee hours with Sally and Stretch. They’d closed all the district bars, ending at a Bulette dive rumored to be lesbian-friendly. When they left at 2 a.m., the loudspeakers were blaring “Happy Trails” by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.

She'd dropped into bed with confidence that the project was hers for the taking, as well as a new life in wide-open Key West.

In 1962, Marlena and her parents had vacationed in Key West, but the Cuban missile crisis forced a retreat. Nuclear war had seemed imminent, a near certainty. The nation held its breath.

But Marlena was oblivious to any danger. Her fifteen-year-old brain was awash in color and form never before seen in such lush profusion.

Her eyes were full to bursting with tall, rickety, white-washed or pastel fishermen's cottages tricked out in gingerbread cutouts, second-story widow’s walks, and dark Bermuda shutters. Even the cinder block bungalows where the Cubans lived were nestled in a dense, aromatic jungle of bougainvillea, jasmine, and mangroves.

In the central graveyard, the above-ground tombs looked like a Grecian village. The pathways had lovely street names, like “Violet” and “Palm.” Adjacent to the cemetery was the so-called "writers compound" on Windsor Lane, an enclave of resident or visiting writers, among them John Ciardi, James Leo Herlihy, and William Styron.

She’d wandered into their green cloister unawares, while her parents were viewing a Spanish poem carved on a gravestone inside the wrought iron enclosure for casualties of the Spanish-American War.

Her nostrils flared, full of the fragrance of jasmine vines breaching a fence. She found herself joyously overwhelmed by the riotous red and purple of the bougainvillea blossoms amid the glossy green leaves of the mangrove jungle. Then she noticed she was standing close to the screened door of a modest cottage, one like the others scattered around the pool, half hidden by lush foliage.

She slowly turned, feeling rather than seeing the man who stood just inside the screened door. He was only partly visible. But clearly he was naked from the waist down, and he was masturbating.

Recently the Windsor Lane exhibitionist had appeared in her dreams. She'd seen him again last night. His eyes had looked like dead dark holes, an image of compelling power.

Now Marlena crawled from bed and went to leaded glass window, made a hole in the fogged glass, and peered out. Her guest room overlooked the wooded portion of the property and far beyond it. Nothing could be further from the sights and smells and lambent air of Key West than the distant boundaries of this frozen landscape.

However, the immediate scene was much less bleak because of the trees. Alongside the poplars, junipers, and ponderosa pines Mills Creek was famous for, blue and Engleman spruce abounded.

She picked up an antique telescope that was sitting on the antique dresser and aimed it through a window.

Adjusting the view, she watched Chloe in her white fur coat out in the kitchen garden. She was handing out treats from a woven basket on her arm to a group of well-bundled Native American children.

Neighbors and clients of Chloe who'd been invited to help themselves were out in the woods chopping down their Christmas trees and hauling them away. Apollo Nelson was spied in a dense pine stand out beyond the juniper grove, helping neighbors with the tying of the trees they’d felled.

Apollo was accompanied by the dog, whom Annie always called “the little white devil.”

Owing to the West Highland terrier's predilection for taking his time during his diurnal outings, the dog was named Pierre, after Pierre de Fermat, the French patron saint of unfinished business. As Pierre had grown old, his teeth were going bad; Annie often fed him with a fork.

Marlena was thinking about the Engleman spruce that had been cut and now graced Chloe’s living room, how its knob reached the high point of the vaulted ceiling.

This afternoon it would be decorated with the help of the visiting carolers, neighbors and children from the Brighton Charter School. After the caroling, Chloe would invite them all in for cider, hot chocolate, donuts, and tree-decorating. The children would have a field day with mounds of silver tinsel and cartons of old-fashioned tin ornaments. Chloe would help the girls and boys string popcorn and berries into garlands or hang ornaments, holding up the very littlest ones so they could festoon the branches.

When Marlena was a girl of five, some of life's best moments were spent among Chloe's Christmas flock.

She put down the spyglass and rubbed the moisture from her eyes. There were chores to do, wrapping presents, helping Annie. But what she felt most like doing was spending some time outdoors.

Was there time to fit in a walk before her appointment with Bryce Scattergood? (To her surprise, Faith had asked if she would go see Scattergood alone, on both their behalves.)

Moving quickly now, she scooted into woolen underwear before putting on her jeans. Then she went down the stairs, taking two at a time, and found Annie in the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” she asked, surveying the serving table, laden with toasted homemade bread, crispy bacon, and a chile relleno casserole.

“Your brunch,” said Annie. “Dig in.”

“Do you know what day it is today, Annie?” she asked with a full mouth.

“Wednesday.”

“It’s the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. I have a hunch it's going to be a momentous one in my life, even more than yesterday, which was a doozey. Dr. V has promised to tell me a dark, secret story tonight. It’s about her mother, Cassandra Vye.”

“Wonderful.”

“You don’t sound very upbeat, Annie. What’s the deal?”

“My tribal ancestors went in for storytelling circles. To my way of thinking, they did way too much peyote and storytelling, not enough hard work on the farm.”

Marlena laughed. “It’s been work getting this story out of Chloe. Twenty years’ worth.”

“Well, she’s a cipher, that one. Butter don’t melt in her mouth, she keeps it so chilled when she’s of a mind to.”

“Speaking of melting, how’s it outside?”

“Well, this mornin’ snow was comin’ down, but suddenly it stopped. Now the sun’s out and pretty near has melted the new snow. They said on the TV the roads are clear. I’m goin’ to town to run some errands. You’re welcome to come along.”

“I have an appointment in town myself, but first I want some exercise to stretch my legs. It’s been ages since I’ve walked out along Hatter’s Field.”

“Don’t you get yourself lost out there. Folks do it all the time, and we have to send out Apollo a-lookin’ for ‘em. I have my suspicions some of them town gals get lost out there on purpose, just so he’ll come runnin’ after ‘em.”

“I don’t blame them. Apollo’s a fine-looking young man.”

“Not all that young, Miz Marlena. You’ve maybe only got a few years on him.”

“A few? Annie, you need new glasses. Or maybe we white-eyes all look alike to you.”

“Go along with your impertinence. But, if you’re of a mind to walk along Hatter’s Field, you might collect me some holly branches. That was on my list of chores for today, along with washing them windows in the guest bedrooms.”

“I’d be glad to, Annie. And I'll wash the windows when I come back from town after I check on the guys fixing the mill wheel.”

“Don't you touch them windows, Miz Marlena. I’ll find you a nice woven basket to carry the holly branches. Do you remember where the patch is? It's near if you drive.”

“Couldn’t forget it. I collected them every Christmas with Granny.”

Suddenly she was hit by a wave of nausea.

“Be right back, Annie.”

She got up from her chair and moved at a sprightly pace to the front hallway.

“I’ll put the basket for the holly by the front door,” Annie called up to her as she sprinted up the central staircase, then ran into the bathroom adjacent to her bedroom..

When she was through vomiting her breakfast, Marlena turned on the radio in her room to catch the local news.

The lead story was of the bituminous coal strike by the UMWA, the national contract having expired on December 6. That strike was likely to be a long one and would affect a lot of the people here.

Not good news for the holiday, she was thinking as she got dressed, putting on her fur boots and hat, then throwing a full length raccoon coat over everything.

She recalled the conversation she’d had with an old school mate, Lorna Anderson, about joblessness.

She owed her classmate a favor. During Letty’s diatribe, Lorna had providentially shown up in the ladies’ lounge, scaring off the old hag.

Lorna had asked if she would intercede with Harry for a job at the hotel for Lorna’s twin brother, who was out of work.

She made a mental note to swing by the sheriff’s office where Lorna worked and personally deliver an invitation to the twins for Sunday evening's ball. That way, Larry could meet Harry in a social setting, perhaps paving the way for employment.

Outdoors, the air felt crisp and light, just the way she liked it, with a light, steady wind. The recent snows had left a glittering mass of billowy whiteness as far as the eye could see, as though clouds had alighted on the ground for humans to play on.

In the distance, she saw a figure of man standing by a grove of trees, watching her as she moved toward the pond.

Impulsively, she lay down on her back by the pond and made angel’s wings by sweeping her arms up and down. When she got up, there was no one in view.
Odd, but it wasn’t the first time she’d sensed a spectral presence, sometimes a man and other times a woman.

After brushing herself off, she trudged through the snow to the garage and her car.

The special places in Hatter’s Field were indelible in her mind, and she soon came to a stop at a spot where she recalled holly bushes had thrived when she was a child. Leaving the engine running, she got out of the car. The fumes from the exhaust created what appeared to be smoke signals curling above her head.

Stomping through the snow along the path to the circle of trees where she recalled the holly bushes used to be tucked inside, she gloried in her isolation, the illusion that all this beauty belonged to her alone.

After several minutes of carefully picking her way through the snow-covered stubble, she stopped and turned aside, as she thought she'd heard the snorting of a horse and the jingle of leather harnessing.

Looking back, she saw a man on horseback in the distance, galloping towards her along the road that led from Mill’s Creek.

That idiot has an awkward mount, was her thought; he must not be a native. But at least he appeared to be flesh and blood!

Then her line of sight was distracted by a blaze of red ahead of her--the holly bushes! Picking up the pace, she moved into the grove.

Clipping off the branches most heavily dotted with glossy red berries was hard work, but fruitful. Soon, her basket was half full and weighing down her arm.

“Marlena! Where are you? Marlena!”

The basket dangling heavily, she came out from behind the holly bushes. The man on the horse was approaching at a wild trot--he was none other than her estranged husband!

The light snow had laid a thin dusting of white flakes onto Coddie's bald, uncovered head. She couldn’t help but giggle. Then she saw the clenched jaws, the creased forehead.

"Whatever are you doing here, Dimmer?” she asked lightly.

“It’s a free country.” His tone was defiant.

Marlena ceased her attempt at a smile. She watched as Coddie awkwardly got down off his horse and tied the rope to a nearby tree stump. In a departure from his usual European styling, he was wearing a full-length leather coat, a wool scarf, leather chaps, and thick boots.

“Let me do that for you,” she said. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

Coddie stepped aside. While she retied the rope and patted the horse’s nose, he launched into his explanation.

“I got this sudden urge for a white Christmas. So I jumped on a plane yesterday and checked into the hotel last night. The front desk said you’d moved out. I got this steed from a livery stables near here--you know, when in Rome--they told me this is the road to Mill’s Creek.”

“It is, but I'm just leaving. You’ve caught me with tons to do, on the year's shortest day.”

“Miniscule. Like what's left of our marriage.”

Coddie was wearing sun goggles so she couldn’t see his eyes, but she sensed he was surveying her. Instinctively, she put a gloved hand on her abdomen.

He broke the silence by gesturing at Hatter’s Field. “What are you doing out here in this snowy wilderness? Shouldn’t you be in your room, resting?”

“I’m not an invalid. And by our standards, city slicker, this isn’t much of a snow, not enough to stop me from doing my chores. I'm collecting holly branches as decorations for the party.”

She pointed to where she’d been. “Over there.”

“So we’ll do it together. Okay by you?”

“As you please,” she said. Then she allowed him to take the basket in one arm and her arm in the other as they moved into the bushes.

Just then the sun came out, and the snow stopped falling. After a half hour of constant physical labor crushed against brambles, choosing the best branches, then snapping or cutting them off, they were both sweating in their winter clothing.

“Do you think this is enough? The basket’s full,” Coddie said, taking off his goggles and wiping his eyes. Marlena looked over at him and laughed aloud.

“Too much for you, Slick? You should try hay raking some time if you really want a workout.”

“Are there people in this place to do it?” He gestured toward the rocky wilderness surrounding them. “Or any trees?”

“Not many people. A few trees, but quite far between.”

“I guess Wyoming’s an acquired taste.”

“Some would say you have to be a native to appreciate it.”

“Native, huh? You mean, like savages?”

They were walking slowly around the holly bushes. From their vantage point, the car and the horse appeared to be having a sportive standoff, silently confronting each other.

“You really don’t know much about this part of the West, do you, Mr. New School of San Francisco? Of course, Native Americans are the true natives, but the homesteaders used the term to differentiate themselves from the wanderers. They still do, in some older neighborhoods.”

When Marlena uttered the word “homesteaders,” there was a proud thrill in her voice that registered on Coddie. He looked at her with a grudging curiosity as to unknown events in her past. Evidently, something here besides Harry made her tick.

"Some stayed only because they were too exhausted to go further; others, because they loved the land and wanted to settle on it.”

“Well, color me one of the exhausted ones,” said Coddie with a sigh of defeat.

She had plunked down yet another load of entangled holly branches on top of the others in the basket he was holding.

“I’ll take that as an ‘uncle.’ I'm sure that’s enough hollies. Let’s put them in the trunk of my car.”

As they trudged along, Marlena easily picked her way, while Coddie couldn’t keep his eyes off her curvy backside in her tight jeans, which hindered him from walking gracefully through the snow drifts. There were several near mishaps when he came close to upending himself and the heavy basket of hollies.

Finally, they reached the horse and the car. He wiped his brow and sighed heavily after heaving the contents of the basket into the trunk.

“I’d invite you up to Mill’s Creek,” said Marlena, “but I’m going downtown for an appointment with a local realtor--as you suggested.”

“I don't suppose you could carve out some time in your busy schedule today,” said Coddie glumly.

His sour tone and quivering chin set Marlena’s nerves jangling.

“Not in the cards today. Tomorrow would be better.”

“I’ll just go back to the hotel, then, after I tame this stallion.”

“He’s a gelding.”

“You should know. You’re the expert at cutting off balls.”

“I'm sorry I'm busy, but we're getting Chloe's mill wheel functional again, and I'm decorating it. And then there's the hotel business.”

He coughed nervously. “Chloe's invitation arrived at the office a month ago, to us both. I plan to come.”

“I don’t know why you'd want to. You won’t know anyone well enough to talk to, except for me.”

“There’s always Harry. I assume he’s coming.”

“Yes.”

“With or without the wife?”

The thought of the inevitable confrontation with Lila at the Christmas Fire Night Ball filled her with a tumult of dread, resentment, and excitement.

She said haughtily: “I don’t waste my time thinking about her.”

“Ha!” He laughed harshly. “That doesn’t mean she’s not thinking about you. Better watch your back. She could sue you for alienation of affection, you know.”

“I never was one to retreat.”

“Yes, you’re bold. To the point of foolhardiness.”

Marlena was opening the door to the driver’s side of the silver BMW. He started to open the door on the passenger side to get in and continue the conversation.

“Coddie, don’t do that!”

He stopped and stared at her. “Why on earth not?”

“Speaking of foolhardy, everyone knows not to open the two car doors at the same time in Wyoming.”

“Bad luck?”

“No, city boy. The wind forms a funnel, like a tornado, and whips everything out of the car. It’s gone for good, unless you can run at sixty miles an hour and catch it.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t say.”

“The force of the wind can even rip the car door off. I’ve seen it happen. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Marlena was swiftly getting in while he stood outside the passenger door. Realizing he was looking foolish standing there holding the door handle, Coddie had no choice but to go over to his horse and pull himself up by the bridle.

“Easy there. Whoa. Easy, fella.”

The horse reared before he could get on, throwing Coddie onto the wet ground.

Rolling down her window as he picked himself up, Marlena called out, "You okay? Need help?”

He shook his head. As he scrambled back on to the house, cursing, off she went with a wave of her hand.

He reflected angrily that he hadn’t even managed to tell her what he came to say--that he was hoping to convince her to destroy the signed papers and try their marriage again.

He viciously kicked the horse's sides with his cowboy boots. The new boots pinched his feet; he'd bought them at Saks in a hurry before flying yesterday.