Page 119 of Smoke and Fire
The air smelled stale. Only two weeks had passed since I’d last opened the windows, but they creaked like old ghosts when I threw them open. Dad never believed in air conditioning, which meant a fetid air lay in the rooms. He hadn’t even installed ductwork in the walls for a furnace when he’d built this place.
Flipping on lights and laying all my smoky gear on the table livened the atmosphere. My bustle breathed life back into it.
My eyes ran along the pictures populating the walls. Almost too many, if you asked me, but maybe just right. The clutter felt like the comforting chatter of family gathered around a table.
Vague, but nondescript.
My thoughts fractured into ribbons as I yanked clothes out of my bags and shoved them into the tiny room at the back, where the stacked washer and dryer waited. The smell of burnt wood lingered in the air like char. I hardly smelled it out there on fires. Here it seemed stronger than ever.
Mail waited on the table, along with a note from my neighbor Mrs. Cortez that said,Bought more cat food. She’s doing fine.
As if summoned by thought, a distant tinkle of sound preceded the swish of the cat door opening. A hearty purr, like the roar of an engine, announced a dainty, calico cat from the shadows. A tiger-like design of black and orange decorated her face, giving way to the white, soft fur of her body.
Unbalanced,Dad had always said,but perfect.
With a crouch, I extended my hand. Calluses hardened my knuckles and fingertips, but Psycho didn’t care. Did cats assign blame? Feel emotion? Sometimes when she ignored me, I thought she punished me for taking Dad away. After these long breaks, she was desperate enough for human interaction to tolerate me, but I think she actually missed him. My sister, Inessa, for sure.
Psycho deigned to show me affection and butted her head against my hand with a gentle ruttingsound. I petted her for several minutes, until she turned her back. Hair littered the floor, but I’d sweep it up later. Her Highness hopped on top of the couch and made herself at home.
By the time I finished sorting the laundry and the initial batch started, the sun had settled toward the edge of the sky. My stomach growled, so I threw pasta on the stovetop and hunted for marinara. Lacking ground beef that wasn’t frozen solid, I tossed frozen maple sausage links on next. Not exactly a symphony of flavors, but the calories would be good.
Finally, I sat down at the table. The envelopes stacked in piles weren’t unanticipated. More stuff always gathered at the end of the month. Dad had been classic that way. Didn’t like the online route. Preferred everything in paper so he could see it, file it away, and pull it out after seven years to tut over in disgust for tax law.
After I sorted through the mail, I flipped the sausage and opened my computer. The girl at the coffee shop moved to the front of my thoughts. Something about her had a vague . . .undeniablequality that I couldn’t let go of. It bothered me, lingering uninvited.
What did it mean?
How did I write that undefinable something into a book?
I yanked an envelope toward me, sent from nearby Jackson City. The front of it saidMemory Care Services.It caused a familiar gut clench. Beneath it lay another envelope, another round of bills.Adult Care Services.
With a sour stomach, I shoved them both away to dive into later. A text caused my phone to jump to life again.
Hernandez: You back?
I glanced at it while rolling the sizzling sausage in the frying pan. The water had started to boil, so I flung the pasta inside and grabbed my phone off the counter.
Bastian:Just arrived.
Hernandez:Dinner tomorrow, my place. Dagny’s cooking, so you won’t die.
Bastian:Thanks. See you then.
Relief swept through me. Hernandez always gave me a few hours of alone time to set my life back to rights before he had me come over.
He always invited me for dinner in between fires, though. He must watch for the obnoxiously green buggy parked in front of the fire station, because he always knew when to text.
Fire season felt like living along the edge. I could dodge whatever life threw at me, but it left a vague sense of running away behind. Not to mention the worsening fallout when I returned to utter, ignored chaos.
Hernandez:How’s your sister?
Bastian:Getting what she needs.
Hernandez:Dad?
Steam billowed out of the rolling boil of water that cooked the noodles. I flipped the knob on the stove a little too forcefully when I turned off the frying pan and the knob dropped onto the stove top. I frowned at it. I replaced the knob with a roll of my eyes, then slid the hot pan onto an empty coil.
Slightly calmer, I returned to the phone.
