Torch

Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Clementine

I wake up in the dark to a horrible, rattling, buzzing sound, and it takes me a second to realize that it’s my phone, on the floor, in vibrate mode. I dangle one hand off of Jane’s couch and grab it, answering without even looking at who it is.

“Yeah?” I say.

“There’s a guy in a cabin,” Jennifer says.

The gears in my head have to turn for a few moments as I look around the room, trying to figure out where I am and what I’m doing there.

Then I remember what’s going on, and what there’s a guy in a cabin means.

“Shit,” I say.

“Can you go?”

I sit up on the couch and look at the inflatable mattress where Lucy was sleeping. It’s empty, so she must have left, or she’s in the shower, or something.

“What kind of guy in a cabin?”

“He’s a crotchety old goddamn lunatic who’s probably got three dogs, a shotgun, and some very strong ideas about private property rights as if a fire gives a flying fuck about the constitution,” Jennifer says, sounding more than a little irritated. “The usual kind of guy in a cabin, Clementine.”

“Jesus, it was just a question,” I say, rubbing my eyes with one hand.

Jennifer takes a deep breath. So do I.

“Sorry—”

“—No, I shouldn’t have—”

“—Just haven’t slept—”

“—You’re fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it—”

We go quiet again.

“I’ll go see if I can get him out,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “Everyone else I either can’t reach or they’re already at the high school.”

She gives me directions to the crotchety lunatic’s cabin, and we hang up. It’s five a.m. I get off Jane’s couch, pull my uniform back on, pee, and put my shoes on. As I’m heading out, I see a note from Lucy.

Jane - Thanks so much for the bed. I owe you one.

Clementine - Couldn’t sleep so I went to the high school to help out there. See you soon.

I lock Jane’s front door behind myself, and remind myself that I probably also owe her one.

The updates on the fire are constant now, but it sounds like it slowed down yesterday afternoon and overnight.

Still, driving into Eaglevale is unsettling at best and feels like the end of a zombie movie at worst. The smoke swirls and thickens, the headlights of my Forest Service truck reflecting back at me in the dark.

I turn off the highway and down a dirt road, and when I go around the shoulder of the mountain, suddenly I can see the bright orange glow in the distance. I can’t see flames over the trees, but it looks like there’s an opening to Hell west of me.

Hunter’s there, I think, and my heart beats a little faster. I haven’t heard from him at all, but it’s not like he’s got a cell signal, and the radios are for official business only. It isn’t like he just hasn’t called.

The cabin with the guy is a long way away, down this dirt road.

It’s further than I realized, and I start getting nervous before long.

I don’t think Jennifer or Mike would send me here if I were in immediate danger, and there’s a clear escape path, but I’m still not crazy about being even closer to a giant forest fire.

At last, the cabin comes into view. The sun’s just come up, and I’m surprised at how pleasant it is. I was expecting something more along the lines of what Jennifer was describing: a plywood shack, a couple dogs chained in the yard, probably several NO TRESPASSING signs scattered around.

But this is a surprisingly cute house, small and cozy, well-tended, pine slats with a shake roof and an old but well-cared-for pickup truck in front. It’s actually kind of... nice.

It gives me hope. Maybe I’m about to have a reasonable conversation with the guy inside.

I cut the engine, get out, and walk to the front porch. I straighten my rumpled uniform a little, because I’m pretty sure I look like a mess, and I have a feeling I don’t smell fantastic either. Good thing that’s not exactly my number one priority right now.

As soon as I knock on the door, I hear someone thumping around inside. It doesn’t sound like happy, thank God the Forest Service is here thumping, but I stand there, hands folded in front of myself, and try to figure out what I’m going to say.

Leave so I don’t have to be the last person to see you alive seems like an okay place to start.

The door jerks open six inches.

A shotgun barrel and a face poke out.

“Shit!” I yell. I jump back, putting my hands up in front of me in the universal sign of don’t fucking shoot me. I’m pretty sure they’re shaking.

“I’m from the Forest Service,” I yell from across the porch. My heart’s going a million miles a minute, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the twin black holes pointed right at me.

I want to run, but I know I can’t run fast enough if this goddamn lunatic actually shoots.

There’s a moment of silence. Then the gun barrels lower, and I put my hands down slowly, definitely shaking.

“Sorry,” a man’s voice says, creaky with age. “I didn’t know they were gonna send a girl.”

Not what I was expecting to hear.

“Were you gonna shoot a man?” I ask, still flabbergasted that a shotgun was his first move.

“Nah,” he says, and then he sighs, pushing the door open wider. “I just wouldn’t feel so bad.”

I don’t have a response for that, because I’m pretty opposed to pointing a gun at anyone, but I don’t particularly want to have that argument right now. He leans the shotgun against the wall, and I finally get a good look at him.

He’s wearing brown canvas pants and a blue flannel shirt, along with reading glasses and slippers. I can’t tell how old he is, but he’s up there — in his seventies at least, probably eighties, his face deeply lined, his short hair steel gray.

“It’s not even loaded,” he says. “You here to tell me to get out?”

“Pretty much,” I say, because there’s no point in sugarcoating this to someone who just pointed a gun at me, loaded or not.

“I ain’t leaving,” he says, and pushes the door all the way open. Then he turns, slowly, and walks further into his house like he’s expecting me to follow him.

He moves carefully and stiffly, but he seems pretty in control of all his faculties. I step to the threshold and stand there, peering into the darker inside of the cabin.

“You’re under mandatory evacuation, you know,” I call after him.

“I fought in Korea,” he calls back. “Try to take me.”

I sigh and lean against the door jamb. I hear the sink run for a moment, and then he comes back, still walking carefully and carrying two glasses of water. He hands me one, and I take a sip.

“Thanks,” I say. “The smoke bothers my throat.”

“Mine too,” he admits.

“It’s much less smoky in Ashlake,” I say, lifting my eyebrows.

He smiles at me and shakes his head a little.

“I’m not leaving,” he says again. “But you can come in. I need to sit.”

He doesn’t wait for my response, just walks back into a front room, puts his glass of water down, and then lowers himself carefully into a plaid easy chair. I lean in through the front door, watching, not quite sure how to proceed.

On one hand, I don’t go into strange houses, as a general rule. It’s too easy to imagine a horror story.

On the other hand, I can out run this guy if I need to. I walk inside gingerly, looking around at the pine interior.

“Sit,” he says. “I don’t bite.”

I sit gingerly on a plaid couch that almost matches the chair, glass of water in hand, and I wonder how to talk a guy sixty years older than me into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

“Look, you should really leave,” I say, because that seems like a good place to start. He watches me. “There’s a fire crew working down below, and they’re doing their best, but...”

I trail off for a minute, because I don’t know what the but is going to be.

“But fires are unpredictable and beyond all human control,” he says.

I push my greasy, gross bangs off my face.

“Yeah. That,” I say.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Clementine,” I say.

He laughs a little, a dry laugh.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says. “Like the song. Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’...”

“I hate that song,” I say, laughing.

“It’s a nice song,” he says.

“Clementine stubs her toe, falls into a river, and drowns,” I say. “It’s not a good way to go.”

Better than burning to death in your own home, I think, but I don’t say it.

He just shrugs.

“What’s your name?” I ask, because I have to say something. I’ve got my radio on my belt, and if I need to leave, someone will tell me.

“Harold,” he says.

Whatever I was about to say just dies on my lips.

“It’s not as pretty,” he says.

“My boyfriend wanted to name the fire Harold,” I say, the words just tumbling out of my mouth. “He was joking, but... weird, huh?”

He thinks about it for a moment, and I can’t help but thinking about Hunter and I, standing on the path, on the way out of the forest. A perfect, sunny day, him suggesting I name the fire something stupid.

“The Harold Fire does lack a certain gravitas,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t burn your house down with you inside it,” I point out.

He takes a long drink of the water, just looking at me. Then he holds his water glass on his lap and takes a long, slow look around the room, like he’s remembering something, and like he’s deciding whether to tell me something.

“Think you can humor a silly old man for a moment?” he asks, his voice even softer than it was.

I lean my elbows on my knees, both hands around my water glass, and hope that Harold doesn’t suddenly say something perverted.

“Okay,” I say.

“I don’t want to leave the house where Mildred died,” he says softly.

I look down into my water glass, my mind going blank for a moment. That’s not what I was prepared for.

“Who’s Mildred?” I ask, even though I think I already know.

“My wife,” he says simply. “We were married for fifty-three years. Forty-five right here. She built this cabin with me.”

Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat, and I’m pressing my lips together, trying to keep my breathing normal.

I want that, I think, unbidden.

“That’s a long time,” I say.

“People don’t stay married that long any more,” he says.

“No, they don’t,” I say, my voice sounding a little hollow.

I think about the cuckoo clock missing from my parents’ house – my mom’s house, I guess. I think about the bad, weird kiss I gave Hunter last night, about waking up at four in the morning and finding that rock just so he would have something to take with him.

I stare at the coffee table, because I’m pretty sure if I look at Harold, I’ll lose it.

Fifty-three years, and now she’s gone. I can’t even imagine.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know it’s dumb. I swallow. I swallow again. The lump won’t go. “How long... when did...?”

As hard as I’m trying to sound normal, my voice trails off into a desperate squeak as pressure builds behind my eyes.

Harold looks over at me, and his face changes.

“Three years ago,” he says. “And you know something funny? I still don’t sleep on her side of the bed.”

I just nod, staring stonily at the coffee table. I hold my breath, because I feel like a pile of poorly stacked bricks, like the slightest thing will send me tumbling into a pile.

“I guess it’s habit,” I say, and my voice comes out as a choked whisper.

I don’t know why I’m suddenly losing it like this. I’ve heard sad things before, for fuck’s sake, and I don’t usually dissolve into a pathetic puddle of forest ranger.

Harold’s still staring off into the distance, and if he’s noticed that I’m an inch from bursting into tears in his living room, he hasn’t let on.

“Sometimes when I wake up, before I open my eyes, there’s this moment where I still think she’s there,” he says. “Makes it hard to get out of bed. And strange as it probably sounds, I like being here, where everything reminds me of her. I feel a little like she’s still with me.”

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, just so I don’t cry, but it doesn’t work. My eyes are full to the brim, and when I finally blink, tears rush down my cheeks faster than I can rub them away.

“Oh, honey,” Harold says.

“I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out a squeak-whisper. “Sorry, sorry, I’m fine.”

There’s a long, slow creaking sound as he gets out of his chair, then walks carefully to the couch where I am. He leans on the arm and lowers himself slowly, then one gnarled hand pats me on the shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says, sounding embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” I say miserably, then take a deep breath.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, sniffle, and then laugh.

“No, Harold, everything is not okay,” I say. “There’s a huge fire bearing down on us right now, and I’m supposed to be talking you into leaving for your own sake, but instead I’m crying in your living room while you comfort me.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” he says mildly.

“It’s exactly as bad as all that,” I say.

Harold just chuckles, and I take a couple of deep breaths, looking out the picture windows that look over the valley. It’s yellow-gray with smoke, ash swirling between us and the trees. I wipe under my eyes and reflect for a moment that, actually, it’s eerily pretty.

I look over at Harold. I’m certain I look like a wreck, but I’ve got one more idea.

“If I were a ghost, and my husband of fifty-three years tried to stay in a house in the path of a forest fire just to be closer to my stuff, I’d be pissed,” I say. “I never met Mildred, but I bet she doesn’t want you to die here just because she did.”

There’s a long, long pause.

That’s the best I’ve got, I think.

“You’re right, you didn’t know Mildred,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows.

“Just kidding,” he says, looking around again. Then he sighs. “I think she’d be pretty pissed off, too. She had a hell of a temper.”

“I can give you a ride,” I offer.

Harold doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve got the truck out there,” he says, and begins the process of standing again, leaning hard on the arm of the couch.

I just look up at him, questioningly, and I try again to swallow the lump in my throat.

“I don’t know if I can leave,” he says, looking around again. “But I’ll try. You should go ahead.”

“If you need to pack, I can help,” I offer.

Harold shakes his head firmly.

“There’s an evacuation center in—”

“Clementine, I got it from here,” he says. “Go on. You probably have things to do besides talk to an old man. I got a daughter outside Missoula.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Go,” he says, and I walk for the door, then out onto the porch. He leans out of his front door after me.

“Clementine,” he says.

I turn around.

“Thanks,” he says.