get it for you.” He was less drunk than I’d first thought.
“I was just going to get that light.”
His teeth were yellow, and so were the whites of his eyes.
“What for? It’s not too bright, is it?” He edged in close to me, and I glanced down at his stomach, pouching over a narrow black belt. I decided not to test whether or not he noticed the scars, so I yawned dramatically. I was about to tell him I had to go when his mouth slammed against mine, his tongue jabbing at my teeth.
He quickly unbuttoned my dress, hooked his fingers under the strap of my slip, and yanked it down to my waist. I wrestled away from him, covered myself as best I could, and said, “I have to go.”
“No you don’t,” he said in a gravelly voice and swallowed. He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me back on the bed. He pulled down my slip again. My skin felt hard, as if it were cracking. The red horsehead under my breasts reared up in that harsh light, and the thorny vines unfurled, very red and raised, almost as if they were growing.
He sat back on his heels and combed his fingers through his hair. “What’s this?”
He got off the bed and stood looking down with his mouth drawn into a stupid O. I pulled up my dress and shakily buttoned it.
“What happened to you?”
“I was burned.”
“You might have told me,” he said, as if I’d offended him.
“I might have,” I said, standing up. “If I hadn’t already decided to leave.” He had a heavy face full of cheap longing. Deep bags purpled under his eyes.
He stepped closer and put his clammy hand around my waist.
THE FIRES / 77
“Okay, honey. Let’s turn out the lights and start all over,” he said, nudging me toward the bed.
I pushed his hand away and ran for the door, afraid he’d grab me again. “Poor girl,” I heard him say before I closed it behind me. I wanted to kill him.
Halfway down the hall, I saw Jo carrying the books; it was the end of the month, and she was working late. “I was just—” She looked down at my half-buttoned dress, the slip hanging out from one sleeve.
“Don’t worry,” I said hoarsely. I couldn’t bear to look at her fluttering eyelashes, her pink, shocked mouth. This would only make her pity me. Wiping smeared lipstick from my mouth, I said, “I left before it got out of hand.”
“Ella,” she said softly, shaking her head. “What are you doing?”
The ice machine clattered and hummed. I couldn’t think of any way to answer this, so I slipped past her against the wall, went down the hall to my room, and locked the door.
I f I could remember the fire, I wouldn’t need to test the men anymore, and if I could remember, I could help my mother forget, help her lose that guilt, and maybe leave Porter without worrying about her. I couldn’t remember the fire any more than I could remember being born, but I wanted to believe the memory lay buried somewhere at the bottom of a box filled with tangled jewelry, that if I searched long and hard, I would find it.
When I closed my eyes, there were flames against the skin-dark of my lids. It happened when I was four. What was fire to me then? Not dangerous, but bright and watery as a reflection; vulnerable and nervous as a cat; amorphous, half hidden, a brilliance rising up out of sleep.
Maybe early on, something had told me there was a way to go 78 / RENÉ STEINKE
through fire, a way to not let it touch me. There was a stained-glass window I must have seen, held in my mother’s lap in the front pew—three bearded men standing calmly in a furnace, the flames at their feet and heads like a frame of poinsettias. Or maybe, as my father read aloud, I’d seen a picture in the National Geographic of the Indian men who walked serenely through burning coals, their mouths and brows drawn back as if facing a strong wind.
I rolled over on my side to look out the window near my bed.
A bright streetlight turned the dust on the glass white, shadowed the stiff, dead moth between the
“I was just going to get that light.”
His teeth were yellow, and so were the whites of his eyes.
“What for? It’s not too bright, is it?” He edged in close to me, and I glanced down at his stomach, pouching over a narrow black belt. I decided not to test whether or not he noticed the scars, so I yawned dramatically. I was about to tell him I had to go when his mouth slammed against mine, his tongue jabbing at my teeth.
He quickly unbuttoned my dress, hooked his fingers under the strap of my slip, and yanked it down to my waist. I wrestled away from him, covered myself as best I could, and said, “I have to go.”
“No you don’t,” he said in a gravelly voice and swallowed. He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me back on the bed. He pulled down my slip again. My skin felt hard, as if it were cracking. The red horsehead under my breasts reared up in that harsh light, and the thorny vines unfurled, very red and raised, almost as if they were growing.
He sat back on his heels and combed his fingers through his hair. “What’s this?”
He got off the bed and stood looking down with his mouth drawn into a stupid O. I pulled up my dress and shakily buttoned it.
“What happened to you?”
“I was burned.”
“You might have told me,” he said, as if I’d offended him.
“I might have,” I said, standing up. “If I hadn’t already decided to leave.” He had a heavy face full of cheap longing. Deep bags purpled under his eyes.
He stepped closer and put his clammy hand around my waist.
THE FIRES / 77
“Okay, honey. Let’s turn out the lights and start all over,” he said, nudging me toward the bed.
I pushed his hand away and ran for the door, afraid he’d grab me again. “Poor girl,” I heard him say before I closed it behind me. I wanted to kill him.
Halfway down the hall, I saw Jo carrying the books; it was the end of the month, and she was working late. “I was just—” She looked down at my half-buttoned dress, the slip hanging out from one sleeve.
“Don’t worry,” I said hoarsely. I couldn’t bear to look at her fluttering eyelashes, her pink, shocked mouth. This would only make her pity me. Wiping smeared lipstick from my mouth, I said, “I left before it got out of hand.”
“Ella,” she said softly, shaking her head. “What are you doing?”
The ice machine clattered and hummed. I couldn’t think of any way to answer this, so I slipped past her against the wall, went down the hall to my room, and locked the door.
I f I could remember the fire, I wouldn’t need to test the men anymore, and if I could remember, I could help my mother forget, help her lose that guilt, and maybe leave Porter without worrying about her. I couldn’t remember the fire any more than I could remember being born, but I wanted to believe the memory lay buried somewhere at the bottom of a box filled with tangled jewelry, that if I searched long and hard, I would find it.
When I closed my eyes, there were flames against the skin-dark of my lids. It happened when I was four. What was fire to me then? Not dangerous, but bright and watery as a reflection; vulnerable and nervous as a cat; amorphous, half hidden, a brilliance rising up out of sleep.
Maybe early on, something had told me there was a way to go 78 / RENÉ STEINKE
through fire, a way to not let it touch me. There was a stained-glass window I must have seen, held in my mother’s lap in the front pew—three bearded men standing calmly in a furnace, the flames at their feet and heads like a frame of poinsettias. Or maybe, as my father read aloud, I’d seen a picture in the National Geographic of the Indian men who walked serenely through burning coals, their mouths and brows drawn back as if facing a strong wind.
I rolled over on my side to look out the window near my bed.
A bright streetlight turned the dust on the glass white, shadowed the stiff, dead moth between the
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