It Burns a Lovely Light (9 page)

Nothing personal my pancake ass. He shifted down, careful to keep his eyes on the twisty mountain road, which was barely wide enough for two cars to pass.

I got the boot from Mr. Boot.
Larry had to chuckle,
in spite of his situation.

He cranked his window down and let the cool desert air fill his lungs. So liberating, after the stale casino air. No more false windows to hide the reality of the sun coming up - or going down again. No more bright
lights and constant clanging of bells. No more watching (encouraging them, let's be real) poor suckers scrape the bottom of their wallets because, despite the overwhelming odds against them, there was always a chance they could beat
the house.

What the hell. He'd find another job. He was honest and not afraid of hard work. Sure, he'd land on his feet. But Mr. Boot would always be five-foot-four with a voice like Alvin the Chipmunk. Energized, downright
hopeful, Larry turned on the radio and sang along with Waylon and Willie and the boys. A little louder than usual.

"Out in Luckenbach, Texas, ain't nobody feelin' no pain!"

Up ahead, a flash of oncoming headlights. The car was
flying. Goddamn kids. Larry slowed and brought his truck as close to the edge of the road as he dared. He watched in horror as, instead of turning with the curve of the road, the car went straight through the guardrail and disappeared
over the side of the mountain.

"Holy-shit-holy-shit-holy-fucking-shit," he cried, speeding uphill until he found a spot wide enough to turn around. Then he drove back down the mountain as fast as he dared. He threw his truck into park and
scrambled down the ravine, dreading what he might find.

For the rest of his life, Larry would never shake the images of that night. The flattened metal where the driver's side should be. The
woman, so beautiful. The man's head resting on her shoulder, his lower body crushed beneath twisted metal, his blood seeping through the white of her dress. Smoke. The searing smell of gasoline.

Larry yanked on the passenger side door.

"It's stuck!" he yelled to the woman. "Push it! Push the door from the inside!"

She ignored him, stroking her husband's hair and whispering into the hole where his ear used to be. Frantic, Larry ran around the car,
searching for a way in. As he rounded the trunk there was a dull thump. Then another. Flames burst from under the back of the car. Holy shit. This fucker was going to blow.

Running back to the front of the car, he waved his arms over
his head.

"For God's sake, get out!" he pleaded. "Your man is dead!"

That did it. She looked up, straight into Larry's eyes.

"Atta girl," he panted, pointing to the shattered
section of the windshield. "Now climb on out, right there..."

Her eyes still on Larry, she whispered something in the hole where the dead man's ear used to be.

Larry backed away as the flames moved closer.

"LADY, GET OUT OF THE CAR!" he screamed.

She gave him a slight, heartbreaking smile and shook her head. No.

William sat on the counter top, his slippers making a 'thumpada-thumpada-thumpada' against the cabinet as he watched Farley cook. One by one, she cracked the eggs on the side of the skillet and dropped them into
the sputtering bacon drippings. She scooped around the edges with a spatula. Hot grease spit from the pan, leaving shiny dots on her hand and forearm. William flinched.

"Farley..."

She scraped the burnt toast with the edge of a steak knife. In the stillness of the morning, with the first light finally emerging, the sound was like a shovel scraping across the sidewalk.

Four plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. Orange juice. Two hot
coffees. Jelly. Butter. Catsup.

Neither of them touched their food. William rubbed the hem of his pajama top against the palm of his hand and clicked his tongue. Across the table, Farley shivered, oddly cold, even with her father's flight jacket
over her lap.

Outside the familiar whine of the jets warming up...taking off. Silence. The bright green leaves from the lemon plants strained toward the emerging daylight.

"Farley..." whispered William, his lip quivering.

The doorbell sounded different this early in the morning.

"I knew it!" cried William, jumping up from his chair. "They're back! They're home!"

He ran for the front door.

"No," said Farley, unable to move.

William had once described what happened to the body when dread and panic collide. The bowels loosen before the brain registers the
terror. Bowels. They had laughed.

As if from the back row of a smoky movie theatre, she watched as they entered the kitchen and took their places on her mother's polished black and white linoleum. The Wing Commander, his face kind. His wife,
sunglasses in the morning. People really do wring their hands when they are anxious. The Chaplain, specks of dried blood on his chin - a quick shave before the breaking of the hearts.

Wings at the door.

Farley stood, her legs unsteady. Her mother's diamond clip flopped over one eye, hanging on by a few fragile strands of hair. She looked into the sad, pastel eyes of the Wing Commander.

"I always thought you would be taller," she whispered.

"She's in shock," said the wife. "Get her some brandy."

The floor tilted.

In the movies, there was often a pause between waking and remembering. A few precious seconds of innocence before reality comes flying in to devastate all over again. Just a small piece of happiness before the awful truth rips you open. But when Farley woke up in her parents' bed, her pillow
was already drenched.

The room was dark, except for thin veins of sunlight bleeding through the drapes. Outside, children played Red Rover. She heard high-pitched voices calling someone - someone who had no idea his whole life
could be smashed to pieces with the ring of a doorbell - right over.

In the house, sounds of people softly gathering..."I threw together a casserole...here, let me take that...can't believe it...I
know...I know..."

She escaped into the exquisite obscurity of sleep. An occasional cool hand on her forehead...the sweet, overwhelming fragrance of Shalimar.

When she woke, the slivers of morning sunlight had been
replaced by the cold bluish light of early evening. The faint odor of this morning's breakfast still lingered in the air. The odd thought came to her; for the rest of her life, the smell of burnt toast, bacon, and the death of her
family would be undeniably forged in her mind.

Muffled voices of women in the hall, lining up for the bathroom.

"They were the perfect couple."

"I'm still in shock. I can't stop crying."

"I know; I burst into tears as soon as I heard. We got the first call, after the Wing Commander and the Chaplain."

"Beth said they got the first call."

"Beth is so full of shit."

A toilet flushed. Silence. The sound of running water.

"Did you taste Maureen's dip?"

"God, what a waste of good crab meat."

The squeaky creak of the bathroom door opening.

"Maureen! I love your hair."

"Really? I don't know."

"Such horrible news."

"The worst. Can you believe Pauline wouldn't get out of the car?"

Farley sat up.

Her ear to pressed to the door, she listened to the voices
stepping over each other.

"...tragic love story ... rather die than be without him...she wouldn't get out...those poor kids..."

The voices continued as Farley slid down the wall and pressed her cheek to the carpet. She wondered, in that calm way shock has of padding the heart until the mind can possibly begin to comprehend, if she could survive this.

"Isn't Farley off to some artsy photography school in New York?"

"I wonder what's going to happen to William. He's a handful."

"I hate to say it, but who wants to take that on?"

Take care of your brother.

Let's go, Jack. She'll be fine.

William.

Making her way through the cluster of the well-meaning, the heavily perfumed hairdos and mournful embraces, Farley found him in the living room, curled up on the floor next to their mother's lemon tree.

"Scotch eggs, my favorite." Joe tossed a hard-boiled egg coated with hot sausage from hand to hand.

"Put that down before you burn yourself," scolded
Veda Marie. "Sit. I'll make you a plate."

"No time. I'm already late for the coaches' meeting."

Claire refreshed her coffee. "I hope all this coaching
isn't interfering with your studies."

"Never fear, Mummy dearest. I'm only an assistant coach." He tossed the egg high in the air. "When I'm head coach, we might have a problem."

"So you're ready for your Geology exam this afternoon?"

"You bet."

Veda Marie's eyebrows disappeared into her bangs. Lighting a cigarette, she leaned against the counter.

"We need to patch the roof on the carriage house again," she said. "One of Resa's tiny dancers is going to snap an ankle, maneuvering around all those buckets."

"No biggie." Resa waved a hand. "Any dancer
worth her leotard should be able to leap over a few buckets."

"You're a good sport," said Claire. "I already have a call in to a new repair company."

Resa Romano taught dance classes in the carriage house out back.
She looked the part: bone-thin, hair always up in a messy bun. Her posture was perfect. One wayward eyetooth pushed her lip out, giving her mouth an exotic twist.

"What happened to the other guys?" she asked.

"They quit," said Claire. "I think they were afraid of me."

As if on cue, the phone rang.

"That's probably the new one." Claire pushed her
chair back.

"Try being nice to this one." Veda Marie stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and swatted Joe on the arm. "If that exam of yours is so easy, why were you still at your desk at two o'clock this
morning?"

"What are you, the bedtime police?" Joe playfully swatted her back. "Get out of my business, woman."

A shrill laugh escaped before Claire clamped her hands over
her mouth; her eyes wild. The receiver fell to the floor.

"Mum?"

Veda Marie picked up the phone.

"Who the hell is this," she demanded.

After she hung up the phone Veda Marie pulled Claire into a
tight embrace.

"I thought those calls only came in the middle of the night," whispered Claire.

"Mum." Joe straightened his shoulders, preparing
himself. "It's Dad, isn't it."

"No," she moaned. "Pauline...my Pauline...and Jack. Oh, God!"

"Joe, the car keys are under the seat," said Veda
Marie, lowering Claire into a chair. "Run and get your uncle Ryan."

"Wake up." Farley's voice was flat. "We're here."

"Are we home?" asked William, rolling crumbs of sleep from his eyes.

Home. Farley stared out the car window. "We're at Bridge Manor."

The screen door slammed behind Veda Marie as she ran toward
the car, arms spread wide. Farley fell into her embrace and moaned as they rocked back and forth. With one arm around Farley, she waved for William to come closer. Still so very small, his reddish hair was already turning brown. Braces
dominated his pale freckled face.

"May I give you a kiss, lovey?"

He nodded, and she kissed his cheek.

Behind them, Joe's heavy footsteps pounded down the
driveway. "Farley!"

Joe's stocky body was all muscle and he had his mother's deep, gruff voice. Yet his face crumbled like a child as he ran toward his cousin. Inches shorter than Farley, he lifted her off her feet and held her
tight. Finally, wiping his eyes with the back of his thick hand, he turned to William.

"Hey. How's the superhero?"

Grinning shyly, William clenched his arms Popeye-style.

William put his hands on his hips and made a big show of looking around his bedroom as he tried not to cry.

"Your room and Joe's are connected by a bathroom," said Veda Marie. "Your sister's room is directly above you."

A small hand appeared in the doorway, fingers wriggling. A child giggled.

"I swear, that giggle sounds like Eileen Kane," said Veda Marie.

"It
is
me, Veda Marie!" A girl with
freckles on her nose and a head full of golden curls tip-toed into the room. She wore a smiley face tee shirt and dirty pink shorts.

William wriggled his fingers. "Hi."

Eileen waved back. "I have freckles, too."

"I have more."

Silence.

"Eileen is a dance student of Resa's," said Veda Marie, opening William's suitcase. She lives down the hill from us." She
turned to Eileen. "Does your mother know where you are, lovey?"

Eileen's bottom lip pushed out in a perfect pout: a Hummel come to life.

"She's not my mother," she said. "She just
said be home in time for supper."

Supper. William perked up. "What time do we eat?"

"No particular time," said Veda Marie. "I can
make you something whenever you're ready."

Eileen and William shared a bowl of grapes under the gingko tree.

"My name isn't really Eileen," she said, her mouth
full. "It's Eleanor Rigby."

William frowned. "That's a lie name."

She wrinkled her nose, changing the design of her freckles. Grape juice trickled down her chin. "I'm seven and a half. How old are
you?"

"I turned fifteen on my birthday." He hung his head and sucked on his headgear. "My mom made Superman cupcakes with kryptonite sprinkles and everything."

"I don't have a mother, either." Eileen ran her
hand down the shiny fabric of William's cloak. "I like your cape."