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Rocky cheerfully greets me at the door, nudging the back of my knees as I kick out of my heels while simultaneously punching in the alarm code. I toss my purse onto the counter as he runs circles around me, convincing me I made the right choice dropping by to let him out.
He bolts the moment I open the back door. I text Greg that I’m on my way and then make a mad dash for the laundry room, wriggling out of my skirt and tossing my blouse onto the floor. I riffle through the dryer and come out with jeans and Greg’s old college hoodie. They’ll have to do.
It hits me then. The trial, small details. I’d been in my senior year of college when I’d served on the jury. I had a job I hated, and I’m pretty sure I would have said yes to just about anything that ethically took me away from it.
Searching the entryway for my tennis shoes, I come up empty-handed. They aren’t by the front door or the back, either. Finally, I give up and slip into boots.
Rocky scratches at the door, and I let him in, patting his head. “I’ll be back,” I say, grabbing my keys. When he sees me reach for my purse, he paws at me, jumping, circling around me, and finally jumping up on me, knocking me into the wall. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm him. “I won’t be long.”
It doesn’t work. He bites at my ankles, tugging at my pant leg, and I realize he wants to go back outside. I sigh, then watching his spinning body, I cave. It’s gorgeous out, and I am in a hurry. We won’t be long, and I figure it can’t hurt to just leave him out.
I’m halfway down the drive and I can hear that the barking hasn’t subsided. I pause, foot on the brake, questioning whether it was wise to leave him out, when the smoke catches my eye.
Dense black clouds are billowing out the back of Mrs. Crumps house. I immediately know that something is off; it’s too thick to be the grill. Her house is on fire.
Throwing the car in park, I dial 911.
The operator asks for the address and tries to keep me on the phone. “She’s in there,” I say, shoving the phone in my pocket. I head for her gate. Mrs. Crump often leaves the patio door open. I know because she complains a lot about Rocky barking and about the noise the girls make. It interrupts her programs. She can hardly hear them as it is. “Mrs. Crump?” I call out, the fence slamming behind me. “Mrs. Crump?”
My face falls when I see that the back door is closed and the curtains drawn. I jiggle the door handle. The door is locked, but her Cadillac is in the driveway. She has a son who lives with her, but he’s rarely home. I can’t recall whether I saw his car parked at the curb. I don’t think so.
Circling back around front, I continue calling her name. Neighbors drift out of their homes and look on. The front door is also locked. I beat against it with balled fists until I’m breathless. Stretching my fingers, I wipe my brow, and give the door a good kick, flipping the doormat in the process. Lying underneath it is the shiniest, luckiest silver key I’ve ever seen. I know I shouldn’t go in. Sirens wail in the distance. I should wait for the fire department. And yet, I put the key in the lock, and open the door. Smoke plumes out, forcing me to pull my hoodie over my face. It occurs to me then that running into a burning house for an old woman who barely tolerates me is an idiotic thing to do. But then I think about what I know about smoke inhalation, and I’m not sure I could live with myself if I didn’t at least try to help.
Stepping into the living area, the smoke is so dense that I can’t see anything. I call out to her, but I’m coughing, making it impossible to hear anything, even if there was a response. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, telling me to turn back. I have a family. People that depend on me. But then, as I start up the stairs, I hear her calling for help. And what am I supposed to do?
I take them two by two, listening for her voice, and it’s like we’re playing Marco Polo underwater. I find her in the second-floor bathroom. Instead of trying to flee the house, she has placed herself under the spray of the shower.
I rip off the wet shower curtain, throw it over her and beckon her to follow me. She refuses at first, and I almost leave her. She must sense that I’m going to—at least I can tell the fire department where to find her—so with some coaxing she climbs out of the tub. At the speed of which she takes the stairs, I’m not sure she wants to live. “Come on,” I say. “Don’t you want a story to tell?”
This seems to be
the pep talk she needs, which is how we find ourselves out on the lawn surrounded by well-meaning neighbors and paramedics.
Eventually, things settle. They put the fire out. They check us over. I decline treatment. Mrs. Crump refuses transport to the hospital for further evaluation and is given supplemental oxygen. Her son arrives home.
His face is pale and stoic as he approaches. She tells him to get her checkbook. I’m surprised when he doesn’t look at her like she is crazy; he just asks where it is. I deserve a reward, she tells him, and I hesitate to explain that isn’t how rewards generally work. At any rate, it would be impossible to get a word in edgewise. She drones on and on, and at last she wants to know how much her life is worth, anyway.
When the fire marshal asks to speak with her alone, it’s just me and her son standing there. She hadn’t mentioned having family when she bought the house, so Greg and I were both surprised when he came to live with her about six months in.
I know little about him other than he keeps to himself, and the neighbors say he’s strange. I can’t recall him ever saying a word to me, perhaps a curt nod if our eyes happened to meet, but not even a wave. He spoke to Greg once, something about feeding the birds, and Greg told me about it with a hint of trepidation. I don’t want you to worry, he’d said. He didn’t elaborate; there hadn’t been time. We were doing the bath and bedtime shuffle and in the middle of the conversation one of the girls ended up in tears. All he’d said was that we should keep an eye out.
Now we’re standing on the sidewalk, surveying the damage, when he turns to me and says, “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
Chapter Six
Greg arrived home with a sleeping child slung across both arms and a takeout bag precariously teetering on top. After he’d put Blair to bed, he showered while I helped Naomi into a bath.
Greg wanders in and rests against the doorframe. One look at him, and I fall apart. He takes me in his arms, and then as my tears evolve into full sobs, he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the bathroom. Back against the wall, I can see the concern written across his face. The unspoken question. “What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
He pulls me close, rubbing my back in slow circles. “It’s okay,” he says. “No one died.”
Naomi bursts around the corner, dripping water, half of the contents of the tub pooling at her feet. “I said I need a towel.”
Greg takes her back into the bathroom. Leaning half out the door, he tells me to put on a movie, and then, “Did you ask for the footage?”
“Not yet,” I say, thinking the overbearing seller is the last person I want to deal with right now. “I’m going to text Dana. She’ll get it.”
