Disintegration Part 2

Jacob elbowed the doctor away and climbed onto Renee, his left leg skewed limp and useless. Half of him wanted to crawl inside her and hide, to seek those soft places that had always offered him sanctuary. The other half wanted her to bleed, to suffer, to choke on her words. And that half was taking over.

He drew back his hand to slap her. Dr. Masutu tried to grab his wrist, but he squirmed free, losing another piece of skin in the process. He swept his hand toward her face and her eyes locked on his, not blinking against the blow. Inviting him. Daring him.

And he stopped.

She couldn't win. Not like this.

He collapsed into a fetal position, the ointment sticky against the tiles. The floor smelled of pine cleanser and bleach. Dr. Masutu gave directions to the nurse, and someone was mopping up fluid. Dr. Masutu knelt and took Jacob's arm. This time, Jacob didn't resist as the needle entered the inner crook of his elbow.

"Mattie is is in the hospital, Jakie," Renee said. in the hospital, Jakie," Renee said.

Numbness crept up his arm, rushed into his head, and the drug ma.s.saged his brain with its icy fingers.

"On the bottom floor," Renee said, as Jacob slipped back into the grotto, surrendered once more to the black soothing liquid of unconsciousness.

He drowned at Renee's last words: "In the morgue."

CHAPTER THREE.

Renee didn't know what was more terrible, burying an older child or burying an infant.

Mothers should not outlast their children. Mothers should go first, by any rule of the universe, under any decree of a caring G.o.d.

She wiped her eyes and the dishwater stung. She only had three plates, and they were all clean, but she washed them again anyway. Same with the coffee cup. She had scrubbed it until no hint of brown remained. If she rubbed the cup any harder, she would wear through its ceramic skin.

The apartment was devoid of any personality. Beige couch, matching armchair, solid oak table in the kitchenette with matching benches. Bare walls of antique white, a drab sea of gray carpet. Perfectly lifeless.

She was afraid she would never feel alive again. Sure, her lungs inflated and her heart pumped blood, her fingers and toes moved, her eyes blinked. But life was more than the sum of working parts.

Once, while making love to Jacob in their first year of marriage, she had the sensation of floating outside her body. She saw the two of them below, Jacob on his back, her with blonde hair dangling as they moved in a smooth and careless rhythm of hips.

"How happy and alive they look," the disembodied part of herself had thought. Even without her gla.s.ses, she could see with great clarity from her ethereal vantage point. A voyeuristic guilt tugged her back into her flesh and the sensation had pa.s.sed, but not the notion that she was totally and absurdly right where G.o.d had wanted her to be.

She experienced that same discorporate sensation last year when the tractor was lowering Christine's coffin into the rectangular, red hollow of the Earth. There had been no pleasure in the sensation that time, only an aloof split, and then she rose like a polluted balloon. She swept over the scene on a September wind, cold, brittle, bound for the dead of winter. The cemetery stones jutted like broken icebergs, the greater part of their mystery unseen beneath the surface. The ancient maple by the steel gate had already lost its leaves and stood as helpless as the priest while the tractor's engine whined. Jacob stood in a dark wool coat, holding Mattie against him. Mattie wore black mittens, and their ends were damp because she had wiped her nose with them.

The tractor stripped a gear in its winch box and the coffin jerked, the chain from which it was suspended digging into the well-s.h.i.+ned surface. Lawrence McMasters, the funeral director, kept his lips pursed in practiced, stoic sorrow as he tried to usher the grieving family away.

The Renee she'd left behind on the ground couldn't take her eyes from the coffin, which began to spin awkwardly two feet deep into its final resting place, knocking against the earthen sides of the grave and raining dirt. The tractor operator cursed and Father Rose crossed himself. Jacob called Renee's name and then Christine's, and Renee was grateful that the main service had been at St. Mary's and that the graveside service was restricted to immediate family.

A family whose members.h.i.+p was now reduced.

She witnessed the debacle from the distant safety of the sky, and remembered looking down at herself with pity, though part of her was glad to be momentarily free of the pain.

She had no delusions of being an angel. In that bleak stretch of impossible perspective, she saw herself as she really was: scared, fragile, clinging to the threads of a reality whose fabric threatened to unravel.

It wasn't at all how she viewed herself in the mirror, when vanity battled insecurity and the face was always familiar, plain, and far too old. That woman standing beside the oblong hole was an utter stranger, alone and futureless, unconnected to the flesh she had created and nurtured.

The escape was all too brief, and the wind pulled her spirit back into her body, or the illusion dissolved, or the dissociative episode of grief ended. And all that was left was the coffin swinging from the end of the chain like the tool of a brutal hypnotist.

Dishes. She plunged her hands back into the soapy water. The plates needed to sparkle like those in detergent commercials. Out, out, d.a.m.ned spots.

There was a knock on the door. She hadn't had a visitor in several days, when the last of her friends had paid their obligatory sympathies. Her best girlfriend Kim, who knew secrets about her that even Jacob hadn't plumbed, had resigned herself to the fact that Renee wanted to get through it on her own. A stubborn blonde, that's what Kim had called her, and if she ever needed a shoulder to cry on, give a call. Otherwise, here's a ca.s.serole and don't hurry about returning the dish.

Renee dried her hands on a towel that was wrapped around the refrigerator handle. She didn't want company right now. The house was a mess. No, "house" wasn't the right word, house had connotations of home, and what had once been her home was now a heap of dark, dead ashes. This apartment wasn't home, it was a temporary sleep chamber of the soul.

The knock came again, more insistent, authoritative. Be polite, she told herself. A good hostess. Mrs. Jacob Wells. She opened the door.

It was Kingsboro's fire chief, stocky, dressed in an informal uniform of dark trousers and blue s.h.i.+rt. Her red hair was tied back but the sun caught some stray strands that glowed like firecracker fuses. Renee wondered if her hair color had led the woman to her career choice, the result of some homeopathic psychological pull. Or maybe she'd suffered some long-ago disaster of her own that had compelled her into public service.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Renee had forgotten the woman's name, since their first meeting had been in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy. The Tragedy, with a capital T T. That was how she referred to the night, both in forced conversation and in the hidden depths of her private thoughts. But now she saw the name above the badge, Davidson, and remembered they had spoken at some length, but couldn't recall a word either of them had said.

"Davidson, Kingsboro Fire Department. Sorry to bother you again."

"That's okay," Renee said, struggling to drive images of The Tragedy from her mind: the confusion as she rolled from the blankets, the stench of chemical smoke, the winking numerals of the alarm clock, Jacob's shouting, her attempt to follow him before the flames cut her off, the flight down the stairs, the descent into h.e.l.l, the escape into night air, and then the continuing descent into a deeper h.e.l.l.

"I'd like to ask you a few more questions. May I come in?"

Renee stood aside, and the sliding of the invisible mask over her face was an almost physical sensation. "Please excuse the mess. And wipe your feet."

Davidson looked down at her boots, which she had wiped on the outdoor welcome mat. She wiped again, then once more on the carpeted rug inside. Renee led Davidson to the couch and sat across from her in the armchair. The apartment seemed too small.

"First of all," Davidson said, "I'm sorry for your loss. If we'd had any chance for a rescue--"

"I know. I'm sure you guys did everything you could. n.o.body's blaming you." Because Renee bore all the blame, except for that one dark sliver she allowed Jacob.

"I understand how difficult this is, but we need some more information to help us determine the cause."

"You already have my statement."

"Yes, ma'am. But that was made in what we like to call 'the heat of the moment.'" She smiled, but the expression on Renee's face made it fade fast. Davidson's voice s.h.i.+fted into an official monotone. "People sometimes remember things later, after they've settled their minds a little bit. Could you please go over the sequence of events one more time?"

Renee closed her eyes and tried to separate the actual events from her nightmares of the past two weeks. The reality and the nightmare had fused into one giant h.e.l.l storm, a series of flickering images that seared her psyche and hot-wired her nerves. "I woke up," she said finally. "And Jake was sitting on the edge of the bed."

"Are you sure? You didn't wake up first and then wake him up?"

"No. I'm a heavy sleeper--" Renee rubbed at her swollen eyelids. "I mean, I used to be a heavy sleeper. Jake always had to poke me in the ribs to get me to stop snoring. Or so he says. I'm still not convinced that I snore, and I challenged him to make a tape recording to prove it. Seems unladylike somehow, breathing through your nose like a lumberjack in a cartoon."

Davidson nodded, and Renee knew she was babbling, but the act of recollection had pushed her to the dangerous cliff edge, the wind was blowing, the abyss was black and deep, and her balance wasn't what it should be. Renee rushed on, afraid that if she paused, she would go back to that scary place inside that had beckoned her with the promise of isolation and safety.

"I woke up and I looked at the clock because I thought it was morning and time to get Mattie ready for school. I feel it's a wife's duty to have breakfast on the table, get the family off to a good start. That's our deal, Jake works and I take care of the house. I mean, nothing personal, you being a woman in a man's job, that must be hard, especially here in the mountains where everybody's so conservative."

That almost made Davidson flinch, but her firewall face kept its grim countenance. "It's tough enough being a woman no matter what," she said.

"When Jake woke me up, I smelled smoke, and of course I thought of Mattie first thing. I yelled at Jake, but he told me to stay, he'd take care of her. We practiced, of course. We had fire drills and we put those little child ID stickers on the window and we had one of those rope ladders under the bed. Everything you're supposed to do. But the real thing is never like a drill, and I don't think you could ever practice the way it really happens. But I guess you know that better than anybody.

"I followed Jake to the door, even though he told me to stay, because I usually obey him, but I was half-asleep and confused and then the smoke made me dizzy. I was about to go into the hallway when Jacob screamed at me and slammed the door, and I trusted him to save Mattie--"

Renee's throat caught for the first time, breaking the unthinking stream of words. The fire chief waited, making no gesture of sympathy. Chapped, coa.r.s.e hands, ones comfortable around an axe handle. And a wet blade of gra.s.s clung to the toe of her boot. Lying was easier now. Renee sniffed and continued.

"I waited for maybe a minute, then put my hand on the door. It was hot, and I remembered what they say about fire needing air to breathe. The alarm was going crazy--"

"Excuse me. Did your husband wake you up, or did the alarm?"

Renee shook her head. In the nightmare, the alarm was blasting like a freighter's fog horn and Jacob had the blanket over her head, pulling it tight, cutting off her air and m.u.f.fling her screams. "I think the alarm was already going. But it had gone off before, like when Jacob stayed up late and burned some toast or something, and the sound didn't wake me up right away. It sort of turned into whatever I was dreaming and became a part of it. I told you I was a heavy sleeper. Jacob says I ought to get tested for sleep apnea, because that can kill you."

"Okay. You're standing at the door waiting for your husband to tell you when to come out?"

"Yeah. I think he told me to jump out the window, but we had the fire ladder under Mattie's bed. When we practiced, we all met in Mattie's room and then climbed out her window, so I thought maybe the fire wasn't too bad yet, he was going to get everything ready, then take Mattie down and come back for me. I couldn't see any fire, just the smoke, so I didn't know what it was like out there."

"Did you see flames before your husband closed the door? Out in the hall, I mean?"

"I saw a reflection of light in the dresser mirror, right before I stood up. I was still in bed and barely awake. I couldn't tell if the reflection was the fire or if Jacob had turned on the hall light or something. He yelled at me to call 9-1-1 and I tried to find my gla.s.ses and couldn't, so I punched in the numbers from memory. I must have got it wrong the first time because I had to try again."

"But you looked at the clock?"

"Yeah. It was one something, but I didn't have my gla.s.ses on, so I thought the first two numerals were a 'seven,' which is why I thought it might be morning. That's another thing that makes it confusing when I wake up, because my eyesight is really bad without my gla.s.ses. I can barely even recognize myself in the mirror without them."

"How long did you wait at the bedroom door?"

"Maybe two more minutes, then I heard something crackling and I guess something downstairs fell over, because there was a loud bang and that's when I first started getting really worried. I was wide awake by then."

"We believe the fire started downstairs," Davidson said. "The sliding gla.s.s door was open, and a couple of the kitchen windows. The fire was able to get a good rolling start with a cross-draft like that. It probably had eaten up half the downstairs before the smoke got thick enough to set off the fire detectors upstairs. Tell me, was it usual for you folks to leave the sliding gla.s.s door open?"

"That's Jacob again. He's restless, he sometimes gets up in the middle of the night and works downstairs. He makes a snack and gets on the computer and sometimes he might be gone half the night. I hardly notice, because I'm a heavy sleeper. But he likes fresh air, and this is a safe neighborhood."

Renee paused, reminded by Davidson's stare that she and Jacob and Mattie no longer lived in the house on Elk Avenue. She looked around at the pale walls of her new lifeless life.

"Are you sure Jacob woke you up? Was he in the bed when you first heard the alarm?"

"Yeah. That's what he told me. And I can see it plain as day, him sitting up with his back to me, the streetlight coming through the curtains just a little, and then he ran and threw on his robe and went out the door, and I was just starting to get out of bed. And I could hear the alarm, I remember that, and then I reached on the bedside table for my gla.s.ses but they must have fallen to the floor."

"So you found them, because I remember you had them on when we arrived."

"No, that was my extra pair. People with normal vision don't know what it's like, but I could hardly find my way out the door. Then when I finally heard Jacob yell at me, and yell Mattie's name, I opened the door and all I could see was a blur of yellow and red flames and black smoke and the house looked like it was caving in and Jacob told me to run, he'd get Mattie and meet me outside. All I could think of was to get down the stairs, fast, but I should have jumped out the window because the downstairs was one big fire and the smoke was hurting me and I was dizzy, but I was lucky I went when I did because I just made it out the sliding gla.s.s door when it sounded like the floor collapsed."

"Was the sliding gla.s.s door open when you went downstairs, or did you have to open it?"

Renee appraised the squat, red-headed woman. What right did she have to act suspicious, play macho, barge in and dance on Mattie's grave? Davidson had probably watched too many forensic crime shows on television, and now an accident could never be just an accident. Somebody always had to have something to hide.

"It was open," Renee said. "You already said that."

Davidson nodded again, the stub of head dipping, the facial features as inflexible as a rubber fright mask. "That's right. I forgot. I'd better write all this down."

The fire chief leaned forward and pulled a small composition pad from her back pocket. A tiny sc.r.a.p of paper fell from the wire rings of the pad. Renee stared at the sc.r.a.p, which fluttered to a rest beside Davidson's left foot. She almost leaned over and picked it up, but didn't want to come near the fire chief's leg.

"So you're down the stairs and outside," Davidson said, marking in the pad. "Then what?"

"I ran into the yard and looked up at Mattie's window. I couldn't see anything, and by then the fire was too hot for me to go back inside. I ran to the car--"

"There were two cars in the driveway. Was yours the SUV or the Subaru sedan?"

"Subaru. I grabbed my purse--"

"Your purse. You leave your purse in an unlocked car?"

"It's a safe neighborhood, like I told you. And I hardly ever carry much money. But I figured I needed my gla.s.ses or I'd be useless, I wouldn't be able to help Jacob and Mattie when they came out through the window. I carry an extra pair in my purse."

"Did you see anything unusual?"

"Besides the house on fire?"

Davidson's lips pressed together like those of a meditating toad. "Please, Mrs. Wells. I know this is difficult, but I'm only doing my job. Did you see anyone around?"

"No. Some of the lights came on in the houses down the street and I believe some dogs were barking. But all I can remember is the sound of the fire, the wood snapping and the walls creaking and the gla.s.s breaking. Then I started screaming and the scream turned into a siren and you guys showed up and I was scared because Jacob should have been out by then. The roof caved in a little and the firemen were beating on the front door with axes and I think I went crazy because all I could do was scream and Jacob and Mattie still didn't come out and they still didn't come out and they're still in there."

Renee realized she'd forgotten Davidson and found herself staring at the wall as if a film of the event had been projected there.

Davidson stood up, folded her pad and tucked it away. "I'm sorry, ma'am. This is the hardest part of the job, believe me. I'll let you know if we need anything else."

Renee glanced at the sc.r.a.p of paper and followed the fire chief to the door. Davidson stood on the porch a moment, looking out over the mountain ridges. "She's home with the Lord, Mrs. Wells. It was a hard way to get there, but the getting there is the main thing."

Renee nodded, eyes bleary, wanting the awkward moment to end. Catholicism had failed her when she needed faith the most. She'd viewed Mattie's death through the lenses of a dozen philosophies and religions, yet all of them blurred into the same dead end. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, go toward the light, ride the karmic wheel, take the stairway to heaven. None of them made sense. And none of them lessened the pain.

She closed the door and went to retrieve the tiny sc.r.a.p of paper from the floor, putting what she had of a home into perfect order.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Littlejohn Hospital lay on the edge of town, the s.h.i.+ning bridge between Kingsboro's urban future and its rural past. A shopping center and cl.u.s.ter of medical complexes were islands in the sea of asphalt leading up to the front entrance, while a cow pasture sprawled to the rear, waiting for the right developer to come along. In the street three stories below Jacob's room, Memorial Day traffic hissed in pointless conflict. Someone in the hall spat a tubercular laugh full of fatalistic cheer.

Jacob sat up and stared at the black screen of the television. The tubes were gone now and the burns had mostly healed, though portions of his body still received twice-daily applications of silvadene ointment. He was taking multiple courses of antibiotics, and the worst was over, according to Dr. Masutu. But the doctor was an optimist. The worst had only just begun.

Jacob looked at the tray on the table beside him. A fly landed on the scrambled eggs and tracked across the rubbery yellow surface. As a toddler, Mattie had called them "home flies," a cute corruption of the phrase "house flies." He watched the fly reach the tar pit of pancake syrup. It struggled, broke free, cut a lazy circle in the air, then lit again in the same sticky spot.

Renee entered the room. "Knock, knock."