Heartbreaker (7 page)

Look at you, I said, fanning the newspaper clippings across the floor of the van. The satellites can see you from space!

What's space? she asked.

It's everything around us that's not a thing.

She sighed. I want that, she said. I want all of it.

You'll have it, sweetheart, I assured her. It's already yours.

Yay, she said.

Yay, I echoed. I could feel her smiling, and I could see it, too, in the trees, at the very top, all mouth when she wanted to be, at other times all hands, or legs, dancing in the wind.

*   *   *

But as well as I knew her, as constantly as I tried to anticipate her needs and satisfy them, I did make the occasional mistake.

How's the woods this evening? I asked one night, early on in our relationship; we were in the habit of eating dinner together after I'd parked for the night, me in the front seat, her blazing off in the distance.

Delicious, she said. What are you having?

Egg salad, I told her. The gas-station sandwich was maybe a little spoiled from sitting on the dash all day, but I ate it anyway, then washed it down with the first thing at hand: old water from a half-gallon jug I'd found beneath the front seat.

What's that? she asked.

I paused, the water glugging in the jug. What's what?

That
sound
, she hissed.

I was just—drinking something.

Water?

Well—

Don't! she shrieked.

Sorry, sorry, I said, capping the jug and tossing it out the window, wincing when it hit a boulder.

Gosh, John, I mean, really!

I'm sorry. I'm stopping, I stopped. Okay? Honey?

There was only the sound of the tires on the road, the whip of passing cars. I glanced in my rearview mirror, but saw only smoke, no flame.

Hey, I said. Talk to me.

I'm busy.

Busy what?

Burning!

Of course, I said. I'm sorry.

Another silence, and then: Turn on the radio, she gusted gently. We gasped with pleasure when we heard the chorus of our favorite song, “Burning Down the House.” We sung in unison, as loud as we could, her voice and my voice in perfect harmony inside the cab of the old van.

*   *   *

She was, indeed, busy: at five weeks and 500,000 acres she was busier and busier. Hundreds were evacuated from threatened homes, and though she hadn't yet taken a neighborhood, she longed for one, bidding me time and again to describe what was in store: glass, garages, tennis courts, palm trees, pools. She had already had a few stray cars.
Tires
, she enthused.
Oh, John, the tires!

I kept driving, drinking Gatorade and eating bags of peanuts, soaking up the news. We had a lot to be proud of: she was on the cover of several local and national magazines
,
appeared on countless television shows, broke wildfire records daily. She grinned into the eyes of a hundred cameras, a thousand cell phones; I had a folder full of photos downloaded from libraries, her flames captured from every angle. Everyone for a hundred miles knew the name the papers gave her, but only I knew her true name, which was not a word but both a sound and a sight, a tremendous lightning roar scrawling itself across the parched earth.

*   *   *

In the evenings I would park the van and walk along the hills, as close as I could get to her, just off the freeway, the wind whipping my reeking T-shirt as we talked. There had never been anything like this in my life, nothing to prepare me for the intensity of my love for her, my happiness, my admiration, though there had been, I confessed, others: a half-dozen attempts in dry fields when I was a boy, a few Dumpster fires. Later, in my twenties and thirties, there'd been more serious encounters: a saucy little house blaze in the suburbs, an all-night conflagration at an abandoned lumber mill, the short-lived but brilliant rager at a used-furniture shop in the suburbs.

Did you love them?

No, I assured her, never. They were brave girls, all of them, and beautiful, yes, but they could not compare. Loving her was like loving a queen, or a mountain; she dominated me, she made me a subject, and yet when I looked into the van's mirrors I didn't see a plain soot-stained face or matted hair or a body encased in filthy rags; I saw something purer, lighter. I was untethering myself from the world of flesh. I was slowly becoming free.

*   *   *

Of course, I was not the only one in her thrall. Other admirers flocked by the dozens to the scenic-view pullouts off the highway: middle-aged men with canvas hats flapping in the high hot wind, teenagers in muscle T-shirts and cutoffs, vagabonds driving dusty RVs; young foreign couples with slick lips and beautiful hair. They carried binoculars, bag lunches, digital cameras, lattes and iced teas and Slurpees, expensive phones, cigarettes. I sat on the hood of my van, and though they took turns staring, no one spoke to me, and I had no desire to speak to them.

I don't understand why they don't have more men on the ground, a woman complained, flipping a gray braid over her shoulder. It's only twenty miles from the housing complex.

Who cares about some rich people's houses, a young man replied, scowling, his matchstick arms sleeved from wrist to bicep in ink. It's nature's revenge, man. Humans are parasites.

You include yourself in that statement? the woman scoffed.

Hell yes, I do.

State's spending as much as they can. It's a recession, someone added.

You can't just let people's property burn! the woman insisted. Someone shushed her and she turned, catching my eye, and scowled at me, though I had said nothing. There was a huge boom from the fire; a balloon of fresh flame splattered the sky. Everyone flinched and the boy laughed, a high, hysterical sound.

I heard it was man-made, a Japanese woman said, looking at her phone. They think it was started in the Valley by a homeless person.

Other voices chimed in: Probably some idiot burning trash.

Nah, they would have found something at the origin site. It's arson.

I heard some guy already turned himself in but they're keeping his name a secret.

If I knew that bastard's name I'd hang him myself. Me and my kids are sleeping on my mother's living-room floor because of this goddamn evacuation.

Freaks get off on it, someone grumbled.

You'd have to be sick in the head to even think about it. Forget about property, it's people's
lives
at stake.

Why do you people always have to blame shit on someone? the tattooed boy said. There's been, like, a
drought
. Fires happen, man. Accept it. It's not about you and your stupid
house.

The braid lady glared at the boy. He raised his fist and flipped her off.

Another woman was fitting a camera with a lens; as she raised it to her eye the darkly bearded man next to her said She's really something, isn't she.

My head whipped toward him. How did he know she was a she? He was smiling, nodding to himself, looking now and then through a huge pair of binoculars, nicer than the ones I had in my van.

As the evening passed into true night the others climbed back into their cars, but this man stayed, a half hour, an hour. I was sitting on a rock, jiggling my knees, moving only to pee behind my van; when I came back around, he was still there. The traffic had thinned at our backs and the only light came from the moonlight trapped in the smog.

Getting late, I said, loud. No answer. I peered at him; there was something funny about his expression, his eyes fixed so relentlessly through the enormous binoculars, his lips curving into a little private smile I could almost feel on my own face.

It's really late to be out, isn't it? I repeated. For a moment I thought I could see his mouth moving, like he was talking, but I couldn't hear any sound.

What? I said.

He didn't even look in my direction.

Hey, I shouted, leaping up from the rock, gravel spitting beneath my shoes. Hey! Knock it off!

He did a double take, trying to dodge the finger I was thrusting in his face.

Excuse me?

Don't you dare talk to her! Don't you even
look
at her!

He swatted at my arm. Who?

Her! Her! I screamed.

I don't know what—

You fucking bastard! I shrieked, throwing myself at his chest; then we were both on the ground, grappling, feet sliding over the blacktop. I jabbed my elbow into his stomach, but the angle wasn't right and I don't think he even felt it.

Are you out of your goddamn mind? he spat, chopping at my head with his big hands; I managed to grab a fistful of his hair before a blow to the temple folded me sideways. I threw my leg out as I fell off him, crushing my heel into the meat of his thigh.

Jesus! he yelled, heaving himself from the ground. Limping he backed his way to the hood of his car, half bent, his eyes wide on my face.

You—how do you—how dare—I sputtered, rolling to my side.

Don't get up! I'll call the cops! he said.

I lifted my head, seeing pink.

I heard the door of his Jeep slam shut; the engine roared. Gravel and dirt peppered my jeans as he peeled into the road.

You'll burn!
I shouted.
I'll burn you up!

Nutjob! he called through the window. I watched his taillights rake red through the dark, then disappear.

I sat up. I'm bleeding, I told her, touching the split skin above my eye.

Oh, poor John, she said.

It'll be okay, I replied, pressing the hem of my shirt to the wound. Did you know that guy?

She paused. Well, in a way.

What way?

He's around, here and there.

I took the shirt away from the wound, rubbed my thumb in the circle of blood. Where?

Other sites. He comes every day, almost.

What?

He knows an awful lot about fires, she added.

I don't
believe
this! I shouted, kicking one of the van's tires as hard as I could.

Stop yelling, she said, suddenly stern. She'd already knocked two dozen firemen unconscious that afternoon; she wasn't going to take any crap from me. I slapped a gnat on the back of my neck, panting.

I'm not yelling.

Yes, you are.

Sorry, I mumbled.

I don't
talk
to him, silly. I don't talk to anyone but you, she whooshed, the wind bringing some smoke straight into my face. I took a deep breath, coughed, smiled.

Well, good, I said, pulling myself inside the van. My torso hurt, the side of my right leg hurt, my face hurt. I was thirsty from sitting outside all day with only the cold half cup of someone's Starbucks to drink. But it didn't matter; the guy was gone, and we were alone. I rummaged in the glove compartment and found a sleeve of melted Thin Mints and ate a few, lying in the back of the van, my head heavy on the greasy pillow, the side door cracked open on a slice of undulating flame. The whole van, everything I touched, smelled like her, felt like her: sharp and dry and hot.

He's right, you know, I murmured.

Who?

That guy. You are really something.

Oh, John, she replied, cradling me in her many arms—heat, ash, smoke, roar, light—until I slipped into sleep.

*   *   *

And then we lost the wind.

*   *   *

It came as a surprise, even to the weather people, who had predicted strong air currents for the next week.
No
, I said when I woke up and saw how still the trees were, how motionless the scrub brush and dust along the roads. Her flames rose straight up and down, like people standing around at a party, no longer like sprint runners slicing through the hills.

Shit, I said, shit shit shit!

Where is it? John, where did it go? she demanded.

I don't know, I said, slapping at the radio, trying to get some good news. There was none. I slammed the steering wheel with my fist, sending the van careening into the left-hand lane. I could feel her heat inside the car, thick with panic; it made me breathless.

I pulled over at the next turnout, parked, rolled down my windows. It's a temporary setback, I said, forcing myself to be calm. Think of it as a little break. You can focus on getting really hot on the northern front, get everything nice and dry, and when the wind picks up again,
boom!
You'll gain whatever ground they'll take in a day. All right?

All right, she said, I'll try.

She wanted to believe me, and I couldn't believe anything else. But the state saw its chance; more men were sent, from Oregon, from Arizona, from New Mexico. Three thousand reserves. Helicopters hovered nonstop, dumping their buckets. She could feel the firefighters coming closer, she said, she could hear their footsteps on the ground. They were approaching from the east, the south; they were attacking from behind, from the side, mopping up what had already burned, blasting her weakest points in hopes of thinning her out while the wind was down.
North! North!
I yelled over the sound of the radio, huddled over the maps and a calculator in the back of the van. But to the north there were only a few hundred acres of forest before she would meet mountains; she could not climb them. And west was where she had already been. Suddenly the world, which had seemed so large when I met her, had shrunk to nothing, nowhere.

*   *   *

Those were dark, sleepless days. I lived off caffeine pills, camped in the van, refusing to go anywhere for anything—no food, no Gatorade, nothing. I did not recognize her voice, screaming in a new language of pain and rage as blankets of water and retardant snuffed her out an acre at a time. She could barely move, and beneath the swollen cloud of her own smoke she was choking.

On the radio the chief of operations triumphantly reported their gains on the blaze. The news poured bleaker and bleaker from the radio; finally it became so horrible I ripped the batteries from the plastic case, shoved the maps beneath the seats. I dropped from the side of the van onto the tarmac and looked at the sky to see if what I'd heard was true.