How to Start a Fire (19 page)

“Now that you’re a free woman, what will you do with all of your time?”

“I think I’ll look into environmental-consulting jobs.”

“In New York?”

“Not necessarily,” said George. “I suppose I could live anywhere.”

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding,” Anna said as she casually approached.

“George needed some air.”

“Looks like you found it,” said Anna.

Anna stole her brother’s champagne flute and drained the glass.

“Your liver must really hate you,” Colin said.

“We’re not as close as we used to be,” Anna said. “I’ll get you a refill,” she added, quickly exiting the garden.

“I think she’s suspicious,” Colin said.

“Of what?”

“Of my intentions toward you. That maybe they aren’t completely honorable.”

“She’ll never leave us alone,” said George.

“Then we need to come up with a plan.”

Before any plan could be put into action, Anna returned with two more glasses of champagne. She passed one glass to her brother.

“For you,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Colin.

Anna raised her glass. “To old friends.”

George hadn’t noticed Colin drinking heavily, but he must have been. It was alarming, his turn into a sloppy drunk. He began slurring his words and then he rested his head on her shoulder.

“Is he all right?” George asked.

“He started drinking early in the day,” said Anna. “It must have finally caught up with him.”

George thought the brother of Anna should be able to hold his liquor better.

“We should get him to bed before my mother sees him,” said Anna.

George kicked off her heels, threw Colin’s arm around her shoulder, and got him to his feet. George still had the strength to manage a semiconscious hundred-and-eighty-pound man. They stumbled upstairs and put Colin to bed.

“Why am I so tired?” Colin mumbled.

“It’s been a long day,” Anna said.

Anna helped him remove his shoes and socks while George freed him from his bow tie.

“Go to sleep,” Anna said. It was an order, not a suggestion. “And lie on your side,” she added, rolling him.

George kissed Colin on the forehead. “You okay?” she said.

“I’m fine,” Colin said, slurring his words. “Why don’t you stay here and keep me company?”

“She’s coming with me, Colin,” Anna said. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

As the revelers downstairs slowly dispersed, Anna and George took over another spare bedroom and changed into their pajamas. Anna removed her dress; George noticed a patch sticking to the small of her back.

“What is that?” George asked.

“What?”

“That patch on your back. What is it?”

“Oh, that,” Anna said. She paused a little too long. “A nicotine patch,” she finally said. An easy lie. A patch was a patch to George. Nicotine, fentanyl, they all looked the same.

“But you don’t smoke,” George said.

“I took it up briefly,” Anna said, buoyed by the ease of her lie. “All the stress at work. You’d be surprised how many doctors and nurses still smoke.”

“I guess I would,” said George.

The guest room was furnished with two twin beds. Anna called it the future-grandchildren room. It would be neglected for years. There were moments she felt sorry for her parents, but those moments passed quickly.

Anna turned off the light, and they slid into their beds. Anna thought they’d stay up for hours talking, but George drifted off within minutes. Anna remained awake the rest of the night. She had slipped into Colin’s champagne the one thing that would have put her to sleep.

Boston, Massachusetts

Malcolm Davis woke up in the guest bedroom of the Fury household with no idea where he was. This often happened to him when he slept in unfamiliar environments. This morning he was able to place himself quickly. The voices outside were so familiar. He heard Lena Fury say, “Stop that, Anna.” He heard Anna say, “One more time.”

Malcolm got out of bed and opened the curtains. Outside, a cloister of denuded trees stood immodestly among mounds of raked maple leaves. Anna charged at the pile of leaves and threw herself on top, a human wrecking ball.

As Anna got to her feet and brushed herself off, Lena said, “Are you done?”

“Yes, I believe I’m done,” Anna said in an oddly formal tone.

The previous morning, Malcolm had looked out of his window and observed the fourteen-year-old girl with the wild, uncombed hair in the midst of an animated debate with a thirtysomething man in painter pants and a battered Red Sox T-shirt. Malcolm found the air of professionalism in their interaction disconcerting. He had seen the man around recently, painting the Fury garage. White paint over the very same white of five years ago.

The painter shook his head no; Anna nodded yes. He shook his head with less conviction. Anna swept the backyard with her emphatic yes and held out something for the man to take. A beat passed. The man in the Red Sox shirt took the thing from her hand and shoved it into his pocket. He nodded his head in defeat and spoke a few more words. The odd pair parted in the yard. There was a smirk of satisfaction on Anna’s face. A familiar sight.

Colin knocked on the guest-room door and entered. Malcolm was still staring out the window.

“Your sister’s up to something,” Malcolm said.

“Always,” Colin said.

“Do you worry about her?”

“I worry about anyone who might cross her.”

Anna had set her alarm for 2:00 a.m. There were certain hours in the Fury home when you could trust its stillness. She crept downstairs and began collecting her provisions, contemplating items that could be stored for weeks, maybe months. She was always amazed at the number of things that didn’t require refrigeration. She’d already stockpiled bottled water, nuts, cookies, candies, and even a liter of cheap vodka. Its absence would never be noted. She hated the smell and taste, but a few minutes after the slow burn down her throat, she felt as if a soft warm blanket had been wrapped around her.

Footfalls sounded on the staircase. Anna closed herself in the pantry and crouched next to a slab of empty jelly jars. Feet padded around the kitchen. The refrigerator opened and closed. Silverware clanked. The noises were all wrong. Anna had lurked for years in this house; she knew the sounds of its inmates. The whoosh of her mother’s dressing gown; the slight tap-shoe click that her father’s slippers made; the chronic throat-clearing that Colin succumbed to in the middle of the night. He claimed to have allergies only in the home where he was raised; he said they mysteriously vanished in any other location. But this inmate was new, quieter than the others. Stockinged feet. Only the creak on certain floorboards hinted at a trespasser. Kitchen cabinets opened and closed in slow motion, but with unfocused frequency, as if the person didn’t know what he was looking for.

It wasn’t Cesar. He had moved out a week ago. He and his wife were now living in a cousin’s trailer. Anna had just given him his final payment. They’d argued over the secret latch. He thought a pushbutton lock would suffice, but Anna thought that was too plain. She wanted the showy security of a secret room, even if she was the only person who would ever appreciate it. Cesar made her promise not to tell; she made Cesar promise not to tell.

As Anna crept over to the pantry door to confirm the identity of the late-night snacker, she dislodged a jelly jar from its pack. It clunked on the ground but didn’t break. She could hear the feet padding toward the pantry door. She had only seconds to hatch an explanation.

Malcolm opened the pantry door and stepped backward as if a bat might take flight. When he spotted Anna, he shook his head, exasperated.

“I should have known it was you,” he said.

“What are you doing up?” she asked.

“It’s hot upstairs. Seeking lower ground.”

“My mother is very thin, ergo, always cold. Ergo again, thermostat always set too high. I’ve tried to talk to her about it. It’s bad for the environment. She has a remarkably sound argument: in summer, we don’t turn the thermostat down as much as most people do. She claims it evens things out. Truthfully, it doesn’t work out fifty-fifty, but still, she has a point.”

“What are you up to?” Malcolm asked.

“Just doing some nighttime shopping.”

Malcolm picked up the grocery bag at Anna’s feet, placed it on the shiny granite countertop, and inventoried the contents, taking them out one by one.

“Crackers, olives, Cheez Whiz, biscotti, peanut butter sandwich cookies—my favorite.”

“Help yourself. I have some storage bins for opened items.”

“Caviar?”

“Just a little jar I found behind a can of sardines. They’ll never notice it’s gone.”

“Do you even like caviar?”

“No. But I have been told that I will develop a taste for it,” Anna said.

“Bottled water, soda, and . . . vodka,” Malcolm continued. “This is a very strange party you’re planning.”

“It’s not a party,” Anna said, returning everything to the bag.

Except for the vodka. Malcolm held the bottle under his arm like a football.

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Provisions.”

“For what?”

“A disaster, End of Days, the usual.”

“Why not leave it where it is?”

“Are you going to give me the vodka or not?”

“Not,” Malcolm said.

“Whatever. I’ll get it later,” Anna said.

She picked up the bag, left the kitchen, circled through the den into the foyer, and went down the stairs that led to the basement. Malcolm, out of pure curiosity, followed her, and Anna did nothing to evade him. He had caught her smoking three days earlier under the gazebo and never said a word. She prided herself on her ability to spot a snitch. Malcolm wasn’t a member of that breed.

Anna plucked a flashlight from a hook at the bottom of the basement stairs and illuminated the corridor that led to the laundry room.

“Where are you going?” Malcolm asked.

Anna said nothing. She opened the tiny door by the washing machine and crouched down to enter, then returned to grab the bag of groceries. Malcolm had to get on his hands and knees to crawl through the space. Inside, he caught glimpses of wooden beams, a maze of pipes, and drywall flickering in and out of view as the flashlight bounced around, carried between Anna’s teeth. He missed the part where Anna slipped her finger along the baseboard to the secret latch.

Suddenly a small door opened to his right. It wasn’t like the first tiny door, which had a knob and some presence. This one sat on hinges and swung inward, its seams barely visible in the dim light. Anna crawled inside. Malcolm followed after her. She flicked on an old lamp, the light dimmed by a patterned cloth over the shade.

“What is this, Anna?” Malcolm asked as he surveyed the four-by-six-foot space.

“My office.”

“Who knows about this?”

“No one,” Anna said. “Well, you do now. But you won’t tell.”

“Is it safe?” he asked, knocking on the walls and studying the architecture.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It doesn’t look safe.”

“You’re just not used to secret rooms. They don’t look like ordinary rooms.”

Malcolm noted the sleeping bag, the milk-crate bookshelf, and a series of marks penciled on the wall
: I I I I.

Anna slashed across the quartet, and Malcolm realized she was counting the days.

“It’s not that bad here, Anna.”

“Here? Or here?” Anna asked, the second
here
referring to her hideaway.

“Most kids would kill to live like you do.”

“I am extremely aware of my good fortune,” Anna said stiffly. “I do not know what I could have said to make you think otherwise. Can I offer you a complimentary snack or beverage?”

Anna served them both sandwich cookies and hot cocoa from a thermos. She wished she had brought some wine from the cellar. She had a new idea for a cocktail she wanted to try out; it involved spiking her cocoa with wine. She planned to call it
cocoa vin
.

“What do you do down here?” Malcolm asked.

“Think.”

“Can’t you think upstairs?”

“Not as well. Besides, I need the privacy.”

“Your bedroom isn’t private enough for you?”

“My mother doesn’t knock, and it’s searched on occasion.”

“You’re fourteen, Anna. What have you got to hide?”

“Not much. It can all fit in here,” Anna said, sweeping the room with her hand, “and here,” she added, patting a metal lock box by her side.

“I hope you have something more interesting in there than cigarettes, cash, and weed.”

She had all of that and more. It was the other thing, the thing she’d found while rummaging through boxes in the basement, that she treasured the most. It had taken her a few days to recover from the discovery. Like any dark secret, it wasn’t something she could be alone with. She toyed with the idea of telling Colin, but it felt as if she’d be crossing a line. Even reading the letters gave her a rush of danger, the sense that she was doing something filthy and wrong. Some girls recoiled from that feeling; Anna didn’t mind it that much.

She pulled the key from the long chain around her neck and unlocked the box. Inside was the predictable contraband and a small stack of old letters, yellowed with age and wrapped in a red ribbon, a cliché of old-fashioned missives. The letters were addressed to Lena Fury. From a J. L. Who lived in Vermont.

“What have you got there?” Malcolm asked.

“Proof.”

“Of what?”

“Proof that my mother doesn’t love my father.”

“You can’t prove something like that.”

“All you have to do is look at the two of them,” Anna said. “Is
that
what love looks like?”

“Love looks like all sorts of things,” Malcolm said.

“
This
is what love looks like,” Anna said, fanning the dusty letters.

“Those letters are private, Anna.”

“My mother got pregnant and had to marry my father. Whoever wrote these letters was trying to stop her. Didn’t work, obviously. The funny thing is, the letters are all signed
J
. Just
J.
At first I thought Jack, John, Jim, but then I read the letters over again and I consulted a graphology book. The script is swirly and ornate. I realized that it could be Jane, Jill, Jennifer.”