The Stars Are Fire(62)
Grace’s duties as her husband’s nurse and her sense of having lost whatever freedom she once had cause her to be exhausted nearly every evening. When she climbs up to her bedroom (her bedroom now, not Merle’s; Grace has at least earned that), she clings to the banister. Her mother’s comments that she needs to take better care of herself, that she is letting herself go, that sometimes her clothes aren’t even clean, haven’t helped. More and more, Marjorie remains on the third floor with the children, descending only to cook lunch and dinner. It has not escaped Grace’s notice that her mother is a prisoner, too.
Winter hints at spring, not by temperature, but by the quality of the light. The stolen minutes Grace sits huddled in her winter coat on the back steps give her hope. Is she really any worse off than the dispossessed women of Hunts Beach, or than the women who had to nurse injured loved ones back from the war and transform them into husbands?
“We thought if we dug a trench wide enough, we could stop the fire in its tracks,” Gene explains, and Grace nods. “We were stupid. None of us had ever had any experience with fire. We were just following orders from the fire department. The idea was to keep the blaze from reaching town.” He opens his eye. “Can you prop me up again?”
Grace lifts his right side so that he is straight up against the back of the sofa but at a forty-five-degree angle with pillows behind his shoulders and back. They have to achieve ninety degrees for him to sit in a chair, beyond that if he is to get up and out of a chair. The progress is slow and often there are setbacks.
“We’d been digging all day and into the night when we felt an east wind, so we stopped for a break. We thought we were saved. We didn’t leave our post though because we’d been told to stay put. Can you put that extra pillow there behind my neck?”
Grace stands and maneuvers the pillow until he nods.
“We were pretty sure a truck would be coming for us with food and coffee if not a lift back to our homes. And one by one, we began to sit on rocks or against tree stumps, and I remember that I dozed off. I woke to shouting.”
As Grace had, with Claire’s cries.
“When I stood, the fire had crested Merserve Hill and was roaring its way down to us. Balls of fire tumbled down the hill, hitting trees, missing others, and the wind behind the fire was ferocious. I remember thinking that fire was really pink and red, not orange. Within minutes we could feel the heat and see animals running around us for safety. Two of the men ran with the animals, the others stayed with me. Then I felt Jack dragging on my sleeve and shouting at me to go with him, to get out. I shook my head. I had another idea. I could see that behind the wall of fire the earth was black—the fire traveled that fast. Tim and Jack dug holes in the ground knowing they couldn’t outrun the blaze. When it got too close to bear, I saw a space about the length of a truck and ran through it as fast as I could. My mistake was not having something to cover my head. I felt intense heat and knew my sleeve and hair had caught fire. I panicked and stumbled and tried to put out the flames by slapping them. I fell onto my left side, the ground so hot I couldn’t bear the pain. And then I fainted.”
“I’m so sorry,” Grace says. No other words will do.
The crocuses emerge, purple and white, and are soon joined by the bright yellow of daffodils and forsythia. As she explores the gardens, Grace’s spirits are buoyed by the greening lawn, the buds on the fruit trees, and the stalks of tulips breaking the soil. After the winter months, the soil will produce a bounty of surprises with flowers blooming every day or every week, small gifts for Grace. She will see the buds, but won’t know their color until days later. She wonders if the lilacs are deep purple or lavender or white. She has no idea what shapes and hues the roses will have. Soon she’ll be able to bring in bouquets to freshen the house’s stale smell—an odor worse than stale that she suspects emanates from Gene, no matter how much she launders his sheets and clothes.
Gene has remembered the name of the insurance company and even the salesman’s name. Grace calls and explains their situation, which is near destitute. But when the claims adjuster comes to the house and looks around, he’s reluctant to discuss benefits. Grace points out that the house is not theirs, they have no money for food or clothes, that Gene can’t work, and the enormous tank of fuel oil is empty. Should they have a series of cold days, she doesn’t know what they would do. In addition, she says in a strong, clear voice, her husband who was burned in the fire needs medical attention they can’t pay for. When the salesman has the nerve to suggest that she sell some of the obviously expensive pieces of furniture, she raises her voice. Does the adjuster have the paperwork? Yes, he does. Did Gene Holland ever miss a payment? No, he did not. Fine, says Grace, they need the money to build a house, to which they are entitled, and they need additional sums in order to be able to eat and clothe themselves. She is firm, she will not be moved. But it’s only when Grace brings the adjuster in to see Gene during a moment when he isn’t wearing his eye patch that the adjuster writes her a check for seventy-five dollars to bridge the gap until another man from the insurance company arrives with a much larger check.
One morning, after Grace has made her bed, she stares at the smooth covers, the sheets taut beneath them. She kneels on all fours and pounds her fists into the coverlet. She bangs and slaps until her hands hurt. She stops and looks at her fingers. She tries hard to remember what she felt when she and Gene were courting—there is no other word to describe the decorous study dates and walks into the hills, where occasionally they lay down together. She can’t now recall a single word of love. One of them must have said something. On the day they married?