Sweet Lamb of Heaven (64)

I shook her awake and bundled her into a thick sweater and we ran to the bedroom where Will and I slept, which had French doors that opened onto a balcony. I wrenched the doors open and stepped out onto the rickety wooden platform, which hung over the back of the house. The view was of the large and unkempt yard, brown grass mostly covered in thin patches of ice and crusts of snow. At the back of it were trees, over which rooftops were faintly visible, but not close enough to yell at.

Most of the neighbors were probably at work, I thought, since it was the middle of a weekday.

“Honey, I think we have to climb down,” I said.

“It’s too slippery!” cried Lena, her voice squeaking. She touched the ice along the wooden rail.

But Lena’s a much better climber than I am, a climber who shimmies up to the canopy of trees and freely climbs rock faces I’d never try, and we got out safely, she first, me after, though I fell the last couple of feet. I twisted my ankle, scraped my elbows a bit. We went around to the front yard and still saw no fire, just smoke leaking out the crack at the bottom of the front door. We ran next door, knocking and waiting, and just as the neighbor’s door opened we watched the roof cave in.



THE HOUSE ISN’T a total loss. A fire engine pulled up not long after the neighbor called 911, siren shrieking, and we stood by shivering as the firemen plied the hoses, stood with our eyes smarting as smoke billowed out of a broken front window.

I picked up Lena and held her on my hip the whole time—she’s old for holding like that, but still light at forty-some pounds. She didn’t cry. She was openmouthed but not outwardly frightened.

Other than the section of roof that collapsed, only the kitchen and living room are badly damaged. Mostly they’re waterlogged. Will’s homeowner’s insurance will cover the repairs, but those repairs will take a while. It was an electrical fire, the cops told us when we met with them at the station. There’s no evidence of arson, they said.

I assumed it was Ned, somehow this too was Ned’s doing. But the firemen shrugged and said the house is old, its wiring is pre-code. One of them brought me an informational brochure, nodding helpfully as though the handout would fully explain everything.

On the front it has a picture of a fifties-style couple in their kitchen—she beside the stove, he sitting straight-backed at the table, wearing a suit and tie, with a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs in front of him. The man and woman are both slim and attractive, and smile at each other in a satisfied fashion. But sticking through the open door behind their backs, as though to peer in and wave, are plump, decorative tongues of flame, apparently unseen.


Each year, household wiring and lighting cause an estimated average of 32,000 home fires in the United States. On average, these fires result in 950 injuries and 220 deaths. They cause more than $670 million in property damage.

Even the insurance forensics guys who came to inspect the house shook their heads as though the fire had been inevitable—we’d been asking for it by being so brash as to live in the house at all.

So it’s back to The Wind and Pines, where Don has set us up with two adjoining rooms close to the lobby. He keeps the security system updated since the kidnapping: he gave himself a crash course in the software after it happened. So we’re still surveilled, and the homeowners’ insurance is paying for our rooms until the repairs are done.

There are other motels in driving distance, of course, but Don is Will’s friend and Lena’s so fond of him, and besides the Lindas are still here, the sole holdouts of the group, still setting out on their beachcombing walks every morning, still not ready to part ways from each other and go home.

In the end, coming back here, it seems we didn’t have much choice.



WE ALL ATE in the motel café tonight, Will and Don and the Lindas and Lena and I. Somehow it felt like we were trying too hard to have a regular meal. No one from town was there; the café’s first emptiness had returned.

Don and I were left alone together after dinner, when the Lindas went to show Lena some video clips of kittens who were friends with tortoises; Will headed back to our rooms to unpack. We’d maybe had a couple too many glasses of wine, Don and I. Or at least I had. Don was drinking whiskey.

“At first, when it began,” he said, “I did worry. I knew there were antagonists who might also be attracted, antagonists like your husband. We’re a magnet for them.”

“You mean—a magnet? How?” I asked.

“Some people, historically, have heard the voice when—let’s say when danger is already near. But after a while, this year, I relaxed my vigilance because no one showed up. No one to worry about. And then they did. I’m sorry I wasn’t better prepared, Anna.”

“You did your best,” I said.

We sat in silence, likely both wondering if that was true.

“Kay sent you some emails,” said Don after a minute. “Didn’t she?”

“She was so upset. And with her diagnosis—I didn’t know what to make of them,” I said.

“You can credit them. She knew,” said Don softly.

I met his gaze for a moment, but there was something too plain or too frank there and I had to look away.

“She knows,” I corrected, a little halfhearted.

“If you pay attention to the culture,” said Don, “you can see these threads of recognition. There are interferences and smokescreens all over, but the threads are perceptible if you know where to find them. Kay was right. And she’s sick, yes. She suffers from an illness of long standing. She’s struggled very hard against it. But she also has rare insight. These years are decisive, Anna. We’re in the midst of a great acceleration and a great implosion. These years are our last chance.”