The Fire (2 page)

I have a mother like that, she thought. But my mother’s on the island.

She looked out to sea. Burning Fog Isle was lost in the thick fog that had started rolling in. Sometimes a trick of atmosphere occurred: The sun shone behind the fog, blazing like flames. Many times in the last three hundred years, mainlanders had rushed to save ships at sea or houses on the Isle from fire. But there never was a real fire; it was just the fog, catching the sun in its soft gray prism.

Christina loved the fog. It hugged her and kept her secrets. It belonged to the sea and went back to the sea; and you could neither hold it nor summon it.

The wind fingered her hair, until it was a mass of gold-and-silver ribbons. She walked alone up Breakneck Hill. The quick-moving fog walked with her, wrapping her like a wet scarf. Unlocking the heavy green door, she let herself into the gloom of the front hall of Schooner Inne. The only light came from the cupola three stories up. The paper on the wall was flocked and formal; nobody would ever crayon on those walls, or even lean against them. She passed the parlor where nobody ever sat, for the chairs were stiff and sharp, and the sofas rigid and unwelcoming.

In the fireplace was a silent fire.

Christina blinked, backed up, and looked in the door again.

Fire glittered. But it made no crackle, gave off no scent, produced no smoke. Christina moved toward the fire like an iron filing slithering toward a magnet. She stretched out her fingers for warmth but felt none.

A fire without heat.

Hair falling forward, blending with the flames, Christina bent to touch the cold fire.

An odd catlike smell filled the room.

Mrs. Shevvington’s voice purred. She said, “Christina, darling, what is this fascination you have with fire?”

Christina jumped. There was something subhuman about the way Mrs. Shevvington could appear anywhere, like an ant or a mouse coming through the cracks unheard.

Behind Mrs. Shevvington stood the brothers, Michael and Benj. Michael was growing so fast you could hardly keep track of him; he was fifteen now, and getting muscular, his favorite cotton sweater shoved up past the elbow. He had cut his hair even shorter, as if the taller he got, the less hair he needed. Benj was just solid; Benj had always seemed like a grown-up. He had skipped childhood entirely. His face rarely divided into smiles or frowns. Christina always wanted Benj to shout and laugh. But Benj was just there.

Mrs. Shevvington said, “I’ve not forgotten that dreadful episode during the winter, Christina, when you set fire to your clothes.”

Christina sucked in her breath. She hated looking at Mrs. Shevvington. Sideways, the woman had no profile.

In his heavy voice, dragging like a net on the bottom of the sea, Benj said, “Mrs. Shevvington, we all know it was your son who set that fire.”

Christina nearly fell over. Benjamin was defending her?

Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes grew dark and threatening, like a thunderstorm. But Benj was too solid for her. She went snarling back into the kitchen. “Benj,” said Christina delightedly, “you stuck up for me.”

“You saved my sister Dolly’s life, didn’t you,” he said, without a question mark at the end, as if Benj did not have questions, only facts.

“Yes, I did,” she said. For it was a fact. She had thought everyone had forgotten the terrible night in which she dragged Dolly across the mudflats, desperately trying to reach the opposite shore, while the tide hurtled forward to claim their bodies, and take them out to sea forever. While the Shevvingtons’ insane son stood on the ledge, ready to throw them back into the sea if they tried to go back into Schooner Inne. Sometimes at night she woke to the sound of his laughter, shrieking over the waves, and she was never quite sure if it was a nightmare — or his return by dark.

It was nice to have done a good deed, and even nicer to get credit for that moment of courage that kept Dolly alive. Christina bounced toward old Benj, feeling warm toward him, warm toward the world. “Benjamin, Ice Cream Delight opened for the season. After supper do you want to go there and get a sundae with me?”

Benjamin stared at her incredulously. You would have thought he had never in his life gone for ice cream. He was too amazed even to answer her and went on in to supper.

Christina paused to check the silent fire. It was crinkled Mylar paper. Yellow, orange, and scarlet paper cut into flame shapes, crushed down over black Mylar that gleamed like coals. Fire of foil. How well done it was. And how like the Shevvingtons, she thought, to think that a fake fire will be cozy and homey enough for all those prospective Inne buyers.

She laughed to herself. She was always giving the Shevvingtons credit for supernatural abilities. And there always turned out to be dull explanations. Like the changing poster of the sea that had driven Anya crazy, its evil, curling waves beckoning her over the edge one day, and the next day its painted ocean flat and wall-poster blue. Eventually they found out that Mrs. Shevvington just switched two posters back and forth.

Christina went into the kitchen with the others. They never ate in the dining room, always in the kitchen, on a hideously ugly table, its top chipped, its legs as fat as thighs. Benj was setting the table.

He’s sixteen and they already call him Old Benj, thought Christina. He’ll quit high school and be a lobsterman like his father and grandfather before him, and he won’t say another syllable unless he’s forced to. I wonder how he’ll ask a girl to marry him? Perhaps she’ll ask him. Then all he’ll have to do is nod.

Christina plopped down in her chair.

“Christina,” said Mr. Shevvington, “sit gracefully. Do not just let go and fall into the chair.”

Christina tried to decide whether this was worth a fight or not. There were any number of arguments about sitting techniques.

But Benj said, “I think she is graceful.” Benjamin passed the creamed potatoes Christina’s way.

Christina hated sauces. There was something sinister about them, whether they were milk-white, hollandaise-yellow, spinach-green, or tomato-red. They hid the true food. You could not be sure what those little chopped things were, down at the bottom of the sauce. It hadn’t been so bad when Dolly and Anya still lived there. Anya could always be counted on to surface from her foggy world to identify lumps for Christina. “That’s an onion. That’s a mushroom.” (Dolly never ate anyway, her skinny little arms and legs barely stapled to her body. So it hadn’t mattered to Dolly.)

How Christina missed Anya! Anya was as beautiful as sea foam, her thick dark hair a cloud around her translucent skin. But Anya had had no strength. Not like me, thought Christina with satisfaction. I’m like the Isle: I’m granite. Behind the safe cover of her tilted milk glass, Christina sneered at the Shevvingtons. It felt pretty good.

“Guess what,” said Benjamin Jaye.

Christina choked on her milk. “Since when have you ever told us anything at all,” she asked him, “let alone said to guess at it?”

Benjamin grinned at her.

Even the Shevvingtons blinked at the sight of Benj grinning.

“Is that a grin?” Christina teased.

Benjamin grinned even wider.

“You know how!” she cried. “Benj! You’re so cute when you grin.”

Now he blushed.

His younger brother said, “This is disgusting. Stop it, Benj. Just tell them.”

Benj said, “The marching band is going to Disney World next fall. All we have to do is raise the money for forty-four of us to make the trip, and we get to be the Disney World band for the day!
Me.
”

“Oh, Benjamin!” Christina screamed. “Florida? You’ll fly down? In those wonderful band uniforms! All scarlet and gold braid, and white shoes. All those years of playing the trumpet are finally paying off. That’s so great!”

Benjamin, who had possibly the world’s largest appetite, was too excited to eat. Christina had never come across a boy who could not eat. Benj kept filling his fork and then setting it back down on the plate, untouched. “We’ll take a bus down to Orlando,” he said. “Flying’s too expensive. But a really nice bus, with a bathroom and a snack bar. We’ll stay five days.”

“Five days at Disney World,” breathed Christina. “That is so wonderful, Benj. You’ll have the best time. How much money do we have to raise? I’ll help. You’ll need tons. Millions. We’ll have car washes and bake sales and hike-a-thons.”

Mr. Shevvington said, “At this point, the school has not yet given permission.”

Benj dropped his fork, his face speaking instead of his tongue.
You might refuse to let us go to Disney World?

Christina glared at Mr. Shevvington. “You won’t even be here next year,” she said hotly, forgetting she had learned this by eavesdropping. “You’re getting a job in another state. So there.”

“It won’t matter if they have permission or not,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “They can’t raise that kind of money. A scrubby little Maine village like this? Hah!” she sniffed. “Don’t set your heart on it, Benjamin, because it will not come about.”

“Anyway,” said Michael, his mouth all pouty, “why should everybody raise all that money for just you guys? Forty-four of you get to go to Disney World, but we don’t. I don’t play an instrument. So why should I help?”

Christina was outraged. “Because he’s your brother,” she said. “You’re mean, Michael. You’ve been getting all the glory all year with your games and your trophies. Now you don’t want your own brother to have any?”

Michael said, “He doesn’t work as hard as we did. Band is just a dumb class, like art or cooking. Athletic teams have to practice every day after school. And Saturdays. What do they have to do for Band? Just show up, is all.”

The brothers glared at each other.

Mrs. Shevvington said, “You’re right, Michael. Benjamin rarely practices. And of course, he doesn’t make that much of a contribution to the band anyway. After all these years, he’s only third trumpet.”

Benj, on whose face emotion so rarely showed, flinched. He stared down into his creamed potatoes so he would not have to see his brother’s jealous eyes and the Shevvingtons’ cruel mouths.

Christina thought, So that’s what they’ll do these last eighteen days. Try to hurt everybody in sight. Look how quickly they stabbed old Benj. First time he’s ever been filled with joy, and they punctured him right away.

Benjamin tried to take a sip from his glass, failed, and put it back on the table. The glass shook.

“You don’t feel well,” observed Mrs. Shevvington, a tiny smile slitting her face.

Benj shrugged.

“Seconds please,” said Michael, pointing toward the serving bowls.

“Eat what Benj left on his plate,” suggested Christina, “since you’re the one who spoiled his appetite.”

“Christina!” said Mrs. Shevvington. “Your manners are deteriorating every day. I am appalled at you. Go to your room.”

“No,” said Christina. “Benj and I are going for ice cream.” She stood up, heart pounding. Disobeying the Shevvingtons was scary. She did not look at their eyes. His would be glittering like a seagull’s, as it swept down to peck open a tern’s egg. Hers would be little stones, as if there were not a person inside; just gravel.

“Your fourteenth birthday is only a few weeks away,” said Mr. Shevvington, “and you are behaving like a spoiled toddler.”

Benj said, “I forgot about your birthday, Chrissie. That’s neat. It’s hard to believe you’ll be fourteen.”

That was so much speech coming from Benj she felt they should write it down and save it for his grandchildren to read.

“We should do something special,” added Benj. “Since your mom and dad can’t give you a party until you get back to the island for summer.” He touched his jeans pocket where his wallet made a rectangular bulge. Benj worked at the gas station and saved every cent toward the new motor he wanted for his boat. It had not occurred to Christina that he would pay for the ice cream. She had expected to use her allowance.

If he paid, it would be like a date.

She hid her giggle at the mere idea of Benjamin having a date.

“I’m coming for ice cream, too,” said Michael, jealous over even a tiny thing his brother might have and he wouldn’t. “We’ll try to think of something for Christina’s birthday.”

Mrs. Shevvington’s smile was horrid, her little yellow teeth lined up like broken candy. She purred, “Perhaps
we
can think of something to do with Christina.”

C
HRISTINA, IN THE MIDDLE
, was by far the smallest. Her tri-colored hair flew in the wind like flags.

Michael was on her right. He talked loudly of sports and teams. She had never noticed before that Michael was something of a spoiled brat. Look at him, she thought. He can’t bear it that Benj would even have an ice-cream cone that he doesn’t have, let alone Disney World. And he certainly isn’t going to let anybody talk about my birthday.

Mrs. Shevvington’s words battered her head.
Perhaps we can think of something to do with Christina.
It did not sound like parties and confetti; it sounded like doom and destruction. She kept thinking of that creepy candle in the coffee can.

Benjamin was on her left. She came up to his shoulder. And what a shoulder it was. Curving muscle burst out from below the T-shirt, threatening to split the cotton. Benj, who never talked, talked steadily — right through his brother’s babble, as if they were unaware of each other. He talked of Epcot and Space Mountain and his marching band uniform.

Behind them came the Shevvingtons, who had decided that they, too, needed a first ice cream of the season.

The five of us look like a family, Christina thought. People who don’t know us would think What an interesting set of parents, what beautiful children.

That was enough to make her lose her appetite for ice cream. The idea of being Christina Shevvington instead of Christina Romney! “Yuck,” she said out loud.

“You don’t like the band uniforms?” said Benj.

“You don’t think I’m the best ball player?” said Michael.

They were on the sidewalk, going down the treacherous rim of Breakneck Hill. Below them the tide slithered into Candle Cove like a muddy pancake, and then, hitting the rocks, spewed violently, like a pancake being whipped in a blender. The highest tides in Maine occurred in this very cove. Every few years, the tide picked an ignorant summer person off the rocks, or caught him in the mudflats, and sometimes the body was found and sometimes it wasn’t.