“She’s off the deep end,” I said to Zack.
“No kidding.”
Marcy played at hiding her eyes. “O-one, two-oo, three.
.”
“Does she own a gun?” I asked.
“She wouldn’t have told me if she does.”
“We’ll never get past her. We need to find another stairway.”
“Or try a window. What’s in here?” He shone his flashlight around the room from which I had just emerged.
“The shutters are locked. At least, they are downstairs,” I told him.
“I’ll break them open.”
“There’s probably another set of back stairs. They’re usually next to a fireplace,” I said, placing my hand over his to guide the beam of light, scanning the walls on either side of the hearth. “I’m going next door.”
“Better stay together,” he said. “If this battery gives out—”
“I can find you.”
He started banging at the shutters’ lock, using his metal flashlight like a hammer. Out in the hall Marcy was reciting her numbers in a singsong voice that set my teeth on edge. I stepped into the hall, then froze.
Marcy had set her flashlight on its side, and it illuminated her, throwing tall shadows against the walls. While counting cheerfully, she poured a liquid across the landing of the main stairs, then moved swiftly to the entrance to the wing, still pouring.
“Do you smell that?” Zack asked from inside the room.
“I see it. She’s going to burn this place down.”
Zack hurried to the door and watched her a moment.
“Crazy, but not stupid — one more arson. You’ve got to help me break through this shutter. There must be back stairs, but if we don’t find them—” He picked up a wood chair with a long back and four thick legs. We lined up, making the chair a battering ram, and ran at the window, jamming the chair legs into the shutter. Pieces of wood splintered and broke off. We ran at it again.
“She’s lit something,” he said, and rushed to the door to close it.
It was eerie, smelling the fire again, smelling it as I had the night I was with my uncle. I began to yank on the heavy curtains, and Zack, realizing why, joined me, using his weight to bring down the drapes.
He handed them to me, and I rushed them to the door to stuff under the crack, hoping to keep out deadly smoke.
“Want this rod?”
“Yes. No. The andiron!” he said. He picked up one of the heavy brass pieces intended to hold logs. Looking like a shot-putter, he spun to gain momentum, then slammed the andiron against the shutters. The lock snapped. I ran to the window, and both of us clawed at the wooden panels, opening them. We struggled with the window locks, then shoved up the sash.
I heard a whoosh. Drapes or not, the house was too old to be airtight, and we had created a draft. Marcy screamed, then let out an excited laugh. “Here I come, ready or not.”
“I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” Zack said.
“I’m more afraid of fire.” But when I looked down from the window, I saw that the large proportions of the house had put us farther off the ground than I expected.
“It’s okay,” Zack said, as if sensing my fear. “Get in the window. It’s wide enough for both of us.” He climbed through first, then gripped my arm as I climbed into a sitting position.
I sat on the sill, clinging to the bottom of the raised window.
Zack shone his flashlight on the shrubs below. The blue of the LED, like the moonlight, reflected off the surface of bushes. They were mounded deep against the house.
“Want me to go first?” he asked. When I didn’t reply, he said, “Okay, we’ll jump at the same time.”
I pressed my lips together and forced myself to nod.
He studied my face. “This is like the water-at-night thing,” he said, remembering our conversation at the party. “You don’t like it because you can’t see what’s beneath the surface. Want me to go first?” When I still didn’t answer, he said, “I’ll go first, but you’ve got to jump right after.
Promise?”
“Promise.”
He leaped.
I watched him roll far below me, lie still for a moment, then stagger to his feet. He rushed forward, shook the bushes in a rough kind of search, then called up. “No thorns, no stakes, no skunks. And you don’t have to worry about the lawn sprinkler — it’s sticking out of my back. Just kidding.
Jump, Anna!”
I nodded and turned myself around until I lay with my belly on the windowsill.
“Anna, what are you doing?” Zack cried.
“Getting five feet closer to the ground.” I planned to hang by my hands, then close my eyes and drop. But at that moment the door of the room burst open.
Marcy came through, and I saw in one terrifying flash the hallway burning behind her. She started toward me. I quickly lowered myself till I dangled by my hands. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her gasping, coughing uncontrollably from the poisonous smoke.
“Marcy,” I called, “crawl, crawl to the window!” I beat my feet against the house, trying to get traction, trying to hoist myself back up.
“Anna, drop!” Zack shouted.
“Marcy, come on. Come here!” I pulled myself up high enough for my chin to be supported by the sill. I saw that the fire was burning fast, coming into the room.
“Marcy, crawl to me!”
She sat on the floor wheezing. I didn’t have the strength in my arms to pull myself all the way up.
“Marcy, can you hear me? Crawl to me! Crawl to the window! Please!”
“Anna!” Zack shouted.
“Marcy!” I screamed, desperate to get through to her. The fire was a quarter of the way into the room, close to the edge of the rug.
She looked up suddenly, her light eyes meeting mine.
The hungry flames were within two feet of her. She laughed in a manner too bright and tinkly for an adult. “Better fire here than fire hereafter,” Marcy said, and leaned back.
“Let go, Anna,” Zack begged from below.
Let go, Anna, Uncle Will called.
Let go, Anna. The third voice was soft, familiar, sounding closer than if the words had been spoken in my ear.
“Mother Joanna?”
Let go now, she said.
And I did.
SHOCK — THE NUMBNESS of it, the disconnect it creates with actual events — is useful. It keeps you from running through a burning house, screaming to the person left behind, when it is much too late.
Zack and I crawled together out of the bushes, then ran fifty feet or more before turning back to look at the house.
Aunt Iris emerged from the main entrance. She must have taken the route I had been looking for so desperately. The fire roaring above her and its choking smell did not seem to faze her. Shock, I thought, and called to her. She came quietly.
Aunt Iris, Zack, and I sat together on the wet grass and watched the upper story burn, listening to the approaching sirens, thinking about Marcy.
I remember the next two hours as a jumble of images: the pulsating lights of the trucks; the smoke that kept pouring out when there were no more flames; the look on Dave’s face; the way Zack held his father in his arms and
