she was just visiting with Bobo-probably she would never come to class again. I just kept on instructing her. No one (least of all the timid Toni) would quite dare to just tell Marshall
My estimation of the girl rose as I worked with her. She gave it her best shot, though she was obviously uncomfortable with being in the class at all. I could like that determination-admire it, even.
“God, you’re strong,” she said, trying not to sound angry, as I gripped her wrists and told her to practice the breaking-free method I’d just taught her.
“I’ve been working at this for years.”
“You’re some kind of hero to Bobo,” she said, her eyes fixed on me to see how I’d react.
I had no idea how to respond to that. I wanted to ignore what Toni had said, but she refused to move when I took her wrist, playing my role of attacker. She just waited, her face turned up to mine.
“I’m not a hero in any sense,” I said curtly. “Now, break free from my hold!”
I got out of there fast when class was over. Janet had left even faster after letting me know she had a date, so she wasn’t there to chat with me on my way out, and the weight room was almost empty. I thought I heard Bobo call my name, but I kept marching forward. I’d see him tomorrow afternoon, anyway.
Chapter Seven
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. There was no point in tearing up my bed tossing and turning any longer. In the darkness I slid into my jeans, black sports bra, an old black Nike T-shirt, and my sneakers. My keys and cell phone were always in the same place on my dresser; I pocketed them and slipped out the front door to begin walking.
There had been too many nights of this pointless activity, I reflected. Too many nights of striding through a silent town-for the past few years this particular silent town of Shakespeare. Before that, other towns in other states: Tennessee, Mississippi. My feet moved silently on the pavement as I covered ground.
I seldom felt the compulsion to walk when Jack stayed with me. If I was restless, I satisfied that restlessness in a more intimate way. Tonight I felt worn ragged, and old.
One of the town’s night patrolmen, Gardner McClanahan, saluted me as he cruised slowly by. He knew better than to stop and talk. Though Claude would never have told me, I’d heard the town police called me the Night Walker, a pun on the title of an old TV show. Every patrol officer knew I’d anonymously called in at least five break- ins and three domestic situations, but we’d silently agreed to pretend they didn’t know their tipster was me. After the previous year, they all knew about my past. I thought it very strange that they apparently respected me for it.
I didn’t raise my hand to acknowledge Gardner, as I would some nights. I kept on moving.
Forty minutes later, I’d circled, doubled, gone to all four points of the compass, and still was only about six blocks from home. On Main, I was passing Joe C’s house, thinking once again about its size and age, when I stopped in my tracks. Had that been a flicker of movement among the bushes in the yard of the Prader house? My hand dropped to the cell phone in my pocket, but there was no point calling the police if I’d been mistaken. I slunk into the yard myself, moving through the overgrown shrubbery as silently as I could.
Yes. Ahead of me, someone was moving. Someone all in black. Someone quiet and quick like me. The closest streetlight was half a block away and the yard was deep and shadowy.
It took me only seconds to realize that whoever this trespasser was, he was moving away from the house, not toward it. I wondered if he’d been trying the doors, hoping to enter and steal. I began making my way as quietly as I could through the jungle of Joe C’s yard.
Then I smelled smoke. I froze in position, my head rotating to track from which direction the thick dark scent was pouring.
It was coming from the house. My skin began to crawl with apprehension. Not even attempting quiet movement, I pressed close enough to peer through the open curtains of Joe C’s living room, the room I’d vacuumed just three days before. Now that I was out of the bushes, the streetlight gave me a little visibility. There were no lights on in the house, but I should have been able to see the outlines of the furniture. Instead, there was a dense movement inside the room. After a second, I realized the room was full of smoke; it was coiling against the windows, waiting to be let out. As I stared into the dark moving cloud, I saw the first dart of the flames.
I broke into a run, crashing through the overgrown crepe myrtles and camellias, around the house and up the shaky steps to Joe C’s back door. I’d decided the back door was farthest from the fire. There was no time to waste trying to track the trespasser. As I pounded on the door to wake the old man, I pulled the phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.
I told the dispatcher what the situation was, and she answered, “We’ll be there in a minute, Lily,” which I’d probably find amusing another time. The smell of smoke was increasing by the second. I pocketed the phone and forced myself to touch the doorknob. It wasn’t hot. Though I expected the door would be locked, it opened easily.
A cloud of darkness billowed out. With it came the terrible smell of things being consumed by fire. I was gasping with terror, knowing I had to try to reach Joe C.
I hesitated, shamefully, afraid of being trapped if I went in. I knew the door must be shut behind me to prevent cross breezes from fanning the flames. For a long second, I was awfully tempted to shut myself right back out on the porch. But that was just something I couldn’t do. I took a deep breath of clean air. Then I entered the burning house and closed the opening to safety.
I started to switch on the lights, realized I shouldn’t. In the choking gloom, I made my way across the kitchen to the familiar double sink, felt the dishcloth draped across the divider. I rinsed it out under cold water and held it across my mouth and nose as I tried to fumble my way out of the kitchen and across the hall to Joe C’s bedroom.
I sucked in breath to call the old man, and that breath exploded out in a bout of coughing. I saw flames to my right, in the living room. Smoke, a deadly silent killer, filled the wide hall. I put one hand to the wall to orient myself, touching a picture of Joe C’s mother I recalled was hanging about a yard to the left of the door to Joe C’s bedroom. I could hear sirens now, but no coughing from anyone but me.
“Joe C!” I screamed, the intake of smoke causing me another coughing spasm. I might have heard something in reply. At least I imagined that I heard a faint answer after I gave a second call. The fire was in the living room, moving closer to the hall, licking at something it really liked. I could feel a sudden escalation in its energy, as if it had eaten a piece of candy. Maybe it had grabbed ahold of Joe C’s antique rolltop desk, its wood dry and ready for the flame after a hundred and fifty years of use.
The door to Joe C’s bedroom was closed. I didn’t know if that was usual or not. I turned the knob, and it opened. I was having good luck with doors tonight, if nothing else.
“Joe C,” I called hoarsely. “Where are you?” I stepped cautiously into the bedroom and shut the door behind me.
“Here,” came the feeble reply. “I’m trying to open this damn winda.”
Since Joe C’s bedroom and the kitchen were at the back of the house, away from the streetlight, between the smoke and the natural darkness I couldn’t tell exactly where the old man was.
“Say something!” I began groping my way into the room, colliding with the bedpost as I shuffled forward. That gave me my bearings.
Joe C said a few things, none of them repeatable.
Finally I reached him, hearing him begin to cough so violently that I knew he didn’t have long to go if we stayed inside. I followed his hands up to the two locks on the window, and I took over the job of twisting them. The right one was easy, the left one very stiff. I wrestled with it, decided to break the glass in about one second if the lock didn’t give.
“Damn, woman, get us out of here!” Joe C said urgently. “The fire is at the door!” Then he was overwhelmed by another coughing spasm.
I glanced over my shoulder to see that the door appeared to be cracking, and the cracks had red edges. If I touched that doorknob now, my hands would burn.
