“And the other calls? They’ve stopped? I know you weren’t there, but was there anything on your machine?”
“Nothing, except a lot of hang-ups. But people don’t like to leave messages. My mother is the worst.
You know, clears her throat several times, then whispers, ‘I’ll call you back. It’s Mother’—like it’s a deep secret—and hangs up fast. That’s if she leaves anything. I’ll call her tonight. Maybe she’s been trying to reach me.”
Faith nodded. The parsonage machine offered a sample of virtually every message-leaving style.
“Mom?” a little voice called out tentatively. “I’m getting overwaited.”
“It’s time, Ben,” she called back, and sat well out of the way. If she’d had a stopwatch handy, he might have made the record books.
Play-group days always left Faith fatigued, and she’d gone straight to sleep, despite all the thinking she’d planned to do. Those minutes between head touching the pillow and oblivion tended to be her most productive time of day and she kept a pad and pencil next to the bed to scribble notes for recipes or other projects that every once in a while seemed just as brilliant in the morning. So when she was awakened by the scream of the sirens, she was more than usually cranky. From the sound of them, they were converg-ing in the Fairchilds’ driveway.
Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to summon sleep again. Tom, who only woke if one of the children sneezed or whimpered, had not moved a muscle. She hitched the comforter over her ear and then sat up.
She wasn’t in Manhattan. She was in Aleford. Sirens in the night, especially this many—the noise was continuing unabated—were not a common occurrence.
Now, in her old apartment, a night
She went over to the window and looked across at the green. No activity there and nothing seemed amiss.
She walked down the hall and crept into Ben’s room, which was at the rear of the house. She could hear shouts from a bullhorn, but not the words. And she could see bright orange light at the end of the block.
The whole sky appeared to be in flames. Two figures were in the Millers’ backyard, and as she watched, they ran toward the street. Obviously Pix and Sam. She ran, too, back to her room, where she threw on some clothes.
“Darling,” she whispered in her husband’s ear. Getting no response, she shook him slightly, then harder.
“Darling!” she repeated, and Tom woke up all at once.
“What is it? What’s happened?” He reached to turn on the light and the glare flooded the room. He rubbed his eyes. “Faith, what’s all that noise?”
“There seems to be a huge fire at the end of the block. You can see it from Ben’s room. I’m going to find out where it is.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you. No, the kids. But be careful.”
Tom was in a slight state of confusion and had pulled out one of his black clerical jackets instead of his bathrobe from the closet. Faith took it from his hands and effected the change. She left him sitting on the bed, looking at his slippers.
“Go to sleep. I’ll come back and tell you what’s going on as soon as I can.”
It was cold, yet the color of the sky gave an illusion of warmth as she walked rapidly down the block, joining others similarly awakened from their beds. There was an air of excitement. She had started smelling the smoke as soon as she stepped out the door. Cold was no longer a problem as she got closer. The heat was intense and companies from all the surrounding towns were fighting the blaze. The new wood crackled and went up like the proverbial matchsticks. But no need to be concerned about life or property. This house had never been lived in, and never would be. It was the new spec house the Deanes had almost finished—the house on Whipple Hill Road that the neighbors had often wished would disappear. And now it was—right before their startled eyes.
Faith looked around at the faces in the flickering light. A fire, especially a large fire, has a peculiar effect on people—mesmerizing, fascinating, beguiling. It brings out the pyromaniac in everyone. The flames were magnificent, beautiful. They shot high up into the night sky; torrents of sparks cascaded to the ground.
Faith found herself almost enjoying the spectacle—that is, until Fire Chief O’Halloran’s voice shouting instructions to Aleford’s Ancient Order of Hook and Ladder Volunteers reminded her that this was real and not
How had it started?
Faith knew there would be no answers tonight.
The smoke was filling her lungs. She had to leave.
The house would be a total loss. But the Deanes would be insured. Insured. Insurance. How much and to whom?
She turned to go home. She could see some of her neighbors gathered in small groups, but she didn’t feel like talking to anyone, even the Millers. Fortunate or unfortunate—which was it? The neighborhood would be happy, although the Deanes still owned the land. The Deanes couldn’t be, even with insurance. All that work. She looked around to see if any members of the family were here. They would have to be. And they were. Gus and his grandsons were standing with Charley MacIsaac by one of the trucks.
They were watching in silence, their faces grim.
How had it started?
A few steps toward home, she was stopped by a loud shout. It was one of the firemen from Byford. He was directing his hose into one of the windows on the first floor. Faith paused. He shouted again.
“Jesus Christ! There’s somebody in here!”
Nelson Batcheldor did not find out he was a widower until 4:30 A.M. It had taken that long for the fire to be extinguished enough to recover the body. There had never been any hope of survival. And the only reason a positive identification was made so quickly was that Margaret had died as she’d lived—binoculars in place.
Chief MacIsaac appeared at the parsonage, where the Fairchilds were waiting. As soon as Faith heard that someone had been trapped inside, she’d hurried home and the two of them sat together, waiting to hear who the victim was. At one point, Tom had walked down to the fire, but soon returned. There was little he could do there, he’d told Faith, except get in the way.
She remembered her own first moments of fascination at the sight of the fire and felt sick.
Charley was wearing a heavy firemen’s raincoat and his face was streaked with grime. He refused Faith’s offer of coffee. He’d been drinking it for hours.
“It was Margaret Batcheldor, and we have to tell Nelson.” Charley seemed to break down for a moment. He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and went on. “Damn nice woman, even though she did go over-board with the birds. What the hell could she have been doing in the house? No birds there. Unless she thought one was trapped or something. . . .” He sounded utterly defeated.
Tom and Faith were listening intently, but it took a moment for them to register.
“Margaret? Margaret’s body?” Tom asked.
Charley nodded and Faith started to cry. “Poor Nelson. What’s he going to do without her?” It was impossible to think of one without the other.
“I thought you ought to be there when I tell him, Tom. He’s going to need you.”
Faith gave her husband a fierce hug. He and Charley left immediately and she wandered about the house, unable to settle down to anything, certainly not sleep. She had a fleeting impulse to call the Millers, but then decided not to. She didn’t feel like spreading this kind of news. Aleford would know soon enough.
Margaret Batcheldor trapped in a fire in the house the Deanes built. Margaret and Nelson, the recipients of a poison-pen letter. Margaret and Nelson, pillars of POW! Finally, Margaret and Nelson in ski masks and out of mufti, emerging from Beecher’s Bog. Aleford had had its ups and downs, serious tragedies, a feud or two, but nothing like this. The smoke from the fire seemed to have seeped in through the walls of the house. It was as if some noxious gas were permeating their lives, carrying distrust and now death throughout the village.
She began to long for the children to wake up. Her thoughts were beginning to terrify her. She picked up a
