I nodded and folded my arms across my chest, self-conscious about my state of undress.
“Your neighbor called.” His chin strap dangled.
“Oh.” I forgot my nightie. I was back in St-Jovite.
“Everything under control?”
Another nod. St-Jovite. Almost a synapse.
“Mind if I make sure?”
I stepped back.
He sized it up in one look.
“Pretty mean prank. Know who might have heaved this through your window?”
I shook my head.
“Looks like they broke the glass with the cinder blocks, then chucked that thing in.” He walked over to the smoldering mound. “They must’ve soaked it in gasoline, lit it, and pitched it.”
I heard his words but couldn’t speak. My body had locked up as my mind tried to rouse some shapeless notion sleeping in the core of my brain.
The firefighter slipped a shovel from his belt, snapped open the blade, and poked at the heap on my kitchen floor. Black flecks shot upward, then rejoined the rubble below. He slid the blade below the object, flipped it over, and leaned in.
“Looks like a burlap sack. Maybe a seed bag. Damned if I can tell what’s inside.”
He scraped the object with the tip of the shovel and more charred particles spiraled up. He prodded harder, rolling the thing from side to side.
The smell grew stronger. St-Jovite. Autopsy room three. Memory broke through and I went cold all over.
With trembling hands I opened a drawer and withdrew a pair of kitchen scissors. No longer concerned about my nightie, I squatted and cut the burlap.
The corpse was small, its back arched, its legs contracted by the heat of the flames. I saw a shriveled eye, a tiny jaw with blackened teeth. Anticipation of the horror that the sack held made me begin to feel faint.
I leaned in, my mind recoiling from the smell of burned flesh and hair. Between the hind legs I saw a curled and blackened tail, its vertebrae protruding like thorns on a stem.
Tears slid down my cheeks as I cut further. Near the knot I saw hairs, scorched now, but white in spots.
The half-full bowls.
“Nooooooooooooooooo!”
I heard the voice, but did not connect it to myself.
“No! No! No! Birdie. Please God, no!”
I felt hands on my shoulders, then on my hands, taking the scissors, gently pulling me to my feet. Voices.
Then I was in the parlor, a quilt around me. I was crying, shaking, my body in pain.
I don’t know how long I’d been sobbing when I looked up to see my neighbor. She pointed at a cup of tea.
“What is it?” My chest heaved in and out.
“Peppermint.”
“Thanks.” I drank the tepid liquid. “What time is it?”
“A little past two.” She wore slippers and a trench coat that didn’t cover her flannel gown. Though we’d waved to each other across the lawn, or exchanged hellos on the walk, I hardly knew her.
“I’m so sorry you had to get up in the middle of the nigh—”
“Please, Dr. Brennan. We’re neighbors. I know you’d do the same for me.”
I took another sip. My hands were icy, but trembled less.
“Are the firemen still here?”
“They left. They said you can fill out a report when you feel better.”
“Did they take—” My voice broke and I felt tears behind my eyes.
“Yes. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You’ve been very kind.”
“I’m sorry about your damage. We put a board across the window. It’s not elegant, but it will keep the wind out.”
“Thank you so much. I—”
“Please. Just get some sleep. Perhaps this won’t seem so bad in the morning.”
I thought of Birdie and dreaded the morning. In desperate hope I picked up the phone and dialed Pete’s
