The Fires

  THE

  FIRES

  RENÉ

  STEINKE

  FOR CRAIG MARKS

  These flowers are all fangs. Comfort me, fury.

  —Theodore Roethke

  Contents

  Epigraph

  iii

  I

  Smoke has as many different scents as skin. Part of…

  1

  II

  I spent the next few days with Jo, trying to…

  17

  III

  Then I was back in Porter. The town lay on…

  37

  IV

  When I let myself into my mother’s house, I went…

  53

  V

  Though it was my job to inspect the rooms each…

  68

  VI

  Sadly fiddling with the button of her blouse, as loose…

  90

  VII

  Two guests had just checked out, and after I returned…

  106

  VIII

  Emily’s house in Plymouth was pink with green shutters.

  A…

  117

  IX

  Marietta came to see me at the hotel. She was…

  137

  X

  Paul set a plate down on the desk in front…

  153

  XI

  As I walked back from Marietta’s the cold air had…

  169

  XII

  177

  That night Paul came around to the side of the…

  XIII

  What is fire made of? Not dust, breath, the devil…

  201

  XIV

  I’d brought Paul a postcard of the Golden Gate Bridge…

  209

  XV

  When the Holy Spirit visited the apostles, and their tongues…

  223

  XVI

  On the other side of fire: ashy daylight and myself…

  234

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  I

  S moke has as many different scents as skin. Part of the pleasure is not knowing what it will be—sulfurous or closer to incense or air-ier and sweet as I imagine the smell of clouds. Nothing relieves me so much as burning something old, watching it flicker and disappear into air. Dresses dance as they go, lifted as if by some music. A photograph flaps like a wing or a hand waving. Perfumes hiss, then shatter, papers curl, plaster jewels curdle. Once I tried to burn an old toy—a mechanical duck. When I’d found it at the bottom of a drawer, it reminded me of the groggy sunrise Easter service and the hunt for eggs in the graveyard. After I set the match to its tail, it started walking pitifully on its metal legs, and it knocked around the room singeing the walls and linoleum until it burned down to its metal frame and folded with a crackle and small battery explosion. It is less dangerous to burn things than to save them.

  I ’d poured myself six thimble shots of bourbon and walked the edges of the bedroom touching the walls and windowsills, hoping to work the starry twitches from my legs so they’d lie still. If I let go, I’d fall off the night that was galloping fast. Every time I got into bed, I heard an intruder finagling the catch on the win-1

  2 / RENÉ STEINKE

  dow or slowly climbing the basement stairs. My heart raced. My eyelids fluttered. I jolted up, walked to the kitchen, ears stinging at the silence, and poured another shot.

  The train had gone by three times, rattling into the air. Porter was the kind of Indiana town where the whistle sounded cheerful, not plaintive, but then the wheels chewed ravenously on the tracks.

  I listened for the man until he turned phantom again—the trees, the wind. Ridiculous to be twenty-two, a year past adulthood, and still afraid of stray noises. I went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, turned on the clock radio, and fiddled with the ridged knob until I heard the song about lightning and the crashing sea of love, just at the point when the guitar strummed in waves. My bare feet pressed on the cool, grainy floor; my nightgown bunched up around my knees.

  I traced a panicky finger over the constellation of glitter in the Formica—two nights of not sleeping, with nothing to do for long, bare hours except worry over the crucial thing it seemed I needed to remember and couldn’t: that blankness revolved in my head like a siren.

  Twirling the salt shaker in my fingertips, I groggily felt that if I acted asleep, sleep might come. Sprinkling a little salt in my palm, I dabbed a few grains into the corners of my eyes before I closed them and put my head down on the table. But when I tried to breathe slowly and think of nothing, I began to crave potato pancakes and apples.

  Over the stove hung the cast-iron skillet my father had used to make them, crisp and salty in a way my mother and I had never mastered. After he died, the drinking started—secretly at first, from sticky bottles next to the flour in the pantry cabinet, and for the same reason I often couldn’t sleep now: an old sensation that I was falling, or about to fall, from some roof or ledge or stairs.

  THE FIRES / 3

  Bourbon gave me the courage to loosen my grip. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t fall anymore, but the fall would be pleasant, and it wouldn’t matter so much when I did.

  I was about to drift off when I heard a scratch, a mouse or something, in the pantry. I got up to open the door and turn on the light. The colored boxes and gleaming cans glared back at me. I knew I was hanging on too tightly, but this time couldn’t make myself let go.

  The landlord had asked me to leave my apartment on Birch Street, and I was staying at my mother’s until I could move into one of the rooms at the Linden Hotel, where I worked. There the insomniacs made anxious trips to the ice machine after midnight, and by morning they were already showered and dressed as if there were some purpose to their being awake so early. When they came down to the lobby to check out, their faces swollen and pale, a lostness about them, I’d keep my voice quiet and slow as I gave them directions or simply thanked them and said good-bye. I knew they’d sleepwalk through the day, just as I often did, wincing at light and hoping not to stumble, all along hearing that murmur: If you couldn’t sleep last night, you might not get to sleep later, or ever.

  I went back to the metal chair and sat staring out the window at the grass, my stomach hollow from all the bourbon. I got up and opened the refrigerator, peered into the cold light. In the lingering smell of leftover cherry pie lay a quart of milk, a hunk of molded bread, a dozen eggs. I grabbed the egg carton and shut the door.

  I was going to scramble them, but immediately lost my appetite and just lay them on the table in front of me. I thought of all the people I knew sleeping then, their heads nestled in dreams like those eggs in their cups. I visited each bed, examined the sleeping face, the mouth pressed closed or slightly open, the deep slow 4 / RENÉ STEINKE

  breaths or snores, the sprawl or curl of limbs. I wanted to know how they let go so easily, how they managed to spiral so bravely into sleep, unafraid of all they had forgotten.

  The dark sky was bluing. Taking the first egg from its bed, I palmed it in my hand, shook it just slightly, and felt the weight of the yolk wiggling in its sack. In the gentle press of my fingers, the shell felt brittle and fragile. I tossed it at the window, and it smacked against the blue-black surface, a toy sun. I threw another one at the glass. It cracked and splashed yellow, then dripped sleepily.

  I t happened later that same August. I was cold at the funeral, and I kept touching the book of matches in my skirt pocket, the plain black cover and the twenty red heads, lined up and full-cheeked like a choir. Flicking my thumbnail at the thin cardboard, I looked up over the casket at the empty cross of pale wood.

  Wh
en my grandmother had called that Monday night, sobbing so I barely understood her murmur over the phone that my grandfather had died in his sleep, I pretended she was telling the truth. But when my mother and I got there, what really happened was clear from the empty glass vial, the tipped-over china cup on the nightstand, the pinch of white powder blurring the delicate flowers on the saucer’s rim. His small head was turned to the black window, his mouth blue and slack, his eyes serene but plastic, the folds in his cheeks frowning. He had been formal and guarded in a way that made him inscrutable, but now his face lacked wariness, his eyes and mouth vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before.

  His left arm was flung across the pillow, a scrap of envelope crumpled in his fist. I was afraid to touch his skin, but coaxed the paper out from the tension in his fingers and saw that he’d THE FIRES / 5

  scrawled a few lines in pencil, then tried to erase them. Kneeling down to hold the paper in the lamplight, I stared through that fog of smudged marks, but could only make out three words where the pencil had indented the paper: “NOT YOUR” and near the ripped corner, “LOVE.”

  I looked up on the nightstand and watched the round clock’s hands tick past frilled numbers. I counted. Behind me, I heard something small fall on the bureau and my mother softly weeping.

  I wanted to console her, to weep myself, but instead counted the seconds, my heart that clock, impatient and achingly brass. When I turned around to my mother and grandmother, I felt the ticking dryness in my eyes, a metallic bitterness in my throat.

  I quickly turned back to him. Even not blinking from my stare, the tears wouldn’t come. I was a clock trapped behind a flat, oval face, ticking and ticking—what was wrong with me?

  My mother, my grandmother Marietta, and I rode in the hearse at the front of the procession, a dozen cars with twittering yellow flags that said FUNERAL. My limbs were shaky, as if my leg might kick the seat, my arm fling out at the driver’s head, but I held still, afraid of what might happen if I moved. “It was a good service, wasn’t it?” my mother said, her voice phlegmy. I’d learned to read her by the angle of her face, her gestures, and the changing shape of her eyes, rather than by what she said. When I watched her this way, she held me at a distance, but she still held me.

  She kept smoothing the dress in her lap as if this motion soothed her, her thin mouth strained into a smile. She was worried I might see how much his death terrified her.

  My grandmother’s shoulders curled in around her body. As usual, she looked more vivid than my mother, wearing her best dress, nude stockings, and precise red lips so that no one could say she’d let herself go—but there was something mournful in the way she’d made herself up so brightly.

  6 / RENÉ STEINKE

  We passed the old community theater, an elaborate, stone building with a lion at the greened copper crest near the roof, which, as a girl, I’d used to ask questions: How many puppies will the neighbor’s dog have? When will my mother be happy? What did you see on the street last night? “Are you okay, Ella?” Marietta asked me. A handkerchief edged with embroidered roses was gathered in the manicured, freckled hand she placed on my knee.

  “Sure,” I said, rubbing my eyes, knowing how afraid she and my mother were that I’d start to cry. My forced-back tears made a sparkly, prismed shield.

  My mother’s hands were clenched. The fingernails bitten down to the quick and the torn red cuticles resembled my grandfather’s hands, which were huge, out of proportion, even, to his six-foot frame. But my mother’s hands were small—rough white knuckles and fragile fingers with swollen joints—the hands of a woman who worried too much. I knew she just wanted to get this over with, to go back to our routines. That was how she managed, structuring each day like a house she couldn’t leave.

  “It’s warm in here,” I said, folding my palms together in my lap. There was a marbled amulet of skin around my left wrist, and though I’d grown used to hiding it, I didn’t now. Its ugliness even pleased me. I stared at the rivulets of pink and white, the strange curvy lunge the scar took toward my thumb.

  The driver stopped short at a red light, and the coffin rattled in its straps. It was easier to fathom his death now that they’d closed the coffin and put away the portrait of him in middle age that had been propped on the lid. It had been the undertaker’s idea to do that, “an old Midwestern tradition,” he’d said, but it hadn’t been comforting to see his young face battle with the dead one. I’d noticed my mother looked only at the coffin, but had kept her eyes on the collar of his shirt, the pointed tips and the knot of the tie.

  THE FIRES / 7

  We drove past the Paradise Lounge, its neon palm tree sign flashing pink and green. It was a place where I could dodge my reflection in the bottles against the bar’s mirror, or disappear in the shadowy tables pushed up against the wall, but people who knew me wouldn’t have believed I ever went there.

  “I didn’t see Mrs. Schone, did you?” My mother didn’t really care whether or not this friend of my grandmother’s had come—she was only afraid of what else one of us might say.

  “In the back,” I said.

  She nodded, her face gray as cement. I wanted to take her hand, but she’d clenched them tightly in her lap on the opposite side and leaned away from me, against the door.

  We drove through the graveyard entrance past a white set of praying hands, taller than a man. I thought about pulling the flask of schnapps from my pocket and drinking from it—a small motion, really, just the lift of the fingers, a firm twist—but even a motion this small seemed impossible.

  We wound along the narrow gravel road, past stone angels and small, bent trees, and a little farther on we stopped in front of the fenced family plot. We got out of the hearse, and slowly walked to the grave site.

  Car doors slammed. A man said, “You never know, do you?

  In his sleep? Was it a stroke?”

  “Something like that.”

  My blouse pinched under the arms, and from the strain of holding tears back, my nose was running. There was a rustle of dress clothes behind me as people whispered about how kind my grandfather had been, how he’d lived a full life, how much he’d loved his roses, how they’d seen him, healthy, only the day before he died. I knew then that his death didn’t belong to him, that our lie had covered his final escape. We didn’t even discuss it, we’d

  8 / RENÉ STEINKE

  learned so well to keep the surface of life unwrinkled and clean, like a well-made bed.

  “Dear friends, we are gathered here to remember a man who fought the good fight.” Pastor Beck was standing in front of us, next to the perfect rectangular grave, his white robe blowing dramatically in the breeze. I stood behind Marietta and my mother and looked down at their narrow ankles, their heels sunk into the soil. Pastor Beck bent to gather some dirt, and when he stood up again, dropped it from his fingers over the grave. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” They’d told themselves he hadn’t meant to vanish, but someday we would have to admit he meant to leave us. My mother’s shoulders began to shake, her fingers grasping at air.

  I couldn’t listen to most of the homily, but stood separate from it all, as if I were looking on through a screen door—just a thin wire mesh, but I didn’t have anything sharp enough to break through it.

  Marietta leaned forward, her eyes watery. My mother glowered at one of the poles holding up the tarp above us, as Pastor Beck went on, “For all of us, but especially for Marietta, for Catherine, Hanna, Ella.” Cars shushed from the highway. No one had seen Hanna, my mother’s older sister, for several years, and her name had been set apart from all the others for so long it had a holy sound that hurt my chest.

  As the men lowered the coffin on ropes into the ground and one by one we tossed carnations into the grave, I thought, She doesn’t even know this is happening. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stared at a tin vase of silk flowers that had tipped over in the grass.

  Afterward we went to the graveyard pavilion for coffee and a potluc
k supper. The smell of tomato sauce and cream of mushroom soup was so thick in the air, something swiveled in my stomach. My best friend Jo was in the corner talking to her fiancé, THE FIRES / 9

  but no matter how much I wanted to go over to her and say Thank God you’re here. I can’t stand it. Let’s go, the space between us seemed too loud and crowded to cross. I leaned toward my mother, whispered in her ear that I didn’t feel well, and took a step back. She turned to me, stumbling over her shoe. I knew how badly she wanted to keep her composure for these people, but her grief made her clumsy.

  Marietta was distracted, accepting compliments from a group of elderly women on her new black dress. “I didn’t have one,”

  she said in a high, prim voice. “I like colors.” She doesn’t want anyone to blame her, I thought.

  I slipped out the screen door, hoping not to see anyone. It was dusk by then, and the graveyard looked magnetic and still as I wandered the spindled paths, fingering the torn envelope in my pocket, not exactly telling myself where I was going, but I knew.

  My mother would worry when she noticed I’d left the pavilion, and though it pained me to think of her searching the room, asking people if they’d seen me, I was used to her worry, and there usually wasn’t any way to avoid it.

  I turned onto the highway and walked on the gravel shoulder.

  Seven years before, at my father’s funeral, I’d also watched myself walk among people and my mouth form words, all the while floating above like a torn-up cloud. They hadn’t been able to find an organist to replace him, and the service had been silent. So many tepid voices and gingerly handshakes—as if death made people move in slow motion, disturbingly out of tempo in a way that would have annoyed him.

  I walked past the popcorn warehouse and a field of munching cows. By this time the sun had blurred behind the trees, and my head was spinning. I’d gone as far as the paint-tester site and in my pocket felt the flask, the envelope, and the fold of the matchbook.

  10 / RENÉ STEINKE

  It was a field of shingles, propped up on legs, as if paint samples grew and could be harvested. The company must have figured if a housepaint lasted two winters in Indiana, then it would be durable enough to last two years anywhere in the country. In the dusk, the gray and green boards looked muted, the whites and yellows more intense.