tin cups and handed them all around, to us as well as the adults. The strong, acrid coffee almost burned my tongue, but it was wonderful. I held my cup out for more, as did Mrs. Fitzgerald, now seated beside me in the great circle around the fire.
“Evalina?” Suddenly Robert was standing behind me. He leaned over and thrust his hat, crushed again, into my lap.
“Oh, brother,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.
Everyone looked on while I opened the hat slowly to reveal a wet green lizard, iridescent in the sunshine as it twisted and turned, breathtakingly beautiful. “Oooh!” we all gasped as one. It was the loveliest gift I have ever received, then or now, though Lily, on my left, was afraid of it, scrambling to get away.
But Mrs. Fitzgerald muttered, “Stupid, stupid.” She grabbed the hat from my hands and flung it into the fire.
It was gone in an instant as new yellow flames leaped up to engulf the straw. Pandemonium ensued—several people screaming, others running away from the fire into the woods with staff members in pursuit. Robert and I stayed right where we were, eyes fixed upon the fire. So did Mrs. Fitzgerald. When all traces of hat and lizard were gone, I turned to find Mrs. Fitzgerald staring intently, almost hungrily, into the flames.
“I don’t understand why everybody is so upset,” she said petulantly. “It didn’t hurt it. Salamanders live in fire, don’t you know anything?”
“That is not true,” Robert said. “That is only a legend, a myth. This was a real salamander, genus Plethodontidae, and you have killed it.”
“It is true, you little idiot,” she snapped at him, darkening.
“How do you know it, then?” Lily asked.
Mrs. Fitzgerald turned to face us. “I am a salamander,” she said. “I have lived in the fire for years, yet here I am.” She held out her tanned arm, palm up. “Touch me,” she whispered. “I am still alive, as real as you are.”
We drew back, horrified, yet again I felt that awful closeness, that familiarity I had felt when I saw her for the very first time, sitting on the rock. I started to cry.
“Fools!” Mrs. Fitzgerald spat at us. “Silly little fools!” She started laughing. She flung back her head, laughing.
“Come along now, we’ll give you a ride back, easy does it . . .” Suddenly Mr. Axelrod and Mr. Pugh were hustling Mrs. Fitzgerald along, one on either side of her, over to the food truck. Miss Tippin hugged me, wordlessly, stroking my hair. She held me like that while Henry and Johnson and some of the others doused the fire and scattered the ashes about. Mr. Axelrod returned to lead us off down the mountain immediately, single file, urging us to move along as rapidly as possible, to beat the lengthening shadows. Robert stumbled along somewhere ahead of me. The Maid of Cotton was crying. Nobody sang.
I GOT MY f irst and only glimpse of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s famous husband later that November, when Mrs. Hodges took me on a long-promised visit to the Grove Park Inn, where two of her daughters worked, one as a chambermaid and one as a hostess in the lobby. Moira, this one, was a big, buxom girl with a ready smile and a headful of carrot curls. She waved at us from her desk in the middle of the cavernous lobby, which took my breath away, as had the grand entrance out front.
“She’ll join us later for a bite, when things slow down,” Mrs. Hodges said. “Now what do you think, eh? Quite the spot, isn’t it?”
I was too overwhelmed to answer immediately. The Grove Park Inn had been built on a grand scale, as if it were a hotel for giants. The lobby in which we stood was by far the largest room I had ever been inside, as big as an athletic field, all wood and stone, with immense stone fireplaces blazing at either end. The rocking chairs lined up before the fireplaces were filled with people talking and sipping from cups or glasses, while uniformed waiters and waitresses moved about. Groups of comfortable furniture filled the lobby
“Evalina?” Suddenly Robert was standing behind me. He leaned over and thrust his hat, crushed again, into my lap.
“Oh, brother,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.
Everyone looked on while I opened the hat slowly to reveal a wet green lizard, iridescent in the sunshine as it twisted and turned, breathtakingly beautiful. “Oooh!” we all gasped as one. It was the loveliest gift I have ever received, then or now, though Lily, on my left, was afraid of it, scrambling to get away.
But Mrs. Fitzgerald muttered, “Stupid, stupid.” She grabbed the hat from my hands and flung it into the fire.
It was gone in an instant as new yellow flames leaped up to engulf the straw. Pandemonium ensued—several people screaming, others running away from the fire into the woods with staff members in pursuit. Robert and I stayed right where we were, eyes fixed upon the fire. So did Mrs. Fitzgerald. When all traces of hat and lizard were gone, I turned to find Mrs. Fitzgerald staring intently, almost hungrily, into the flames.
“I don’t understand why everybody is so upset,” she said petulantly. “It didn’t hurt it. Salamanders live in fire, don’t you know anything?”
“That is not true,” Robert said. “That is only a legend, a myth. This was a real salamander, genus Plethodontidae, and you have killed it.”
“It is true, you little idiot,” she snapped at him, darkening.
“How do you know it, then?” Lily asked.
Mrs. Fitzgerald turned to face us. “I am a salamander,” she said. “I have lived in the fire for years, yet here I am.” She held out her tanned arm, palm up. “Touch me,” she whispered. “I am still alive, as real as you are.”
We drew back, horrified, yet again I felt that awful closeness, that familiarity I had felt when I saw her for the very first time, sitting on the rock. I started to cry.
“Fools!” Mrs. Fitzgerald spat at us. “Silly little fools!” She started laughing. She flung back her head, laughing.
“Come along now, we’ll give you a ride back, easy does it . . .” Suddenly Mr. Axelrod and Mr. Pugh were hustling Mrs. Fitzgerald along, one on either side of her, over to the food truck. Miss Tippin hugged me, wordlessly, stroking my hair. She held me like that while Henry and Johnson and some of the others doused the fire and scattered the ashes about. Mr. Axelrod returned to lead us off down the mountain immediately, single file, urging us to move along as rapidly as possible, to beat the lengthening shadows. Robert stumbled along somewhere ahead of me. The Maid of Cotton was crying. Nobody sang.
I GOT MY f irst and only glimpse of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s famous husband later that November, when Mrs. Hodges took me on a long-promised visit to the Grove Park Inn, where two of her daughters worked, one as a chambermaid and one as a hostess in the lobby. Moira, this one, was a big, buxom girl with a ready smile and a headful of carrot curls. She waved at us from her desk in the middle of the cavernous lobby, which took my breath away, as had the grand entrance out front.
“She’ll join us later for a bite, when things slow down,” Mrs. Hodges said. “Now what do you think, eh? Quite the spot, isn’t it?”
I was too overwhelmed to answer immediately. The Grove Park Inn had been built on a grand scale, as if it were a hotel for giants. The lobby in which we stood was by far the largest room I had ever been inside, as big as an athletic field, all wood and stone, with immense stone fireplaces blazing at either end. The rocking chairs lined up before the fireplaces were filled with people talking and sipping from cups or glasses, while uniformed waiters and waitresses moved about. Groups of comfortable furniture filled the lobby
Similar Books
