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Authors: Maryse Meijer
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stern. Sheâd already knocked two dozen firemen unconscious that afternoon; she wasnât going to take any crap from me. I slapped a gnat on the back of my neck, panting.
Iâm not yelling.
Yes, you are.
Sorry, I mumbled.
I donât talk to him, silly. I donât talk to anyone but you, she whooshed, the wind bringing some smoke straight into my face. I took a deep breath, coughed, smiled.
Well, good, I said, pulling myself inside the van. My torso hurt, the side of my right leg hurt, my face hurt. I was thirsty from sitting outside all day with only the cold half cup of someoneâs Starbucks to drink. But it didnât matter; the guy was gone, and we were alone. I rummaged in the glove compartment and found a sleeve of melted Thin Mints and ate a few, lying in the back of the van, my head heavy on the greasy pillow, the side door cracked open on a slice of undulating flame. The whole van, everything I touched, smelled like her, felt like her: sharp and dry and hot.
Heâs right, you know, I murmured.
Who?
That guy. You are really something.
Oh, John, she replied, cradling me in her many armsâheat, ash, smoke, roar, lightâuntil I slipped into sleep.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
And then we lost the wind.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
It came as a surprise, even to the weather people, who had predicted strong air currents for the next week. No , I said when I woke up and saw how still the trees were, how motionless the scrub brush and dust along the roads. Her flames rose straight up and down, like people standing around at a party, no longer like sprint runners slicing through the hills.
Shit, I said, shit shit shit!
Where is it? John, where did it go? she demanded.
I donât know, I said, slapping at the radio, trying to get some good news. There was none. I slammed the steering wheel with my fist, sending the van careening into the left-hand lane. I could feel her heat inside the car, thick with panic; it made me breathless.
I pulled over at the next turnout, parked, rolled down my windows. Itâs a temporary setback, I said, forcing myself to be calm. Think of it as a little break. You can focus on getting really hot on the northern front, get everything nice and dry, and when the wind picks up again, boom! Youâll gain whatever ground theyâll take in a day. All right?
All right, she said, Iâll try.
She wanted to believe me, and I couldnât believe anything else. But the state saw its chance; more men were sent, from Oregon, from Arizona, from New Mexico. Three thousand reserves. Helicopters hovered nonstop, dumping their buckets. She could feel the firefighters coming closer, she said, she could hear their footsteps on the ground. They were approaching from the east, the south; they were attacking from behind, from the side, mopping up what had already burned, blasting her weakest points in hopes of thinning her out while the wind was down. North! North! I yelled over the sound of the radio, huddled over the maps and a calculator in the back of the van. But to the north there were only a few hundred acres of forest before she would meet mountains; she could not climb them. And west was where she had already been. Suddenly the world, which had seemed so large when I met her, had shrunk to nothing, nowhere.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Those were dark, sleepless days. I lived off caffeine pills, camped in the van, refusing to go anywhere for anythingâno food, no Gatorade, nothing. I did not recognize her voice, screaming in a new language of pain and rage as blankets of water and retardant snuffed her out an acre at a time. She could barely move, and beneath the swollen cloud of her own smoke she was choking.
On the radio the chief of operations triumphantly reported their gains on the blaze. The news poured bleaker and bleaker from the radio; finally it became so horrible I ripped the batteries from the plastic case, shoved the maps beneath the
Iâm not yelling.
Yes, you are.
Sorry, I mumbled.
I donât talk to him, silly. I donât talk to anyone but you, she whooshed, the wind bringing some smoke straight into my face. I took a deep breath, coughed, smiled.
Well, good, I said, pulling myself inside the van. My torso hurt, the side of my right leg hurt, my face hurt. I was thirsty from sitting outside all day with only the cold half cup of someoneâs Starbucks to drink. But it didnât matter; the guy was gone, and we were alone. I rummaged in the glove compartment and found a sleeve of melted Thin Mints and ate a few, lying in the back of the van, my head heavy on the greasy pillow, the side door cracked open on a slice of undulating flame. The whole van, everything I touched, smelled like her, felt like her: sharp and dry and hot.
Heâs right, you know, I murmured.
Who?
That guy. You are really something.
Oh, John, she replied, cradling me in her many armsâheat, ash, smoke, roar, lightâuntil I slipped into sleep.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
And then we lost the wind.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
It came as a surprise, even to the weather people, who had predicted strong air currents for the next week. No , I said when I woke up and saw how still the trees were, how motionless the scrub brush and dust along the roads. Her flames rose straight up and down, like people standing around at a party, no longer like sprint runners slicing through the hills.
Shit, I said, shit shit shit!
Where is it? John, where did it go? she demanded.
I donât know, I said, slapping at the radio, trying to get some good news. There was none. I slammed the steering wheel with my fist, sending the van careening into the left-hand lane. I could feel her heat inside the car, thick with panic; it made me breathless.
I pulled over at the next turnout, parked, rolled down my windows. Itâs a temporary setback, I said, forcing myself to be calm. Think of it as a little break. You can focus on getting really hot on the northern front, get everything nice and dry, and when the wind picks up again, boom! Youâll gain whatever ground theyâll take in a day. All right?
All right, she said, Iâll try.
She wanted to believe me, and I couldnât believe anything else. But the state saw its chance; more men were sent, from Oregon, from Arizona, from New Mexico. Three thousand reserves. Helicopters hovered nonstop, dumping their buckets. She could feel the firefighters coming closer, she said, she could hear their footsteps on the ground. They were approaching from the east, the south; they were attacking from behind, from the side, mopping up what had already burned, blasting her weakest points in hopes of thinning her out while the wind was down. North! North! I yelled over the sound of the radio, huddled over the maps and a calculator in the back of the van. But to the north there were only a few hundred acres of forest before she would meet mountains; she could not climb them. And west was where she had already been. Suddenly the world, which had seemed so large when I met her, had shrunk to nothing, nowhere.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Those were dark, sleepless days. I lived off caffeine pills, camped in the van, refusing to go anywhere for anythingâno food, no Gatorade, nothing. I did not recognize her voice, screaming in a new language of pain and rage as blankets of water and retardant snuffed her out an acre at a time. She could barely move, and beneath the swollen cloud of her own smoke she was choking.
On the radio the chief of operations triumphantly reported their gains on the blaze. The news poured bleaker and bleaker from the radio; finally it became so horrible I ripped the batteries from the plastic case, shoved the maps beneath the
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