Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [71]
At least the trailer had contained most of the fire. One fat flying spark and the hillside would’ve ignited as if sprinkled with gunpowder. Chaparral actually flourished with fire, since many of its plants and grasses reseeded only after a burn-off. Even this fire, Libby thought, wasn’t necessarily a tragedy. The insurance money would pay for moving one of Red’s bungalows, and surely a house would appeal more to Lewis.
She unlocked the door and found no signs of looting. The smell, however, was unbearable. It clung to her skin like a pervasive and adhesive evil, a scent of scorched hair and incurable anger that contaminated even her tastebuds; her saliva tasted like tincture of burning tires.
She checked her watch to see if Lewis might be at the office yet. Guess who? she’d say. It’s me, the Little Match Girl.
Her phone, however, was dead.
WHEN Red Ray told him about the fire, Lewis was eating a chocolate doughnut for breakfast. He was going through a sugar phase. He woke up in the morning and thought of canned peaches and doughnuts even before coffee and cigarettes. He wasn’t getting fat—so far.
“Billie stopped by this morning on her rounds,” Red told him.
“She said Libby’s bearing up. The fire smoldered in the kitchen walls. It was only beginning to spread when the firemen got there.”
“So she didn’t lose everything,” Lewis said.
“It might’ve been easier if she had. As it is, she’s got a big job on her hands.”
“Good thing you’re giving her a bungalow,” Lewis said. “You want half this coffee?” Before Red could answer, he picked up a styrofoam cup and filled it. Lewis broke the doughnut apart, scattering flakes of frosting over the carpet, and offered half to Red, who patted his paunch and shook his head. When Lewis gestured again, he accepted.
“So go ahead,” Red said, “take the day off.”
“What for?”
“She’ll need all the help she can get. That trailer needs to be emptied.”
“I thought,” said Lewis, “I’m not supposed to make any serious moves at this stage in my sobriety.”
Red’s face clouded. “Don’t be an asshole. I can’t exactly see how helping a friend will land you back in detox.”
“You don’t know Libby,” said Lewis. “I have a hunch somebody’s going to try to make her housing problem my housing problem.”
Red put the last bite of doughnut in his mouth and chewed unhappily, as if the sweetness itself were upsetting. “You know, Lewis,” he said, “it is remotely possible that this fire isn’t just about you.”
“I know, I know.” Lewis ducked his head, embarrassed. “Okay, big guy, I’ll do the good deed.” He struck a muscleman’s pose, arms flexed, fist curled to forehead. “I’ll clean the Augean stables.”
Once in the Fairlane, Lewis could barely lift the key to the ignition. He was genuinely sorry about Libby’s trailer. She didn’t need any more grief, and he felt guilty enough for bringing up cohabitation the other night; some things seem like a good idea at three a.m., especially in the middle of an anxiety attack. But he wasn’t the answer to Libby’s problems before the fire, so what use could he be to her now? If Red cared so much, let him rescue the maiden in distress.
At the farm’s front entrance, Lewis checked for oncoming traffic and, sure enough, saw a familiar blue Falcon coming from the east. How right can you be? She didn’t waste two minutes!
LIBBY was experiencing a heady, if inappropriate, bout of elation. Tragedy struck and missed! The day itself was exhilarating—last week’s tinge of fall now deepened to a cool current, soft gray clouds blowing across the sky. Anything was possible. She could drive on, past Round Rock, out of this valley, turn north on the interstate into the Great Central Valley, land so resolutely agricultural as to still support general stores, grange halls, and