Cold Fire

held within—and nurtured—all these years and that now wanted its freedom.
    She jerked him away from the car, put her arms around him, held him tight, tighter, repeating his name, expecting the sidewalk to erupt in geysers of brick, expecting to be seized by serrated pincers, tentacles, or cold damp hands of inhuman design. But the triple-thud heartbeat faded, and after a while Jim raised his arms and put them around her.
    The Enemy had passed.
    But it was only a temporary reprieve.
     

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    Svenborg Memorial Park was adjacent to Tivoli Gardens. The cemetery was separated from the park by a spearpoint wrought-iron fence and a mix of trees—mostly white cedars and spreading California Peppers.
    Jim drove slowly along the service road that looped through the graveyard. “Here.” He pulled to the side and stopped.
    When he got out of the Ford, he felt almost as claustrophobic as he had in the pharmacy, even though he was standing in the open air. The slate-dark sky seemed to press down toward the gray granite monuments, while those rectangles and squares and spires strained up like the knobs of ancient time-stained bones half buried in the earth. In that dreary light, the grass looked gray-green. The trees were gray-green, too, and seemed to loom precariously, as if about to topple on him.
    Going around the car to Holly's side, he pointed north. “There.”
    She took his hand. He was grateful to her for that.
    Together they walked to his grandparents' gravesite. It was on a slight rise in the generally flat cemetery. A single rectangular granite marker served both plots.
    Jim's heart was beating hard, and he had difficulty swallowing.
    Her name was chiseled into the right-hand side of the monument. LENA LOUISE IRONHEART.
    Reluctantly he looked at the dates of her birth and death. She had been fifty-three when she died. And she had been dead twenty-four years.
    This must be what it felt like to have been brainwashed, to have had one's memory painted over, false memories air-brushed into the blanks. His past seemed like a fogbound landscape revealed only by the eerie and inconstant luminescent face of a cloud-shrouded moon. He suddenly could not see back through the years with the same clarity he had enjoyed an hour ago, and he could not trust the reality of what he still did see; clear recollections might prove to be nothing more than tricks of fog and shadow when he was forced to confront them closely.
    Disoriented and afraid, he held fast to Holly's hand.
    “Why did you lie to me about this, why did you say five years?” she asked gently.
    “I didn't lie. At least… I didn't realize I was lying.” He stared at the granite as if its polished surface was a window into the past, and he struggled to remember. “I can recall waking up one morning and knowing that my grandmother was dead. Five years ago. I was living in the apartment then, down in Irvine.” He listened to his own voice as if it belonged to someone else, and the haunted tone of it gave him a chill. “I dressed … drove north … bought flowers in town … then came here….”
    After a while, when he did not continue, Holly said, “Do you remember a funeral that day?”
    “No.”
    “Other mourners?”
    “No.”
    “Other flowers on the grave?”
    “No. All I remember is … kneeling at the headstone with the flowers I'd brought for her … crying … I cried for a long time, couldn't stop crying.”
    Passing him on the way to other graves, people had looked at him with sympathy, then with embarrassment as they had realized the extent of his emotional collapse, then with uneasiness as they had seen a grief in him so wild that it made him seem unbalanced. He could even now remember how wild he had felt that day, glaring back at those who stared at him, wanting nothing more than to claw his way down into the earth and pull it over him as if it were a blanket, taking rest in the same hole as his grandmother. But he could not remember why he had felt that way or why he was beginning to feel that way again.
    He looked at the date of her death once more—September 25—and he was too frightened now to cry.
    “What is it? Tell me,” Holly urged.
    “That's when I came with the flowers, the only other time I've ever come, the day I remember as the day she died. September twenty-fifth … but five years ago, not twenty-four. It was the nineteenth anniversary of her death … but at the time it seemed to me, and always has, that she'd only