Cold Fire

cover, perched on the edge of the lemonade pitcher for a moment, then flew away.
    Finally, with a tremor in her voice that was real this time, Holly said, “Mrs. Moreno? Is something wrong?”
    Viola flicked the balled-up weed out onto the grass. “I'm just having trouble deciding how to put this.”
    “Put what?” Holly asked nervously.
    Turning to her again, approaching the table, Viola said, “You asked me why Jim … why your brother quit teaching. I said it was because he won the lottery, but that really isn't true. If he'd still loved teaching as much as he did a few years ago or even one year ago, he would've kept working even if he'd won a hundred million.”
    Holly almost breathed a sigh of relief that her cover had not been penetrated. “What soured him on it?”
    “He lost a student.”
    “Lost?”
    “An eighth-grader named Larry Kakonis. A very bright boy with a good heart—but disturbed. From a troubled family. His father beat his mother, had been beating her as long as Larry could remember, and Larry felt as if he should be able to stop it, but he couldn't. He felt responsible, though he shouldn't have. That was the kind of kid he was, a real strong sense of responsibility.”
    Viola picked up her glass of lemonade, returned to the edge of the patio, and stared out at the greensward again. She was silent once more.
    Holly waited.
    Eventually the woman said, “The mother was a co-dependent type, a victim of the father but a collaborator in her own victimization. As troubled in her own way as the father. Larry couldn't reconcile his love for his mother and his respect for her with his growing understanding that, on some level, she liked and needed to be beaten.”
    Suddenly Holly knew where this was going, and she did not want to hear the rest of it. However, she had no choice but to listen.
    “Jim had worked so hard with the boy. I don't mean just on his English lessons, not just academically. Larry had opened up to him in a way he'd never been able to open to anyone else, and Jim had been counseling him with the help of Dr. Lansing, a psychologist who works part-time for the school district. Larry seemed to be coming around, struggling to understand his mother and himself—and to some extent succeeding. Then one night, May fifteenth of last year—over fifteen months ago, though it's hard to believe it's been that long—Larry Kakonis took a gun from his father's collection, loaded it, put the barrel in his mouth … and fired one bullet up into his brain.”
    Holly flinched as if struck. In fact she had been struck, though the blows—two of them—were not physical. She was jolted, first, by the thought of a thirteen-year-old committing suicide when the best of life lay ahead of him. A small problem could seem like a large one at that age, and a genuinely serious problem could seem catastrophic and hopeless. Holly felt a pang of grief for Larry Kakonis, and an undirected anger because the kid had not been given time enough to learn that all horrors can be dealt with and that, on balance, life offered far more joy than despair. But she was equally rattled by the date on which the boy had killed himself: May 15.
    One year later, this past May 15, Jim Ironheart had performed his first miraculous rescue. Sam and Emily Newsome. Atlanta, Georgia. Saved from murder at the hands of a sociopathic holdup man named Norman Rink.
    Holly could sit still no longer. She got up and joined Viola at the edge of the patio. They watched the squirrels.
    “Jim blamed himself,” Viola said.
    “For Larry Kakonis? But he wasn't responsible.”
    “He blamed himself anyway. That's how he is. But his reaction seemed excessive, even for Jim. After Larry's death, he lost interest in teaching. He stopped believing he could make a difference. He'd had so many successes, more than any teacher I've ever known, but that one failure was too much for him.”
    Holly remembered the boldness with which Ironheart had scooped Billy Jenkins out of the path of the hurtling pickup truck. That certainly had not been a failure.
    “He just sort of spiraled down into gloom,” Viola said, “couldn't pull himself out of it.”
    The man Holly had met in Portland had not seemed depressive. Mysterious, yes, and self-contained. But he'd had a good sense of humor, and he'd been quick to smile.
    Viola took a sip of her lemonade. “Funny, it tastes too sour now.” She set the glass down on the concrete near her feet and wiped her damp