Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

into the receiver. The telephone rang again a minute later, and I hurried into the kitchen. "I have nothing else to add to what I've already said to the sheriff. That's right!" He slammed down the receiver.
    "What is going on?" I said, alarmed.
    "Sit down," he said slowly. His fingers scraped, scraped against his stubble of whiskers. "I have to tell you something. Something happened while we were fishing." We sat across from each other at the table, and then he told me.
    I drank coffee and stared at him as he spoke. Then I read the account in the newspaper that he shoved across the table:"... unidentified girl eighteen to twenty-four years of age... body three to five days in the water.. .rape a possible motive.. .preliminary results show death by strangulation...cuts and bruises on her breasts and pelvic area.. .autopsy.. .rape, pending further investigation/ 1
    "You've got to understand/' he said. "Don't look at me like that. Be careful now, I hiean it. Take it easy, Claire."
    "Why didn't you tell me last night?' I asked.
    "I just.. .didn't. What do you mean?' he said.
    "You know what I mean," I said. I looked at his hands, the broad fingers, knuckles covered with hair, moving, lighting a cigarette now, fingers that had moved over me, into me last night.
    He shrugged. "What difference does it make, last night, this morning? It was late. You were sleepy, I thought I'd wait until this morning to tell you." He looked out to the patio: a robin flew from the lawn to the picnic table and preened its feathers.
    "It isn't true," I said. "You didn't leave her there like that?"
    He turned quickly and said, "What'd I do? Listen to me carefully now, once and for all. Nothing happened. I have nothing to be sorry for or feel guilty about. Do you hear me?"
    I got up from the table and went to Dean's room. He was awake and in his pajamas, putting together a puzzle. I helped him find his clothes and then went back to the kitchen and put his breakfast on the table. The telephone rang two or three more times and each time Stuart was abrupt while he talked and angry when he hung up. He called Mel Dorn and Gordon Johnson and spoke with them, slowly, seriously, and then he opened a beer and smoked a cigarette while Dean ate, asked him about school, his friends, etc., exactly as if nothing had happened.
    Dean wanted to know what he'd done while he was gone, and Stuart took some fish out of the freezer to show him.
    "I'm taking him to your mother's for the day," I said.
    "Sure," Stuart said and looked at Dean who was holding one of the frozen trout. "If you want to and he wants to, that is. You don't have to, you know. There's nothing wrong."
    "I'd like to anyway," I said.
    "Can I go swimming therer Dean asked and wiped his fingers on his pants.
    "I believe so/' I said. 'It's a warm day so take your suit, and I'm sure your grandmother will say it's okay."
    Stuart lighted a cigarette and looked at us.
    Dean and I drove across town to Stuart's mother's. She lives in an apartment building with a pool and a sauna bath. Her name is Catherine Kane. Her name, Kane, is the same as mine, which seems impossible. Years ago, Stuart has told me, she used to be called Candy by her friends. She is a tall, cold woman with white-blonde hair. She gives me the feeling that she is always judging, judging. I explain briefly in a low voice what has happened (she hasn't yet read the newspaper) and promise to pick Dean up that evening. "He brought his swimming suit," I say. "Stuart and I have to talk about some things," I add vaguely. She looks at me steadily from over her glasses. Then she nods and turns to Dean, saying "How are you, my little man?' She stoops and puts her arms around him. She looks at me again as I open the door to leave. She has a way of looking at me without saying anything.
    When I return home Stuart is eating something at the table and drinking beer....
    After a time I sweep up the broken dishes and glassware and go outside. Stuart is lying on his back on the grass now, the newspaper and can of beer within reach, staring at the sky. It's breezy but warm out and birds call.
    "Stuart, could we go for a driver I say. "Anywhere.*
    He rolls over and looks at me and nods. "Well pick up some beer," he says. "I hope you're feeling better about this. Try to understand, that's all I ask." He gets to his feet and touches me on the hip as he goes past. "Give me a minute and I'll be ready."
    We drive through town without speaking. Before we reach the