Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

is to it."
    I am clearing the table when Stuart comes up behind and touches my arm. His fingers burn. I start, almost losing a plate.
    "What's the matter with you?" he says, dropping his hand. "Claire, what is it?"
    "You scared me," I say.
    "That's what I mean. I should be able to touch you without you jumping out of your skin." He stands in front of me with a little grin, trying to catch my eyes, and then he puts his arm around my waist. With his other hand he takes my free hand and puts it on the front of his pants.
    "Please, Stuart." I pull away and he steps back and snaps his fingers.
    "Hell with it then," he says. "Be that way if you want. But just remember."
    "Remember what?" I say quickly. I look at him and hold my breath.
    He shrugs. "Nothing, nothing," he says.
    The second thing that happens is that while we are watching television that evening, he in his leather recliner chair, I on the sofa with a blanket and magazine, the house quiet except for the television, a voice cuts into the program to say that the murdered girl has been identified. Full details will follow on the eleven o'clock news.
    We look at each other. In a few minutes he gets up and says he is going to fix a nightcap. Do I want one?
    "No," I say.
    "I don't mind drinking alone," he says. "I thought I'd ask."
    I can see he is obscurely hurt, and I look away, ashamed and yet angry at the same time.
    He stays in the kitchen a long while, but comes back with his drink just when the news begins.
    First the announcer repeats the story of the four local fishermen finding the body. Then the station shows a high school graduation photograph of the girl, a dark-haired girl with a round face and full, smiling lips. There's a film of the girl's parents entering the funeral home to make the identification. Bewildered, sad, they shuffle slowly up the sidewalk to the front steps to where a man in a dark suit stands waiting, holding the door. Then, it seems as if only seconds have passed, as if they have merely gone inside the door and turned around and come out again, the same couple is shown
    leaving the building, the woman in tears, covering her face with a handkerchief, the man stopping long enough to say to a reporter, "It's her, it's Susan. I can't say anything right now. I hope they get the person or persons who did it before it happens again. This violence—"He motions feebly at the television camera. Then the man and woman get into an old car and drive away into the late afternoon traffic.
    The announcer goes on to say that the girl, Susan Miller, had gotten off work as a cashier in a movie theater in Summit, a town 120 miles north of our town. A green, late model car pulled up in front of the theater and the girl, who according to witnesses looked as if she'd been waiting, went over to the car and got in, leading the authorities to suspect that the driver of the car was a friend, or at least an acquaintance. The authorities would like to talk to the driver of the green car.
    Stuart clears his throat then leans back in the chair and sips his drink.
    The third thing that happens is that after the news Stuart stretches, yawns, and looks at me. I get up and begin making a bed for myself on the sofa.
    "What are you doing?" he says, puzzled.
    Tm not sleepy," I say, avoiding his eyes. "I think 111 stay up a while longer and then read something until I fall asleep."
    He stares as I spread a sheet over the sofa. When I start to go for a pillow, he stands at the bedroom door, blocking the way.
    Tm going to ask you once more," he says. "What the hell do you think you're going to accomplish by this?"
    "I need to be by myself tonight," I say. "I need to have time to think."
    He lets out breath. 'Tm thinking you're making a big mistake by doing this. I'm thinking you'd better think again about what you're doing. Claire?"
    I can't answer. I don't know what I want to say. I turn and begin to tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longer and then I see him raise his shoulders. "Suit yourself then. I could give a fuck less what you do," he says. He turns and walks down the hall scratching his neck.
    This morning I read in the paper that services for Susan Miller are to be held in Chapel of the Pines, Summit, at two o'clock the next afternoon. Also, that police have taken statements from three people who saw her get into the green Chevrolet. But they still have no license number for the car. They are getting warmer, though, and the investigation