There’s been a snag in the blog tour plans for This Little Light of Mine, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to post a short story instead, and join up with the Write On Edge folks–something I haven’t had a chance to do in weeks. Who could resist crafting a story on those two photos? (Incidentally, I’m not including them b/c they’re all rights reserved, but please go see them here and here. They’re amazing photos.)
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Forest Fires in Idaho (Photo credit: Thomas Good)
This was supposed to be my wedding day.
Instead, I stand with my sister and my friend, the three of us clad in our wedding finery, staring at the wall of flame scraping the blue from the sky, devouring evergreens that have stood since before my parents were born. Trees that sheltered our childhood games and witnessed my first kiss. Trees that stood guard as Tommy slipped the ring on my finger.
Trees that were supposed to witness our vows. I think of the chairs set up in the clearing, the carpet spread for my father, the judge, to preside. The wind spinners, lovingly crafted by my sister and hung from low-hanging branches.
The early-spring wind, heavy with the smell of smoke, whips my hair as I stare, willing Tommy to appear from within the inferno. Even at this distance I can feel the heat, yet I shiver with cold. Please let him be all right. Please.
Carrie squeezes my hand. “He’s lived in the woods his whole life,” she says softly. “He’ll be all right.”
It’s what I’ve been telling myself ever since the wildfire began. But as a helicopter zooms overhead, dumping orange powder, I shake my head. “He should’ve been out of there already.”
At noon, my parents bring the mountains of food prepared for the reception and spread it out for the fire crews, who wolf it down and trudge back to work. The chief stands there turning his cap in his hands. At last he takes a deep breath and says, “Folks, I’m real sorry, but it’s not safe here. I’ve got to ask you to evacuate.”
In the silence that follows, the only voice is that of the fire, a low-pitched, unintelligible utterance from the depths of Hell. My eyes burn as I stare into the variegated depths, but nothing can make the shifting shadows coalesce into a human being.
The chief shifts uncomfortably. “Look, the only way out of this thing now is the bridge on North Street. You’re welcome to wait there…”
My mother wraps an arm around me, forehead resting against my temple. Her fingers tremble. “Come on, Joy,” she whispers.
The far end of the North Street Bridge fades into a shroud of smoke and fog rising from the cold river. On the opposite bank, shadowy figures move. The voice of the fire taunts me as it gnaws at the backdrop of my childhood. Tommy, please.
By evening, both body and soul are numb. The thick air glows weirdly as the masked sun drops close to the horizon. A pair of figures emerge from the roiling mass, one clad in bulky fireproof gear, the other limping, wrapped in a blanket. My breath catches. Carrie grabs my arm.
I shake her off and take off running. Tommy lets go of the fireman and catches me to him. “Joy,” he whispers hoarsely. “Joy.” My name has never sounded so beautiful.
Smudged face, smoke smell, it doesn’t matter. It’s a perfect moment. Thank you. Thank you. Tommy looks over my head and sees my father. “Hey, Joy,” he says. “I see a judge. How ’bout we get married?”
He watched the full-immersion adult baptisms and thought that was SO AWESOME, too.
In the moment before the first shot was fired, Clarissa’s entire life passed before her. The present and past and future fused into an image compressed so tightly it seemed to catch fire. She saw herself run, her fists pummeling a pathway through the press of screaming humanity. Her shoulders bruised against the doorframe as she and three others burst through an opening built for one. She stumbled on a cracked step and nearly tumbled down the concrete flight. The sound of gunfire cracked the facade of the still morning, like a whip pursuing her beneath the boughs of a brilliant sweet gum.
