LITMIR.BIZ

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for inviting us. The girls will enjoy seeing Catherine. Especially Lila.”

      “Well,” Grace said. “I hope she has time to give some attention to her cousins with her friends around. You know how that is.”

      “Yes, well, they’ll enjoy swimming at any rate,” I said.

      “There is a dress code at the club,” Grace continued. “I will send you an email about their rules. Listen, I’ve got some things to do and more calls to make. I will talk to you soon.”

      “Bye, Grace,” I said. I listened to the click of her hang up and placed the phone back down. It didn’t ring again. I wanted to call Pete again. Instead, I did nothing but drink tea. Why had this Doug person not come? I supposed I’d get a phone call, but I didn’t. I walked to the bus but the girls weren’t on the bus. I’d forgotten. Today was Girl Scout day and they’d be dropped off late by their leader. I walked home and imagined it happening to me. Imagine if I just burst into flames and disappeared from life right in the middle of a routine day full of tasks and duties? Who was she, that anonymous woman in the blue business suit? Had she been making a political statement? Or, what random mistake or malfunction or terrible path of fate had she stepped across so she was not able to step out of it. Clichés like ‘There but for the grace of God’, ‘In the end it’s a blink of an eye’. It could just as easily have been me. The difference of a few feet, maybe just a few minutes, my spot in line to board just ahead of her.

      The New York news channels gave this mention, the way they would a car accident, a mugging in Central Park, a water main break, but to me, this felt too much like 9/11 when the towers fell. Innocent people dying. But it felt strangely like a dream, like it was only significant to me, not the rest of the world. My heart thudded against my ribs and I could feel a pulse in my temples. Then, the shock of what the news anchor said next. There were two other fires, two other women, two more, in Hillston, two more women stepping through their ordinary days, one at a school, one at Mills Reservation. Just like that. Dead. Burned. Gone.

      I wanted to get in my car and drive to the Girl Scout meeting to bring Mia and Allie home to safety. I wondered where Lila was. My intrepid teenaged Lila could fall victim to some random accident or the evil in some stranger or even someone she knew, roaming the earth making trouble, destroying lives with fire. I wanted them all home with me. Maybe that’s why that reporter hadn’t come. Maybe something awful happened to him. And Pete was on planes all the time. Then, Lila was on the steps.

      “Mom,” she said. “We were dismissed early. Something awful is happening. Did you hear? Look, here’s a notice they gave out. Everyone at school was talking about it.” She shoved the door open and I followed her inside.

      “I know. I saw it. A woman at the station.”

      “You saw it?”

      “I did. I was right next to her.” I closed the door firmly. I wanted the drapes drawn in the living room. I wanted the windows locked. Somehow, a dim light was preferable to the brilliant late afternoon rays slanting over the roof of the house, across the street, and through my windows. The sun’s heat, usually comforting, dragged up terror. I wanted my twins home.

      The crumbled notice stated that a student at the middle school had lost his mother in an unexplained fire in the reservation this morning while walking her dog. I switched on the news right away in my kitchen as I prepared dinner, waiting for my two girl scouts to arrive. As I switched from station to station, it further explained Doug’s failure to appear. Edna Totten, the anchor on the NJ local news channel, who lived in Hillston, delivered the segment. “Police are investigating this incident. They are seeking any additional witnesses who might have been in the area. They’re warning us to stay alert while walking in town or nearby as there may be dangerous individuals using fire to harm women.”

      Edna Totten, on the TV, said, “The woman appeared to spontaneously ignite. Similar incidences also occurred at various places in suburban communities around Hillston, where I am now, reporting from the elementary school where principal, Elizabeth Lindsey, burst into flame during a routine fire drill this morning, at approximately nine thirty.” Edna blinked at perfect intervals and continued. “Mrs. Lindsey was standing at the curb just there,” she indicated with a gesture. “The students were led back into the building through other doors while the fire department and EMT’s arrived. They were too late to help. The fire, which consumed Mrs. Lindsey, is being investigated. Fire Chief Jeff Heffly indicated there was no evidence to indicate how it started.” Edna said, “This fire and the death appears identical to the death of a woman at the Hillston train station this morning. We go now to the videotape of a press conference held earlier today by the New Jersey Transit spokesperson, Allen Cavallo.”

      The camera cut to a podium behind which stood a tall man with thick gray hair and wire rimmed glasses, tie loosened, hands gripping the edges of the podium while he read from a prepared statement. “I would like to extend my condolences to the family of Ann Neelam, a customer of New Jersey Transit, who lost her life this morning under circumstances that are still being investigated. New Jersey Transit dispatched a maintenance crew to the station in question immediately. As of right now, there doesn’t seem to have been any malfunction of the equipment or the electrical system at the Hillston station. Their work continues.”

      I waited. Surely, they would field questions from the reporters filling this room where this Allen Cavallo delivered his speech. I wondered what Doug Bluestein looked like and if his head was one of those I could see from behind. The program switched the broadcast back to Edna. I stopped trying to cook and sat. “ Another fire of unknown origin took the life of a woman who was walking her dog in Mills reservation, also near Hillston.” Edna had her hand on the earpiece from which she was being fed updated information. Her gaze turned inward as she listened, then she recovered herself as she was still on camera. She said, “We’re sorry. We have no visual on that report. Witnesses who were questioned by the Hillston authorities reported that the victim was discovered by a jogger along a footpath near the south end parking lot. The jogger, a local actor named Bruce Gilbert, used his cell phone to call 911 but reported that the fire was raging so fiercely he could not get near enough to try to save her. She had completely expired before the police and firefighters arrived.”

      One, a principal, two, Ann Neelam, three, an unknown woman at the reservation. How very strange and horrifying. The coverage continued. Here was the mayor, Bobby Moore, a close-up, with a blue background. He was plugged into a mic and an earpiece was stuck in his left ear. He kept touching it with his forefinger, tilting his head at an odd angle. His eyes stared unblinking and unrehearsed at the camera, while his face reflected the strain of listening through his left ear. Then, he came to life. I thought he was reading a teleprompter, the way his eyes didn’t stay on the camera. “It seems that the women are spontaneously igniting in various locations across our suburban landscape. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern associated with these burnings and there seems to be no immediate danger to anyone else in the vicinity when the fire appears.” A pause while he tilted his head to listen. “No, there doesn’t seem to be an indication of common circumstances.” Another pause. “I have not witnessed any of these very strange occurrences.” Pause again. “I am not in Hillston. I will be on a plane on my way back in a few hours.” Pause. “Would you repeat that?” Comprehension passed over his eyes. “I would not say, at this time, that the Hillston citizens are in any kind of danger, but I would caution anyone to be on the alert for any suspicious looking individuals.” A frown. “I have no evidence to support the idea that someone is responsible for these deaths. These are all still under investigation.”

      Suddenly the watching audience could hear the questions he was responding to and I was startled by the very loud voice of Edna Totten again. It went on from there. Edna attempting to pin him down to an explanation and, when that failed, she began a series of questions that required so much speculation or guess work on the mayor’s part that all I could imagine as a result was panic entering the hearts and minds of anyone who lived near Hillston. It certainly had entered mine in a quiet and insidious way. Hearing the rising panic in Edna Totten’s tone, asking if this was reminiscent of a Stephen King novel, the hint of suggestion that something strange and sinister was at work in this locale swelled up in me. I imagined I shared

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