made a crablike march around the whole square-circle of her porch, ending where she had begun.
There it was. North end of the beach, top of the bluff. A haze. Blue-gray. Not a grass fire (that would be yellow)—probably just some sap, burning paper.
Over it, there was a flight of birds, circling higher and higher; curious, staying on the updraft, watching down. Not a paper fire. The smell was wrong. Disturbing. Cloth or something. Perhaps just something wet that didn’t want to burn. Rags, B.J. thought. A rag-burner. Junk.
Back she went inside, passing through the bedroom, where Noah had his erection out now in his hand (sculptor’s thumb hard up against the tip—Treats it like a chisel, she thought, me his piece of marble) but still babysleeping, kid-smiling, no fooling around, just holding it tight like a handle, “like he’d fall off the bed if he let go…”
B.J. threw a white sheet over him just in case the kids came in, saw him turn for her and find only bed and pillow, gave him a dazzling love smile, and left him. One thing at a time, she thought. The kids come first.
3:10 p.m.
Octavius Rivi walked from his garden into his mirrored dressing room, set down his glass of tequila, opened one of his cupboards, stared inside at the mirrors and began to dry his hair with a large blue towel.
As the towel skimmered down around his head, and as his nose emerged from its fluff, he began to smell the fire. Danger. He stopped toweling and put on clothes.
3:15 p.m.
Miss Bonkers finished boiling her hypodermic equipment, set the needles in a pan of alcohol, wrapped the syringes in cotton and toweling, closed the little boxes, threw away bits of cardboard, dabbled her fingers, dried them, turned out the lights (the drapes were drawn against the heat), closed doors, sighed, and crossed the balcony. Going into her room, she said to herself, “Someone is barbecuing hot dogs at the far end.” She selected Gone With the Wind , opened it, and fell at once into a deep untroubled sleep.
3:25 p.m.
Ruth whispered out of the house onto the balcony and down the stairs.
She noticed the smoke at once and thought, I’ll go and see what it is.
The yellow dog joined her just under halfway up the beach. He growled for the password and, having given her a good wet sniff around the ankles, turned the growl into a wag of recognition. Ruth looked up at his house, but B.J. was inside squeezing oranges by then and Ruth concluded there was no one there and the dog might as well come with her.
“Let’s go,” she said, and they set off.
Passing the seal rock, Ruth looked out and for a moment thought she saw one of the seals swimming in toward the beach. It wasn’t. She marched on.
Nearing Octavius’s fence, she could not resist a casual glance through the slats and noticed a woman in a green dress standing in a garden. She walked on by and came to a patch that led up the bluff to the salt-grass meadows and beyond that to a low hacienda-like bar that was called, for some reason, the Spanish Maine.
The birds, seen earlier by B.J., made an ever-widening circle, higher and higher, and their numbers grew until there were twenty or thirty of them. Gulls.
Some crows scuffled off the rocks at the top of the path just as Ruth came in sight and the dog gave them a loud, officious bark.
“Shut up!” said Ruth. “Be quiet.”
Her heart raced.
Why was she afraid?
No good reason. There were plenty of people within calling distance. She had a dog with her. It was broad daylight and she’d always been a good runner. The Spanish Maine was only five hundred yards away and she could even hear the sound of its juke box. Below her there was the roof of Octavius’s house, his fences and his visitor in the green dress, who was sitting on a bench.
Ruth felt in her pocket. There were her cigarettes and her change purse. Her matches.
“I’ll go to the Maine and buy a beer,” she decided. “No one can object to that.”
She wondered
There it was. North end of the beach, top of the bluff. A haze. Blue-gray. Not a grass fire (that would be yellow)—probably just some sap, burning paper.
Over it, there was a flight of birds, circling higher and higher; curious, staying on the updraft, watching down. Not a paper fire. The smell was wrong. Disturbing. Cloth or something. Perhaps just something wet that didn’t want to burn. Rags, B.J. thought. A rag-burner. Junk.
Back she went inside, passing through the bedroom, where Noah had his erection out now in his hand (sculptor’s thumb hard up against the tip—Treats it like a chisel, she thought, me his piece of marble) but still babysleeping, kid-smiling, no fooling around, just holding it tight like a handle, “like he’d fall off the bed if he let go…”
B.J. threw a white sheet over him just in case the kids came in, saw him turn for her and find only bed and pillow, gave him a dazzling love smile, and left him. One thing at a time, she thought. The kids come first.
3:10 p.m.
Octavius Rivi walked from his garden into his mirrored dressing room, set down his glass of tequila, opened one of his cupboards, stared inside at the mirrors and began to dry his hair with a large blue towel.
As the towel skimmered down around his head, and as his nose emerged from its fluff, he began to smell the fire. Danger. He stopped toweling and put on clothes.
3:15 p.m.
Miss Bonkers finished boiling her hypodermic equipment, set the needles in a pan of alcohol, wrapped the syringes in cotton and toweling, closed the little boxes, threw away bits of cardboard, dabbled her fingers, dried them, turned out the lights (the drapes were drawn against the heat), closed doors, sighed, and crossed the balcony. Going into her room, she said to herself, “Someone is barbecuing hot dogs at the far end.” She selected Gone With the Wind , opened it, and fell at once into a deep untroubled sleep.
3:25 p.m.
Ruth whispered out of the house onto the balcony and down the stairs.
She noticed the smoke at once and thought, I’ll go and see what it is.
The yellow dog joined her just under halfway up the beach. He growled for the password and, having given her a good wet sniff around the ankles, turned the growl into a wag of recognition. Ruth looked up at his house, but B.J. was inside squeezing oranges by then and Ruth concluded there was no one there and the dog might as well come with her.
“Let’s go,” she said, and they set off.
Passing the seal rock, Ruth looked out and for a moment thought she saw one of the seals swimming in toward the beach. It wasn’t. She marched on.
Nearing Octavius’s fence, she could not resist a casual glance through the slats and noticed a woman in a green dress standing in a garden. She walked on by and came to a patch that led up the bluff to the salt-grass meadows and beyond that to a low hacienda-like bar that was called, for some reason, the Spanish Maine.
The birds, seen earlier by B.J., made an ever-widening circle, higher and higher, and their numbers grew until there were twenty or thirty of them. Gulls.
Some crows scuffled off the rocks at the top of the path just as Ruth came in sight and the dog gave them a loud, officious bark.
“Shut up!” said Ruth. “Be quiet.”
Her heart raced.
Why was she afraid?
No good reason. There were plenty of people within calling distance. She had a dog with her. It was broad daylight and she’d always been a good runner. The Spanish Maine was only five hundred yards away and she could even hear the sound of its juke box. Below her there was the roof of Octavius’s house, his fences and his visitor in the green dress, who was sitting on a bench.
Ruth felt in her pocket. There were her cigarettes and her change purse. Her matches.
“I’ll go to the Maine and buy a beer,” she decided. “No one can object to that.”
She wondered
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