The Fires by Alan Cheuse Page A

don’t know if I can,” Gina said.
    Goldstein stepped up to her.
    â€œReally,” he said, “I’ll be happy—”
    â€œGet away!” she said to him in a nasty voice she scarcely recognized as her own. Turning to the dancing-eyed man, she said, “I’ll do it.”
    â€œVery good,” the man said, handing her the torch. “Touch the fire now to this place.” He pointed to a make-shift wick made of rags at the base of the platform.
    Gina’s hand trembled as she ignited the pyre, and it took a moment before she could tear her eyes away from the flames and gaze up at the white cocoon at the top of the wooden mound.
    Paul? she said. Paul?
    She heard nothing. She felt nothing but a certain lightheadedness.

    Flames exploded at her feet and she danced away from the platform.
    â€œOh, Missus!” the dancing-eyed man cried out as he leaped toward her and began beating on her skirt.
    â€œJesus,” Goldstein said, “you’re on fire!” He too began flailing at her skirt.
    Gina stared in amazement at her smoldering hem as the dancing-eyed man led her to a place on the ground some distance back from the now blazing pyre.
    Suddenly she felt an enormous thirst. As if they could read her mind, several women approached her with bowls of rice and milk, and water.
    â€œCan I drink the water?” she said to Goldstein as he sat down beside her.
    â€œI wouldn’t,” he said.
    â€œMaybe we should go now,” Gina said, staring over at the small conflagration atop the platform.
    â€œWe’re supposed to wait until sunset,” Goldstein said.
    â€œI guess we’ll wait then,” Gina said. She felt so odd, chilled again, despite her proximity to the flames and the smoky odor of her clothing. And then, after a few minutes, feverish again. Maybe I should climb up there and go with him, she was saying to herself. But she knew it was too late for that, even if she were crazy enough to try.
    â€œAnd there is the matter of the cow,” Goldstein said.
    â€œThe cow?”
    â€œWe’re supposed to pay them with a cow. The soul of the departed, your husband’s soul, rides it to the next world.”
    Gina said nothing, watching the flames flutter against the darkening eastern sky. She felt heat in her heart, but her head and limbs felt cold, nearly numb.

    â€œBut they’ll take dollars instead,” Goldstein said. There was a catch to his voice as if he were trying to somehow lighten things up. What a fool! But Gina instantly forgave him, she felt so sorry for herself.
    The two of them sat there as the flames flickered and settled. Had that much time gone by? Gina was beginning to get hungry and hating herself for it. She looked over at Goldstein, who was pretending to be so grim and sympathetic. After a while she said, “What do I do about the ashes? Aren’t I supposed to do something with them? I’ve never thought about such things. One day Paul and I are talking on the telephone and the next, I’m watching his body consumed by flames. And I’m asking myself why I am not completely overcome, seeing what’s happening. And then I tell myself, it’s because I’m dead, too—”
    â€œNo, please, Mrs. Morgan, don’t—” He reached for her.
    She pulled away.
    â€œOh, stop! Let me talk! About the ashes. I don’t know. I suppose I should, shouldn’t I? What do they usually do with them?”
    â€œThey scatter them in the sacred Ganges,” Goldstein said, looking rather perplexed, hands at his sides, head lowered slightly. “But I don’t know about here. There’s no sacred river. I’ll ask them, if you like.”
    â€œNo, no, don’t. I’ll take them. I’ll scatter them myself when I get home. Though I don’t know where. Paul and I only talked about this once. You never expect this to happen, even if you’ve talked about it. I