Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

I didn’t ever want to leave that house. But then I changed and my life changed, and it wasn’t until I got to Belle Haven that my mother’s face came back to me, and the smell of her, and the sound of her voice, and the feel of her chest against the back of my head.” Joe turned to look at Rusty, whose eyes were closed. “There are some things that stay with you forever,” he said. “Even after they’re gone.”

They went on without speaking. Rusty leaned his head against the window, his eyes closed. He might have been asleep but for the flexing of his fingers.

Twenty miles from Belle Haven, Joe glanced in the mirror at his silent passengers. “We’re here,” he said.

Rusty opened his eyes and sat forward and was the first to see the gates, which were old and stood wide open. Joe eased the van through them, drove slowly along the dipping, uneven lane, and proceeded alongside a field of clover to the edge of some woods. “I don’t think I’d better go any farther,” he said. “It’s pretty muddy along here right now, and I don’t want to get stuck.”

He shut off the engine and turned in his seat to face the others. Quite suddenly, he was afraid.

“I don’t know if maybe I’ve done the wrong thing here,” he said haltingly, astounding Rachel by blushing. “I thought, when I was visiting my sister in San Francisco last summer, that the time would come when you would all have to leave Belle Haven. Or at least ought to. So, since I had plenty of money, I decided to do something to help. I figured that it … that what I’ve built wouldn’t go to waste, even if you stayed in Belle Haven. I thought that I could always find a use for this place, one way or the other. Or sell it. So don’t anybody feel that you have to, you know, humor me or anything. If you like what you see, wonderful. If not, no harm done.” He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his face. “We’re about three miles south of Cookstown. There’s a good school there. There’s a hospital about five miles east of here, in Fairlawn. Fire stations, police, plenty of stores both places. This,” he said, holding an open hand out toward the land beyond the windows, “used to be part of a small horse farm. I bought the place on my way back to Belle Haven last August. There are several pastures with woods around them. And—”

But Earl, who hadn’t said much of anything since finding the cross painted on the door of his beloved hardware store, suddenly shook his head, rose partway out of his seat, and held both hands over his head as if Joe had a gun on him. “Whoa, boy,” he said, silencing Joe and forestalling Rachel, who had been gearing up to make a protest of her own. “Jesus H. Christ on a crutch. This is not Hollywood, Joe.” He sat back down in his seat and put his hands on his knees. “This is not Wheel of Fortune. You are not Pat Sajak. And I am not some lady from Topeka with big hair and a pair of stretch pants.”

Mag looked wide-eyed at her husband. “Earl!” she said, glad to hear him talking again but not much liking what she heard. “You want to lie down or something?”

“No, I do not want to lie down or something.” He shrugged her hand off his arm. “Nor do I want charity, which is what I think I’m being measured for, am I right, Joe?”

Joe made a face. “That’s not what this is, Earl.”

“Then what? You pack us all in here and haul us outta town to look at something. What? Put a name to it, Joe. I don’t like mysteries.”

Joe knew Earl was not angry at him. Not specifically. But Earl was angry, and rightly so, and could not very well take it out on the fire itself. Joe didn’t mind being a surrogate. Not where Earl was concerned.

“I don’t have a name for it,” Joe said. “And if it’s all right, I’d just as soon show you as tell you what all this is about.” He turned back around in his seat and stepped out of the van, came around to the other side and slid back the big side door. “Come and see for yourself. Then you can all go home.” He sounded defeated, which made Earl mad at himself, too, and brought him out of the van without any further protest, Mag still watching him out of the corner of her eye.

The rest of them climbed out without a word, except when Mrs. Sapinsley thanked Joe for the hand he offered her, and Dolly said, “Watch your head, Angela,” which was more than she usually said. The sound of Dolly’s voice startled Joe, as it always did. But he never forgot that she was there, for he carried with him the image of her standing guard at the nursery door while her baby grandson lay on the other side and his father raged nearby.

Rachel didn’t say a word. Angela looked like she was simultaneously experiencing every emotion known to man, from anticipation to regret, and was not enjoying herself much. Rusty, who loved being in the woods, seemed content to take things one step at a time: he was ready to look at what Joe had to show him but in the meantime was happy with the sight of the trees.

Joe led them all down the lane into the woods. Rusty walked alongside him. The others followed, picking their way carefully among the tire ruts and tree roots, keeping the pace slow so that Mrs. Sapinsley would not feel rushed.

The lane had been sculpted by the passage of large trucks, and the undergrowth that bordered it was dusty. It was clear that something had been going on in these woods, but it was