Читать книгу Only the Women Are Burning - Nancy Burke - Страница 11

“Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.”

- Martha Graham

Chapter 3

There are references and mythologies in every culture about women and fire. So many stories of burning, women at the stake, witches, Joan of Arc, fairy tales with old nasty women being pushed into ovens by victimized children. And that was just European culture. I thought about Sati, an outlawed practice in India. Burning was a purification or a punishment or a path to a different world. And, as my doorbell rang and I stood to answer it, I was sure everyone in Hillston and the surrounding area was thinking about it too.

Bluestein stood at my door. The first observation I made was that he was tall and thin and slightly stooped so that his blazer hung limply and appeared a size too large. He looked up, despite his height, over the rim of his wire glasses like a character you might expect in a Dickens story. Blue eyes, sharp and clear, a slow smile, and that deep voice I found so soothing.

I stuck out my hand and he held it for a beat longer than I expected. “So sorry about that awful morning you had,” he said. “Although, it was much worse for some.”

“Yes. Thanks,” I said. “Come in.”

He hesitated even though I was holding the screen door open for him.

“We can sit on the porch,” he said, then, “Maybe we’re better off inside. I just heard the mayor.”

Over his shoulder I saw someone emerge from the CNN van, a slim young man wearing a baseball cap. He lifted a camera to his shoulder and set his gaze on us.

“Come inside,” I said. “They’re watching.”

He followed me inside. I shut the door firmly.

“They’re going to want to speak to you,” he said.

“I can see that,” I said. “Let them wait.”

“They haven’t knocked or rang your bell?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Expect it. Probably will right after I leave.”

We sat. He on the stiff-backed upholstered chair and me on the rocking chair. I didn’t offer him tea. My nerves were churning and I didn’t have the energy to think even about a glass of water. “Have you been listening to the TV news? I imagined you were tearing around town after witnesses.”

“I took a dinner break,” he said. “At O’Bal’s. They have six TV’s, all of them on different news stations.”

“I’ve been watching. They’re talking a lot but saying very little. Do they know anything they’re not sharing with the public?” I asked. “I mean…I know what they say they know. But causes? Three women in one day? Three separate women, all…they didn’t happen at the same time, did they?”

He shook his head no. “Very close in time however.”

“How close?” I asked. “The news doesn’t give many details.”

“I came to ask you questions,” he said.

“The mayor said stay indoors. What does that mean? Do the police think there is a menace wandering our town setting women on fire?”

“Tell you what. I will ask you the questions. After I’m done, you can ask me anything you want. I will answer as best I can. But I’m a reporter, not a fire inspector or detective.”

“Fine,” I said. “Sorry to make you feel like I’m interrogating you. But I was so close. Why her and not me? It could have been me. She was maybe ten feet behind me, if that.”

He started to jot down notes. “You really are rattled.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” I asked. “Cindy Barrow was a friend. You just told me a friend of mine is dead. I haven’t quite taken that in yet.”

His hands went still on his notepad. He pushed his glasses up his nose again. “She was? I am very sorry.”

He took out a tissue and wiped his glasses clean. I watched his hands. He wore a ring with a familiar symbol over the stone. I leaned forward. “Where did you get that?”

“My ring?”

I stuck out my hand. “Me too.” My college ring was gold plated and the stone was a ruby. Over the stone, where summa cum laude or magna cum laude symbols are added for those smart enough to earn those distinctions, my ring carried an unusual insignia, a lyre. Professor Fields had awarded me this honor in secret, telling me to reveal to nobody the significance of the symbol on the ring he wore, which, he said I too would receive in the mail if I accepted the honor.

“Amazing.”

“Yes. I haven’t met another member ever.”

“You studied?”

“Geology. Archaeology. Anthropology.”

“Journalism and history,” he said.

“Yes,” I smiled. “That makes sense.”

“Where did you earn the ring?”

“At Sheffield University. England.”

He stuck his thumb toward his chest. “College of New Jersey.”

I laughed. “Really? I had no idea there was representation here.”

“The Fraternity for Contemplative Research.” He said it with reverence.

“Yes. For subjects outside the parameters of acceptable academic questioning.”

He laughed. He said, “Shut out of academia for veering off in directions deviating from the path of scholarly acceptance.”

“A consolation prize, of sorts.” I smiled a rueful smile. “Dubious honor, huh? What did you do to piss them off?”

He leaned back in his chair. He let his pen rest on the steno pad. He took off his glasses and rubbed at them. I rocked in my chair. This was so very strange. I’d nearly forgotten my initiation into this fraternity at Sheffield. Dr. Fields, my mentor, my advisor, the man who encouraged my work, had bestowed the honor upon me on the day the university accepted my Masters’ thesis but did not admit me to the doctoral program. I rocked my chair, waiting for this Doug person, whose card said, ‘Investigative Reporter’ to tell me what his great failure was back in his day.

“I would rather not say,” he said. “It is part of membership to not reveal it.”

“So you are a reporter,” I said.

“Yes. And you?”

“I work part-time at the Newark Museum and I’m raising my kids.”

I couldn’t help seeing it, a tiny drop in the muscles around his eyes, a sign that I was more disappointing than he might have anticipated. But, of course, I was buoyed by a sense of connection and it somehow made me feel safer. I had never seen the ring on anyone, not at Sheffield or in India or here in Hillston where it seemed everyone was actively and enthusiastically employed by the mainstream. For all I knew, since Dr. Fields bestowed the ring upon me, I was in a fraternity of one, or maybe two since Fields himself was a secret member who must have redeemed himself somewhere along the way since he was a member in good standing in the academy. I would keep my secret and Doug would keep his, but the commonality of the ring and the cloud of mystery around where and what he might have explored as a student was not lost on me.

“So shall we get on with what I came for?”

I nodded. I trusted his judgment and trusted that his write-up of whatever was said here would be accurate and honest, all because he wore the ring. Doug stayed for an hour. During that one hour, he learned about what I witnessed that morning. He learned that Cindy had been my friend and how we fell apart. He also let me tell him about our mom’s group and how I turned my interest in the poor women of Bangalore back in my anthropologist days into a self-help group for Hillston women. That had been the start of Cindy’s and my friendship, our sisterhood in spirit, after my own real sisters seemed to hardly notice I was back in town.

I shared with him the history of my work in England, archaeology, and how, when I went to Bangalore, I diverted my attention from studying the past toward analysis of modern cultures juxtaposed onto the remnants of traditional ones. Bangalore had been the perfect place for that. Then, coming home, the museum was the only place I could find where I could use what I knew about prehistory and culture and still focus on raising my family. As I explained myself to him, I felt the desperation to gain a level of respect that I had long ago stopped experiencing and for which the old boxes of field notes up in my attic were such a catalyst for restlessness.

I knew I was talking too much, yet he was patient, polite and seemed genuinely interested. While he listened, the phone rang twice and I half listened as the muffled voices of Bruce and Pete left messages, the contents of which I could not give my attention. With Doug here, my need for Pete was receding.

Finally, Doug stood. But I said, “Uh-uh, now it’s my turn to ask questions, remember?”

He sat back down. “Yes,” he said.

“What are you going to write?”

He stared down at his pad. “I don’t know. I still need to check in again with the Hillston police and fire department. They are sure to make another statement before today is over.”

“So which witnesses did you speak to? I gather nobody was able to say anything that was helpful. I imagine they – whoever they were – were like me, mystified.”

“Pretty much,” he said.

“Did they say their clothes burned?”

“Actually, I didn’t ask.”

“Well, you should.”

“Really?”

“I told you that I watched her burn and her clothes dropped to the floor, the ground, and were entirely undamaged.”

“Yes, you did. I have that in my notes.”

“I also said her rings dropped to the ground. Perfectly intact. And her purse…and the coffee cup in her hand. All as though untouched by the fire.”

“Okay.”

“I told Heffly. I asked him why her clothes didn’t burn. He said it was because I used the fire extinguisher to try to save her.”

“Nobody else tried what you tried,” he said.

“That’s why I want to know if their clothes burned. I don’t believe it was because of the extinguisher.”

“Really.” He said it as a statement, not a question. His brow wrinkled. His tapped his pen on his pad.

“Contemplative.” He smiled at me.

“Exactly,” I said. “I’m asking an odd question. Heffly ignored the implication. You’re ignoring it too, Mr. Bluestein.”

“Please call me Doug.”

“Okay, but, if you ask the other witnesses if their clothes were untouched except that they dropped to the ground, then you can prove to me that it was not what I did. Can you find this out for me?”

“Why does this matter?”

“I don’t know why it matters. It may not. But if you watched what I watched, you’d know it wasn’t the predictable thing. Fire captures everything usually.”

“There are burn-proof fabrics,” he said.

I shook my head. “PJ’s for kids, not women’s business suits.”

I waited, staring at him, daring him to push this aside as Heffly had done, as the Bangalore police inspectors had done to me so long ago about Banhi. It was because I was a woman. They’d assumed my perception was clouded by my emotions. That, I knew, was the smug superiority they wore with their uniforms, the belief that, if they couldn’t explain something to me, then it didn’t need explaining. It could be dismissed. I could be dismissed.

“It’s an important question,” I said. “I don’t know why, but isn’t that part of your job? To get the answers? You can’t get answers unless you ask the questions…the right ones.”

I stood up and grabbed the portable phone from the side table. I hit the dial button to return the call to Bruce Gilbert. He’d seen Cindy. He could answer this. I didn’t need to wait for Doug Bluestein to report back.

“Bruce?”

“Hi Cassandra,” he said. “What a day, huh?”

“Bruce, I’m so sorry. We both had a tough day. But I just need to ask you one question. We can have coffee or something and talk soon, but can you tell me one thing?”

“Gees, Cassandra, slow down.” I sensed a slur. He must have had a few drinks.

“Is Pam home?” I asked.

“She’s on her way.”

“The kids home?”

“Yes, of course they’re home. It’s dinner time.”

“You okay?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Do you need me to come over?”

“No, of course not. Ah, here’s the wife. Home at last.” A rush of relief filled me. I knew Bruce. He had spent a few months renovating my kitchen and there had been a few days when he’d smelled of drink after lunch. The idea of him home with his boys and drinking set my neck muscles in a knot.

“Bruce,” I tried again.

“Cassandra?” he replied.

“Did her clothes burn?”

“The woman in the reservation?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “I just remember calling 911 and watching her die.”

“Bruce,” I said. “Can you just think back for a second. Just try to remember.”

“Cassandra, I am trying to forget. It was awful.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. Yes, it was awful. For me too.”

“Can I let this wait till tomorrow?”

“Sure. Sorry. Thanks. Listen, take it easy, huh? I’ll check in with you tomorrow. I’m going to call you tomorrow. Maybe you can try to remember?”

“Yeah, bye,” he hung up with a firm click.

“Well, that was no help.”

“I will ask the question,” Doug promised me. “Heffly should be able to answer it. And I’ll let you know the answer.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He bowed slightly and left.

I watched Doug go, feeling a strong sense of simpatico, a shared consciousness, and a confirmation that he had enough respect for me to accept my observations as sound. Still, that raging flame, from so many hours earlier, flared in memory and, like Bruce must be feeling under his apparent drinking, I felt ragged and fearful. I went to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom and dug through the top shelf. There still were a few Xanax left. I cut one in quarters, swallowed one piece, and followed it with a glass of water. India was one thing. Hindu beliefs and traditions rising out of poverty were factors I could accept as an element to help endure suffering. Self-immolation was done there. Accidents with stoves too. Burning bodies did not happen in Hillston, but it had, three times in one day. I could not imagine what the police or firefighters might say about this once further investigation was complete. My early speculation with Heffly that the blue-suited woman might have done it to herself was ending because I could not accept that Cindy would have set herself on fire. Or that a school principal would do it in front of all those school children. I also could not imagine who would kill Cindy.

In Banhi’s case, I blamed Rehani, Banhi’s mother-in-law. That made cultural and social sense. I had also learned there were four million missing women in India. I learned about sati, about the Hindu belief in reincarnation, and how that became distorted to encourage the destitute to end their lives in hopes of a better one next time. These fires in Hillston did not have a cultural context. The police and fire department would have to solve this puzzle. I just wanted to know my children would not be hurt or anyone else I knew, including myself. These women were in the middle years, but it had happened to Banhi when she was so young. Pete no longer discussed Banhi and Bangalore with me, not after we returned to the states. It was an agreement we made. If he learned of this morning, would he see my need to compare? Would he let me break my promise to stay away from the subject that had nearly driven me crazy and him along with me? That whole tragedy is what brought us home to Hillston, to my hometown, to the place I had fled as a young graduate student and, for the first time ever, I imagined maybe it wasn’t Rehani and dowry murder that had destroyed Banhi, but perhaps there was something else at work and maybe the same was at work here in Hillston.