She ran from the pickup, stumbling through the eye-stinging snow and the knee-deep white powder that slowed her stumble up the steps and—
The house door refused to open.
Arctic air shook Louise so hard she fell into the snow on the porch. She ran back to the pickup, turned the engine on to blast heat over her, melting the snow and dampening her clothes cold, that’s cold, too, but—
Louise closed her eyes. Like Parker’d said: If you gotta, you gotta. She ran back into the storm carrying the orange extension cord, her mind playing the movie of how she’d tie one end to the porch or the door, tie the other end to the pickup’s front bumper, and it wouldn’t matter that the pickup could only charge a few feet, its horsepower against old wood—
The house door opened.
“Fuck you,” whispered Louise. “You get one chance.”
She backed off the porch, dropped the extension cord end far enough from the last step that it didn’t touch wood, tied the other end to the pickup’s bumper to show she meant business, ran back into the house.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Louise ran to the living room with its dried pool of Parker’s blood, with its stacks of four friends’ suitcases that had flown full of dreams from Denver, and sacks with their packed lunches and old newspapers, sleeping bags and the portable heater with a generator and a red plastic jug full of fuel oil that wouldn’t work in a pickup. She closed her fist around the plastic bag with its one-plus joint and metal cigarette lighter as she switched her wet clothes for dry garments, unrolled a sleeping bag.
MIDNIGHT.
Louise sat rocking back and forth on the decrepit mansion’s living room floor. She’d smoked all but an inch of the last joint. Felt her still chemical-addled mind mostly free from capture. To help, she’d crawled on her hands and knees, lapped up drops of the mixed brew spilled in the jumble of broken glass on the dining room floor near Bob’s body.
What more are you than the home you build for your life?
Can’t have a baby without Steve and who would want you now even if some rescuer comes. No rescuer’s coming. Not in time. And when someone does come, someone with a weaker mind than Ali oh poor Ali.
Lucky Ali. She knew how to use what she had to get what she could.
There’s what’s real and there’s what you believe.
What’s real is that outside in the cold she’d die in an hour.
What’s real is she could feel who she was slipping away.
Here could be home.
The something to love forever that’s been her lifelong dream.
If she keeps this place fixed up, the place will fix what she believes. She can come up with a story for all this.
After all, it’s what works, not what’s real.
She clicked open the metal lighter. Knew that was real.
Clicked it shut. Knew she was still here. For now.
Forever is a moment.
Like now. Louise clicked open the lighter.
And now. Clicked it shut.
The imperative to survive is all the house cares about.
The metal lighter clicks shut.
This is the moment you click open the lighter.
This is the moment you click it shut.
This is a moment when you’re still Louise.
Not some species of zombie slave.
She clicked the lighter open.
“We’re all trapped in a house that needs fixing.”
Bob said that. When he was alive.
He said, “It ain’t the being dead, it’s the dying.”
Louise thumbed the blue flame to life and fired up the last inch of the joint. Felt the house sigh.
Like, odds are, there’ll be more months of sunshine on its wood.
You could be not dead here for a long time.
All you need to do is let go of every imperative except existing.
Louise sucked in a caustic cloud of smoke.
Held it as the house trembled its floor to shake her balance.
Like a movie queen, Louise flicked her lit joint onto the pile of yesterday’s newspapers and birthed a flickering blue flame.
Dust and debris fell from the ceiling like smothering rain.
She grabbed the red plastic jug for the portable heater and splashed fuel oil through the room.
A ball of fire whumped up in front of her.
Fire consumed all the house’s thoughts as flames licked its walls.
Louise grabbed her coat, gloves. Fought open the front door that, unlike her, had no feet to flee.
And as she stood outside in the snowy night next to the inferno where a house once lived, unzipping her coat to heat from the blaze whose coals might glow long past dawn when rescue would or would not come, Louise hoped she was right about the worth of the imperative that to survive as who you are sometimes requires fixing your house with flames.
The Strength Inside
MELISSA MARR
When Chastity bought the only house on the cul-de-sac with several acres between her and the nearest neighbor, it wasn’t an accident. Privacy was a priority. At the time, her plan seemed sound. At the time, she hadn’t yet met the Homeowners’ Association or their subcommittee, the Architectural Review Board.
“Well?” Alison prompted when Chastity walked into the kitchen with the mail. Unlike Chastity, her sister was in comfortable jeans and a longsleeved shirt. The dirt on her cheek—and the muddy footprints on the floor—told Chastity that her sister had been gardening again.
“Another form.” Chastity clutched the latest ARB letter in her hand. By now she could recite the first paragraph: The River Glades Community prides itself on high community standards. As such any and all exterior architectural alterations must receive approval of the Architectural Review Board. Please submit the attached form to JUSTINE sixty days prior to the date upon which you would like to begin any alteration, addition, removal, or other visible change.
Chastity forced herself to release her grip. She laid the paper on the kitchen counter and smoothed it out. “Every damn form includes the same paragraph. It’s like it’s their letterhead.”
“What do they want this time?” Alison unbraided her hair, finger-combed it, and twisted it up into a loose ponytail while Chastity read—and then reread.
Chastity made a growling noise before saying, “Sufficient neighbor signatures from . . . any house with direct line of sight with or without foliage.”
“Umm.” Alison walked to the door, opened it, and pointedly glanced to the left and right. “They do know we are the last house, right?”
“I’m sure they do.” Chastity kicked off the ridiculous low heels that she wore to work. Her skills were more about focus, so office work made sense. If it didn’t include such uncomfortable clothes, she’d be far happier. Alison floated from job to job when Chastity said they needed more money, but she couldn’t hold a job that involved too much time indoors. Chastity, for better or worse, was content in closer spaces.
Which is why we need both a house and a big yard.
For a moment, the sisters stood face-to-face in their kitchen. It was a lovely space. Beautiful granite countertops, sleek stainless steel appliances, and black tile with black grout. Greenery hung from the ceiling, lined windowsills, and clustered along all of the walls. Like much of the house, the kitchen was as close to an exterior space as possible—but without too many wild creatures or insects. Through the open door, Chastity could see the yard that was Alison’s passion. It was well on its way to resembling a formal garden that had been allowed to grow wild. Alison had the admirable ability to persuade most every plant, shrub, or tree to thrive even when they weren’t native. The result was a fabulous space filled with wildlife and ample places to hide.