Phoenix, Arizona
A Short Story
Phoenix, Arizona
By Charles Hackney
The desert wind, cold and dry, came in through the open window. It carried with it the scent of creosote and citrus and ancient night. The wind caused the lightweight curtains to ripple in the moonlight, it rustled the leaves of a potted African violet, and it stroked the thin hair of the old woman.
The old woman stirred in her sleep, seated in her most comfortable chair, her hands resting on a crochet blanket. Her eyes slowly fluttered open, and she breathed deeply, drawing the night air deep into her lungs. A smile touched the corner of her toothless mouth as she cocked her head to one side as if listening to the desert wind.
“Yes,” she said, looking around at her living room. “I expect it’s about that time.”
The old woman rose, slowly and carefully. She was alone in the house, and her voice was the only sound. On unsteady legs, she made her way to one of the many bookshelves that lined the living room. She selected a book and lightly ran her fingers across its beautiful cover. “I remember you,” she said. “I picked you up in that charming little shop in Inverness.” The smile widened. “It turned out I could have gotten you for half the cost if I had just waited until we were back in the States, but I didn’t mind. It was such a nice shop, and the owner was such a sweetie.” The old woman placed the book on the floor behind her.
She picked other books from the shelves. A history of Arizona that she bought after moving to the area. A well-worn collection of short stories about a priest who solves crimes. The poetry of Tennyson. A biography of Mark Twain that she had purchased with every intent of reading, but had never got around to. She lingered over each one, taking a moment to honor the memories attached to each. They were each then added to the collection growing in the center of the room.
Finally she held a volume that bore her name. “I worked so hard on those poems. I never thought they were good enough, but George was so insistent. He believed in me so much more than I did. I remember how nervous I was when he sent them off to the publisher, and how proud he was when they were accepted. I remember thinking, if he stuck out his chest any farther, he was going to throw his back out again.” The collection of verses joined its fellows on the growing pile.
Moving to the mantelpiece over the seldom-used fireplace, the old woman’s face took on an aspect of tragedy as she picked up a frame, worn from much handling, containing the photograph of a teenage girl. “Isabel,” she whispered, “my shining dancer. You were taken from us too soon.” Another picture in another frame showed a middle-aged married couple. “Max,” she smiled broadly now. “You take care of Lydia and the twins, and try to remember to put your socks in the laundry.” A third picture was of a tall, thin woman standing at a workstation in a chemistry laboratory. “Michaela, you never could get me to understand gas chromatography, but you always had time to listen to me rattle on about whatever book I had been reading lately.” The photographs were added to the collection in the middle of the room.
Tired now, the old woman rested for a minute before climbing the stairs to the attic. She returned with her arms wrapped around a massive bundle of white fabric.
The wedding dress was reverently laid atop the pile.
One photograph remained above the fireplace, and the old woman looked back between it and the dress. “George,” she said to the old man in the picture, “you never understood me.” An affectionate look spread across her face. “But then again, nobody really did. And you came as close anybody could. I wanted to tell you. I planned to tell you.” Affection now mingled with grief. “But the illness got to you before I could work up the nerve. How do you explain something like this? Would you have believed me?”
The picture of the old man joined the wedding dress. “Maybe it’s better this way, with you never having found out. I guess all you really needed to know was that I loved you like I’ve never loved anyone. I still do. For the time that we had together, you were everything to me. My whole world, condensed into five feet and nine inches of flesh and bone, gray hairs and gentle arms. My perfect George.”
The old woman looked around the living room with an expression of calm satisfaction. Then slowly, awkwardly, she climbed to the top of the pile and sat down.
There was a box of matches in her pocket, and she put them to their intended use.
The paper in the books caught first, and the fire spread quickly. By the time the flames reached the old woman, the surrounding carpet was now on fire, and her most comfortable chair was beginning to smolder.
The paint in the living room walls blistered as the old woman began to cry out in pain. The cries turned to screams as flesh blackened and hair shriveled. All of the furniture was now on fire.
By the time the fire spread to the rest of the house, the screams had stopped.
A neighbor, awakened by the primal warning carried by the smell of smoke, called 911. By the time the county fire department arrived, the house was fully engulfed in flames, and it was determined that the structure was too unsafe for the firefighters to enter. The building was a total loss, so, as the crowd of neighbors gathered, the firefighters focused their efforts on making sure that the blaze was contained and none of the surrounding houses were in danger. Later, as the house fell in on itself, they made sure that what was left of the place was thoroughly soaked. Eventually, satisfied that the situation was resolved, the crowd dispersed and the fire trucks departed. There would be time in the morning for searching through debris for any human remains, time to look up who the owner of the house had been, and time to contact family members, if any.
Hours after that, silence hovered over the scene, and the desert wind pushed ashes back and forth. The first sunlight of a new day touched the tops of trees and chimneys, and gently crept down to warm the desert.
Below, the remains of the house stirred, and now the movement of the ashes had nothing to do with the wind. A dirty finger pushed its way out from beneath the rubble, followed by a hand. A figure slowly emerged, digging out from the debris, scattering clouds of ash with every motion.
The last tattered shreds of burnt clothing fell away as the figure stood tall and straight.
The young girl was slender and pale, moving easily and gracefully as she brushed the grime away from her unblemished skin and shook the ashes from her shining hair. She picked her way out from the charred wreckage. A small shed stood at the far corner of the property, distant enough to have been in no danger from the conflagration, and containing the supplies the old woman had stored there several days ago: clean clothes, newly-forged documents, and sufficient cash for a new start.
The young girl wriggled her toes, relishing the feel of the grass beneath her bare feet as she walked toward the shed. If the neighbors happened to see an unclothed form walking across the backyard, it didn’t matter; she would be gone soon enough. Spreading her arms, she let the desert wind swirl around and caress her skin, and she looked past the shed to the dawning horizon.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That was a good life.”
She smiled widely. ”Let’s see what the next one will be like.”
The End
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