See How Small. Scott Blackwood
worked here the longest, has several small crescent-shaped burn scars on the heel of her palm and wrist.
Now, because of the smoke, it’s dark inside and out. The young man in the wool overcoat throws open the receiving doors in back; another customer props open the front. Smoke dissipates. Everyone laughs nervously. Someone claps Jack on the back. The girls fidget behind the counter, as if they’ve been caught at a failed imitation of adults, as if they’d gotten drunk on the fumes, being so close. They imagine being spoken about in the crowd. Shame washes over them momentarily. Something surges in Kate. She longs for the girls to steal kisses, to drink just a little to quiet their nerves, to seize whatever they can of this life, to feel they are bound for something bigger, something beyond what everyone imagines they’re bound for.
Then the girls reenter their bodies, those unpredictable inventions, and with still-summery arms they wipe down the front counters and ask who is next.
WHAT IS JACK Dewey thinking before he goes into the fire?
1. Of his nylon search rope, which is five-sixteenths of an inch in diameter and two hundred feet long and attached to a snap hook on his belt. How Neftali Rodriguez and Henry Soto will expect him to deploy it, given the ice cream shop’s mazelike conditions and intense smoke.
2. That they will not need the rope because he knows this is likely an arson fire to collect the insurance money — like so many others lately — and there will be no one in the building to search for.
3. That he’s forgotten to tie the knots in the nylon search rope at fifteen-foot intervals, which tell you how far you have to go to exit the building. How much shit he will catch for this will depend on Neftali’s and Henry’s moods. But there will be significant shit to catch.
4. He thinks — even as he and Henry Soto pull open the blackened double front doors of the ice cream shop and the smoke and heat hit them like a blow to the chest and then coils upward — of his failure as a father. Thinks of his sixteen-year-old daughter, Sam, running away three weeks ago and how he hasn’t been able to find her, despite the missing persons report, despite his several friends on the police force. He sees Sam barefoot in her capris in some strange kitchen, frying catfish in a pan, like they sometimes did on Fridays. One of the traditions he’d carried on after his wife died. He tries not to think of the prick of a boyfriend she’s likely with, who smells pungently moist like bong smoke and carries around a little metal tackle box of harmonicas in different keys and can’t play a lick.
5. Heading into the fire, the safety rope trailing behind, he thinks instead: Friday night. If Sam were back, she might even have come by here for an ice cream cone, then out with friends to a movie or the improv comedy club downtown. She’d call him from the lobby and say in a deflated voice that plans had changed, that she really needed a ride home. Please? He’d know that she was near tears. A tightness would rise up in his chest and he’d say, without exasperation or fear, I’m on my way.
HOLLIS FINGER, SITTING at a back table in the ice cream shop, can tell before he looks up from his crossword that the man is hideous.
But that’s a little later.
At the moment, Hollis is watching one of the dropout boys out in the parking lot pry loose a medium-size conch shell — a Strombus gigas he prizes for its depth of color — from the hood of his art car. Hollis wants to twist off a table leg and beat the boy. Around him, at the other tables, heads swivel. He suspects he’s yelled an obscenity, maybe even a threat. He removes his hand from the table leg. Tries to smile to put everyone at ease, but he can taste the bile at the back of his throat. He focuses on his chocolate-dipped cone. Licks it tentatively. The whole shop smells of his anxiety. He closes his eyes a moment to calm himself. Sees the boy’s limp body on the pavement, his splayed, upturned palm. The conch. Its rosy insides like last light. But one of its horns is broken off. There’s a roaring in Hollis’s ears.
Sir? Someone touches his shoulder. He flinches, fumbles his dipped cone to the floor. It’s a hideous ruin on the tile. Separated into three parts. Incompatible. A fringed spatter of chocolate outlines the body.
Sir? It’s one of the counter girls. He’s noticed her before. She wears a flesh-colored hearing aid in her right ear, though you can barely see it. He wonders if she hears the same roaring he does. She has a large nose. Healthy nostrils. Elastic skin. She smells of high school hallways.
Are you okay? She asks this softly. She looks him over. Some of the people around him are still glancing his way, interested. Maybe protective.
He looks down at the ruin of his cone. Out to the parking lot, his car, the boy, the conch. Shadows falling. I’m just dandy, he says, near tears.
The girl, after some discussions with her associates, replaces his cone with a double. When she comes by and presents it to him — Voila, monsieur, she says — he notices a series of curved shapes, raised hieroglyphics along the inside of her wrist. He gently touches her there, the smooth elasticity of her skin. I will not forget you, he thinks. I’ve carved you on the palm of my hand.
She smiles at him as if she knows Isaiah by heart.
What did this hideous man look like? the detectives ask him later (how much later Hollis can’t say). He tries to describe him to the well-groomed sketch artist they’ve brought in, just the basics, the feel of the hideous man’s presence. He thinks of the disquieting sheen of the black buttons on the man’s coat. The man’s older companion tapping out a song on a table with a plastic spoon.
The light in the little room gives everything a greenish tint, like the air before a storm. Hollis can’t get it right. The detectives sigh and bully him. One throws a pencil at the wall and it makes a ka-tic sound. They send the sketch artist away. Finally, Hollis says something — not about the hideous man, but about the boy and the conch in the parking lot, the grievous injury to his car — and the detectives’ eyes grow bright. They ask him to concentrate. Can you draw the man in the long coat, the one who stood in line? Can you do that for us, Mr. Finger?
The hideous man, Hollis says.
Yes, the hideous man.
Hollis can hear yelling in another small room somewhere. A silverfish flits at the edge of his vision. He shuffles the drawing paper. One of the detectives picks up the pencil off the floor. When Hollis has finished the drawing, the detectives lean over him, block the light with their bodies. Finally they say, Look, Mr. Finger, what you’ve drawn here is a nostril, and here you’ve depicted in detail the skin flap of an eyelid.
There’s no pleasing some people, Hollis thinks.
MICHAEL GREER IS seventeen. He’s sitting in an idling Volvo wagon behind the ice cream shop with the headlights off. He’s the lookout and driver. The car is stolen and they’ve switched the plates. It’s cold out, but the windows are down because he’s sweating. His mouth is dry. He popped two tabs of Vicodin a little while ago to calm his nerves. The night presses close but drifts away at the edges. A pecan tree looms above the car. Every time the wind picks up, a few pecans plunk loudly off the roof.
The two men inside the shop are calmly purposeful. Michael hates the older one already for his cracks about Michael’s clothes and hygiene. The two men will torch the place. Someone somewhere gets the insurance payout. Michael gets a small cut. Nothing too complicated. No one gets hurt. His job earlier was to watch from across the street: the shop girls turning up chairs on tabletops, the shop girls counting the register drawers, the shop girls mopping the floor. Then the lights went down; a little later, the front door opened and he thought he could hear their singsong voices. Much later, it will occur to Michael that he should have seen in the two men’s measured strides, in their coiled energy, even in their acceptance