“Embers were raining down,” he says. “Looked like snow till you got close. You’d hear explosions from propane tanks or cars going up. Then, back to more horns and screaming. We abandoned the car and walked, hundreds of us, all trying to leave town.”
Sharon’s hands slow on the crust. Ash’s knife hesitates over a bell pepper.
I picture that main road jammed solid with abandoned cars and people on foot, leaving their entire lives behind.
“Then this policeman told us to lie flat on the road and pray,” Walt says.
“Pray?” Ash’s disbelief hits at the same time as the spike in my own chest.
“That’s what I thought.” Walt’s laugh cracks. “But I’ve never been so scared in my life. I prayed to everyone I could think of—Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad, the president—all of ’em.”
He looks down at his hands, dusted with flour from where he’s pressed a palm into the counter. They’re steady now.
“It worked,” Sharon says, pointing a wooden spoon at us, as if daring us to argue.
“And I thank ’em all each night,” Walt adds. “We may have lost the house and most of our stuff, but we’ve got each other. Stuff’s easy to replace.”
“As you can see,” Sharon says, waving the spoon around the fresh drywall and new cabinets.
Maybe theyaresuperheroes.
“You’re still laughing,” I say, thinking of how tight my own chest still feels. “Still loving. It seems like this made you stronger.”
“Thank you, dear,” Sharon says.
Walt shakes his head. “I couldn’t even get out of the dang truck,” he says. “I kept thinking, This is it; this is it.”
“You’ve been thinking ‘this is it’ ever since we moved back, dear. Therapy’ll do you some good.”
“Getting out of Paradise will do us some good.” Walt’s response is somehow heavier than the whole story.
I glance at the big front window, the empty sign on the roof, the built-in counter downstairs that’s begging to be a café, a gallery, a something. A whole building, sitting on a corner other people would kill for, and he just wants to escape it.
“Boys were complimenting our house,” Sharon says quickly. “We’ve beenblessed.”
“She says that because she feels guilty leaving,” Walt says. “Recovery gave everyone a little money to rebuild. We got a whole building because they’re tryin’ to move downtown to our block.”
“Blessed,” Sharon repeats, firmer. “From the ashes, a phoenix rises.”
Walt snorts. “We don’t want to open a store. We don’t want to live above one. We don’t want to be in Paradise.”
Ash’s hand tightens on the knife handle, and I think of those FI people with good jobs and nice houses, all planning their escape. Enviable lives, wanting anything but what they have.
“Alright now.” Sharon sets the spoon down and moves to a wooden cabinet. “Time for cocktails. We’ve bored the boys long enough. Today, we saved each other’s lives. I’d like to cheers to that.”
“Hear! Hear!” I tell her.
Ash, bless him, reaches across the table and takes Walt’s hand, squeezing with a look that shows he understands more than numbers and news clips. We weren’t here for Camp Fire, but Walt accepts the gesture with a grateful nod.
Sharon pours wine. I ask more about her painting because it’s something she can talk about without going distant. We spread sauce, scatter cheese, and argue about toppings. Ash asks how they met. Sharon tops off our glasses again and tells us about a tenth-grade history class and a boy who wouldn’t stop staring at her notes.
By the time the first pizza comes out of the oven, the kitchen smells like oregano and toasted crust, and the edges of everyone’s grief are soft with fatigue and alcohol.
“What about you two?” Sharon asks at some point, simple as anything. Whatever’s written on our faces must be obvious.
“We love the gays,” Walt chimes in immediately.
“Walt!” Sharon smacks his arm with the back of her hand. “You don’t say ‘the gays.’ If you find yourself saying, ‘the’ anything, just stop.”
