The House Fire at the Sea, and: Witness

THE HOUSE FIRE AT THE SEA

The man and woman stood there on the sandwatching the fire. Along the beach the smokehad plumed across the roofs that night to wakethem in their own house farther up the strand.

They'd walked a quarter mile to see it burn,while a few curious strangers tagged alongand the surf broke like there was nothing wrong,like the house fire was none of its concern.

No one could say what started it. The neighborstrailing their bathrobes had each made a guessbut no one knew or no one would confess.Beyond, the firemen still performed their labors.

The man looked out to sea and watched how flamereflected on the breaker's cresting rim,glimmered past the tideline and grew dim.With every wave the fire shone much the same.

The woman's back was turned to him. She spoketo someone out of view, but he could hearher voice and see her small hands in the aireither making a point or fanning away the smoke.

How strange, he thought, to see a fire so closeto the one element that could have tamed it."The place went up before the owners named it,"he heard the woman say as the flames rose.

They'd stayed in a house like this when they first met.Three floors and a verandah. Not so far from the boardwalk, which had a daiquiri barwhere they drank after swimming, hair still wet.

Later on they would make love, talk, or read—the sea had been the source of all they shared.And if they had been careless, no one cared;he'd never felt so captive or so freed.

The fire deepened the shadows where she stood.She looked the same, as far as he could tell.And if some things had passed between them? Well.Talking about them now would do no good.

The firemen climbed their ladders in the dark,but the house was empty. No one had been there.All that the rest of them could do was stare.The thick smoke hid the moon but left no mark.

WITNESS

Your uncles leave you waiting by the shoulderwhile they hunt deer in the woods in winter snow.You've paced the blacktop's edge an hour or so.The sun's just halfway up. It's getting colder.

Their orange jackets flash between the pines.Beagles are on the scent to flush the buckout toward the highway past the pickup truckwhere the men will shoot it on the yellow lines.

The morning sky snags in your memory—stars that glint like mica flecks on the bluebackground a quarter moon is showing through,above the route from Cross to Elloree.

You hear wheels in the distance and you think,what if a deer comes bounding toward the road?Just then the car appears like time has slowed:a Pontiac Firebird slipping on the brink

of the iced bridge that spans Jim Cumbee's creek,its chainless tires chewing the roadside gravel.A tree snaps like a judge slamming a gaveland you can see the skid marks where they streak

maybe ten feet away from where you stand,the tire tracks aiming toward the distant treesand the car flipped over, leaking antifreeze.Out of the windshield juts a woman's hand.

You scramble closer to the wreck and seeshe's still as starlight. Pinned there. She can't move.Somewhere a gear is clicking in its groove.The radio plays Tom Petty's "Refugee."

You listen for her breath but it gets slower.The way the glass-chips in the snow are lit seems beautiful, a fact you don't admit.It's dark inside. You can't tell if you know her.

And that's when it capers into the road. The deer.It stands there a minute, startled. Then it runsbefore the men come shouting with their guns.Just how long you stand watching isn't clear.

Years...