Home Fires Read Online Free Page B

a shot of the Davises alone.
    There was Karen, placing a piece of pale green sea glass over the princess's window. She was smiling for the camera, but her eyes had a sidelong glance, as if she didn't want to be torn away from working on the castle. She had already adorned it with garlands of periwinkle and mussel shells. Using her little hand, she had scooped out and molded balconies of sand for the princess, king, and queen.
    Her brown hair curled damply; the day had been scorching hot, and Karen and Anne had just taken their third swim of the morning. Her skin was brown, and she wore the pink bikini Maggie had given her the first day of vacation.
    Anne stared at the photo for a long time with no change in expression. It was a happy moment frozen forever on film. That was how she viewed it. It didn't particularly move her one way or another.
    The photograph didn't show that Anne and Matt had had a bitter fight before breakfast that morning, or that before sunset he would be on a plane to La Guardia. It didn't show that ten minutes after Gabrielle snapped the shot, she served a picnic lunch, and Karen and Anne had shared a tunafish sandwich and a glass of lemonade. It didn't show Karen and Anne waiting for low tide, to go crabbing in the tidal pools. It didn't show Karen falling out the window eight days later.
    The photograph didn't make Karen seem real or present or faraway to Anne.
    For those sensations, Anne dug into the canvas bag she'd rescued from the fire.
    Karen's drawing. Sitting on the floor, Anne spread it across her knees. She loved to touch it. The paper was yellow manila, coarse-grained, the variety favored by kindergartners everywhere. Karen had used fourteen different crayons to color the picture for Anne.
    Anne brought the paper to her face. It smelled like smoke now, but if she concentrated she could bring back the scent of crayon wax. Touching the surface, she could trace the smooth, slick tracks of Karen's crayons. It was so real, something she could hold in her hands, a drawing Karen might have finished just five minutes ago. It felt the same, smelled almost the same, looked exactly the same, as it had the moment Karen had presented it to her.
    It was a picture of things Karen loved, all blended together in the epic vision of a preschooler.
    It showed her room—everything pink, her favorite color—at home; Mommy, Daddy, and Karen playing in Gramercy Park; Karen and Maggie building a castle at the beach. Between Karen in the park and Karen at the beach were two puzzling white-speckled boxes.
    For a four-year-old, Karen could draw beautifully. She gave her people smiles and eyebrows, five fingers on each hand, clothes that she had seen them wear. Her beach had rocks and shells; her ocean had a shark (sharks scared her more than anything—for weeks after seeing
The Little Mermaid,
she'd had nightmares about the shark), a sea horse, and minnows. Gramercy Park had squirrels, a low wrought-iron fence protecting red tulips, and a multistoried white birdhouse. Karen on the beach had red fingernails, like Maggie; in the park with her parents, her nails were unpainted.
    “It's my best and favorite thing,” Karen had said proudly, giving the picture to Anne.
    Anne had accepted it, delighted. She and Karen had examined it together, not speaking. Except for the white boxes, she recognized every image and knew where it fit in Karen's conception of her world.
    “What's this?” Anne asked, pointing at one spotted box.
    “Don't you know?” Karen asked, her brow creasing. Suddenly she looked troubled, as if her mother had failed to understand something basic and vital.
    Anne shook her head.
    “It's paradise,” Karen said.
    “Oh, I love you,” Anne said, pulling Karen into her arms. A picture of the people and places Karen loved the most: paradise. The boxes didn't matter. Nothing mattered compared with that.
    Now, sitting on the floor of Gabrielle's family room, Anne stared at Karen's picture of paradise.