Free True Fires by Susan Carol McCarthy Page B

out of their accustomed places. Betty sees them as if from a distance, as if she were somehow outside herself.
    On her right, in the spot normally reserved for Mr. Wexall, on account of his “good ear,” sits a twitching, walleyed Bunny Collins, bobby pins poking every which way off her head. Next to her, a dark-eyed Graham Firth appears almost pirate-like for want of a shave. Beside him, the poor displaced Wexalls and their in-laws, the Lindstroms; all four of them, usually pale, gone pasty gray over the evening’s excitement.
    On Betty’s left, in ’Becca’s place, sits Sara Chambers, the third-grade teacher who practically missed the whole thing taking time, while the others rushed outside, to wash her face and comb her hair. Beside her, in blue overalls pulled hastily over plaid pajamas, is a lock-jawed Tim Wallace, his powerful welder’s hands clasped rigidly on the table in front of him. Next to him are the fishing Howell brothers, George and Henry from upstate New York, who, always unkempt, look most like themselves. Beyond them, the five remaining empty chairs sit silent witness for Mr. and Mrs. Colkannan, who drove to Daytona for the night, and the three Dares—’Becca, Daniel, and their father—who normally spend weekends “working out at their property.”
    “What’s this about a phone call?” Graham Firth’s demanding to know. Betty hears herself explaining as best she can.
    “Your son’s friend, you say?” George Howell asks. At his elbow, his brother Henry mutters, “Some friend.”
    Beneath glowering black brows, Firth’s eyes narrow to a fierce flicker.
    “I—I thought it was a prank. He and my Clay—well, they were always . . .” Betty loses her train of thought. She looks for it in the faces around the table.
    Tim Wallace continues to stare down at his clenched hands. “Leroy’s a little old t’be pullin’ pranks.”
    A distant memory darts like a swallow across Betty’s mind. Wallace had a big brother, Frank, who was Clay and Leroy’s age, joined the Army same time they did. Except Frank Wallace never made it home.
Corregidor, wasn’t it?
Betty wonders.
    “Could’ve burned the house down!” Mr. Wexall attempts outrage but his reedy-thin voice falls short of it. He turns watery eyes onto Graham Firth.
    “Fascists!” Firth hisses, glaring around the table.
    “It’s all that Sheriff DeLuth’s fault,” Sara Chambers says. “He’s got the whole town in an uproar over whether or not the Dares are part Negro.”
    “But the paper explained all that; they’re part Croatan!” Bunny Collins is fond of ’Becca and was the first in the house to see the article and show it around to the others.
    “Those men said if you didn’t turn ’em out, they’ll burn ’em out,” Mrs. Wexall murmurs, her face fearful. “I heard them, didn’t you?”
    “They should be shot,” Firth says. “Lined up against the wall and shot!”
    “Who?” Bunny says, eyes wide.
    “Those men, whoever they were, who did this thing, said those things about
children
!” Firth tells her.
    “Thank God the Dares weren’t here to see it! Poor little ’Becca would’ve been scared to death,” Bunny agrees.
    “But, of course, they must move.” Everyone turns in surprise to old Mr. Lindstrom who rarely says anything. “You can’t let them stay.”
    “But, what—I mean, what if—how could I?” Betty hears herself stammering.
    “And let the Fascists
win
?” Firth turns dagger-sharp eyes onto Mr. Lindstrom, but the old man holds his ground.
    “This house, it’s all Mrs. Betty has. You heard them say they’ll burn it down. A house like this would catch like matchsticks. And all of us with it.”
    “But, surely, they’re just bluffing,” Sara Chambers stammers. “They wouldn’t really—”
    “Hard t’say.” Tim Wallace shakes his head. “Enough time, enough ’shine, these ol’ boys are likely to try anythin’.”
    “Oh!” Betty’s beginning to feel faint again.
    “Which is