Free One-Hundred-Knuckled Fist by Dustin M. Hoffman Page B

him. The hair on his knuckles tightened, curled, cowering into a sizzle.
    Randall didn’t move until a fireman pushed his chest. “All the way back,” the fireman shouted to the crowd. “See that kid on the other side of the street.” He shot a gloved finger at Jackson. “He’s the only one with any sense.”
    “You heard the man.” Vance slapped the fireman’s back, remained at the fence while the crowd wandered across the street, all walking backward, staring at the blaze. Randall tailed the crowd, watching them, their eyes reflecting fire, the black Os of their mouths. He outstretched his arms and waved his fingers, corralling the slow-moving crowd as Vance had neglected to do. By the time he got to Jackson, the hydrant hose had rushed to life. The fire fizzled quickly under the water and made the Leylands’ sidewalk glisten. The hydrant runoff puddled halfway across the road, but it wasn’t enough to reach the sunbaked grass on their side.
    Out the front door came Mr. Leyland, one of the firemen fingering his upper back. Then came Mrs. Leyland, holding the baby. It was fat and pink and not wrapped in blankets as he’d imagined. It didn’t cry. The hose pounded the last whips of fire, and the crowd cheered.
    One of the firemen tossed Vance a Polaroid camera. The flash litup the smoke-stained siding. Vance fired off a dozen shots, slipping each one into his back pocket. Then he turned his back to the house, aimed the camera at the crowd, and took one shot.
    Randall watched Vance flick the last picture he’d taken. Around Randall, men stood shirtless, dirty nails and mussed hair, frayed jean shorts. One of them held a can of beer. Randall wished he had somewhere to pin his tag and could almost feel the sting from the hole he’d pierce through his chest.
    Randall and his boy pulled into the driveway, and he noted that their brittle yellow lawn needed watering. He gripped his doorknob, which needed the right jiggle to open, which would cost precious seconds in an emergency. He worked the knob and opened the door for his son but didn’t follow him.
    The air was calm, and away from his home the burn-off tower’s flame shot straight up. The waving hand had changed into one giant orange finger pointing up. But there was nothing higher to point to in Alma than this burning finger, and the fire wouldn’t stop burning, wouldn’t be put out by Alma firemen with their hydrants and Vance’s Polaroids, wouldn’t stop until Randall supervised shutdown.
    Randall slipped through his front door. In the kitchen, Celia poured a glass of lemonade for Jackson. His bony fingers gripped the glass, the black fingernails looking like dead holes against his pale skin. Jackson gulped down the glass, set it on the counter, and Celia poured again.
    “Another fire?” Celia ran her fingers through the boy’s hair as he sipped the next glass. Her fingernails were short and unpainted.
    “Everyone’s okay. They saved a baby.”
    He stared at his boy’s black nails until Jackson clunked the glass on the counter and wormed out of the room.
    “The fires are all over, Randy,” Celia rinsed the glass, ran a dingy rag over the rim. “This whole town is going up.”
    “We’re safe.” Randall reached above her and pressed their smoke detector. The alarm didn’t sound.
    “This town just needs some damn rain. The town gets crazy when it’s just hot and dry all the time.”
    “I can’t make it rain.” Randall opened the junk drawer to search for a battery.
    “I didn’t ask you to.” She raised a cigarette to her lips. “No jobs, no rain, nothing anyone can do about it.”
    But Randall had a job, a promotion even, and it would last until the refinery tower’s flame snuffed out. Randall rummaged through the drawer but couldn’t find a battery. Instead, he pulled out a book of matches and tore one off for his wife.
    Celia ignored him and cupped her hands over her lighter. “What’d Jackie think of the fire?”
    Randall wished