“Strange?...Um…yes. An interesting revelation of the native moeurs.”
Amy Carleton seemed really happy. It was as if, for the first time that evening, she had found what she was looking for. Nothing in her manner or appearance had changed. The quick, impetuous speech, the broken, semi-coherent phrases, the hoarse laugh, the exuberant expletives, and the lovely, dark, crisp-curled head with its snub nose and freckled face were just the same. Still there was something different about her. It was as if all the splintered elements of her personality had now, in the strong and marvellous chemistry of the fire, been brought together into crystalline union. She was just as she had been before, except that her inner torment had somehow been let out, and wholeness let in.
Poor child! It was now instantly apparent to those who knew her that, like so many other “lost” people, she would not have been lost at all—if only there could always be a fire. The girl could not accept getting up in the morning or going to bed at night, or doing any of the accustomed things in their accustomed order. But she could and did accept the fire. It seemed to her wonderful. She was delighted with everything that happened. She threw herself into it, not as a spectator, but as a vital and inspired participant. She seemed to know people everywhere, and could be seen moving about from group to group, her ebony head bobbing through the crowd, her voice eager, hoarse, abrupt, elated. When she returned to her own group she was full of it all.
“I mean!...You know!” she burst out. “These firemen here!”—she gestured hurriedly towards three or four helmeted men as they dashed into a smoke-filled entry with a tube of chemicals—“when you think of what they have to know!—of what they have to do!—I went to a big fire once!”—she shot out quickly in explanatory fashion—“a guy in the department was a friend of mine!—I mean!“—she laughed hoarsely, elatedly—“when you think of what they have to----”
At this point there was a splintering crash within. Amy laughed jubilantly and made a quick and sudden little gesture as if this answered everything.
“After all, I mean!” she cried.
While this was going on, a young girl in evening dress had wandered casually up to the group and, with that freedom which the fire had induced among all these people, now addressed herself in the flat, nasal, and almost toneless accents of the Middle West to Stephen Hook:
“You don’t think it’s very bad, do you?” she said, looking up at the smoke and flames that were now belching formidably from the top-floor window. Before anyone had a chance to answer, she went on: “I hope it’s not bad.”
Hook, who was simply terrified at her raw intrusion, had turned away from her and was looking at her sideways with eyes that were almost closed. The girl, getting no answer from him, spoke now to Mrs. Jack:
“It’ll be just too bad if anything is wrong up there, won’t it?” Mrs. Jack, her face full of friendly reassurance, answered quickly in a gentle voice.
“No, dear,” she said, “I don’t think it’s bad at all.” She looked up with trouble in her eyes at the billowing mass of smoke and flame which now, to tell the truth, looked not only bad but distinctly threatening; then, lowering her perturbed gaze quickly, she said to the girl encouragingly: “I’m sure everything is going to be all right.”
“Well,” said the girl, “I hope you’re right…Because,” she added, apparently as an afterthought as she turned away, “that’s Mama’s room, and if she’s up there it’ll be just too bad, won’t it?—I mean, if it is too bad.”
With this astounding utterance, spoken casually in a flat voice that betrayed no emotion whatever, she moved off into the crowd.
There was dead silence for a moment. Then Mrs. Jack turned to Hook in alarm, as if she were not certain she had heard aright.
“Did you hear?—” she began in a bewildered tone.
“But there you are!” broke in Amy, with a short, exultant laugh. “What I mean is—the whole thing’s there!”
20. Out of Control