and that’s when she hears the unmistakable sharp, unbearably loud sound of a gunshot. The sound sends her rushing up, taking steps two at a time. Three rooms, one with an open door, are bright with fire that crackles and roars on fresh breezes from the broken window. A second door is closed. A third is open and lit only by candlelight. Rio hears her father’s voice and peers cautiously around the corner.
The room is stuffed, stuffed almost to the exclusion of furniture, with cardboard boxes spilling reams of paper: old newspapers, age-curled magazines, and thousands of envelopes with the stamps neatly cut away. One entire wall is bookshelves loaded with stamp albums in a dozen different sizes and covers.
In the center of the room, against the far wall, is a bed. It’s a mahogany sleigh bed like those to be found at many a home in Gedwell Falls.
Tam Richlin stands before that bed with his back to Rio. And beyond him, propped against a stack of pillows, lies a monster.
Rio stifles a scream. The creature in the bed must once have been a man, but now he is a nightmare in a sleeveless white T-shirt, revealing a frail, parchment-flesh left arm and a shocking stump where the right arm would once have been. He has only half a face, half an old man’s face, slack and sickly. But the right side of that face is gone. There is a deep crater, as though that half of his face was bitten off by a wild beast. The mouth is a twisted grin on its intact side, but from there the lips seem to melt away, revealing teeth all the way back to the upper molars. The lower molars are mostly gone as the jawbone simply ends, absent, leaving a gaping hole in sagging flesh.
She can look—must look, cannot look away—at the Stamp Man’s throat, a gulping, spasming pink tube revealed through those absent teeth and jaw.
The Stamp Man’s right eye is gone as well, but this is blessedly covered by an eye patch.
He is holding a pistol, aimed at Tam Richlin.
“We have to get you out of here, Captain,” Tam says.
The Stamp Man shakes his head vigorously, a gruesome sight.
“You don’t want to burn to death, Captain, that’s no way to go.”
The Stamp Man shakes the gun as if to say, “I won’t wait to burn.” Then he waves the gun around the room, not threatening, just indicating all of it. He makes sounds, a wet, slurry mimicry of human speech. Rio can see his tongue trying to form sounds, see his throat contracting and releasing, all of it creating no intelligible word, only a cry, a plea, a wail of despair.
Tam for the first time notices Rio behind him. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he snaps.
“I just . . . I thought I could help.” She cannot look at him because she cannot will herself to look away from the man in the bed, the Stamp Man, who her father calls “Captain.”
“Get out of here, Rio.” And when Rio doesn’t move, Tam grabs her bicep and shoves her hard. “Now! Go!”
Rio flees the room and stumbles down the stairs, gagging on smoke that has thickened to near opacity as the fire builds, sending waves of searing heat and choking smoke to pursue her until she escapes through the front door and almost collapses on the sidewalk.
“Is he dead?” It’s the sister. She is no longer crying. Her eyes have gone dull.
“No, he’s—”
And a single shot rings out.
Terrible, fearful moments later Tam Richlin emerges, choking, his face darkened by soot and by something liquid that slides down his cheek leaving a red smear.
The fire truck comes rattling down the block, and even before it comes to a complete stop men in asbestos coveralls and iconic fireman’s helmets pile off, unlimbering a thick canvas hose. Axes and hoses and portable fire extinguishers in hand, the firemen race to the porch, but Tam knows the fire chief and grabs his arm.
Rio does not hear their conversation, but she sees the fire chief ’s face go from determined and a little excited to grim. He nods, and with a few words to his crew, sets them to directing their hoses toward the siding and roof of the adjoining home.
No fireman enters the burning house.
The sister says nothing, does not urge them on, but sinks down to sit, legs splayed gracelessly across the concrete sidewalk.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tam says, and takes his daughter’s arm. There is no arguing with the sad finality in his voice.
They walk in silence, ignoring shouted inquiries as half the town is now out in the street. Just before they reach home, Tam stops. He hangs his head for a moment, silent. Then he says, “I was about to say I’m sorry you had to see that, but I suppose it’s a good thing.”
“What was that? The Stamp Man wasn’t burned, what . . .”
“Captain Peter McFall, US Marines. He was at Belleau Woods in the last war. They had a bad time of it. And he had a very bad time of it.”
Rio remains silent, seeing the conflict in her father’s eyes. Tam Richlin is a quiet man, not one for long speeches, or even short ones. She waits.
“I guess the fire was the last straw for him. I guess he’s been waiting for death since that day. Year after year like that. The pain . . . Never able to go out into the world . . . The fire was taking all he cared about, all his stamps, all his . . . what little he had left.”
“Did he shoot himself ?”
Tam was silent for so long Rio thought he hadn’t heard. Finally, in a single long sigh he said, “He wanted to. But suicide is an unforgivable sin in his faith. You see, it leaves you no chance to repent and atone.” Then, under his breath, bitterly, “As if he had not already paid for the right to sit straight and proud at God’s table.”
Rio was forming the next question, thinking the words, but I heard a shot, when she realized the truth.
Captain Peter McFall, retired, would not have been able to repent of suicide. But Tam Richlin had time enough to seek forgiveness.
RAINY SCHULTERMAN—NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA
“Du bist nisht mayn tokhter! Mayn tokhter shist nisht keyn mentshn. Afile natsis!” This pronouncement comes with a side order of two hands chopping the air for emphasis and a head thrown back as if to implore God to bear witness.
The speaker is Elisheva “Rainy” Schulterman’s mother. The language is Yiddish. In English it means, You are not my daughter! My daughter does not shoot people. Even Nazis!
It is a very dramatic statement, rendered somewhat less convincing by the fact that in her eighteen years of life, all in this same fourth-floor apartment, Rainy has heard that she is not her mother’s daughter on literally hundreds of occasions, including when she took up piano instead of violin, when she first went out in public with her head uncovered, and when she added ketchup to scrambled eggs.
“Mother, I doubt very much I’ll be shooting anyone. I’ve qualified on the M1 carbine, but only just barely. Anyway, I’ve been assigned to the army intelligence training school.”
“This is good,” her father says from behind his newspaper, which, he has made clear, he will put down once all the food is served. “The army sees she is intelligent.”
Rainy’s mother, who has been hovering around and bringing new dishes to the table, stalks over, rudely pulls down the newspaper, sticks her face just inches from her husband’s, and says, “Intelligence, old man. Nyet intelligent, intelligence! Learn to speaking English like American, hokay? And no newspaper at my table!”
Rainy’s older brother, Aryeh, who, like her, is in uniform, winks at her. Rainy rolls her eyes in response.
They