Fury's Fire by Lisa Papademetriou Page B

duplex apartments, brick with white trim. The grass was mowed, but a few stray tufts at the edges showed a lack of attention to detail. Every apartment revealed the character of its residents. In front of one, there were two toddler bicycles and a pink striped toy stroller. Another bore a collection of wind chimes that tinkled with crazymerriment as a breeze blew by, tickling them. A third sported a few mums in pots and a fat orange cat, watching Gretchen with calm reserve from its perch in the window.
    Somehow Gretchen knew which apartment was Mafer’s even before she saw the brass number beside the door. Bright yellow heliopsis grew in a tall, wild bunch, the yellow blooms falling over each other like friendly, affectionate drunks. An orange and black butterfly sat on a flower, pulsing its wings as if in concentration. Below, a riot of blue Michaelmas daisies carpeted the ground. This apartment was brilliant with color and life and seemed to hold hidden depths, just like Mafer herself.
    Beside the door was a cross the size of Gretchen’s hand. It was covered in small tin charms, each one unique: a pair of praying hands, a dancer, a sock. Gretchen rang the doorbell and heard it chime through the apartment. A young boy, about eight, answered the door. He had large black eyes and looked up at Gretchen with excitement. “You’re Mafer’s friend?” he asked, and before Gretchen could answer, he darted off.
    Gretchen stepped into the living room, which was cramped despite being uncluttered. There was a tiny blue plaid love seat placed across from an ancient-looking television. A large bookcase, holding framed photos and volumes in both English and Spanish, lined one wall. Gretchen walked over to inspect a photograph of a young woman in uniform. Beside that image was one of the Virgin Mary—again, the frame overlaid with small tin trinkets.
    A rustle behind her made Gretchen turn. She had expected to see Mafer, but instead a small woman with gray hair was watching her. Her face was round, her bright eyes watchful and merry.
    “Hi,” Gretchen said awkwardly. “I’m Gretchen.”
    The woman nodded.
    “Are you Mafer’s grandmother?”
    A shrug. “Yes.” Perhaps it was just her accent, but her tone of voice communicated perfectly how little she was interested in stating the obvious. It didn’t hurt Gretchen’s feelings, though. On the contrary, it made her want to laugh.
    “Is this your daughter?” Gretchen pointed to the photograph.
    “She’s in Afghanistan. Third tour of duty.”
    “That must be hard for you.”
    “We are very proud of her.”
    “Of course.”
    The old woman narrowed her eyes. She looked deeply into Gretchen’s face. “Y dónde está tu mama, mija?” she asked gently, but in a voice that expected no answer.
    Gretchen understood a little Spanish—enough to translate the question.
And where is your mother, my dear?
    The old woman’s smile chilled her. Not because it held any malice—only because it seemed to know the answer.
    Just then Mafer bounded down the stairs, followed by her little brother. The noise broke the spell.
    “We’re just going to the library,” Mafer was saying.
    “Can’t I come?”
    “Ask a friend to come over, Joaquin,” she replied. She touched his hair gently. “Or go outside and play.”
    “I’d rather be with you.”
    Gretchen wondered how Mafer could resist those big eyes, that adoring gaze.
    Mafer gave Joaquin a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back in two hours. You’ll survive. Keep an eye on Abuelita.”
    “You come with me,” Mafer’s grandmother said. “We’re going to make churros.”
    Joaquin grinned. “And we won’t make any for Mafer.”
    “What?” Mafer screeched in mock horror. “
Malcriado!
Gretchen, let’s get out of here. Have you met my grandmother? Abuelita, this is Gretchen.”
    “Yo conozco esta huérfana,” Abuelita said. “La hija del fuego.”
    Silence pulsed through the room. Gretchen felt as if she could hear the sound