Chapter Eight
"So where do you want me to put this?" James asked Mirabelle as he entered the room.
"Just put it over there by the dresser, would you James," said Mirabelle.
"Sure," he replied and placed the cardboard box full of bric-a-brac in front of her dresser. Having placed the box on the floor, James straightened his body and found himself staring at his reflection in the dresser's mirror.
"There," he thought to himself as he looked at his counterpart's baby blue eyes, "All done."
He stopped to admire himself, playfully, in the dresser's mirror and brushed his hand through his thick brown hair.
"God, why did you have to make me so good looking?" James jokingly said to himself, surreptitiously, in his mind.
Walking away from the dresser, he then turned to face Mirabelle before he left the room. "That's everything, Miry," he said then paused to look at her inquisitively. Mirabelle looked up from the bed she was sitting on and saw his arched eyebrow.
"What?" she asked.
James smirked, "Well, I always knew that one of these days you were going to get yourself into trouble, but I never expected this."
"You're not helping me, James," Mirabelle responded.
"I know," he said smiling as he walked out the door, "Let me know if you need anything. O.K., sis?"
"Yeah, thanks," she said as she watched him turn and walk down the hallway. She then closed her eyes and felt the room's familiar ambiance comfort her. "Well, I never thought I'd find myself here again," Mirabelle said to herself as she just relaxed and let her mind go blank.
"Here" was back in her room in her parents' home. Mrs. Herbert was true to her word and had allowed Mirabelle to remain in her home but Mrs. Herbert's children were far less accomodating. Rather than put up with their incessant harassment and name-calling, Mirabelle had opted to move back into her parents' place. She looked around at her old room as she lay back on her bed and let out a much-needed sigh of relaxation.
"If nothing else goes right," she thought as she stared at the ceiling's dark blue and white mural of a starry night's sky, "at least I can still depend on my family."
Mirabelle's mother and father, like everyone else in town, quickly heard the news of her "fire-weeping" spectacle. When they learned that it was Edward spreading the rumours, they were incredulous. They believed the town's hysteria would die down on it's own after a few days, but when Mirabelle came knocking on their door telling of what happened with Mrs. Herbert's family, they knew they had to do something. After helping Mirabelle move back into their house, Jacob and Nancy Laughlin went with Mirabelle to confront Edward.
Jacob Laughlin swept his greying, brown hair away from his forehead and took a deep breath. "Keep calm and rational," he repeated to himself mentally as he stood before the oaken door of Edward's small house.
He looked at his wife, standing on his left. Her straw-coloured blonde hair was also showing signs of grey, here and there. Nancy was unlike he had ever seen her before. It was not her physical appearance that had changed; the maturing years had only refined her beauty: they had not made her homely. What had changed was her attitude, her emotions--the palpable, yet invisible ambiance about her. Her usual mellow, accomodating (some would even say complacent) nature had been driven out of her like an expurgated emotional parasite.
Jacob had never seen Nancy so riled up about anything. She was the acme of the ilk who did not want to stir up trouble, to not rock the boat, as it were. She had always been content to lead a simple, comfortable life. She liked things to stay just the way they were and secretly feared change and anything new. She was, it could be said, about as motivated and energetic as an arboreal slime mould. However, upon seeing Mirabelle emotionally hurt and crying at their front door made Nancy Laughlin so angry that you could literally feel a rise in the surrounding air temperature from her blood boiling in the next room.
Jacob carefully paced his breathing. In and out it went in careful, measured breaths. He knew that now was the last time to lose his head. In such an emotionally charged environment, anything could happen. "God," he asked his Maker as his eyes looked above his round, brass frame glasses, "How do I get myself into these situations? When will it ever be the case that reason will prevail?" He looked into the lighted living room through the window on his right. "Somebody's home, at least," he concluded as his eyes fell on Mirabelle, who stood at his right.
"Mirabelle, Mirabelle," he said to her with his thoughts, as he shook his head. Mirabelle stared at the floor before her as her long blonde-white hair hung down and hid her face from her father's gaze. In the dim light of evening Mirabelle seemed almost like a ghost--a mere shadow of her former self. She seemed so insubstantial that Jacob wondered if her form would dissipate away if a night breeze happened upon them. It was hard for him to believe that this was his same daughter. She, too, was like he had never seen her before. A broken-figure in tears was the last way he could ever envision Mirabelle.
Mirabelle had always been so strong-willed and determined. She was in a word, a rebel. Even though he constantly argued with her to not be so reckless, he secretly admired her strength of character and spirit. She was very much like him in his more ambitious days before failures and the demands of supporting his family ended his dreams. He had tried to reason with her to be rational and to not take any risks in life. "Stop being so foolish," he had told her, "Taking risks is never a good idea." She never listened. Perhaps now she was paying the price for ignoring his advice.
Of course, he had only been admonishing her from his own experience. His farming failure could have left them all in abject poverty. Though he still had dreams, with his newfound understanding of the seriousness of life, he gave up on them and opted for security instead. Furthermore, he no longer possessed the necessary belief in himself and in his dreams to make aspirations come realities. How could he take the chance on his dreams when he might fail? Never taking the chance, however, made any possibility of succeeding impossible. He had settled for less in life, he knew, but what could he do? That was the way life operated. Only the lucky few ever made their dreams come true and Jacob Laughlin did not fall into that category.
Still, he could live his life decently and honourably. He could still be a good father and loving husband, if nothing else. That's why he was here. As he composed himself, he thought, "I'll get this whole matter peacefully resolved and put an end to all of this nonsense." Perhaps he could even get Mirabelle and Edward back together again.
He knocked upon the door and waited.
"Mirabelle, a witch?" he mused, smirking at the absurdity of the thought, "Controlling fires with her mind? Ridiculous."
Although there was that one unusual incident, a lifetime ago, that took the forefront in his memory now. He had just come back with James from the nearby town to their Iowa farm. There had been an extended drought that summer, not very common in Iowa, and everything was bone dry. They had just pulled up to the house when Nancy came running up to them, dragging Mirabelle along by the hand, babbling about there having been a fire in the nearby field.
Jacob and James went to look at the burnt field. As they walked towards it, the warm summer breeze continued to blow past them towards the house. Jacob and his son searched the burnt and blackened field for the cause of the fire. They found a piece of broken glass bottle amongst the ashes and concluded that the sun's light must have been magnified through the glass, igniting the grasses.
Why the fire had not continued its course and had not overtaken the house was still a mystery to Jacob. "Mirabelle?" he asked himself. "No. That would go against all reason and rationality," his mind echoed in reply. The most rational explanation was that the wind had changed direction and made the fire turn back on itself, putting it out. Besides, Nancy never mentioned any incident between Mirabelle and the fire.
All these rumours about Mirabelle having to do something with putting out The Golden Nugget fire were the result of mass hysteria. People needed an explanation for an event they couldn't understand and singling out Mirabelle as the cause of it had lowered the townsfolk to the level of ignorant savages. She didn't put out The Golden Nugget fire. An unusual incident occurred at which Mirabelle happened to be present. That was no reason to have people running around calling her a fire-wielding monster.
Jacob was pulled back from his musing to the front porch of Edward's house as a deep voice politely questioned from behind the door: "Who is it?"
"Jacob Laughlin. I want to speak with Edward Davis," Jacob responded. The door opened and there stood Edward, finely dressed as customary, staring down at the three figures before him with a look of loathing in his eyes.
"What do you want?" Edward asked coldly.
Cordial preliminaries aside, Jacob was about to ask him, in a reasonable manner, why he was spreading such vicious rumours about Mirabelle when Nancy shot out an accusing finger at Edward and shouted, "Who do you think you are?! How could you be doing this to Mirabelle? You've hurt her so much! What kind of person goes around spreading rumours like that?!"
"Nancy, I'll handle this," Jacob said interrupting her.
"I know what I saw," said Edward with a vile look upon his face. He looked at Mirabelle in disgust. "And what I said is no rumour. It's the truth," he finished.
Mirabelle, for the first time since she had left their home, looked up. Hurt, yet defiant, she looked at Edward and asked him, "Why Edward? Why?"
He looked at her as though she were the most repulsive creature on the earth. "You stay away from me, witch!" he shouted, "To think I almost married you!" He slammed the door on them and locked it. The Laughlins stood before the still vibrating door in shock at Edward's abruptness. After what seemed like an eternity, Jacob Laughlin spoke up:
"Well, that went rather well, I think," he said without a hint of sarcasm. He turned and started to walk home. Nancy and Mirabelle turned to watch him leave then followed him, speechless. Jacob always had a gift for understatement.
