2006

“What are you worried about?” my mother asks me across the patio table. She looks at my father for reassurance, who studies his stein.

Charred fragments of the forest float down from the overcast sky and land in the crisp foam of his beer. He picks them out with a finger and wipes his blue jean pant leg. The wetness streaks alongside paint and oil stains from his garage.

“You’ve always been so fearless, Scout,” my mother says, shaking her head. Her eyes are glassy.

She squints, and the mascara on her lower lashes clumps together against the moistness. “You’ve always been the fearless one,” she says, sniffing.

From the deck at the Cactus bar, we watch a red sun glow behind gray clouds of ash. Today, dusk came early. The wildfires on the other side of the summit pass doubled in size and the wind brought the heavy smoke to us.

As I drove to meet my parents for Sunday dinner, I talked to Toby, who was called with the other volunteers to the firestation. “They need my backup more than you do,” he said, his steady voice echoing from the car speaker.

The clouds release dust in the shape of pine needles and small leaves. Remnants of the forest litter the air, which smells like campfire wood and whiskey. Black particles sprinkle the plastic white tables around us. The sunlight fades into a sickly hue, casting the foothills in sepia.

I rest my hand on my overround stomach.

“I’ve never been fearless,” I say.

“You were such a brave girl, doing your karate and hiking with your brother’s troop.”

“I’m tired of hearing you say that, mom.”

“It’s true! You were braver than all those boys.”

“You aren’t listening.” I put my hand on my forehead, feeling smothered by the dense air, by
their denial. I start to take a deep breath and stop.

“We should go,” I say, beginning to motion toward our waitress.

“I think what your mom is trying to say,” my father rests his forearm in a line across the table.

He extends his pointer finger with the bruised nail, and then curls it into his fist. “Is that you shouldn’t be afraid,” he says. He gently bangs his clenched hand on the table. “We are here for you,” he says, like he is reading a car manual.

“Thanks.” I rest my hand on top of his. “To be clear, I’m not afraid of actually having a baby,” I say. “I’m afraid of bringing her into this.” I gesture toward the dark sky with my other arm.

“What do you mean?” my mother narrows her eyebrows and moves her head toward me. “Are you talking about that global warming again?” she whispers.

“The fires?” my father asks. He takes a sip of his beer, pulling his hand away from mine to wipe his mouth.

“We’ve always had wildfires here,” my mother shakes her head aggressively, and runs a hand against the back of her neck, massaging the little blonde hairs standing up on her skin. “You grew up with them. You were never afraid of them before.”

“Every generation has its fear,” my father says, flicking carbonized bark off our table. “The future always looks grim.”

My mother nods along quickly and watches me, her nostrils flared and eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

My father chops a straightened hand down into the table. “And we find a way,” he says with his unfaltering certainty.

“I think it’s different this time, dad,” I say, cupping both my hands on top of his.

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Morganne Howell is a graduate of the Program of Liberal Studies from the University of Notre Dame. She lives in Oakland, California and her writing draws on the contemporary West. Morganne has been published in ARTWIFE Magazine and Jet Fuel Review (forthcoming November 2024). Find more of her online at https://linktr.ee/morgannehowell.