Who by Fire Read Free Page B

stack will be eighty feet high for two reasons: so the gases cool before they exit, and so they go high in the air, where the wind can take them away.”
    Comstock made an upward motion with both hands—gas shooting out the stack. Then he nodded at the window. “It’s blowing pretty good out there today. I gather that’s typical.”
    Ella and Tom started talking at once. Ella gestured for Tom to say it.
    “This is a calm day. Wind here can blow hundred mile an hour.”
    “Well, there you go,” said Comstock. “That’s going to help a lot. Dispersion. We’ll also be pumping out some sulphur dioxide, and some people ask me if that’s dangerous. What I say is, if you had to sit with your head in a bag of sulphur dioxide, it would be an uncomfortable experience. But once it’s shot out that big stack, blown all over the place by this wind, it won’t be anything at all.”
    The assistant started packing things into his briefcase. Ella was struck by how much this was like a recent visit from a vacuum cleaner salesman. Spiel, demonstration, pack up, go. A formula. But then Clint held out his hand to stop the secretary.
    “Hold on. Let’s let these folks ask their questions.”
    The secretary looked at his watch.
    “Never mind that. What about it? Ella? Tom?”
    Both were flustered. They should have had questions but none came to mind.
    “It’s going to smell, isn’t it?” said Tom finally.
    “Yes, it will smell. Tom, let me be blunt. Some people dislike living near these plants so much they prefer to move away. I understand you and the Bauers are friends. As you know, we offered thema chance to sell out and move, and they took it. I can’t say for sure, but my feeling is that Aladdin Oil and Gas would make you a similar offer if you want to go.”
    Ella knew he was going to say this as soon as he’d mentioned the Bauers, but when he got to the words “want to go,” tears jumped into her eyes. She put her hand to her brow to hide it, but Comstock noticed.
    “I’m sorry, Ella. I’ve upset you.”
    She shook her head.
    “Ella was born here,” said Tom. “It’s her parents’ homestead.” From beside her fingers, Ella saw her husband raise and lower his shoulders at Comstock.
    She wiped her eyes on her apron. “I cry easily. People who know me don’t pay any attention.”
    She felt angry was what she felt, at both of them. It was the feeling that everything in the last hour, even her crying, had been made to happen by Clint Comstock, and that Tom was being duped. She could not help feeling angry at herself too. If it wasn’t for her feelings about this farm, leaving would be an option: the possibility of putting their backs to these Texans and their stinking plant.
    “I understand, Ella. I’ll also admit it’s not the best of luck that the preferred engineering location for our plant happens to be so close to your farm. Upwind, to boot. Thank you for the coffee and the delicious scone. I’m sorry I left some. I just had lunch. Thanks for being honest with me. I hope I was honest back.”
    There was his big white smile, his hand demanding to be shaken.
    After the assistant had piloted the white car from the yard, Tom stayed sitting at the table, smoking. Ella gathered the cups and plates. She put Comstock’s scone, of which he had not eaten one crumb, into the swill pail in the porch.
    “I like him,” Tom said when she came back.
    “I don’t.” Ella went to their bedroom to lie down.

    Clint Comstock phoned from Houston in December and told Ella to expect the plant to go into action during the first week of the new year. It now had a name: Aladdin Hatfield.
    On every Sunday leading up to that day, the talk on the steps of St. Bruno’s was what would happen next. As much as people could tell from the outside, construction was complete. The tallest, fattest tower, a giant concrete tree, stood alone, while shorter silver towers pierced through metal roofs and shone and sparked in the sun.