Our Hearts Will Burn Us Down

by Anne Valente

  We gathered early in the back corner of the bookstore’s café. Just past opening. Before anyone we knew would think to walk in. Nick ordered a coffee. Christina a hot chocolate, Matt a blackberry scone. Zola drank water and watched the wind rake leaves across the strip mall parking lot beyond the window. We took in the sound of being outside our own homes: the clink of café dishes. The whirring of foamed milk. The watered dunk of mugs being cleaned. Sounds the same as the Local Beanery. Sounds beyond television, beyond the soft hum of ceiling fans. We sat in a cluster of puffed armchairs and Nick pulled the manila folder from his bag and spread it across the table between us.

  No more sitting. Waiting. No more lying in our bedrooms without light. No more staring across our yards, no more reading the same lines in the newspaper. We knew nothing of what to archive. We knew no schematic to make sense of the articles and photographs Nick placed before us. We were tired. Spent. We didn’t want to look at the newspaper. We’d seen everything within the folder, every photo, everything on the television that leaked down the hallways into our bedrooms. We had no options left. We had to begin somewhere. We leaned forward and sifted through the clippings.

  Christina picked up a photo of the remains of what had once been the Blacks’ home. We can’t solve this, she said. We can’t solve any of this.

  We’re not looking to solve, Nick said.

  Then what are we doing? Zola asked.

  We’re putting together a book. It’s our job. It’s what we have to do.

  This isn’t what we do, Zola said. We take photos of school dances, pep rallies. We research the year’s world events for archiving. We write profiles of honors students.

  I think we’re beyond that now, Nick said. That’s not really an option anymore.

  Then what is? Christina asked. What the hell are we supposed to do now?

  We have to make sense of this for a book, Nick said. That’s all we can do.

  Zola scanned the images: burned houses, so many skeletons of former homes. Photos she couldn’t imagine putting in a yearbook, a record of what was.

  There’s no way we can print this, she said. This isn’t what a yearbook should do.

  Then what should it do? Nick asked. Pretend? Make a year that wasn’t?

  It should remind everyone of what was good, Christina said softly. It should make them happy. It should make them remember.

  Zola picked up a photograph of Lewis and Clark High taken just after police response. Students she recognized being guided from the doorways, down the school lawn, and toward a line of ambulances. Their faces ashen, broken in grief.

  What will anyone want to remember of this, she said. There’s nothing. Nothing at all to set down in this yearbook.

  For once Matt wanted to focus on Caroline and the profile he’d written, but Tyler flooded his brain. His elbow to Matt’s throat. How he hadn’t called. How Matt preferred to think instead of humid-damp summer nights, him and Tyler inside his car. Him and Tyler within the capsule of the cinema’s projection booth, just the two of them alone.

  We can make it what we want, he said. We can decide what we set down.

  We can’t change the past, Christina said. She meant the high school’s hallways but saw Ryan. Saw a swimming pool, Elise nowhere within it. She swept a hand over the table, the scattered newsprint. We can’t change any of this, she said.

  But we can make it ours, Matt said. We decide what it is we should remember.

  Zola picked up a photograph of Mrs. Diffenbaum, one of the two librarians, a portrait of her face printed last Friday beside thirty-five other photographs and names. Zola closed her eyes. The shape of Garamond font on a library shelf. A Graphic History of Oceanic Biology. The sound of human seepage. The animal scent of her own urine.

  We can’t control what we remember, she said. How can we?

  By writing it down, Matt said, and Zola felt the shape of the profile he’d written still crumpled in her pocket. From pants she’d worn yesterday, pants she’d grabbed again from the floor though she still hadn’t read Matt’s words, paper now soft and worn at the edges. She pulled it from her pocket and placed it beside the photos on the table. She looked away so Matt would never know she hadn’t read it.

  What is that? Christina asked.

  I wrote a profile, Matt said. Caroline Black. He pulled the other profile he’d written from his bag. I profiled Jacob Jensen last night, too. This is all I can do. I’m not sleeping. I’m not doing anything but thinking about this.

  Nick set down his coffee and picked up Caroline Black’s profile. He unfolded it, tentatively at first, giving Matt time to stop him though Matt made no move.

  This is what you wrote? Nick asked.

  It’s all I could think of.

  We need this. Profiles. Articles about each and every one of them.

  Christina picked up the profile of Jacob. Scanned its lines, ashamed she hadn’t written a single word. Zola gazed across the newsprint and photographs and knew their objective: not a scattering of headlines but words and photos that would make them what they were, words that would reconstitute and resurrect them. Profiles to pick them up from the carpet, from the floor of the library. A bulletproof archive. A book to beat back nothing any of them could control.

  She stood and told Christina she’d be right back and made her way to the lone restroom at back of Paul’s Books, where she locked the door. An overhead fan whirred when she turned on the light, an overwhelming sound. Black dots crowded the edge of her vision. Stale urine. The green vellum of a book cover. She pressed her knuckles to the wall and leaned into them and slid to the floor. I cannot do this. Four words splitting the cells of her brain. As if the past could be changed. As if by pen alone a goddamn thing could be changed. All of them unaware that in the forced reimagining of a high school’s year they were making her remember scream-choked voices, the stench of loosed bowels, bullet-cracked wood and mothballed books and discarded backpacks splattered in spit and blood. She focused on the tile beneath her hands. Smooth and cool. A surface as placid and still as water. She breathed in. Out. Sucked in air as the fan above her droned. She pulled herself up, her heart a jackhammer, her pulse flooding her ears. She ran the faucet. Pressed water to her cheeks. Matched her gaze in the mirror. Fucking pull it together.

  At the table, she found Nick writing notes on a legal pad. Matt sat hunched over the news articles. Christina held Matt’s profile of Caroline.

  This is lovely, Christina told him. It’s just what Caroline would have wanted.

  Zola felt a spike inside her breastbone: that she hadn’t read it. That Matt had given it to her. That she’d been the only one to ignore it, to smash it inside her pocket.

  That Christina thought she knew what Caroline Black could have wanted.

  The paper said Eric Greeley’s still there for questioning, Christina said. He was always such a fucking weirdo. I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Keep your voice down, Zola snapped.

  Christina looked up at her. What do you care?

  You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  And you do? Christina said. You know Eric so well? You don’t know anything, nothing more than I do. Christina got up and brought her empty mug to the café counter and Zola felt as if she’d been slapped.

  Nick glanced at Zola. Don’t take it personally. I think she and Ryan are fighting.

  What, you think I don’t know that?

  Nick said nothing and Zola regretted the tone of her own voice and Christina returned to the table and looked at both of them. What don’t you know?

  Zola shrugged. You and Ryan.

  What, you’re all talking about me now? I get up for one minute?

  No one’s talking about you. Matt sighed. Jesus Christ. Can we stay on task?

  No, tell me. Christina looked at Zola and felt a heat bubbling up the center of her chest. Two years of a relationship Zola had judged in silence. As if she thought Christina wouldn’t notice. What do you want to say? Christina challeng
ed her.

  I don’t want to say anything.

  I’m the one who brought it up, Nick said. Not Zola. All I mentioned was that you and Ryan might be fighting.

  And you and Sarah aren’t? We haven’t seen her in eight fucking days.

  We’re not fighting. She just hasn’t wanted to leave the house.

  How are you so calm about all of this? Christina said. How are you not angry?

  Hey, back off, Matt said. And lower your voice. Not all of us have to feel the same way you do about everything.

  I’m not saying you do. But while we’re on it, I saw you yesterday. With Tyler. At the funeral. Matt, he fucking left you in the hallway. If anyone should be angry, it’s you.

  At least Tyler was there, Zola said.

  Christina turned to her. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

  Zola met her eyes. It means your boyfriend wasn’t. It means he’s an asshole.

  Zola expected Christina to erupt. Expected to wish she could take back the words. But it felt like a freedom to at last say what she should have told Christina their freshman year. Zola braced herself but Christina only sat down in the armchair next to Nick, the features of her face falling.

  He’s got a bullet in his leg, she said softly. He can’t leave the house.

  Look, I’m sorry, Zola conceded. Chris, I didn’t mean what I said.

  Of course you did. I know you’ve felt that way for a long time.

  Zola sighed. What do you want me to say? Sometimes he’s not a nice guy.

  Zola expected her to fight. But she only sat there and Zola all at once felt terrible.

  You know what? Christina said. You’re right. Sometimes he’s not.

  She leaned back into the cushions, far softer than anything Ryan had said or done across the past days. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t asked where she was inside the school, how she felt about Elise, how she was doing given gunfire and burning all around them. He’d let her smash a frame and walk away. Get in the car, you fucking bitch.

  I’m so stupid, Christina said. Jesus Christ. Do you all feel this way? Have all of you wanted to tell me for two years that I’m dating an asshole?

  Matt wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone but Nick stepped in instead.

  I’m sure Ryan’s just hurting, Nick said. Same as Sarah. Same as Tyler. Same as everyone in the entire goddamn school.

  Zola sat back in her armchair. She felt exhausted. She didn’t want to talk about yearbook, about photographs, about the pettiness of relationships. The only one of the four of them who didn’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend and listening to them, she wanted to keep it that way. She gritted her teeth not to scream that compared to what was happening in their high school and community and everything beating around in her brain like a brood of bats this was all child’s play, nothing but small-minded bullshit.

  She glanced at the photos and news clippings scattered across the table. This is way beyond us, was all she said. What are we doing? There’s nothing we can do.

  We’re putting together a yearbook, Nick said. That’s all we can do.

  Why? Who will want it? No one’s going to want to fucking remember this.

  Look, we have to, Nick said. We have until spring to get this right.

  Zola felt her blood spike. Did he? Did he know? His English class, desks pressed to the door. His girlfriend in the choir room, completely safe beneath the risers, everyone quiet and huddled against the walls. Zola wanted to take the articles, the photographs. She wanted to claw them into shreds. She looked at Matt. What did you see? Zola wanted to ask him, wanted to resume their conversation from the haloed light of her driveway. How could you see what you saw and write what you did, how can you be here talking about this shit instead of slashing your own heart out? She closed her eyes. Breathed.

  Have you taken any pictures? Nick asked.

  I haven’t. Not a single one.

  Come on, Zol, Matt said. We need your help.

  What if I don’t want to help?

  Zola couldn’t stop herself. She’d lashed out at Nick and Christina and now she could lash out at Matt. Three for three. She knew her role, well defined since they’d first worked together on the freshman yearbook staff. The only one who knew the camera, the angles. The rule of thirds, the principles of composition. She saw Matt flinch at her voice. You are a bitch, she told herself. Stop being such a bitch.

  I’ll do what I can, she finally said. I promise.

  Take pictures, Nick said. Anything you want. Maybe not now. Maybe not right away. But photographs of what we should remember. Pictures we need to include.

  Matt looked away, his hands lingering over the photos of burned homes. Christina still held the profile he’d written of Caroline Black.

  I’ll try to write a profile, Christina said. I haven’t gotten to it yet.

  I’ve only done it because I can’t sleep, Matt said. It’s fine to take your time.

  I’ll keep researching, Nick said. Not Billboard hits or Oscar winners, he knew: all of this so far afield from the current events he’d been expected to include before.

  Fine, Zola said. We’ll do this.

  Words she spoke. Words she didn’t believe.

  MATT RETURNED HOME just before lunch to his father’s car in the driveway, the sun high and strained. He found his mother in the living room, sitting on the couch still reading her book on President Bush. The War on Terror. Weapons of mass destruction Matt wondered briefly if they’d ever find.

  Dad’s home?

  He’s in the office. She glanced up from her book. Came home an hour ago.

  Is he working?

  How are your friends? Zola, Nick. How are they doing?

  We’re trying to plan the yearbook.

  You have time. You have all year.

  Were you at the shelter this morning? Guinea pigs adopted?

  I’ll find out tomorrow. I’ve just been here reading since your father came home.

  Does he know anything?

  He’s working. But you can ask him yourself.

  Matt walked down the hallway and found the door to the office half-closed, an angle of light slicing the carpet. Matt knocked. When his father didn’t answer he creaked open the door. His father sat at the desk, pen in hand, papers scattered across every surface of the wood: as much paper as the newsprint covering the table at Paul’s Books.

  Any news? Matt asked.

  His father set down his pen. There’s nothing here. Nothing you should see.

  His father watched him and Matt saw in his face that he couldn’t acknowledge his son had seen. The school hallway. The carpet. What he couldn’t say, just like moving down the hallway and closing the door while his mother held him, the razored silence of the living room. His face pressed to her chest. The heat of his own breath against her shirt. His mother whispering it’s okay, he’ll come around, his mother telling him again and again, you are who you are and you are known.

  I wish I could keep you from this, his father said.

  You can’t, Matt said. He sat down near the desk and his father let him.

  I can’t show you everything, his father said. I’m bound by my job and the law.

  Can you at least tell me what you’re looking for?

  An arsonist. Even though the evidence we have shows a lack of foul play, we’re trying to determine if this is intentional. We’re comparing evidence from each of these fires and if they’re connected at all to the high school.

  So you do know something about the high school investigation.

  His father looked at him. Not really. Just the evidence we need.

  Evidence, Matt thought. He remembered the time over summer when, long after he’d locked up the theater for the night, he and Tyler drove back and watched a filmstrip in the projection booth, the theater empty below them. 28 Days Later, something terrifying, a reason for Tyler to slide closer and closer until his tongue was in Matt’s mouth. After-hours. A transgression Matt assumed his manager would never know. How t
he next day at concessions, the sun pulsing hot through the lobby windows, his manager walked up and said nothing but dropped a condom on the counter, what had slipped from Matt’s pocket to the projection room floor.

  What evidence? Matt asked. How can you tell arson from an accident?

  Matt’s father pulled photographs from the scattering of papers and singled out an image of the Trenways’ house just after it burned. A crowd stood at the sidewalk behind a barrier of police tape. His father told him arsonists sometimes lingered with the fire engines and crowds, that they were often the ones to call 911. That neighbors had made the call at both homes, that a comparison of photographs from each crime scene revealed no match of faces in the crowd. That the deliberateness of two fires in two homes of families who’d lost a child suggested something calculated but even still, there was no evidence to suggest either had been intentional. No accelerants at the Blacks’ house. No burn trace of gasoline, no residue of flammable agents in the floorboards. Chemical analysis still being done at the Trenways’ house, but no faulty wiring in either home.

  What about Lewis and Clark? Matt asked. What are the links to school?

  We don’t have any. Eric Greeley is our only lead, and he’s turning up nothing.

  He’s your only suspect?

  He isn’t a suspect. A person of interest. They’re polygraphing the kid today. That’s all I know.

  Matt looked at his father and saw the wall: the invisible force field of confidentiality. What he’d brushed up against in his questioning, what his father didn’t want to tell him. He knew the language of sidestepping, of skirting, words that placed no blame and spoke of nothing. Words he’d heard in the news, a lack of weapons and a lack of reason for invasion. Iraqi sovereignty. Mistakes were made. Words to conceal information before they revealed anything of substance. And Eric Greeley: short and hunched, his pants always too high and too tight. Christina had been wrong in Paul’s Books. Eric was quiet, solitary, always alone in the back of every classroom they’d ever shared. But not a murderer, Matt knew, as easily as he recognized his father’s evasion.