Our Hearts Will Burn Us Down

by Anne Valente

  This is crazy, Tyler said, nodding at a national news van parked on the street.

  I know, Matt said. My dad said we can expect this. An increased police and media presence. To protect the families, the ones that remain.

  That sounds so morbid. Like everyone’s just expecting them to burn.

  Wouldn’t you be scared? If you were them?

  I guess. I’d probably leave town.

  Matt hadn’t thought to ask his father if this was a possibility for some of the families, if anyone had chosen to leave their lives behind for the safety and solace of elsewhere. His father wouldn’t have known, couldn’t keep tabs on every family, though surely the FBI could. But Matt had seen in the paper this week despite the Post-Dispatch’s preference to keep news of Caleb Raynor to a minimum that Caleb’s family had left St. Louis for an undisclosed location, for protection and for the privacy of their own grieving.

  I can’t believe we’re even in school this week, Matt said. My dad said they can’t cancel any more class after last week, but this seems too big to ignore.

  Damage control, Tyler said. He pushed his hand into the window’s breeze. This must be a PR nightmare. The school just wants everything to remain normal and calm.

  I’d hardly call mandatory counseling sessions normal and calm.

  Did you go to yours?

  It wasn’t helpful. Was yours?

  No, Tyler said. I went to the first one and just sat there. I don’t feel like I have anything to talk about.

  How has your family reacted to all of this? Matt asked. Have they talked to you about it?

  Not really. My dad’s always home late, after I’ve gone to bed. Third shift. We never see each other.

  And your mom? Matt asked. He realized he knew nothing about Tyler’s home life, that he’d never thought to ask.

  She works days. She’s home when I’m home but she barely says anything to me. You know the moms in commercials, the ones who bake cookies and serve after-school snacks and ask you about your day? My mom isn’t that mom. Not at all.

  Matt thought of his own mother. How she was. So much more than any representation of what a mother should be.

  Anyway, it’s fine, Tyler said. My parents don’t really need to ask. I’m fine.

  Matt couldn’t imagine a home bereft of asking. Are you really fine?

  I think so. As fine as anyone else.

  A traffic light halted them, the flow of cars heavier for a Thursday: people leaving work early, police out, everyone in Midvale County seeking the safety of their homes.

  I can’t believe we’ve already been back almost a week, Matt said. I can’t believe they’re still having Homecoming and that it’s tomorrow.

  No shit. No one’s going to go.

  Are you going?

  Tyler looked at him. Are you?

  Probably not. I thought about it. Just to get away. Just to get out of the house.

  Even if you did. Tyler hesitated. It’s not like we could go together.

  Why not? Matt wanted to ask instead: what they were to one another.

  Because you know why. Yeah, it’s not 1950. But people talk. People judge.

  What, you think anyone cares? No one cares. Especially not now. Look around us. You think people will care that two boys are at a dance together?

  Tyler turned away. I can’t.

  We can just go as friends.

  I can’t do that, either.

  They pulled into the driveway, where Matt saw the Chevy Impala parked. His father was home. Too early.

  Should I still come in? Tyler asked.

  Of course. Matt grabbed his bag from the backseat. I just don’t know why he’s home. He’s hardly ever home before dark.

  Tyler remained in the passenger seat until Matt motioned him forward. Matt’s parents knew enough of his life to accept him for who he was but they didn’t know Tyler, a boy Matt had never thought to introduce to his parents, their relationship still so new, still hushed through the quiet back roads of so many summer nights. Matt’s parents knew his truth, had let him stand inside it even with his father’s resistance. But speaking love, the first sparks of it, was something else entirely. Matt had asked his father only of investigation, of police terms and procedures. Nothing of what it meant to love someone. Tyler followed him into the kitchen through the garage, letting Matt take the lead.

  Matt didn’t expect to see both of his parents sitting at the kitchen table. As if they’d never left from the night before, as if an entire day hadn’t transpired between the strange light of a pitch-dark morning and an afternoon of classes and school.

  This is Tyler, Matt said. His words stupid in his mouth. He motioned Tyler out from behind him, a meaningless gesture if not for the way his hand grabbed Tyler’s. His mother’s eyes moved from Tyler’s face to their hands clasped briefly together. His father sat back in his chair and said nothing. Welcome, Tyler, his mother finally said.

  What’s going on? Matt asked.

  Something’s happened in the investigation, his father said. He glanced at Tyler. Now might not be the right time to discuss it.

  I can go, Tyler said. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impose.

  Don’t be silly, Matt’s mother said. You want something? We have lemonade.

  I’m fine. Really, it’s okay. I should get home.

  Let me at least walk you outside, Matt said to Tyler. He thought his parents might protest, at least his mother, but they sat at the kitchen table and said nothing. Matt followed Tyler back through the side door, away from the kitchen and his mother and father. In the garage, heavy with heat from the day’s sun, Matt touched Tyler’s face.

  I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t expect this at all.

  It’s fine. It’s not your fault.

  But I drove you here.

  It’s not a far walk. I’ve done it before.

  Take my bike? Please. I’ll pick it up later.

  Tyler looked at Matt’s mountain bike hanging on the garage’s far wall.

  Okay, he said. I’ll ride it to school tomorrow to bring it back.

  I said I’ll pick it up later. Can I come? Would you let me come by later?

  My dad will be home late. You probably shouldn’t.

  But I want to. I’ll be quiet. I promise.

  Tyler squinted out into the afternoon. Okay, he finally said. Okay.

  Matt pulled the bike from the wall. He let Tyler take it. He watched him ride down the street until he turned a corner and disappeared.

  In the kitchen, his parents remained at the table.

  Was that a new friend? his father asked. The word emphasized. Friend. A tone that meant he knew.

  We’ve known each other awhile, Matt said. He’s just never come around much.

  He can come around anytime, his mother said.

  Matt looked at his father. Made himself say it. Dad, Tyler’s not a friend.

  His father nodded. Didn’t look at him. Matt prepared himself to explain but his father’s face had already changed. Look, I didn’t mean to chase that boy off, but we’ve had a break. There’s new information.

  It wasn’t the reaction Matt expected. His father distracted. But he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t stormed down the hallway and closed a door. A reaction he’d have to take, good enough. Matt let himself fall back into the language of fact and nothing else.

  What kind of new information?

  The school. The kid’s path through the high school.

  Matt looked at his mother, her eyes on his father. Whatever it was, she already knew.

  What is it? Matt asked. What happened?

  Nothing happened so much as what we’ve found.

  What did you find?

  Matt’s parents exchanged a glance and he wanted to scream, to hear his voice rip a hole through the kitchen walls. To break open a circling of evasion.

  Well, what is it? Are you going to tell me?

  Matt’s father placed his palms on the table. Why don’t we take a drive?

  Come
on, Jim. You can tell him from here.

  Tell me what? Matt heard himself yell.

  Let’s just take a drive, his father said again. All of us, let’s take a drive.

  Matt’s mother looked away, her jaw a line, but she stood anyway as Matt’s father grabbed the keys to the Impala. And then Matt was outside again, Tyler gone only minutes before, the Fiesta’s engine still hot, he knew, if he placed his hand on the hood of the car. His mother slid into the passenger side of his father’s car, Matt into the backseat. He let himself be guided through the streets of his neighborhood without asking any further questions, a thick silence between them. Along the sidewalks stood bare trees, stark limbs stretched toward the still-beating sun. Pumpkins nestled uncarved in yards, corn husks tied to the stalks of lampposts. Halloween: one more week. His parents hadn’t even bought candy. Matt couldn’t imagine Halloween night, kids in costumes, that any child would be allowed to walk the streets past dusk. Porch lights extinguished. Bowls of Snickers and Tootsie Rolls left on front decks with only a note. He saw no one in their yards as they drove past, not even venturing to the end of the driveway for their mail. Police saturated the roads. News vans snaked through every street. Midvale County’s homes: locked up like the square confines of jail cells. No one out in the open but only moving from building to car to building. The neighborhoods evacuated of humanity, everyone watching the world unfold from their windows. Matt realized as they moved that the Impala was steering them toward the high school.

  Dad?

  It’s okay, son. I just need to show you something.

  Jim, he doesn’t need to see it again. Does he really need to see it?

  Just trust me. He needs to see. He needs to see what it is we’re doing.

  Matt didn’t interrupt the volley of his parents’ words. He only watched out the window as Lewis and Clark High drew closer in the distance. The building a fortress. A fun house. A chamber. A mass grave. What he was being forced to rewitness beyond the bounds of his own will. As they approached, he noticed police cars. Their red and blue lights killed, the cars parked, a clear attempt at anonymity though Matt recognized this police presence as something beyond routine, beyond the barricade of patrol cars and yellow tape to keep onlookers away. He hadn’t driven past the school since leaving it, a purposeful forgetting. He could see that something was happening. A few officers moved beneath the lines of tape and into the school. Matt’s father pulled the Impala into the parking lot and was waved in by an officer standing guard. He parked the car near other police vehicles, the windshield a wide panorama upon the school.

  This is where we’re working now, his father said. The school investigation has melded with fire investigation. There’s no other way around it at this point. I took a break this afternoon to come home to tell your mother what we found.

  Tell Mom what? Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on or even ask if I want to be here? Matt felt a heat creeping up his neck to the flush of his cheeks. A panic rising. The car closing in. No view but the school beyond its windshield, fixed and wide-open and suffocating.

  I told you I’d tell you, his father said. Whatever it was. I told you I’d tell you only as much to keep you safe.

  Matt’s mother averted her eyes from the windshield’s view.

  Well, you’re safe, his father said. That’s why I brought you here, so you could see it yourself.

  Matt saw nothing past the windshield. Only a lone officer making his way through the front doors of the school. Only a faint nausea bubbling through his stomach and creeping up the lining of his throat.

  I don’t see anything, Matt said. I don’t see anything at all.

  Matt’s father turned in the front seat, the driver’s seat squeaking as he pivoted.

  We’ve traced the path of that boy, his father said, every step he took through the entire school. We weren’t absolutely sure before. We’re sure now. The sequence of when each of those kids died. It matches the exact sequence of their homes catching fire.

  Matt felt the air leave him. The cavity of his lungs a vacuum.

  Caroline Black first. I know you saw it. You saw it, and for that I’m sorry. But you need to know. Caroline first. Then he shot the Trenway girl. Then the Ndolo boy. Jacob Jensen. Alexis Thurber. Darren Beechwold. How that boy made his way through the school is our pattern. It fits. Not the administrators, and not teachers. Only the kids. The path of their shootings is the same exact pattern of how those houses are burning.

  Matt closed his eyes. Why are you telling me this?

  Based on the path, if there are to be more fires, we know now whose homes we can expect to burn. We know who and what to protect. We know how to stop this, where to find our culprit—obviously someone linked to the Raynor kid, who knows the route he took. An accomplice just like I told you. We know where to wait and watch for something. We know where to investigate what the boy left behind, where to look for links. We’re ready for it to happen. We’ll be waiting. We’re ready to catch our killer.

  Okay, that’s enough, his mother said. She reached across the backseat, took Matt’s hand. He’s heard enough, Jim. He knows enough. Please, just take us home.

  Matt looked from his mother to his father. You said safety. To keep me safe. How does this keep me safe? How does this keep anyone safe? Those homes will burn.

  It means we know the pattern, his father said. They won’t burn. We can catch the culprit before they do. We’ll be there. We’ll be there waiting.

  Matt watched the school. This place he once knew. Its walls a shield. Everything within it lost to knowing. He knew that here in the stifled air of the car his father’s explanation made less sense than everything Nick had told him. He knew the police would retrace and remap and still they would find nothing. That no suspect could know the random hazard of a gun and its bullets. That there was no accomplice. That the homes would blaze, that nothing could keep them from burning. That his father sought a culprit, something tangible and solid, something real. His father pivoted in the front seat, nearly touching his leg, and Matt knew there were not enough words upon the human tongue to bridge the distance between them.

  I told you I’d tell you this, his father said. I’d tell you what I needed to keep you safe. Well, you’re safe. Whoever’s doing this, their attack is extremely targeted.

  How exactly does that keep me safe?

  His father looked at him. You’re safe because you didn’t lose anyone.

  His father turned the ignition. He drove them home. What he’d told them, meant as love. He left them to the silence of the house and he returned to the high school and his mother asked Can I make you an early dinner? and Matt shook his head and said he needed to go to work. He put on his theater uniform. He walked out the door. He told his mother not to worry. He worked concessions and ate nothing, no free popcorn and no stolen soda. He sat alone in the booth until nearly eleven. He built a new film: Elephant. Strips he threaded together but couldn’t watch. He only listened to the projector’s hum, its ratcheting a broken heartbeat.

  After work he drove the streets to an address he’d never visited but had memorized regardless, a basement window where the light was on and where he knocked to be let in. Tyler’s face appeared through the glass. My mother’s upstairs but Matt shook his head, pushed past Tyler when the window opened. He wanted to apologize. He wanted nothing at all. He sat on the floor. Tyler came down beside him, placed a hand in his palm. On the thin carpet of Tyler’s basement bedroom Matt knew that he was not safe, that no one was. That Nick was right. Tyler’s hands. The smooth lines, the thin membrane of his skin. That he was vulnerable. That we were all vulnerable. Every one of us, our fragile, stupid hearts. That those parents were nothing if not the echo of their children’s laughter, their hair catching the sheen of sun, the starlit certainty that when they drove the back roads their cars would carry them home. Tyler’s hands. Their soft shock tracing the lifeline of Matt’s open palm. That it took so little for our bodies to revolt, an annih
ilation time-bombed inside our genes. That it took nothing for our atoms to surrender. For the code of our cells to break apart.

  A BRIEF HISTORY OF LOVE

  COFFEE MUGS: SHATTERED porcelain. Broken pieces of Mickey Mouse’s ears. Brought home from Disney World after driving through the night from Florida to Missouri, the highway’s center line a flash mirrored to the sky’s shooting stars. Plastic flatware melted in cupboards. Boxes of dried pasta and cereal, stored liters of Gatorade. Cups and wineglasses without stems and burst bottles of pinot noir. Puffed coats. Missouri winter. A black leather jacket stuffed in the back of a closet. Love letters. Notes saved from junior high, from anniversaries and birthdays and Valentine’s Day. Bubbled handwriting dotted with hearts. The salt taste of sweat. Threads of hair still clinging to a mattress, afternoon light slanting through windows and kaleidoscoping the walls.

  Baby books of inked footprints. Smudged palm prints. Small as ducklings, thimbles, beginnings. The Cat in the Hat. Goodnight Moon. This book belongs to. Goal netting. Soccer ball. Jersey knit shorts and dry-fit shirts and the spikes of cleats clotted with grass. Mix tapes. Videotapes. Board games. Monopoly. Candy Land. Hungry Hungry Hippos. Monkeys in a Barrel. Lincoln Logs. Tarot cards and playing cards and a Ouija board used only once, a sixth-grade sleepover when the planchette moved and so many hands flinched away.

  Best to think of them as objects. Best to not think of them. Best to not even blink, to not know them as love. Best to look away, to pretend none of this mattered. Best to let all of it take to the sky in smoke. Best to let a spark catch, to let a blaze stalk a trail through a room. Best to let everything burn.