Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

You remember the hospital, don’t you, Reece?

  You remember those initial, frightening moments? The stripping down, the full-cavity body search, the injection of meds, the burning feel of the medication making its way through your purple veins and capillaries? Then, the never-ending sleep. You remember the sound of the feet outside your door when they came for you with the gurney? The big men dressed all in white who lifted you from your bed and tossed you onto the black plastic mattress before wheeling you to the procedure room?

  You remember all that, don’t you, Reece?

  Well, take a good look at David Bourenhem, because he’d like nothing more than to see you end up back there. He’d like nothing more than for those electrodes to be strapped to your head, and the switch pulled.

  He’d love to see your brain fried, like an egg on a hot skillet. You watch your backside, Son, you hear me? You watch your back.

  Chapter 12

  I’m not through the door before I toss the flowers down the length of the short corridor. Followed by the stupid black pen with his stupid name on it. Frankie comes running out of the master bedroom, paws at the flowers, and gives the pen a sniff as if she recognizes the scent (which I’m sure she does), then lets loose with a couple of short, sharp barks.

  “Let’s have it, Frank,” I say. “You like David more than me.”

  She looks at me, licks her chops with her pink tongue. “What are you,” she says, “Peter Paranoid?”

  “I’m just wondering if you liked David.”

  “David was an okay guy. He wasn’t like you. He was sort of metrosexual-slash-intellectual. You could talk to him about anything. Correction, Lisa could talk to him. You, Reece, not so much.”

  “She talks to me.”

  “Not like she talked to David. With David, you could talk things out. No offense, Reecey Pieces, but conversations ain’t so easy with you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “ ’Cause all conversations lead back to you and your own little fiction world.”

  “In other words, it’s all about me.”

  “Hey, you said it. Now if you don’t mind, I’m tired.”

  With a shake of her head, Frankie trots into the master bedroom and jumps up onto the bed to continue her nap.

  Heading into the kitchen, I pick up the phone, punch “Redial,” and wait for the ringing.

  But this is stupid.

  Lisa is the last person on earth I should be calling. No doubt she’s laid out cold, her pretty eyes bandaged up. I check the time on the microwave oven mounted over the stove. Ten minutes until eleven. Her surgery was scheduled for ten, and from what she relayed to me last week, the procedure only takes about three minutes per eye. Three minutes and ten thousand dollars for the surgeon. I’m in the wrong business. Me and David Bourenhem.

  I cut the connection, set the phone down onto the counter. I do it maybe a little harder than I should. It’s made of plastic, after all.

  “Sorry, Frank,” I say, loud enough so that she hears me in the bedroom. But I get nothing more from the dog.

  Lisa’s house is designed so that only a short, waist-high counter separates the kitchen from the dining room. I glance into the dining room, its polished wood floor occupied with a long, dark wood table. My laptop sits out on the table, along with a yellow legal pad for my notes, and brown, horn-rimmed eyeglasses that house my progressive lenses. Middle age is a bitch. If this were seventy-five years ago, a small Remington portable typewriter like Hemingway wrote on would be placed there, and a pair of round, wire-rim granny eyeglasses, maybe a stack of blank writing paper on one side and a far smaller stack of finished work on the other.

  Inside the dining room, I locate my black writing satchel. The satchel has followed me on assignment all over the world, from China to Africa, back when I made a serious return to both freelance journalism and a string of novels that followed the completion of The Damned. It was an exciting but bittersweet time for me. Exciting because I had my life and my work back, even if I did work seven days a week. Bittersweet because my work and my travels took me far away from Anna, a little girl I hardly even knew.

  My life is contained inside this bag. A toothbrush, toothpaste, good-luck charm, maps, first aid kit, passport, checkbook, pens, pencils, and more. Like I said, I don’t officially live with Lisa, so I also keep all my travel meds inside a special compartment of the bag, including the medicine for my head.

  My anxiety meds.

  The medication that keeps the fire from haunting me more than it has to.

  I unzip the bag, locate the small, rust-colored, translucent bottle, and unscrew the child-protective cap. Pouring out a capsule into my hand, I pop it into my mouth. Returning the meds bottle to the satchel, I proceed to do something I haven’t done in years: day drink.

  Back inside the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and grab a cold can of beer. Snapping open the aluminum tab, I wash the pill down with a long, satisfying swig.

  It takes only a few more swigs to finish off the beer, and in no time, I’m feeling more calm. Calm without having to light fire. Tossing the empty can into the sink, I go back into the dining room and sit down before my laptop. I bring up the novel I’m presently working on. The untitled story of a boy, a teenager, who’s lost in the deep woods. No matter how much he tries, he can’t find his way back out. Meanwhile, a forest fire is burning. The winds are heavy, and it’s getting closer and closer to him, beginning to surround him. As the choppers and planes fly overhead, dropping their fire-smothering ordnance onto the distant flames, the boy remains invisible, and unable to call for help. He is doomed . . .

  “Fire! Fire!” says the Town Crier; “Down the town,” says Goody Brown; “Burn! Burn!” says Goody Stern. “Burn her! Burn him!”

  I stare at the screen and try to think things through. Am I angry with David for showing up here unannounced? Showing up here at all? For calling Lisa? Of course I am. But am I angrier at Lisa for allowing it to go on? Angry that she still considers her ex a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt anyone or anything?

  One thing is for sure: she still has feelings for him.

  That’s something I’m supposed to accept. Obviously he still loves her, or he wouldn’t have brought her flowers. He wouldn’t want her pictures back.

  I think some more.

  I don’t like what I’m thinking, because what if David is right? Maybe Lisa is back with me because of my success, and only my success. Because I can afford her now. Lisa hasn’t supported herself in years. Since I left, her parents have been supporting her with a monthly allowance. It’s not something she enjoys. She’d much rather be independent from them. Sooner or later, her parents will pull that allowance and it will be me who’s supporting her.

  Perhaps my problem lies deeper than just photos in a drawer, or phone calls from the ex, or his showing up unannounced with roses. Perhaps Lisa and I do not belong together at all. Maybe there are very good reasons we divorced all those years ago, not the least of which were my struggles as a writer and my near-lifelong obsession with fire.

  What did a novelist more famous than me once write? It’s hard to repair a sinking ship once it’s sunk. But there you have it. I place my hands on the keys and type out those very words in big, bold, caps-locked letters. Somehow, just staring at them makes me feel better. It’s reassuring to know that someone else has tasted enough of the same complicated, love/hate emotional stew with his ex-partner to have produced those weighty words. Lest we forget, misery loves company.

  The doorbell rings, giving me a start.

  I slide my chair out and head to the front door. Through the three small, separate windows set into it, I can see that a man waits on the opposite side, a man with a build so large, it fills almost the entire door frame.

  Blood.

  I open the door, stare up at a man who is head-shaved bald. His narrow face is also shaved
smooth, his dark skin rich and youthful looking, even though he’ll never see fifty again. He’s dressed all in black. Black leather coat, black T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him dressed any other way. No matter the season.

  “Lisa,” I say to him in the place of a hello.

  He produces just a hint of a grin. An unusual show of emotion for the former Green Haven inmate. “She texted me,” he says. “Wants me to check up on you.”

  “I told her not to.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what, Blood?”

  “You gonna be polite and invite me in? Or don’t you allow no brothers in the house?”

  “You’re always invited,” I say, waving at him to come in. “But what I don’t need is a nursemaid. I’m fine.”

  He steps in, his presence filling the place with a strange kind of energy. Frankie emerges from the master bedroom, takes one look at Blood, and then, without barking, slowly about-faces and disappears back inside the room. The big man has that kind of spooky effect even on animals.

  In my brain, I replay the events of that summer afternoon when I saved his life. I see Blood and me crossing the narrow alley between the wine bar and the Laundromat . . . see Blood walking a few steps ahead of me, his head tossed back while laughing out loud at some silly, now-forgotten joke . . . see the black pickup out the corner of my right eye as it barrels out of the alley . . . see me lunging at Blood, thrusting him out of the alley and down onto the pavement in front of the Laundromat . . . see myself whipping around in time to catch the face of the kid behind the wheel of the pickup as it lifts from the text message he’s thumbing, see the eyes widen as he slams on his brakes . . . see myself move to approach the truck and the kid put pedal to the metal and flee the scene.

  Those moments persistently occupy the space between us. I’d let them go, but Blood wouldn’t think of it.

  Blood never lets anything go.

  I watch his dark, eagle-like eyes now as they make an inventory of the house. If I were to ask him a month from now what he observed here today, he’d repeat everything in precise detail.

  He sniffs something, makes a gesture with his nostrils.

  “Am I smelling smoke?”

  I’m a little startled by the question. More than startled.

  “It’s okay to use your words, Mr. Reece,” he adds.

  “Not at all, Blood,” I say, knowing that there are used matches sitting in the sink. I feel my pulse perk up.

  “That’s good,” he says. “ ’Cause if you was playing with matches, I’d have to slap you upside the head or something.” He cracks a hint of a grin again.

  “Listen, Blood,” I say, “I’m just about to sit down to get some writing done. Tell you what. Let’s meet later for a drink and we can go over some stuff I need for you to research. Is that cool?”

  He mulls it over. Nods.

  “Okay,” he says. “Could go for a glass of cab at the wine bar.” Then, “Lisa thinks you worried she’s seeing David behind your back. You’re not worried about that, are you? Because if you are, I can pay David a little visit.” Opening up his coat, he reveals the black grip on the 9mm automatic that’s holstered to his belt.

  I could tell him that David just paid me a visit. But if I tell him that, he will insist on staying. Not because David poses any real danger, but because I might pose a danger to him, if I get mad enough. Either way, Blood has my back. In the end, I decide to play it cool and keep quiet about it.

  “I’m not worried about anything, Blood. I promise.” I reach out, open the door. “I’ll meet up with you later and we can talk about it.”

  “Up to you,” he says.

  He steps out the door onto the concrete landing, then turns. “I don’t know Lisa like you do, but if you tell me everything is right between you two, that’s good enough for me.”

  “It is,” I say.

  I’m slowly shutting the door. “Sorry if I’m not feeling social, Blood.”

  “Go write us a masterpiece, Reece. I’ll see you later.”

  Closing the door behind me, I lock the deadbolt, praying that Blood believed me when I swore nothing was wrong. As I make my way back into the kitchen, I know damn well he doesn’t believe a word I said.

  Chapter 13

  If this were a novel, it would be plot-point time.

  By that, I mean the time where I would make my main character take some kind of action to at least make an attempt at reversing his situation. Otherwise, you risk losing the reader. In this case, I need to find a way to put David Bourenhem in his place, without making it look like I’m putting him in his place. In other words, I don’t want him to think I feel the least bit threatened by him. I don’t have to do something as drastic as send Blood out after him or actually confront him physically. For now, the action I take can be merely symbolic, a prelude to what will come later on when the fire really hits the fan blades.

  Here’s what I do.

  I head back through the kitchen, stepping on flowers as I cross the corridor into the master bedroom. Flicking on the overhead light, I open Lisa’s underwear drawer, once more locate the photos. I carry them back out with me into the kitchen. In the cabinet under the sink I find a stack of paper grocery bags that bear the words “Price Chopper Supermarket” on them in red letters. I pull one out, open it up, and dump the photos inside. With that done, I gather up the roses and the purple tissue paper they came wrapped in, and I toss them in too. As a final (symbolic) fuck-you to Lisa’s former lover David Bourenhem, I throw in his black pen.

  I find the pack of matches on the counter, stuff them in my jeans pocket. That’s when I hear the pitter-patter of four paws trotting back into the kitchen from the bedroom. Frankie. Once again, she looks up at me with her black eyes like I’m crazy.

  “I used to be crazy, Frankie,” I say. “Now I’m just pissed off.” Then, folding the bag closed, “Observe, if you will.”

  I cross over the dining room and head down the couple of steps into the living room, where I open the sliding door and go out onto the deck. Stored under the barbecue is a bag of charcoal and some lighter fluid. I take hold of the lighter fluid, pull the bulbous metal lid off the grill, and set the bag onto the grate where a thick juicy steak should go. Popping the top on the lighter fluid, I proceed to spray the bag. Then, setting the fluid back down, I pull the pack of matches from my pocket.

  “How about a little fire, Scarecrow?” I say, feeling my heart beating fast, the blood speeding through my veins.

  I light the match and go to place it onto the bag. But then something stops me. The pen. It has Bourenhem’s website address on it. I shake out the match, open the bag and pull the pen back out, store it behind my right earlobe. Then I light another match and toss it onto the bag.

  It explodes in a plume of orange fire.

  Reaching back down, I once again grab hold of the lighter fluid. Pointing the nozzle at the burning bag, I continue to spray so that the fire never lets up. It only gets hotter and hotter as the paper burns away, revealing the roses and the green stems and the photos. It takes a minute or two, but the petals burn and turn black while the photos, now free of their burned-up manila envelope, blacken and crumple as their moisture evaporates, the fire forever destroying the images of Lisa. Forever destroying the memories.

  I don’t stop spraying the lighter fluid until everything turns to black ash.

  “Fire, fire,” I whisper, feeling the last of the fluid empty out of the bottle. “Burn, burn. Burn her. Burn him.”

  I jump down off the deck, make my way across the back-yard, where I heave the empty can over the fence and into the woods.

  “Fuck you, Bourenhem,” I say. “She doesn’t love you anymore.”

  Turning back for the house, I know just how wrong I am, but how bloody good it feels to have said it anyway.

>   Chapter 14

  Between the fire I set in the Little’s Lake garbage can and the one I sparked out on the barbecue, I smell like a firefighter who’s just fought a towering inferno.

  Inside the master bath I undress and turn on the shower. While I wait for the water to warm up, I contemplate opening another beer. But I know where that can lead. Christ, it isn’t even noon yet.

  Minutes later I’m dressed in jeans, boots, and button-down work shirt under my well-worn bush jacket, the pockets of which are stuffed with all sorts of notes, notebooks, pens, pencils, and anything else a writer requires for those unexpected moments when an idea might cross his mind. I’ve also placed Bourenhem’s pen in the left-hand chest pocket. The pocket that sits over my heart.

  Back in the dining room, I sit down in front of the laptop, exhale, and set my fingers on the keys. I wait for my brain to kick in. The part of the brain that makes the words appear on a blank page. Words that tell a story. These days, the writer’s block that so plagued me when I was married to Lisa seems gone forever. Nowadays I don’t get writer’s block any more than a lawyer will get lawyer’s block or a surgeon, surgeon’s block.

  But something’s not right today.

  My body wants to write, but my brain isn’t letting me. It’s consumed with something else. I can’t get David off my mind. Even with the photos burned all to hell, I keep thinking of David and Lisa together. I glance over my left shoulder. Through the picture window I can see the still-smoldering ashes set on top of the grill. What really nags me is my inability to imagine what attracted Lisa to him so strongly that she willingly spent eight years with him. Maybe the evidence of that attraction was to be found in the pictures I just destroyed. Maybe he was able to give her something I never could, and never will.

  I pull David’s pen from my bush jacket pocket, set it on the table beside the laptop. I switch the screen from Word to the web browser, type in www.DavidBourenhem.com, and anxiously wait for a screen to appear. When it does, I see his face. The thick, wavy, almost feminine black hair, the black-rimmed eyeglasses, the wide smile, the dark, penetrating eyes. The site automatically feeds circus-like accordion and organ-grinder music. The kind of music you might hear coming from the insides of a merry-go-round. Horns blare, drums pound, cymbals crash. The music of a clown.