On Day Five everybody knew the score. Mom’s kidneys were failing, her liver was failing, and her heart was weakening. The long siege that had started with a spot of cancer on her lung was winding down and it was up to us to see it mercifully ended. Our entire immediate family, except for the little kids, met with Mom’s doctor to discuss taking her off the respirator and letting nature run its course.
We met in a rectangular room that could have been a corporate boardroom except for the overwhelming orange tang of hospital disinfectant and a porcelain washbasin at the far end of the room. We sat in comfortable, high backed leather chairs and stared balefully at the doctor, who’d taken one side of the long table all to himself. He recited the litany of Mom’s ills, one by one, and we listened as the list piled up like shovelfuls of dirt all around us.
I felt split by two ideas at once, one rational and the other not:
Mom could no longer go on living.
Mom could not die. Not now, not at thirty-seven.
The two ideas waged war inside my mind, equally powerful, and I understood for the first time what schizophrenia might feel like. I leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, trying to think of nothing. The doctor finished his speech by recommending that we take my mother off artificial respiration and let nature play out while keeping her fully, mercifully sedated. The room was silent for a while. One of my uncles raised his hand, as if he were in school, and asked a question about the sedation. He was stalling, filling the silence. The doctor replied, in excessive detail, and the room went quiet again.
“I want everyone to be on board with this,” the doctor said. “I’d like a formal vote, please.”
So we went round, one by one, and voted to take Mom off artificial respiration. The only person who voted no was Haylee, who’d started crying.
“She can come back,” Haylee said, looking at the rest of us, looking at me. “She can, you guys. She can.”
“Honey, it’s best this way,” Dad said, touching Haylee’s arm. “She’s been in so much pain.”
“No. I don’t want to let her go.”
My sister wiped her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. Her eyes were bright and feral, like a cornered animal’s. She stared us all down like she’d blink us out of existence if she had the power. Like if only we’d believe.
Part Two
The Emergency Lunch
I felt oddly disconnected as Sam, Katrina, and I watched the commotion from the high school parking lot. My little bathroom fire had definitely got the attention of the authorities—fire trucks, cop cars, and ambulances showed up to Hickson High while everybody stood outside watching in soggy semi-formal wear—but it didn’t really provide the thrill I’d been expecting. It was fun for about ten minutes, like a fire drill, but I knew they weren’t going to find anything worse than a scorched trash bin.
No. This wasn’t exactly Carrie. This was amateur hour, really, nothing compared to the fierce wall of fire I’d started at Ox Haggerton’s. The firebug had barely gone thumpity when I’d started the trash bin fire and he’d gone back to sleep as soon as the authorities had shown up. He knew pale fire when he saw it.
Something had shifted.
The firebug and I needed more.
When I got home Dad was sitting on the couch, frowning at the TV.
“Mack.”
“Father.”
“I’m sure you know all about your sister’s fight at the dance.”
“I heard reports.”
“Haylee’s having trouble, Mack. Real trouble. She could be suspended.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
My father muted the TV and turned his full attention on me. “You’re all wet.”
“Yeah. Somebody tried to smoke in the school bathroom or something. The sprinklers went off. It was crazy.”
Dad stared at me for a long time. Then he said, “We’re going out for an emergency lunch tomorrow, bucko. The whole family.”
“An emergency lunch?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. It just sounded a little crazy.”
We stared at each other some more. I could tell Dad was pretty pissed, so I decided to cut my losses and call it a night.
“Okay. Lunch it is.”
I went up to my room and got out of my soggy clothes. The usual post-burn emptiness came over me, with the accompanying self-loathing. If I couldn’t control myself, how could I expect my kid sister control herself? Shit. How could I even expect to graduate before I accumulated some serious felony charges?
I went into the bathroom and put my ear to the tiny door above the bathtub, but I couldn’t hear anything.
Somehow the silence was worse than crying.
The next morning we took the van into Thorndale. Dad drove, I sat in the passenger seat, and Haylee sat in back, texting on her phone. Chompy lay wedged on the floor between van’s front seats with his paws extended, sphinx-like, and drooled profoundly on the van’s carpeting.
“Why’s the beast along again?”
Dad gave Chompy a scritch on the head. Chompy nipped at his hand and continued drooling.
“He likes riding in the van. He finds it stimulating.”
“Yeah, that’s what this dog needs. More stimulation.”
We came up on an old man driving a rusted pickup truck. Dad changed lanes and accelerated past the oldster, who was a wearing the obligatory camouflage baseball cap and blue denim shirt.
“Who was that?”
“Hell if I know. Your grandpa’s the social butterfly, not me.”
“You get out,” I said. “You sell insurance.”
“I mostly supervise these days. Fieldwork is a young man’s game. I have an office to run.”
Dad turned up the radio and started whistling along with Fleetwood Mac. He always whistled when he was nervous. He must have been a shitty poker player.
“So,” I said, glancing back at Haylee. “What happens at an emergency lunch? Are we all going to start a trust circle and share our feelings? Or is Haylee going to teach us bathroom self-defense?”
Dad scowled. “Don’t act like that, Mack.”
“Act like what?”
“You know. Flip. Like everything’s a joke.”
Chompy opened his maw and clamped down on my calf. When I didn’t slap him away he gave it a few exploratory chews. I could feel his teeth through the fabric of my jeans, seeking purchase.
“I use humor as a defensive mechanism, Father. Humor is the shell that conceals the tender, meaty pistachio within me.”
Dad frowned. “You’re full of crap is what you are. I think you like messing with people just to mess with people.”
I looked out the window at the passing woods. I knew every roadside billboard, every highway sign. I knew when the highway would dip and rise and dip again as we entered the outskirts of Thorndale. We’d driven this route hundreds of times together, though usually I’d been in the back seat reading a book. The enduring sameness of the drive was both comforting and wildly maddening. I wouldn’t have minded seeing the entire route engulfed in flames, in smoke and dragon fire.
How much would such a fire take to start, exactly?
It hadn’t rained in a long time.
“You’re a good kid, Mack, but you think you’re smarter than everybody else and that’s not real appealing all the time. Most people don’t give a dang how many books you’ve read. They just want you to be straight with them. You be straight with someone and they’ll respect you for it.”
I reached down and rapped on Chompy’s head. He released my leg and looked up, confused by the interruption.
“Stop chewing on me.”
The beast cocked his head.
“Lay down.”
The beast barked, waited, and returned to his slow gnawing. I reclined in resignation and looked out my window. Da
d whistled off-key and Haylee maintained her silence in the back, rather sphinx-like herself.
We went to Serafina’s, the best restaurant in Thorndale and our family’s favorite. We sat in a vinyl booth by a window. Serafina herself came out to greet us, all smiles and Italian warmth.
“Well, well! What a handsome family we have here.”
Dad slid out of the booth, gave the restaurateur a hug, and stood with his arm around her, smiling. Serafina inspected Haylee and me, her smile fading as she focused on my sister. Stout and middle-aged, her dark hair pinned back, Serafina looked capable of heaving a barrel of wine onto her shoulder and hiking up the nearest rocky mountain.
“Mio dio. You are so thin, Haylee.” Serafina glanced at Dad and clucked her tongue. “You need to feed this girl more, Peter. She’s still growing. She needs meat on her bones.”
“I eat,” Haylee protested. “I eat a lot.”
Serafina nodded, still scanning my sister with her Italian lady radar. Dad’s face went tight and he shifted on his feet, dropping his arm from Serafina’s shoulders and letting it fall limp to his side. Serafina, noticing our collectively weird mood, announced they’d renovated the kitchen and invited Dad back to check it out. Suddenly Haylee and I were sitting in the booth alone, the table’s tea light candles burning between us.
I tossed my menu aside and peered back toward the kitchen. “What do you think they’re really doing in there?”
“Who cares.”
“I bet they’re making out. Lots of heavy crotch petting. Lascivious ear licking.”
Haylee sighed and crossed her arms. “Fucking Madison Lambert.”
“You really smacked her good, huh?”
My sister glanced out the window at the restaurant’s parking lot. Chompy, who was not allowed in fine Italian dining establishments, was sitting bolt upright in the van’s passenger seat and watching us.
I reached toward one of the table’s candles, sweeping my index finger through the flame. Swipe, swipe. It didn’t hurt at all. It was nothing. Amateur hour.
“She called me a mommy orphan.”
“What?”
“Madison. She called me a sad little mommy orphan, so I hit her.”
No victorious smile from the Haystack. Not even a tiny, wry one. Just a deep, Russian-sounding sigh.
“You know what? As soon as I hit her, I thought about Mom. I knew that when I got home later, Mom wouldn’t be around to talk about the fight. She wouldn’t be on the couch, watching TV with a blanket on her lap and a box of Kleenex by her feet. We wouldn’t have tea.”
“I loved having tea with Mom,” I said, forcing my hands to lie flat on the table. “She was good at having tea.”
Haylee blew her nose into her napkin. “She was. She was the fucking best at it.”
The candles flickered. I smelled garlic frying in the kitchen. Dad would be back soon, full of more false cheer and fluffy conversation, trying to make this domestic clusterfuck work out.
“Chompy really loves you, you know.”
More sniffles and nose-blowing. Haylee’s eyes had grown damp and enormous, the flecks of green in each iris glowing in the candlelight.
“He does?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I had a talk with him. We agreed, actually. We both think you’re pretty awesome and that Madison totally had it coming.”
Haylee looked out at the van. Chompy saw us watching him and whirled around in the passenger seat, pink tongue flying.
Finally, a little smile from Haystack.
Maybe the emergency lunch hadn’t been such a dumb idea after all.
Hot Garbage
The following Monday, the fire during the homecoming dance was the talk of Hickson High while Haylee’s fight with Madison Lambert was relegated to just another crazy homecoming side story. I walked around the school with my head held high and felt like an honest-to-God do-gooder, a feeling I’ll admit I hadn’t felt in a long time, and it was if the whole world smiled upon me. I was Good Mack the Good Brother, Even If His Sister Must Never Ever Know About His Secret Arson Career Because She Would Totally Fucking Tell Dad.
This warm and fuzzy feeling lasted until twenty minutes into my afternoon shift at the hardware store, when Ox Haggerton came in while I was facing the shelves. I’d been daydreaming about Fahrenheit 451 and how weird that would be, to get paid to burn books, and I didn’t notice Haggerton until he was right on top of me, scowling and smelling like lighter fluid. He looked even older and more puckered than I remembered, though his eyes were just as red and angry.
“Chainsaws,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Where are your chainsaws?”
“Oh,” I said, wiping my palms on my jeans. “Sure. Let me show you.”
I took him to the shelves at the back of the store where we kept the heavy duty stuff. I pointed out the only chainsaw we kept in stock.
“That’s all you’ve got? One goddamn chainsaw?”
“Yes, but we can order any kind you’d like. We don’t sell a lot—”
“Fuck ordering,” Ox said. “If you don’t have it on your shelf I don’t want to fucking see it.”
He picked up the chainsaw and raised it into the air for inspection. His arms were knotted with tight little old man muscles, stored strength he’d probably gained from a lifetime of adding to the woodpile I’d burned down three weeks before. I waited while he turned the chainsaw over and ran his thumb along the teeth of the cutting chain, frowning like it was a piece of trash he’d found in his backyard.
“This is it? This is all you’ve got?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, fighting a strong urge to walk off and hide in my boss’s office. Nobody spoke for a moment and the store’s fluorescent lights hummed above us, sounding as demonic as ever.
“I guess it’ll do,” Ox said, lowering the chainsaw and looking at me. “Hey. I remember you. You’re George Hedley’s grandson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You still working at the Legion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a busy little shit, aren’t you?”
A vision of Haggerton’s woodpile engulfed in glorious flame suddenly filled my mind for one flashing second, as real as if I was standing in front of it again.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I try to keep busy.”
After Big Greg and I closed the store I came home to find the house empty and dim. Dad and Haylee were in Thorndale at her first therapy session, which was part of her deal with the school to avoid suspension for the homecoming fight. The other part of the deal was for Haylee to personally apologize to Madison Lambert herself, which must have nearly made my sister’s head explode.
I let Chompy out of his kennel and took him outside for a pee. Strong winds had turned the woods behind our house into a big, thrashing mosh pit and the effect was a little unnerving.
“What do you think, Chompy? Is Big Foot hiding out there? Watching us, waiting for signs of weakness?”
The beast snatched a fluttering leaf out of the air and devoured it. I led him into the small ravine and up the opposite side to the train tracks. I looked away while he did his business on the rails, staring at the forest’s autumn leaves until the colors blurred together. The ground trembled beneath my feet.
“Hey. You feel that?”
The train whistled to announce its approach as I led Chompy back to the ravine’s floor. The dog started running back and forth in spastic ecstasy, lunging against his leash and barking like a madman. I dug in my heels and fought an urge to let go and see if the beast would actually charge. Haylee would laugh, I thought. She’d laugh to see her simpleton pooch giving me such a hard time. She’d laugh if she could laugh, if the Dark Ferret of Sadness That Whispered Sorrow Into Her Ear allowed her to recognize the comedy inherent in a skinny, tall guy trying to rein in a worked-up dog.
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“Here it comes, dummy,” I shouted. “Get ready.”
The train’s engine emerged thunderously from the woods, its single headlight bright in the fading daylight. Chompy went still, as if understanding his foolishness, and the engine disappeared back into the woods, quick as that. Three minutes of freight cars came rolling behind it, throwing sparks along the rails. Most of the cars carried sealed shipping containers, though a few tank cars and old-school boxcars were thrown into the mix to keep it interesting. It was the boxcars I’d liked best when I was kid. Many was the time I’d imagined stuffing a backpack full of ham sandwiches, sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night, and crossing the little ravine. I’d wait patiently for the next train, sprint alongside it when it finally arrived, and effortlessly leap into the first available boxcar. I’d already be long gone by the time my parents woke up in the morning, three or four hundred miles away. They’d cry their eyes out they’d miss me so much. The whole damn town would cry.
The last cars rolled past. The show was over. Chompy gave one last sharp bark at the woods and looked at me.
“What?”
The dog eyed my car, which was sitting in the driveway. I gave a martyr’s sigh and headed up the ravine. Chompy scrambled to catch up, paused to press happily against my side, and then raced ahead to the car. I opened the back door and the beast leapt inside, turning around twice in the back seat before happily settling down, pink tongue lolling. I went around to the driver’s side and started the engine, pulling out of the driveway slowly so as not to make a racket. We rumbled through the autumn night and Chompy slid around in the back seat, shifting with the abrupt turns like a panting gym bag. I rolled down my window and we turned onto the highway, just two saucy fuckers headed out for a night on the prowl.
We drove beyond town. I was sick of all the same old houses, the same old streets. Driving faster, on an actual highway, at least provided the illusion of novelty. At seventy miles per hour anything could appear in the Oldsmobile’s headlights, at any minute. Bears, vampires, a zombie Charles Bukowski; I’d be happy with anything beyond the usual smorgasbord of Balrog County roadkill.
The Firebug of Balrog County Page 13
