The Firebug of Balrog County

by David Oppegaard

  We drove for a half hour before I noticed Chompy yawning in the rearview mirror.

  “What? A free car ride isn’t good enough for you?”

  The beast stared back at me, his eyes dark and crazed.

  “Ah,” I said. “I know where you want to go.”

  I slowed the car down, whipped a U-turn, and headed in the opposite direction. Ten minutes later and the air had turned ripe with the smell of skunky garbage and cardboard, causing Chompy to perk up and stick his head out the window. We drove past the county landfill’s entrance and parked discreetly a half-mile down the road, near the rear section of the landfill’s fence line. Chompy leapt out of the back seat and started to immediately strain at his leash, somehow gagging and eagerly panting at the same time.

  “All right, all right.”

  The landfill was lit by sodium lamps, but since it was heaped with mounded trash it was impossible to get a clear sightline of anything. Chompy and I might as well have been on the other side of the moon as far as the Fill’s night watchman was concerned, and that’s the way I liked it. We walked along the rear fence, found the same weak spot known to every no-good teenager in Hickson, and tunneled through to the other side, where the smell of garbage was even stronger.

  Chompy bounded from trashy heap to trashy heap, smelling and lifting his leg and smelling some more, so ecstatic I thought his head might explode in a spray of feathers. I shook my head at his exuberance and plugged my nose.

  “So you like this locale, sire? Is it to your liking?”

  Chompy tore into what looked like a bag of Chinese leftovers, spraying dirty lo mein noodles everywhere. I gave him as much length on the leash as possible, trying to avoid the noodle spray zone. I noticed an interesting heap rising a good twenty feet into the air.

  “Holy hell, Chompy. Would you look at that.”

  I pulled the snorting beast along and examined the lofty heap more closely. It was mostly plastic trash bags bursting with clothes and towels. I pulled out a few T-shirts and sweaters but I couldn’t find anything wrong with any of them. It was just a big old heap of discarded clothes, rising to the heavens.

  I pulled my lighter out of my pocket and twirled it in my fingers. The firebug woke up and flexed its fiery muscles.

  This was it.

  This was next level shit right here.

  Chompy pulled me backward, straining to return to the more food-based trash. I yanked the leash in reply and the beast writhed on his tether. “You had your turn, beastie. Time for papa to have some fun.”

  I dug out a hand towel. It was dry and pleasantly coarse. I thumbed the lighter, lit one small corner of the towel, and watched the flame grow and creep across its surface. The firebug started to dance, gyrating to a mad antediluvian beat, and I flung the towel at the tower’s base. Chompy barked, not digging the fire, and I allowed him to pull me back to the food trash. While the tower fire slowly smoldered, then spread, Chompy enjoyed more nasty snacks and the night buzzed with energy.

  We were all feeding. We were all getting fed.

  The Claremont Caves

  In middle school my geology class took a field trip to the Claremont Caves, which are so far north of Hickson they’re almost in Leroy County. To go on this fancy pants trip we all needed signed permission slips from our parents and to bring our own bag lunch. None of us had seen the caves before and nobody expected much. We were just glad to get out of school for the day and fuck around on the bus, which was its own sort of casual war zone.

  The caves were terrifying. We counted two dozen of them. They pocketed the side of a broad limestone hill like open sores and exhaled unnaturally cold winds. It was easy to imagine all kinds of monsters coming out of those dark openings. Creatures of girth and tentacles and teeth.

  Our teacher wouldn’t let us actually go inside the caves. He said it was too dangerous, but never specified why. He just talked for a while about geology stuff and then we all had lunch beside a murky brown river.

  I dreamt about those caves for years.

  Grandma’s Dream

  I woke up early on Tuesday after a long night of sweaty, hot-garbage sleep. I shuffled downstairs, fed Chompy, took him outside for a piddle, and ate some cereal in front of the TV while the beast gnawed happily on my ankle. Around seven-thirty, Dad emerged from his bedroom and shuffled into the kitchen to put on his beloved pot of morning coffee. He’d taken the whole week off from work and was looking even shittier since the homecoming dance, the usual purple sadness rings around his eyes appearing even wider. I decided I’d be best served by finishing my cereal, showering quickly, and heading off to school like a man of purpose.

  School, however, was intolerable. I was so tired from my night out at the Fill that I could barely prop myself up at my desk and felt in constant danger of collapsing inward, like a dying star. The teachers yacked, yacked, yacked, but thankfully none of them called on me and I was able to float through the morning unscathed.

  By lunch, however, I was dragging something fierce. I drank three sodas and felt nothing, not even the usual sleepy jitters. I reported to our friendly school nurse, told her I wasn’t feeling so hot, and by one o’clock I was roaming the streets in the Olds, freed from the surly bounds of education.

  Unfortunately, I knew my father would still be home, watching PBS while he waited to take Haylee to her afternoon appointment. I decided to visit the Grotto, where I could sack out in my grandparents’ guest room for a couple of hours before I went to work. Besides, I hadn’t been to visit my grandparents in a while, having fallen away from my grandsonly duties ever since Grandpa Hedley declared war on the county firebug. I figured it’d be better if I spent as little time with the old man as possible, since he was the sort of fella who might be able to actually smell deceit upon you. He had those burning Vietnam eyes, that hunter’s nose.

  Grandpa’s truck was missing from the driveway but I found Grandma Hedley in the kitchen, pulling a tray of brownies out of the oven. She smiled when she saw me and I gave her a hug.

  “How nice. A surprise visit from my favorite grandson.”

  “Hi Grandma.”

  “You out of school early today?”

  “Yep. I’m not feeling too great.”

  Grandma Hedley took off her oven mitts and tossed them on the kitchen counter. She looked me over through her trifocals.

  “It’s been a hard few days, hasn’t it?”

  “I guess so. It definitely could have been better.”

  “How’s Haylee doing?”

  “Better, I think. She started counseling yesterday.”

  “Oh. I’m glad to hear that.”

  Grandma took a paring knife out of the knife block and started sawing away at the tray of brownies, carving out squares with grid-like consistency.

  “So, where’s Gramps? Out yelling at a city council member?”

  “I don’t know. He’s out somewhere. I haven’t seen him this worked up in years. He gets up twenty minutes after we go to bed and I can hear him walking around the house, muttering to himself.” Grandma Hedley wiped her hands on her apron. “Have a seat, kiddo. Let’s try these brownies.”

  I sat down at the table while Grandma Hedley grabbed plates and silverware. It was no use offering to help at snack time—trying to step in would only get you snapped at with a dish towel. I tried to imagine Katrina like this, apron-clad and happily fussing over a tray of freshly baked brownies, and I literally could not do it. The closest scene I could envision was Katrina setting out Jell-O shots on a table made out of human femurs and illuminated by a burning candelabrum.

  Grandma Hedley divvied out the brownies and sat down.

  “I had a dream about her, Mack. Last night.”

  “Mom?”

  Grandma Hedley nodded and broke off a corner of her brownie with her fork. She put the piece of brownie in her mouth and chewed thought
fully.

  “I was walking in a forest on a sawdust path. The sawdust looked fresh and clean, as if it had been laid down earlier that day. I followed the path for a long time but it never seemed to get any later, or darker. Finally, I came to a clearing with a cabin in it. The cabin’s front door was open and I could see your mother inside.”

  Grandma Hedley dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a napkin.

  “She looked like before, Mack. Healthy. Not so thin.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. She looked wonderful.”

  I tried to remember Mom looking wonderful. It was hard. I pictured mostly medical tape and plastic tubing.

  “She was sitting at a small table, doing something with her hands. I waved and said hello across the clearing, but she couldn’t hear me. She kept working at whatever she was working at and didn’t look up.”

  Grandma Hedley ate another piece of her brownie and swallowed. Her eyes had filled with tears again.

  “That was it. That was the whole dream.”

  I sat back in my chair. I hadn’t touched my brownie yet.

  “Huh. That’s crazy.”

  A rumbling engine pulled up to the house. My grandmother stood up and cleared her plate. The front door slammed and Grandpa Hedley entered the kitchen, swinging his arms and whistling. A true figure of purpose, he’d rolled up the sleeves of his red flannel shirt to reveal his meaty forearms. He was smiling, but when he saw Grandma Hedley drying her eyes at the sink his face darkened and he scowled at me.

  “Okay, bucko. What’d you do?”

  “Me? Nothing.”

  Grandpa Hedley put his arm around Grandma Hedley and gave her a squeeze. They reminded me of an old-timey pioneer couple. We’ll tame this hard land, Ma.

  “Your grandmother is obviously crying, Mack. Did you say something smart?”

  Grandma Hedley sighed and leaned against my grandfather’s shoulder.

  “So Grandma’s crying and you automatically think it’s because of me?”

  “I don’t know, Mack. You seem pretty squirrely these days, if you ask me.”

  “Squirrely? I’m squirrely?”

  Grandpa Hedley nodded, studying me.

  “Squirrely like a squirrel? Like a squirrel with a big fluffy tail, leaping from tree to tree with suicidal abandon? Squirrely like a squirrel putting on weight and burying nuts for winter?”

  Grandma Hedley laughed, but my grandfather didn’t even crack a smile. He was staring at me like he was trying to see inside my skull and gauge all the cogs and whistles. He stared and stared until I suddenly got paranoid, like mind-reading was something the old Vietnam vet could actually do.

  “All right,” I said, rising from my chair. “I better get back at it.”

  “Bye, sweetie,” Grandma Hedley said, hugging me. “Thanks for visiting.”

  I went out and started my car. As I pulled away from the curb, my grandfather came out of the house and stood on his lawn, watching me drive away. He’d put on his dark aviator glasses and his shoulders were straight and wide, like he could still kick some ass when needed. I gave the old wolf a splashy wave and my best derp face, knowing how much he’d appreciate the comic moment.

  Letter to the Editor

  Dear Editor,

  It’s me again, that pesky firebug who’s been running circles around the elected officials of Hickson!

  First of all, can I say what a great October it’s been so far?! Happy October, everybody! What a great month, right? A wondrous time for bonfires and leaf burning and the smell of wood smoke on the air ... sorry, there I go, getting all worked up again!

  The reason I’m writing again is to clear up a point that’s been nagging at me: No, we did not anticipate the scarecrow on Mrs. Klondike’s lawn transforming itself into a burning cross. That surprised us as much as it must have shocked poor Mrs. Klondike!

  So we’re sorry about that. We in no way endorse racist behavior. Actually, we consider ourselves progressive, despite our caveman-like love of the flame, and want everyone to know that none of our actions are in any way politically motivated.

  Yours in Christ,

  The Firebug

  P. S. And that recent fire at the landfill? Yeah, that was me, [censored] !

  Robinson Park

  So, what are you going to show me?” I asked.

  “The coolest thing ever, that’s what. Or at least it could be.”

  “It has cool possibility?”

  “A shitload of cool possibility.”

  It was Wednesday. Katrina had texted me to meet at Robinson Park so here we were, rendezvousing like two spies in a noir movie. Before us lay a shadowland of playground equipment that consisted of a sandbox, an elaborate plastic jungle gym, a tetherball pole, a basketball court, and a swing set. Beyond the kiddy park, down a long grassy slope, was a full-sized baseball field, complete with aluminum bleachers, enclosed fence, and outfield scoreboard. Past the field’s outfield wall were dense woods.

  “My grandpa helped build this park,” I said. “He’s the town mayor.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “So you’re basically Hickson royalty.”

  I stretched out my arm and put it around Katrina’s shoulders. “Sure am, miss.”

  She gave me a soft elbow to the ribs and shrugged off my arm. “C’mon.”

  We walked into the park. We sat on the swings and started pumping our legs slowly, warming up. The swing’s chains felt cold and lumpy in my fists.

  “So you wanted to show me the playground in Robinson Park?”

  “Close.” Katrina added some leg to her swing, pointing out her toes. “It’s nice to be out of the house. My roommates are driving me crazy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re always trying to be so fucking cool. So hipster. One’s a film major, one’s a theater major, and one’s a visual art major.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. Every house meeting is like a reality TV episode. I can’t even keep track of who’s pissed at who anymore and we’ve only lived together for, like, two months. It’s ridiculous.”

  I pumped my legs faster, gathering velocity. The swinging made me feel queasy but I still liked the lift. The sense that I could, at any moment, leap off and propel myself into space. Soon we both reached the zenith of the swings’ height, really rocking it, and Katrina counted down from three as the swing set’s metal frame creaked loudly, as if it might collapse at any moment.

  At one, we both let go and flew forward. We hovered above the earth, weightless, and then we landed, thudding feet-first into the sand.

  Katrina whooped and pumped her fist in the air. “Hell yeah. Did you feel that lift?”

  “I did.”

  “That lift is what my roommates don’t get. They wouldn’t have even got on those swings unless they were being ironic about it. Like they were cheesy characters in a rom-com or something.”

  “You’re saying they wouldn’t be able to enjoy the swings as swings, per se. They would dismiss the inherent joy of simply flinging yourself across a sandpit.”

  Katrina punched me in the shoulder. “Right! They’d be embarrassed by actually liking it.”

  “They’ve lost touch with their inner child.”

  “Exactly.” Katrina sighed and took my hand. “That’s what I like about you, Mack. You’re past all that fronting bullshit. You’re so honest you’re like a simpleton.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it,” Katrina said, squeezing my hand. “You like fire, so you go out there and light some fires. You don’t give a fuck what society says about that, or how much shit you could get into if you got caught. You listen to your heart.”

  “Yes, but my heart may be insane.”

  “Who gives a shit? You’re not really hurting anyone, are y
ou?”

  I scratched my head with my free hand and tried to follow this reasoning. I’d never imagined lighting shit on fire to be admirable in any way—more like a furtive pleasure on par with masturbating in a movie theater.

  Katrina led the way down the grassy slope to the baseball field. When we were behind the backstop, she let go of my hand and pressed up against the chain-link fencing. The field had a single streetlamp of its own.

  “Check it out.”

  I came up beside her and peered through the fence. A dark rectangular shape lay out in center field.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “That’s the base of it. They’re building a haunted castle for Halloween.”

  “The city is?”

  “Yep,” Katrina said, nodding and turning to me. “And guess what? They’re making it out of straw bales. Straw bales piled two stories high.”

  I licked my lips, squinting at the murky shape in center field. I reached out and grabbed a handful of chain-link. It felt real.

  “Something like that would light up the whole night,” Katrina said. “One little match.”

  I closed my eyes, imagining the profound glory of such a blaze.

  “It’s a setup,” I said. “My grandpa’s trying to catch the county firebug. I bet this whole thing was his idea.”

  “So? This is what you do, Mack. You’re like me: a primal soul hell-bent on enjoying existence at its very source. We’re artists. I build goth bird houses, you write stories and light shit on fire.”

  I opened my eyes and surveyed the field.

  She had me there.

  The Trouble with Drinking

  Haylee seemed to do all right with her first week of therapy and nobody gave her much shit at school, as far as I could tell. Dad, on the other hand, appeared thrown by the homecoming incident in a way that seemed vastly out of proportion to the event itself. I don’t know if it was because of what he was discussing with Haylee’s therapist, or if the fight had dredged up some sad stuff about Mom, but the man was seriously off-kilter. He didn’t go to work, he didn’t call Bonnie. He ate a lot of Captain Crunch and pizza, which was no longer a special Friday treat but our nightly meal, and he watched countless hours of PBS programming, keeping the volume so low that it felt as if the Devil were whispering sweet evils in your ear. This was not the Pete Druneswald I’d known my entire life: a steady, hardworking man who’d seen his beloved wife through five years of complicated ailments without losing hope.