Smoke Screen

by Suzanne Ouimet

  “Old bitch deserved it,” Howie growled, starting to cough. The nurse approached, wiped some spittle from his chin, held him upright while she fluffed his pillows.

  Tom was inclined to let the old man say whatever he wanted; it could be informative. You could learn a lot just by listening. He didn’t object when Smart suggested, “I think we should ignore what he says about that fire, Officer. Let’s stick to the one in his confession,”

  “You’re saying you didn’t start any of those fires? The Walkerton Mall one, and the one at the motel? But you did start the one at your house and the apartment fire? Isn't that right, Wayne?”

  “Right. But I pretty much gave up setting fires for a long time after my own house burnt down.” He paused a few seconds, trying to collect his thoughts. “Musta got my fill of watching things burn down when I worked for the fire department.”

  “You’re sure? There were quite a few unsolved arsons after the apartment fire.”

  “Not my concern.”

  “Why’d you start the one at the apartment building then? After so many years?”

  The old man seemed to be weakening more by the minute. He closed his eyes; they didn’t know if he would continue. Finally, after a long pause, he rallied. “I lost my job and got thrown outta my house,” he whimpered.

  “How come?” his nephew asked. “You never told me that.”

  “Ben made me resign. Said I didn’t know what I was doing and I’d be fired soon. He said it was only a matter of time, he couldn’t keep covering for me.”

  “How do’ya mean ‘covering’ for you? How’d you get the job in the first place?” Tom queried.

  “Was my uncle, Robbie’s father, fixed it up.”

  “My Dad worked in the governor’s office. He recommended Wayne for the job,” Robert informed Tom. “I remember him saying Wayne was harmless and in a little town like Leffler, he couldn’t do much harm.”

  “Only did it ’cause I knew too much – ’bout both of them,” Howie objected, his voice suddenly stronger. “Same as why Ben covered for me. They was scared I’d talk.”

  “About what?” Robert was curious. “Were you blackmailing them about something?”

  “I ain’t no snake. I wouldn’t rat them out. Not then – not now, but I guess they thought I would,” he insisted. “Anyway, it was that Marilyn got me thrown out of my house. It was her fault.”

  “You mean Marilyn deJean?” Tom asked.

  Wayne wasn’t able to answer for a few minutes, was consumed by another bout of coughing. Finally, he gasped, “Yeah, the same. Ben’s paramour. I knowed about her and him. Ben didn’t want anybody to know, but I did. He wouldn’t admit to it, but her and him was having a fling. I caught ’em at it. When I asked him about it, he lied to me.” After a few rattling breathes, he continued in a forlorn voice, “She was meant to be mine, y’know. He claimed to be my friend, but he lied to me.”

  Looking directly at Tom, he said, “That’s how come he ‘covered’ for me, as he put it. Mr. Big Hero Fire Chief lied,” he added bitterly. He started to cough, again. The air hose had come out of his nose, so the nurse came over to his side to reinsert it, wipe his chin and plump up his pillows.

  Once he'd recovered, Tom asked him, “How do you mean, she was meant to be yours?”

  “She was. I was meant to have her. Ben stole her offa me. I lived right there, right under her nose. But she only ever wanted Ben.”

  “Were you stalking her, Wayne?” Smart asked, suddenly realizing it made some kind of sense. His crazy uncle didn’t answer.

  “What do you know about his boys starting fires?” Tom asked.

  “Aw, they didn’t start no fires. They was good kids.”

  “We found a note Ben wrote more or less accusing one of his sons.”

  “That was me. I made Ben do that. Told him to blame one of them fires on the young kid. Said I’d tell Margaret about him and Marilyn if he didn’t. Figured if he’d put it writing, he wouldn’t rat me out. I ripped up that letter years ago, after he died. Never would’ve used it.”

  “Well, he kept a copy,” Tom told him. “We found it in his effects.”

  “Came back and bit him, did it?” the old man cackled. “Dumb of him, don’tcha think? Guess he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. I loved him like a brother, but he told me he was gonna turn me in. I hadda protect myself.”

  “Did he know you set those fires?”

  “He said he suspected it was me, so I told him I would rat on him. ’Course I never woulda done it.”

  “You threatened him. So, why do you say Marilyn is to blame for the fire?”

  Again Howie began to cough badly, but tried to talk through it. “She turned me in. Told the ‘super’ I was spying on her and the kid, her girl. She told him I was flashing myself.”

  “And were you?” Robert asked, a little amused by this hitherto unknown information about his eccentric old uncle.

  “Well… so what? It ain’t like I was beating on somebody! It was just a little peak. She liked it, I know.”

  Robert told him. “Illegal, Wayne. Serious crime. Not allowed.”

  “Anyway, she should talk, after what she and Ben were doing. She had it coming, just like Mama did.”

  “Nobody deserves that, Howie,” Tom said angrily, noticing the bit about ‘Mama’. Somebody should look into that fire, but not me. Wonder who investigated back then? “Her daughter was almost killed and the little baby died. Aren’t you a bit sorry?”

  “Well… yeah, I guess… It’s too bad about the kid. But I didn’t mean for nobody to get killed. I just wanted that bitch Marilyn to know how it felt, not having a damn house no more.”

  “She wasn’t even in the apartment when the building burned,” Tom objected.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know. I’ll bet she was with Ben. Was just the girl and the baby there. Too bad. Anyway, it’s gonna be made right.”

  Tom turned to Robert. “Is this the gist of his written confession, Smart?”

  “Pretty much. Less detail in the written version, actually. But enough for your purposes.”

  After the old man recovered from yet another coughing fit, Tom asked, “How do you mean, it’ll be made right, Mr. Howard?”

  “In my will. Robert knows. It’ll all come out when I die.” Looking straight at Robert, he ordered, “Don’t you be lettin’ it out ’til I’m dead, boy!”

  Then, turning away from them, the old man wheezed, “I’m tired. I ain’t talkin’ no more.” And he didn’t.

  Following Tom from the room, Robert handed him an envelope. “That’s his confession. Signed, sealed and delivered. Won’t likely be worth your while trying to get a case on the old fool now, though. He’s too sick. Probably be dead before you can get him into court.”

  “You’re likely right,” Tom agreed, “but we’ll have to file it anyway. By the way, here’s Frannie deJean’s current name and address. Hope that’s what you need.”

  “Thanks,” the lawyer said.

  “Who committed Wayne here in 1982?”

  “My Dad. Apparently Wayne began acting real crazy just after Ben George was killed. He’d been unstable for years, of course, but after being evicted from his apartment he got worse. There was plenty of money in his trust fund, so Dad had him committed. They promised to keep a sharp eye on him here, make sure he didn’t cause any harm to anybody.”

  “You think he started those other fires, the ones he doesn’t admit to?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, but since there is no real proof…” he left his statement hanging.

  “Do you think maybe your Dad helped cover up a lot of Howie’s crimes? Is he still alive, by the way?”

  “Yes, I think he may have. But don’t quote me on it. He died two years ago down in Florida. Didn’t quite make a hundred. I really don’t know that much of the history. Dad’s or Wayne’s”

  “There were several small, unsolved arsons in the area right up until Wayne was committed,” Tom told him. “It’s my opin
ion we could lay them at his doorstep.”

  “You could probably close the file on most of them, Tom. Again, don’t quote me,” Smart added, as he walked away.

  On their return trip to Leffler, Tom told Marybeth the whole story. “Looks like that’s it,” he said. “It’s over. There won’t be time even to file charges before he checks out. I think he started all those unsolved arsons, right up until he was committed. Even the ones he denied.”

  “Do you think he killed his mother?”

  “I’d bet on it. At the very least he let her die in the fire. Too late to investigate it now, though. Too long ago.”

  “Thoroughly nasty man. Ben knew Howie set the fires?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Looks like it’s all over, MB. No way we’ll be able to lay any charges, let alone get a conviction. Howie’s almost finished and Ben is long dead, thank goodness!”

  Great way for you to finish, Tom!” Marybeth told him, still irked at having been left out right at the end, but not wanting her new husband to know how she felt.

  “I’m not going to tell Ken you didn’t get to be in on it, MB. If that’s what you’re worried about!”

  “Not worried,” she replied, not willing to admit she was. “Hey! Do you think maybe Howard’s leaving his whole estate to Frannie?”

  “I certainly got that impression. And it could be quite a large estate, too. Walkerton Mall and all those surrounding subdivisions are built on what used to be Howard land. Even twenty years ago, when it was sold to developers, it would have been worth a fortune. Of course, he may have spent a fair amount of it by now. Pleasant Valley isn’t cheap. Not by a long shot.”

  “So, do you think it’s just a matter of time before Frannie gets compensated for her loss?”

  “Yeah. But can there ever truly be compensation for the loss of a child?”

  “Never. And what about poor Sonny? Not likely he’ll see any of it.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I guess we should stop off at the station to file the report. Then what?” she asked.

  Tom grinned, put his arm around her and asked, “Don’t we have a date with Mickey Mouse?”

  Epilogue

  One morning, not long after Christmas, a brown-wrapped parcel came in the mail. Addressed to Mr. and Mrs. North, at home. She turned the package over in her hands. No return address. Postage mark – Black Rock. Curious, a little apprehensive, she sniffed it. No scent. Should I wait and let Tom look at it before I open it?

  Later when Tom came in, they opened it together. Inside, several sheets of paper, a soot-blackened white leather baby shoe and what looked like a thin suede shoelace with colored beads threaded on it, about ten inches long.

  One of the sheets of paper contained a short note on Pleasant Valley letterhead, from Lou Garrett.

  Dear Mr. & Mrs. North,

  We found these things inside Wayne Howard’s locker after he died. They should have gone to his nephew, Mr. Smart, who is also his lawyer, but he told us here that he didn’t want them. He suggested you might be interested in having them.

  I remember how nice you were to Wayne Howard when you came here those times, so I hope you will find them interesting. I have absolutely no idea who wrote them, but some of them seem to be in Mr. Howard’s handwriting, so maybe his bio? You may recall he didn’t seem that sane and I think some of these would indicate he had been, perhaps, mentally deranged for some time. But re those quotes? Was he perhaps smarter than we gave him credit for?

  I don’t have a clue what the little shoe and the leather thong are for. I suppose just memorabilia he carted around with him. There was very little else except for his clothing.

  Regards,

  Lou Garrett, Pleasant Valley Haven.

  Oh, what ecstasy setting fires brings to my body!

  What power I feel at the thought of fire!

  Oh, what pleasure, what heavenly pleasure!

  Joseph Kallinger

  The huge, old 3-storey house stood by itself on 10 acres, set well back from the road, four miles off the main highway to Black Rock. Constructed of wood and cedar-siding, blackened with age, it was spectacularly, depressingly ugly. The window frames appeared to be rotting, the windows themselves almost obscured by a film of oily dirt, while the filthy curtains hung inside were torn and limp. The yard in front of the house was a tangle of weeds and limbs fallen from the surrounding fir trees. The steps leading to the door were rotten, the porch littered with household trash. An old baby buggy minus one wheel, filled with black, plastic sacks, stood forlornly under one of the two windows either side of the faded door. A rusty old bicycle missing its seat and tires leaned against one of the roof posts, while an ancient sofa, with springs jutting and insides gaping, sat directly in front of the door. With a round hole where the knob should have been, it was barred with a broken board nailed diagonally to the frame on both sides. The peeling railing across the front of the porch was missing several of its spindles; many of those still alive were broken. The roof over the porch was sagging — most of its shingles missing.

  A thin spiral of light grey smoke rose out of the redbrick chimney above the third floor roof. Another cloud of black smoke escaped from behind the building.

  At the back of the house, standing by a large fire burning in the center of the yard, was a scrawny, bare-legged, boy about ten, busily stoking the blaze with empty cardboard boxes. While they burned down, he poked at them with a long stick. Then whirling this wooden poker around his head, he watched fascinated as embers glowed at its end and suddenly burst into flame.

  Looking around for more fuel, he picked up a folded wooden chair, threw it onto the fire, then stood back and watched the flames flirting with the legs of the chair then licking hungrily towards its seat. Not yet satisfied, he threw a rubber bicycle tire onto the conflagration, jumping back as it angrily hurled sparks at him. Gazing at his now hugely smoking creation, admiring its puffy, dark-grey clouds, appreciating its primal heat, it’s sublime brightness, suddenly, through its wonderful crackling song, he heard his mother’s shrill, harsh voice. She was leaning out of an open second-story window.

  “Are you deaf? I told you, ‘that’s enough now!’ The house is filling up with smoke and you’re covered in soot. Get in here. Lunch is ready,” she ordered.

  “Soon, soon” he crooned, softly, almost to himself. Shivering, all of a sudden realizing how cold he was, he hugged himself, his hands feeling warm on his bare, upper arms. He had come out to play with no jacket!

  Turning slowly away from the fire, he trudged up the steps to the back door, pausing to look down at his mother’s tiny, potted garden with its newly blooming daffodils and crocii. He unbuttoned his shorts, began pissing on the yellow and purple blooms, watching, as if in slow motion, the little plants trembled wetly, steam rose from the cold black soil and pale-gold drops splattered the floor. Refastening his buttons, he went inside, grinning slyly.

  Bitter memory like vomit choked my throat…

  - - Gary Snyder

  Uncle came for lunch again today. When he’s here I have to sit quietly and not talk while I eat. I’m not allowed to say one single word! After lunch, Mama told me to do the dishes while she and Uncle went upstairs to talk business.

  I was taking my time to clear the table when Uncle came back downstairs. With a huge wink, he handed me a five-dollar bill, then he put his finger to his lips. I don’t why he gave me the money, I guessed he meant for me to keep it quiet.

  I did keep quiet, that’s what I did. After a couple of minutes, being as quiet as I could be, I climbed up the stairs, following the sound of their voices, and cu¬rious. Truth was, I was dreaming about what I could buy with those five dollars, not thinking what I might find. Then I heard Mama’s shrill laughter.

  Her bedroom door wasn’t closed all the way — I could see right inside. They were on the bed, with no clothes on! I felt sort sick at the sight of them, but stood there watching’ anyway. Suddenly, he looked right at me and winked that big wi
nk of his. I ran back downstairs gagging and trembling all over, the five dollars kicked right outtalk my head.

  A while later, when they came back downstairs, Uncle said goodbye to me, patting me on the head before walking out the door. As soon as he left, Mama came over to me and slapped me really hard across the face. It made my ears ring. I don’t know why she was so mad. She hissed at me through her teeth, a horrible, mean look on her face, “Give me that money, you filthy little bastard!” she snapped. I had to hand over my five dollars but I’ll get it back. I swear, I’ll get it back.

  Remember every son had a mother

  whose beloved son he was...

  - - Marge Piercy

  Mama wouldn’t let me go to school again to¬day. How does she expect I’ll learn anything? She wouldn’t let me go out in the yard either. I had to stay in my room all day. I had nothing to do ’cause she won’t let me have any books in there or anything. So I lay on the bed and dreamt about my fires. My place is down in the cellar now and I don’t have a window to look outside. It used to be upstairs, next to Mama’s room, but she doesn’t want me up there anymore, I don’t know why. Whenever Uncle comes over she orders me down to my ‘place’. She moved my bed down there right after Uncle gave me that five dollars. She still hasn’t given it back to me, even though I keep asking her for it. She gets really mad at me when I bug her for it, so I keep pestering, ’cause I like making her mad. Sometimes she tries to hit me, but mostly now I can dodge her. After awhile she gets tired and walks away, muttering, “I give up!”

  Fires can’t be made with dead embers…

  - - James Arthur Baldwin