Lady in Flames (5 page)

The narrow kitchen is cramped by most standards. Dark cabinetry closing in from either side adds to the effect. The dinge of yellow and green tile never seemed to match them, but that’s one of the standard, outdated features you get with any crummy first house.

Standing near the sink, maybe six feet from her, I turn to fill the old-school stainless steel percolator with fresh grounds. The firm pressure of my gun holds fast in my waistband. I slipped it back into place on our way into the house. I’m not ready to stand down yet; my nerves continue to buzz.

Summers spent camping with my dad nurtured my obsession with readiness. Beyond the preparedness required to rough it, there were nights when my dad would sit near the tent, listening again for the slightest quiver in the brush. Maybe it was only the drunk teenagers we passed down trail that afternoon. Or it could have been a buck on a midnight stroll.

My young mind imagined the worst. I think Dad’s did too. He lofted the safety of his family above all else. Anyone could see it in the focused scanning of his eyes when he and my mother were about. I guess I inherited his overprotective nature too, except I usually don’t have anyone to keep track of but myself.

Maybe I’m overcompensating for having someone to look after tonight, even if only for a short time. Melissa and I have a few passing, awkward moments while we wait for the wrecker, and then I’ll be left with a pile of what-ifs.

The percolator snorts with long, watery burbles. It’s an obnoxious intrusion into the delicate silence between us and reminds me that we’re two people who don’t know each other anymore. There’s some sense of familiarity, but it’s skewed and out of focus.

We used to be worth something—the sum of her and me together. Sticky summer nights when I’d swing by the frozen custard stand after she got off work…the biting autumn scents as the sun went down over the football field, sitting close enough I could smell her shampoo…

A frantic rapping at the door interjects. A flash of heat surges beneath my collar. Both our heads turn in agitated surprise, at first hesitant to respond.

“Are you expecting anyone?” The whites of Melissa’s eyes show more prominent than ever. The fragile edge to her voice tells me she’s ill at ease.

“No…no I’m not.” I step to the door just outside the kitchen, wondering who would be calling at this hour. I’ve stomached all the nonsense I can for a night and won’t tolerate it on my doorstep.

A few possibilities present themselves as I unlock the deadbolt and twist the knob. The first is that Willis Freed followed us home and I’ll find him simpering on the other side. The second is that there will be a group of those bastard kids, slinking in the darkness.

I’m wrong. Standing in the weak glow of the lone lamplight, breathing in quick rasps, is a pale Mordecai Mothersbaugh. I know him to see him, but we’ve never exchanged words.

Mordecai opens his mouth but pauses, as if he’s not sure how he’ll say what he wants. He turns to look over his right shoulder before he speaks. “I…would you mind if I stepped in from the cold for a bit? I saw your light on…”

Somewhat caught off-guard, I comply, stepping backward to let him in.

“The wind is brutal,” he says as if to justify his request. A few dark locks remain plastered to his forehead as he brushes back a disheveled tangle. His round glasses fog in the warmth. Stomping his good leg, snow falls in clumps on the coarse, woven rug.

“Yeah, I guess it’s one of those nights.” I hesitate for a moment, not sure what to say. “Would you like some coffee?”

Mordecai removes his glasses and wipes them on a white handkerchief. “Yes—thank you…” His mouth hangs open as if to say more.

“You’re welcome to have a seat,” I say as I lead him into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry.” He halts when he sees Melissa still huddled beneath her coat. “Am I intruding?”

“Oh, no—we’re not…” Melissa’s voice rises, apologetic as if she has to explain why she’s here, then trails off. “We’re just waiting.”

Mordecai drops into the seat opposite Melissa, heaving a sigh as he does so. “I suppose we’re all waiting.” He breathes at an even pace; he seems to have regained his composure.

I place a steaming mug in front of him. “Waiting for what?”

Mordecai looks up, eyebrows raised. “Waiting for the wind to change, waiting for an excuse, waiting for the Lord to stir something inside you… Everybody is waiting for something.”

I lean against the counter with my own mug. He speaks so matter of fact that I wonder if he’s used to having people take him at his word.

He’s a preacher of course, so he probably likes having an audience. Not that I have anything against religion…it’s just that I don’t need a lecture.

Melissa maintains a fixed gaze on him, the lines in her face now relaxed, suggesting she’s comforted by his presence. “Can I ask you a question?”

Mordecai tips his head with a respectful nod.

“What would you say to a person who’s waiting for relief?”

“Relief from what?”

“Anything. Everything…” Melissa tucks an unruly strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and looks down at her mug. She tapered off her words as quick as she spoke them, cheeks flushed

Mordecai doesn’t reply at first. He sips his coffee and replaces his mug on the table between his cupped hands. “I knew your mother, didn’t I?”

“Yes sir, I think so.” Melissa nods.

“Sweet woman,” Mordecai says before pausing again.

I blend into the background; neither acknowledges that I’m still standing here. I’m ready to grab a chair and break the silence when Mordecai directs another question at Melissa.

“You’re the oldest, aren’t you?”

“Yes…two younger brothers and a baby sister. Well, she’s not a baby anymore, but you know what I mean.”

“You probably looked after them quite a bit, the years your mother was sick.” Mordecai shifts forward on his elbows, sliding his mug forward to make room.

Melissa nods, biting her lip. “Practically raised them on my own.”

“Do you still keep after them?”

“It’s hard to. Jack pretty much does his own thing now that he’s eighteen. Jeremy I worry about—he got his girlfriend pregnant and neither one of them has a job because they’re both still in school. She’s due in March and I don’t know how they’ll manage. They’ve got no money.”

“And the youngest?” Mordecai takes another swig.

“Darcy is a free spirit. Her head is in the clouds most of the time. She’s so trusting… I try to keep her aware of her surroundings so she’s not taken advantage of, but she’s got her own way about her.”

Mordecai doesn’t let up. His questions are simple but searching as he maintains focus on Melissa. “What about you? Do you keep after yourself?”

It’s clear Melissa treats this as a loaded question. Her lips seal shut and her face trembles the slightest bit. Once again she peers into her mug. “I…I do my best.”

“But you think you can do better?”

“Everything’s really overwhelming, you know? The bills are high enough as it is and I’m afraid I’ll have to get a second job if Jeremy’s going to have a baby in the house. It’s up to me to keep food on the table and make sure everyone’s homework is done. For the longest time I couldn’t stay awake and so I started taking uppers.” Melissa winces as if she’s afraid he’ll come down hard on her. “Now I don’t know if I can function without them.”

“Do you have any supportive relationships?” Mordecai leans back, as if to lessen the pressure of his presence.

“I’m trying to get out of an abusive one. I’ve been seeing this guy for a year and a half and…” Melissa trails off, shoulders slack. “Maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places.”

I tense up at that, partly because I’m shocked she’s pouring herself out like this and partly because the thought of someone smacking her around flips the rage switch in my brain. Hitting a woman is something you just don’t do. That’s the way I was raised and I’ll gladly pound my opinion into anyone who needs to hear it.

Melissa doesn’t notice my shift in posture as she shakes her head. “On top of that, no one can leave their house anymore without worrying they’ll be attacked. Not with those awful kids roaming around.”

Mordecai nods in agreement. “Yes, there’s something terrible in what they do. I suspect it will get worse before it gets better.” His answer lies between us like a mess no one wants to clean up.

“Are we strong enough? I mean, as people, are we… Is this all we get? It just seems like it’s always a downward slope.” Melissa’s eyes turn up in a questioning plea.

Mordecai rubs a calloused hand across his heel of a chin. “The Lord calls us to persevere. Sometimes that’s all we’ve got; sometimes that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Persevere?” I say. Mordecai’s words ring a bit hollow to me.

Turning in my direction, he takes my challenge in stride, his reply calm but firm. “The Word is full of examples how small groups of people hold fast to the truth. Their influence always sends a ripple farther than you or I might have expected.”

I’m more inclined to think we as people should take action and not just sit by and watch each other unravel, tear ourselves apart, or fold under the latest fear. Still, the weight of Melissa’s question isn’t lost on me. The familiar stranger and broken down preacher sitting in my kitchen hammer the load down with equal force.

I fade into the background again while Mordecai prattles on about faith. He does his best to bolster Melissa’s confidence and invites her to Sunday services.

The phone rings before she can answer.

Give ’Em What They Deserve, Johnny

February 27
th
, 2002 4:46 AM

Johnny Rollins’ bedroom

I slept for a few hours. Bruises wouldn’t let me sleep forever, though. Each time I rolled over, there was another howling pain in my stomach or side. Now awake, my head throbs a bit, kind of like the time I drank a bottle of Mad Dog on New Year’s. It’s all I could get my hands on.

My bedroom isn’t much of a room. It’s more like half a room. Between the piles of clothes and the particle board dresser I’ve had since two, there’s hardly space to stand. Made use of every inch of the walls, though. My favorite bands are plastered on each side.

Usually I’d be getting up for school in a few hours, but not today. It doesn’t matter to me, the detentions and stuff like that. I’m going to give Buck Armstrong what he has coming to him.

That fat bastard asked for it. He wants to push me around like some snot-nosed kid? I’m not the little shit he thinks I am. He can’t work me over and expect I’ll just take it. I’m not one of his barstool buddies.

When I picture Buck’s puffy face, breathing heavy and slick with sweat, I want to bring him down a notch. He’s a nobody—a nothing—and I’m going to take away what means most to him.

The sun hasn’t crept up yet. I swear it’s all the colder for it. I sit up, toss off the thin quilted blanket, and swing stiff legs over the side of the bed. Mom doesn’t work today, so she won’t need the car.

I slip into my jeans from yesterday and pull on a faded black hoodie from the clean pile. Mom’s probably hammered, but I creep into the hallway anyway, laces tucked in to my boots.

In the kitchen, I snatch a Pop-Tart from the cupboard and the car keys from the table. My brown work jacket hangs on the chair where I left it. A black stocking cap droops out of the left pocket.

With one arm in a sleeve and keys in the other hand, I ease the door open and shut as quiet as I can. Mom forgot to lock it, so it’s not too noisy.

I wiggle my other arm into the dangling sleeve and step soft along the hall, down two flights of stairs, and out into the cold. Fresh snow crinkles underfoot. There’s a few inches.

Our old Pontiac Grand Prix sits half-buried in a drift. I wipe snow off the windows the best I can with the sleeves of my coat. Inside, cigarette ash litters the faded seat covers torn and worn thin. The motor hacks like it’s got its own smoker’s cough.

The snow makes for slow going because nothing’s been plowed yet. Dragging and sloshing through the thick white muck, the balding tires do their best to keep up with my steering. I don’t waste time thinking about crashing because there’s nothing that can stop me now. I made up my mind about what’s got to be done.

This worthless town sleeps, dumb and unaware. Unlit homes line the road, framed in my frosty windows like some reject winter scene. The endless white stretches out with no one but me to take it in, like it’s there for me to make sense of it.

Halgraeve makes me want to puke. It’s a bunch of dead-ends, one wrong turn after another. People are born here and then they rot, but not before making each other miserable. I’m not sorry for burning any of it. Never have been.

I’ll burn this whole town if I have to. I was content for a while to mind my own business, to leave well enough alone. Now I’d set anyone’s place on fire without a second thought. I’ve been shoved too far in the wrong direction and I’m not coming back.

Zig-zagging my way across two-way stops, I ditch the main drag and drop onto a service road that runs near the railway. Lifeless stumps peek up from under the heavy snow on either side of the road. Lifeless like this garbage town.

The hardware won’t open until six, so I’ve got time to get in and grab what I need. Fire is simple. Turpentine will do—so will kerosene. I can get matches anywhere. Whichever way, I want it to be big, fast, and hot.

In an alley that runs behind a stretch of grimy buildings, I pass a yellowed block feed store and the rear stoop of the barber shop before I reach the hardware. I steer into the empty back lot while the car tries to slide tail-out.

Skating to a halt, I leave the car crooked in the middle of the lot and trudge up to the rear of the store. The flimsy storm door barely latches; I yank it out of the way so I can work on the rotted, wooden inner door.

Ramming my shoulder into it doesn’t do anything more than make it groan. I hoped it would give way easier than this; I pictured the faded blue paint splintering in cracked slivers. No such luck.

Old man Maynard doesn’t worry too much about security. He doesn’t worry too much about his tools either. Near the trash bin, I spot a crow bar sticking out of the snow on a pile of busted-up pallets and crates.