Pyro (4 page)

People head home. The old lady is holding her handkerchief like a gas mask over her mouth and nose. Her husband is holding on to her elbow, but before they go, he peers over his shoulder for one last look at the fire. He waves when he catches me looking at him.

When the fire is out and the volunteers are trudging back to the truck, Dad claps each of them on the shoulder. “Nice work,” he says.

The spectators who are left give the volunteers a round of applause. “Thank you,” someone in the crowd calls out.

Terry takes a bow. What a jerk!

Dad offers me a ride, but I tell him I'd rather skateboard.

I've got one foot on my skateboard when someone taps my shoulder. I thought Terry didn't know who I was.

“Hey, kid,” he says. It's the first time he hasn't called me
squirt
. “I want to offer my condolences about your old lady moving out.” But the look on Terry's face isn't too sympathetic.

“Thanks,” I tell him, “but I've got to go.”

Terry shakes his head. “It must be a real bummer for you. I wondered why she was hanging out so much over by the beauty salon.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

As I take off on my skateboard, I remember how Dad said “Nice work” to the volunteer firefighters. Of course, he meant Terry too.

I'm the one who deserved the compliment. They put out the fire, but hey, I'm the one who started it.

Chapter Eight

It's Wednesday, and I'm meeting Mom for supper at the Acropolis. I can't say I'm in the mood to hang out with her, but I am in the mood for souvlaki on pita.

Dad is watching the news when I leave. “Have yourself a good night, Franklin,” he calls from the cupcake sofa. He hasn't mentioned Mom since she left on Sunday. When I told him I was meeting her for supper, he just nodded like a robot. Sometimes I don't blame Mom for falling for somebody else.

Everything about the Acropolis is blue and white, even the porch outside. Bob is standing there, sucking on a cigarette. He's got spiky hair and a sunburned face that's wrinkled from being outside all day. I don't bother saying hi. He's busy talking to himself. “That's what I told her,” I hear him say, “but she wouldn't listen. She never listened.” What a loser!

I smell Mom's perfume before I see her. She's sitting by the window, drinking a glass of white wine. Her hair is perfectly straight. She stands up when she sees me come in. “Hey, Franklin,” she says, moving in for a hug.

I duck to dodge the hug and sit down across from her. “Hey, Mom.”

“How're you doing, Franklin? How's your dad?” It bugs me that she sounds like she cares, even though I know she doesn't.

I don't like the feeling of her eyes on my face. “We're great. Just great.”

Mom doesn't get sarcasm. She gives me this sad smile. How, I wonder, am I going to get through this meal?

Luckily, the waitress comes to take our order. Souvlaki pitas and a Greek salad for two, thank you very much, and yes, we're done with the menus. “Is it just the two of you tonight?” the waitress asks. “Mom and son date night?”

I nearly choke on my water.

“That's right,” Mom says in a too-bright voice. “Date night.”

Mom unfolds her blue and white napkin. There's a stubby white candle in a blue candleholder on our table. The wick is low, but I study the flame, which is blue and steady.

“I heard you went to Sunday school.”

“Who told you that?”

“Joan mentioned it.” Joan is Mrs. Ledoux. “She said you went out of your way to help a girl who had stage fright.”

“I didn't go out of my way. Mrs. Ledoux made me do it.”

Mom smoothes the napkin on her lap. “I guess she left out that part.” She reaches a hand across the table. I pull my hands back and stuff them in my pockets. The last thing I want to do is hold hands with my mother.

“You know, Franklin,” Mom says, lowering her voice, “I worry about you. About the kind of person you're becoming.”

“Isn't it a little late for that?”

Mom bites her lip. “Look, Franklin. You and I need to, well, start over. Find our way back to each other.”

“Are you talking about you and me, or you and Dad?” I don't realize I've raised my voice until two women sitting at a nearby table turn to look. I glare at them, and they go back to their own conversation.

“No,” Mom says, “I'm talking about us, Franklin. You and me. It's my fault entirely. I've been, well, I guess you could say, distracted.”

That makes me laugh. “Distracted? That's the understatement of the year.”

That's when Mom starts tearing up. I refuse to feel sorry for her. If she wants to cry right here in the Acropolis, let her. What do I care?

Mom dabs her eyes with her napkin. I don't need to look at the two ladies next to us to know they are lapping this up like it's some reality show.
Your
Mother's a Dummy. And Your Dad's No
Better. No Wonder You Start Fires.

Just when I think things can't get any worse, I notice this guy walking into the Acropolis. His hair (shoulder-length, blond) reminds me of the guys on the covers of Mom's romance books. Only this guy's wearing a shirt. The heroes on the covers of Mom's books are always bare-chested and built like Schwarzenegger. Why is this guy coming over to our table? And why is Mom blushing like a girl in grade two?

I relax when I realize I know the guy. It's James. Mom's hairdresser. He's been doing her hair since forever. When I was a kid, she'd make me go to the salon with her. Man, was that boring.

“James? What are you doing here?” Mom's smile doesn't look small or sad or forced. I guess over the years, she and James have gotten friendly. Does that mean he knows about her and Dad?

James reeks of hairspray. When he smiles, you can see all his teeth. “Well, you mentioned you'd be having dinner here with Franklin tonight and so…” James lets his voice trail off. “You two mind if I pull up a chair?”

“I don't mind,” Mom says. “Is it okay with you, Franklin? I know we were having mother-son time.”

“I don't mind.” Actually, I'm relieved. Now Mom will have someone else to talk to.

The waitress comes with the Greek salad and our souvlakis. I take a giant bite out of mine. I can feel the tzatziki dripping down my chin.

James brings a chair over to Mom's side of the table. “You smell nice,” he tells her. Then he looks up at me. “You're looking good, Franklin. Is that your skateboard out on the porch?”

“Yeah. I got it for my birthday. From Mom and Dad.”

“It's pretty cool. Maybe one of these days you can show me some skateboard moves. I've always wanted to try.”

Something about the way Mom looks at James when he says that makes me look at James in a different way. I'd always figured James was gay. I mean, aren't all male hairdressers gay? Especially the ones who dress fancy? I lean in closer to the table. Mom and James's knees are touching. I can feel my heart starting to race inside my chest.

My mom's been getting it on with
her hairdresser.
I suddenly remember what Terry said the other day—that he couldn't understand why my mom was hanging out so much at the beauty salon. So Terry must have figured it out before I did.

Now I'm starting to think something else too. James didn't
happen
to drop by the Acropolis. I'll bet the two of them had this planned.

Even though I haven't finished my souvlaki, I get up from the table. “I gotta go,” I tell Mom. I make a point of not looking at James.

“Is something wrong?” Mom asks.

That's when I lose it. “He's Honey, isn't he?”

James is standing up now too. “It isn't what you think. Your mom and I really care for each—”

“Stop it!” Mom says to James. “This is no way to explain things to Franklin.”

“I gotta go.” I think I'm going to be sick.

Bob is still out on the blue and white porch. He's leaning against the railings, counting the stars in the summer sky.

Chapter Nine

On my way home, I notice a bunch of Dad's campaign posters. There he is, beaming at me from telephone and electrical poles along Westminster Avenue.
Ted Westcott Is Your Man
. Maybe, I think, but he isn't his wife's man, not anymore.

I pat my pocket where the matches are. This time, a trash-can fire is not going to satisfy me. I need more flames, more smoke. I need to start a real fire. The thought of all those flames and all that smoke helps take my mind off Mom and you-know-who.

I haven't figured out where to start a bigger fire. I don't want anyone to get hurt. That's not how I operate.

I remember Dad mentioning the abandoned clubhouse on the old golf course. With a little gasoline, that heap of wood would go up in flames. My spine tingles when I picture it.

This fire is going to take more preparation than usual. I'll need to get gasoline. Dad's got an old tin canister in the garage. I could take it to the gas station, tell them we ran out of gas for the truck.

But what if I run into Mr. Cummings? He owns the gas station and is often there till nine or ten at night. If I tell him we've run out of gas, he might say something to Mom or Dad. No, I'd better wait till later.

Dad is on the phone when I get home. He's eating pizza straight from the box. When he sees me, he gives me a thumbs-up. “Big break!” he says, mouthing the words.

“That's terrific news!” I hear Dad say. “The timing couldn't be better—what with the election posters going up. All right then, thanks for everything. We'll all sleep better tonight.”

Dad doesn't bother putting the portable phone back on the cradle, the way Mom is always telling us to. He also hasn't kept the newspapers in a neat pile or closed the curtains the way Mom does every night.

He plops down in his easy chair and sighs. “Looks like we caught the guy. I might owe my re-election to Bob.”

“Bob?” I ask.

Maybe Bob helped Dad hang posters.

“Yeah. Looks like he's our pyro. The police picked him up for questioning. They think they've got a positive id on him from a picture taken the night of the trash-can fire. Turns out all Bob wears is a beat-up black sweatshirt. Plus, witnesses put him at the grass fire on Sunday.”

“I don't think Bob—” I stop myself.

“What's that?” Dad asks as he heads into the kitchen.

“Nah, it's nothing,” I say. “That's great that you caught the guy.”

Dad comes back with a cold beer for himself and a Coke for me. “The timing couldn't be better,” he says, sinking back into his chair. He lifts the beer into the air. “Here's to Bob!”

“To Bob!” I add, toasting the poor sucker with my Coke. I wish I could tell Dad about my night. About what a lousy time I had with Mom and how it got lousier after James showed up.

Dad burps. He'd never do that around Mom. Or if he did, he'd apologize.

Dad looks at me. “How'd your mom seem?”

“Fine.” It's a dumb answer, but I can't think of a better one.

“Glad to hear it. Hey, did you see any of the election posters on your way home tonight? Waddaya think of that new photograph?”

Dad falls asleep in his easy chair. He has slept in the chair every night since Mom left. I throw out the pizza and put Dad's empty beer bottle and my Coke can in the closet, where Mom stores bottles to return. Who's going to take them back to the store now? We could leave them at the curb and let Bob collect them. But Bob might not be collecting empties for a while, not if he goes to jail.

I try not to make any noise when I go into the garage. The canister is on a shelf at the back near a pile of campaign posters left over from Dad's last election. I shine my flashlight on the old photograph of Dad. He's smiling here too, but the smile looks happier, more relaxed. I wonder when things changed for him—and Mom.

I decide not to go to Mr. Cummings's gas station in case he's working late. Besides, it's a good night for skateboarding, and it will only take me ten more minutes to get to the Petro-Canada on St. Jacques Street. It's close to the highway, so it's popular with truckers. No one there will remember a kid whose dad's truck ran out of gas.

Chapter Ten

The lot at Petro-Can is so full of cars and trucks that I have to wait. One trucker yawns while he fills up. Another stretches his arms. He's probably been driving all day.

When I get a pump, I'm careful not to dribble any gasoline. The sharp smell makes the little hairs inside my nose stand up. Eight dollars' worth. This stuff isn't cheap.

I bring the canister with me into the glass booth where the cashier is. I don't think much of it when I see a head of reddish-brown hair behind the counter. I can't see the cashier's face because she's doing a crossword. It's the hot pink ukulele case on the shelf behind the cash register that clues me in.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.

I didn't notice before how green Tracy's eyes are. “What do you mean? I work here. What are
you
doing here?”

“I, uh, came to get some, er, gasoline. My dad ran out of gas. Mom always told him to fill up when the truck's down to a quarter of a tank, but, well, with Mom gone…” I'm babbling. Why do I do that around Tracy?

She gives me a sharp look.

“I was at pump”—I turn around to look out the window and check the number on the pump—“three.”

“That'll be eight dollars.”

I hand Tracy a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks,” I say when she gives me my change.

“Have a nice evening. Come back and see us again.” As soon as she says that, Tracy covers her mouth. “Oops, I didn't mean to say that. That's what I'm supposed to say to customers, but you're, well, my friend, kind of.”