Burned Out

It was freezing outside, and I was smoking the cold while I waited for the door to the trailer to open. I took an imaginary drag from my fingers and blew out what I hoped to be a smoke ring, but it came out a mushroom cap. I was about to give it another go when Curry stuck his head out a window at the far end of the trailer.

“It’s open, what are you waiting for?”

“I don’t walk into people’s homes uninvited,” I answered. “It’s how you get shot.”

“Funny. Got wood?”

“In the car. I was seeing if you were alone first.”

“What time is it?”

“Around three.”

“I’m alone. Get the piece and haul ass before someone beats you to it.”

I went to the car, got the log, and returned to the trailer. This time I walked in without knocking. I warmed instantly and removed my hat and coat and gloves. Curry was still at the window but pulled his head in. He shut it and plopped down in a beach chair festooned with green cushions. Next to him was a compact wood-burning stove, and inside more ember than fire.

“Give me your offering.”

I passed him the log. He lifted it to his eyes and smiled.

“Birch. My favorite. You can stay.”

I took the beach chair across from him and watched as he opened the stove and tossed in the log. He kicked the hatch door closed and relaxed in the chair.

“What’s up?”

I listened to the snap and crackle of a fire happy to have new fuel to live on.

“I’m reading again.”

“I didn’t know you stopped.”

“I told you last time.”

“That was a few logs ago.”

I guess this is a good time to let you know more about Curry. To start, despite living in a trailer on a bleak lot in a bleak area outside Boston, he has money, lots of it. He made a pile as a commercial lobsterman, which is not an easy thing to do if your only source of income is lobsters. And before you go and presume that Curry’s wealth came from the trafficking of a different product altogether, I will tell you he became rich on the up and up, not only in a manner that was lawful, but which owed itself fully to the law. You see, Curry sued the government of Massachusetts, specifically the Marine Patrol, for a series of unwarranted stops and searches of his boat in the pursuit of his profession. It was a period of regular harassment causing him to experience acute anxiety, deep depression, and a significant loss of income which, according to his lawyer, came to about five million dollars in compensation.

Now you might think Curry’s claim far-fetched and excessive, and ordinarily you might be right. But the reality is that during the time they stopped his boat for no good reason, well, I’ll get to the no-good reason in a bit, Curry did endure acute anxiety, deep depression, and a significant loss of income. The only problem was that Curry had been experiencing all this for years, long before the lobster season in question. The jury, however, did not take this into account given two key pieces of evidence: a naked photo of a comely, mature woman, which, on the back, “Never forget I love you. B.” was handwritten. And a second photo, the entire frame consisting of a woman’s fist with middle finger raised, and on the back handwritten, in the same pen as the other: “Never forget I love you. B.”

B., it turned out, was short for Bernadette, who, coincidently, was a member of the Boston Harbor Marine Patrol. She admitted under oath that not only did she harass Curry, but she would do it again if given the chance.

Curry got his money. He sold his boat, bought the trailer, and, borrowing from FDR’s radio announcements to an anxious nation during World War II, began his own “fireside chats” as a way of moving on.

“How many are there now?”

Curry scrunched his face in concentration. When he released the muscles his skin held the wrinkles a moment before realizing they were free to spread out and hide.

“About ten regulars,” he said. “And another ten who come now and then.”

I nodded, impressed.

“What about today?”

“You’re the fourth.”

“My favorite number.”

“Mine’s five,” he said, smiling.

“I heard.”

The fire started to hiss.

“Want to know what I’m reading?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“If you want to tell me.”

“A Burnt-Out Case.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s by Graham Greene.”

Curry shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s British.”

“That’s supposed to mean something?”

This time, I shrugged my shoulders.

“I don’t read much anymore,” Curry said after a few more pops and snaps from the fire. “Too busy talking, I suppose.”

“You’re done working for good?”

He closed his eyes a moment, making me think I asked him a difficult question which he was giving much thought. But when he opened them and spoke, I realized it was not my query that distracted him, but something else.

“Do you remember Captain Al? He runs a boat, moored almost directly across from where I used to be in the harbor.”

I thought a moment. I had met Curry at the wharf, the summer before my final year of college, when I was running lobsters from the boats to a few restaurants in town. “Sort of. Tall guy?”

“That’s the one. He’s six-foot-five, easy.”

“What about him?”

“He came by about a week ago. He heard what I was up to and brought a piece of his boat to burn. A nice chunk of cedar planking from the hatch.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“Because he’s getting divorced and the boat is in his wife’s name; meaning she gets it. He told me was going to sink it, but the damn thing is stuck frozen in the ice right now, so he figures he’ll just gut it instead and let her have the husk.”

“Seems petty ... and possibly criminal.”

“That’s Captain Al. He’s not nice, but the cedar burned beautifully and smelled nice.”

“You don’t inform on companions as long as their wood is good?”

“Who am I to judge on anyone else?”

Curry eyed the stove. My birch was half gone and slimming fast.

“How’s things with your wife?”

I thought a moment before answering.

“Good. But she misses home.”

“Where’s that again?”

“Near Tampa. On the Gulf Coast.”

“Is that a problem?”

“You mean, would she rather be on a warm beach than freezing up here?”

Curry looked at me with the same expression as he did my log. I raised my hand to acknowledge my sarcasm wasn’t lost on him.

“No, it’s not a problem with us. We’re not fighting and we laugh a lot. I just worry I should be taking the hint and moving us down there.”

“What about work? You like your job, right?”

“I like the pay. How do you think I can afford birch?”

Curry saw my joke for what it was: I wanted to get off the subject. Gratefully, he let me.

“If you don’t mind, I got a story to share. But I warn you: it will finish your log.”

I nodded, somewhat relieved. “Please. I’m tired of hearing my own voice.”

“It’s about Captain Al. I didn’t tell you why he’s getting divorced. Want to guess?”

“Since she’s getting his boat and all, I’d say he cheated on her.”

“Close, in that he cheated, but it was not with a woman ... or a man. It was with an idea.”

I made a face.

“I know,” Curry said, “it sounds odd, but it’s what he told me. He said he was unfaithful because he had an idea that his wife might be better off without him as a husband. That didn’t mean he wanted to leave her or end up divorced. And he also was not in the mind to think she should be with someone else or alone. His idea was that he would stay with her, but as a friend and a lover, not as a legally wed husband. He figured if his wife saw him as something other than a husband, it would remind her of what he was before he was her husband. It would be reinvigorating for her, awaken old memories, desires, fears, insecurities, and lust. He thought it was a rebellious and sexy idea.”

There was a loud snap from the oven, and I saw my log, what was left of it, split into two parts, each the size of a flattened baseball.

“But she didn’t. His wife heard him out one night, didn’t see any merit in the idea, certainly didn’t consider it sexy, and basically withdrew into a stew for months until ...”

Curry paused, watching the fire burning itself out.

“What?”

“Until she met me. Captain Al’s wife was in the Marine Patrol.”

“His wife is Bernadette?”

“Bingo. The infamous B. We met and things got complicated.”

“And you got rich.”

“I guess you can say that.”

I made another face, but this time I spoke before Curry could answer the gesture. “And Captain Al came to see you. I mean, didn’t you think he might bean you with the cedar rather than give it up as a gift?”

Curry shrugged. “It’s the rule I made to myself: if someone comes with an offering of wood for my fire, I let them in to talk.”

“You took a risk.”

“More like I’ve given up worrying what is right or wrong, what is risky or isn’t risky. I just live by a simple rule and let the chips fall as they will.”

“Ash, you mean.”

“Touché.”

I looked at the stove. There was just a lick of flame on two small cups of embers.

“Looks like my time is up?”

Curry nodded.

“It’s been good.”

“Yeah.”

I stood, my legs a little tight from sitting.

“You know,” I said. “You should read that book I was talking about: A Burnt-Out Case. It’s a little bit like the story you told me.”

“Captain Al’s idea?”

“More like you in this trailer.”

“How so?”

“You’ll have to read it for yourself. What do you say?”

Curry bit at his lip.

“Okay. Bring it with you next time. But one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I get to burn it after.”

“Deal.”

I bundled up and went out the door. Coming toward me, toward the trailer, was a woman wearing a full-body parka. In her hand was a large wooden baseball bat. It was an interesting item to offer to Curry’s fire. But I gave it no more thought as we passed.