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.