Oren
Kay raked her fingernails down her cheeks as if the blood underneath needed airing. She tried to do it again, but Walter grabbed her hands. ‘No’ – his voice was hoarse – ‘no.’ They stood in the yard, their faces grimy and their eyes red from the smoke, because what good would come from going inside the house? What good would come from going anywhere? Right now they were lost. They were nowhere – which was where they belonged.
They wouldn’t recognize me now. I knew that. Not until I pulled off my death mask. Smoke in their eyes. Fire in their eyes. Grief. They would see only themselves – lost.
The studio fire had burned inward as if seeking a pure point of light, and now, as the sun rose over the hill, dazzling on the damp haze of the night that had just passed, only a black scar remained on the ground, with a curl of smoke and then a hiss from an ember. The oak branches over the studio had flared, and the charred and blackened wooden stubs looked like deformities.
At the height of the fire, Lane Charles had run across the yard as if he could do anything. ‘I called the fire department,’ he said, as if they could do anything. When the two fire trucks came, all that was left of the studio was a pile of flames, nothing worth putting out. The firemen stood with the rest of us, watching the flames lick at the night, and then they climbed back into their trucks and drove away.
Then Lane Charles pulled me aside. Behind his glasses, his eyes were small and damp. ‘This is a hell of a thing,’ he said. ‘A hell of a way to come home.’
‘I read your book,’ I said.
‘I wrote that when I was a young man,’ he said. ‘I had sex in my blood.’
‘It made sense to me,’ I said.
‘I see that,’ he said. ‘But you just burned a lifetime of work.’
I wasn’t getting on that ride. I asked, ‘Have you seen Walter with my dad’s guns?’ Before walking downstairs and into the yard, I had gone into Kay’s bedroom. I had looked in the closet and checked under the bed. I had opened the dresser drawers, Walter’s and Kay’s. I should have been happy when I found nothing, but a wave of fear had passed through me. Why hadn’t Walter pulled out a big weapon? Unless he’d put the guns in the attic or hidden them in the pine woods, I didn’t know where they could be.
‘No guns except that pea shooter,’ Lane Charles said. He stared at me with those damp eyes. ‘I’ve come to wonder if there’s any honor in vengeance. Maybe you should lance the wound and let it heal.’
I said, ‘You would do that after all they’ve done?’
‘Me personally?’ he said. ‘I’m talking about you.’
He left then, promising to return later, and Paul came to me. ‘Looks like a heavy wind blew through last night,’ he said.
I was sweating, though the morning was cool. ‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Looks like it tore your mother out by the roots,’ he said.
‘It’s progress,’ I said. I felt light-headed.
‘No telling what a woman will do when she gets ripped out like that,’ Paul said. ‘No telling what Walter might do either.’
‘I wouldn’t mind having Jimmy and Robert and Carol here right now,’ I said.
‘Soon enough,’ he said.
‘Get Cristofer out of here for a while, will you?’ I said.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘And Lexi?’
‘She stays,’ I said. ‘She’s still undecided.’
Now, in the early sun, Walter put an arm around Kay and led her toward the porch. With tears in her eyes, she told me, ‘I don’t know about you.’
‘What’s to know?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Walter said to me, ‘You can leave.’
I said, ‘I’ll help clean up.’
‘Unnecessary,’ he said.
‘As you wish,’ I said, as if his wishes counted. I went upstairs and came back down with my overnight bag. But Paul was already gone with Cristofer. When I told Walter that my ride was missing, he went into the house, came out again, and called for Paul and Cristofer toward the pine woods. He looked at me as if he knew I had made them disappear. So I said, ‘You could drive me to the airport.’
He looked at Kay. She had raked her fingernails down her face again. He said, ‘I’ve got my hands full.’
‘Fine,’ I said, and took my bag back upstairs.
When I settled on the porch swing, Lexi sat down next to me with her Bible. ‘What did you do?’ she whispered.
I took the Bible from her and fingered the locked strap. ‘Too many secrets, right?’ I said. ‘Is it time to reveal everything?’ I put a finger between the Bible and the strap and tugged.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
But I tugged again and the strap broke. ‘Now I know everything,’ I said.
She tried to grab the Bible.
‘Is it time to pull off the scabs?’ I asked. ‘Your mother likes to do that. At least she can’t help doing it. Is it time to let the skin bleed?’
Lexi said, ‘Give me the—’
I held the Bible away from her.
So she hit me in the mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Give it back.’
I opened the cover. ‘Ahh,’ I said.
‘It’s mine.’ She looked like she would cry.
I opened the book – Great American Stories – and read, ‘As the last crimson tint of the birthmark – that sole token of human imperfection – faded from her cheek, the parting breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenward flight.’ I felt light-headed, from the smoke, from sleeplessness, from the wildness of the past night. I slapped the book shut and threw it off the porch.
Lexi jumped into the yard and got the book from the sandy dirt. Its old binding was broken. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she yelled.