Lexi
Cristofer and Paul the driver were still gone at noon. Edgar Allan walked out to the bridge to use his cell phone. When he came back he sat on the porch swing. Mom was lying on the ground by the charred wood and ash where her studio had been. Dirt streaked her face. She’d scratched her cheeks bloody. Her eyes were red. Her legs were splayed. Tilson had come into the yard to see what he could do but Walter had sent him away. Now Walter was up on the house with a bucket of tar. Painting the roof with a thick slick black coat. As if that would repair the damage done.
Because tar had held the house together for a hundred and fifty years.
It had kept out summer winds and rain. It had warmed against the winter cold. Once it had blunted a pine tree that fell through the front roof in a lightning storm. Mom said it had held out a hurricane that swept over the island when her dad was a boy. Swept over but mostly stayed outside of the tar-sealed walls. Leaked in only through the rag-stuffed cracks between the door and the doorframe.
I answered the phone when the policeman Daniel Turner called again from the bridge. Then I walked over the hill without asking Walter. Daniel Turner drove in. Swung his car close to the porch. Walked over to the black fire scar. He scuffed the ashes with a shoe. A curl of smoke rose. He smelled the air like a hunter or tracker. He looked at Mom. Came back to the house.
He called up to Walter on the roof. ‘You weren’t going to report this?’
Walter looked at him. Looked at his tar-brush. Looked back at him like he was thinking of throwing tar on him. He said, ‘The fire department knew. If they needed to tell you, they would. Is it a crime to burn down a shed?’
‘Depends on how it burns,’ Daniel Turner said. ‘Depends on if it’s insured or the paintings are. Depends on if anyone gets hurt.’
Walter said, ‘It burned fast and hot. No insurance. No one hurt.’
‘Who started it?’ Daniel Turner asked.
‘It’s got to be a who?’ Walter said.
Daniel Turner had sweat on his forehead. The bottom of his neck was pink where the sun or his collar had bothered it. ‘What started it then?’ he asked.
Walter pointed the brush at the hill. He said, ‘You can let yourself out.’
‘I don’t know why you won’t talk to me,’ Daniel Turner said.
‘The gate is where it’s always been,’ Walter said. ‘Lock it behind you.’ He dipped the brush into the can of tar and started painting the roof again.
Daniel Turner went back to Mom and sat on the ground. Her scratched face was raw. Her eyes seemed to look into her brain. ‘Hey,’ he said. Kindly. When she didn’t answer he asked, ‘Did you lose everything?’ Still no answer. ‘Where is Cristofer?’ he asked.
That brought her back from wherever she was hiding. ‘Don’t blame him,’ she said. ‘He was sleeping when it started.’
He nodded. But asked, ‘Where is he?’
She sank into herself.
‘No one would hold him accountable,’ he said. ‘But if he’s a danger …’
Nothing.
He stood and wiped the dust and sand off the seat of his pants. He said, ‘A big fire for a small building.’
Mom cocked her head like she was just realizing who she was talking to. ‘I smoke,’ she said. ‘I use oil-based paints. I use turpentine.’
‘You smoked inside the shed?’ Daniel Turner said.
‘All the time,’ Mom said.
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘I smoke,’ she said.
Walter stood at the peak of the roof. And said, ‘Get off the property unless you have a legal reason to be here.’
Daniel Turner said back, ‘Where’s Cristofer?’
Walter said nothing.
Daniel Turner wiped the sweat off his neck. He went to the porch. ‘What did you see?’ he asked Edgar Allan.
Edgar Allan said, ‘Last night?’
Daniel Turner sighed. ‘Yes. Last night.’
Edgar Allan seemed to think about it. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I was sleeping. Then the shed caught fire.’
‘And you didn’t see what made it catch fire?’ Daniel Turner asked.
Again he seemed to think. ‘No.’
Daniel Turner ran his hand over his scalp. ‘You’re a bunch of fools,’ he said. ‘I should leave you to yourselves. You deserve no more.’
‘Nothing we would like better,’ Walter said.
But Daniel Turner spoke to Edgar Allan. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘These people call me Edgar Allan,’ he said.
‘Do they? And what do others call you?’
‘Which others?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be smart,’ Daniel Turner said. ‘What’s your legal name?’
Once more he thought. ‘I’m not sure I have one,’ he said. ‘Strictly speaking.’
Daniel Turner spit on the ground. ‘You deserve whatever you get,’ he said. He went back to his car and drove out over the hill. Kicking up a cloud of sand and dust so thick and yellow it looked like it should rain.
Walter said to me, ‘Next time the detective comes you don’t let him in the gate. I don’t care if I’m dying.’