Lady in Flames (11 page)

Burning? What does he mean? Isn’t he one of the boys from before?
Then it clicks with me—the fires of late. Could he be the one they call “Johnny Arson”?’

We stare at each other for several awkward seconds before I ask him to come in and shut the door. I’m not sure why I do this; I have little reference of who he is or what he wants. I only know that he looks tired. Maybe he recognizes this in me; maybe we have an understanding.

The boy shoves the door closed but remains near it, hands still crammed into his pockets.

“You’re welcome to sit down, son.” I nod toward a pew on the other side of the aisle.

The boy hesitates and then moves to sit one row back.

“Do you need somebody to talk to?” I’m not sure what else to say, but sense he needs an outlet.

The boy continues to look down at his feet as he scuffs the toe of his boot back and forth across a worn floorboard. “How did you know I was the one?”

“The one who started the fires?” My face aches with each syllable.

“Yeah.” He nods.

“I didn’t know. I thought you were someone else when you stepped in.” I pause to readjust the bent frames of my glasses. “Are the fires the reason you’re here?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t think anyone would look for me here, I guess.”

Of all the haunts or hideouts he might have chosen, he wandered into my church. The subtle providence in all of this isn’t lost on me. He’s not here to give his life to the Lord, but this could still be a turning point for him. Who knows what ripple effect a chance encounter might have?
Remember who you are
.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” he mumbles, not looking up.

“Do you have a home situation?”

The boy rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t connect with mine. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Not a good one? Do you live with your parents?” I try to coax dialogue from him, but realize it’s a fine line and it’s easy to push too hard.

“Just my mom. Dad’s not around. Never has been.” He cuts himself off, as if he has more to say but won’t. His mouth sets firm in a grim line.

“It’s OK to be angry about that. That’s not the way things are supposed to be.”

The boy spits back. “Yeah, well what is?”

I grant a nod of understanding. “There are many things that aren’t right; this world is topsy-turvy most of the time. But that’s where you find the beginning of an answer. Why do you think it makes you mad that things aren’t right?”

The boy shrugs, kicking at the same floorboard that sits higher than the rest.

“We all have a sense of justice built into us. Some of us skew it or don’t pay it much mind, but it’s there. We all have some sense of right and wrong. Why do you think that is?”

Another shrug.

“That’s alright. Most folks answer that way. The important thing is to recognize it in yourself—that’s a start. The cry for justice is an old one, but a lot of people don’t always succeed in their attempt to set things right.”

The boy looks up at me from under cautious eyelids. “I suppose I’ve tried to make things right in my own mind.”

“And what did you find?”

“I think I’ve pretty well made a mess of things.”

We reflect on that for a moment before I continue. “There’s a small voice in the heart of everyone. If you don’t listen for it, you’ll never hear it. It’s underneath your feelings, deep down past the clutter in your head. This voice—it’s not a compass so much as a nudge. It’s a prod to awaken and renew your mind.”

The boy sulks, mouth downturned. “I’m not that good at learning stuff.”

I shake my head. “You already know it, you’re just not aware of it. And if you pursue that voice far enough, you’ll come to see that a big part of justice is taking responsibility for your own actions.”

Words flow through me without effort; nagging bruises find themselves muffled by a second wind. I’m motivated only by the chance I see before me. The boy, unsettled and searching, sits with as much attentiveness as I might ever get from someone his age. I have to make it count; I have to see him on to a better path.
Remember who you are
.

“So you’re saying I should turn myself in?” The boy inserts a defensive edge into his voice.

“Setting things right starts with your desire to come clean with God and your fellow man.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” The boy looks away again.

I fear I’m losing him, but I can’t sugar-coat my words. “What then? Will you keep running? You keep running and I promise you whatever you’re running from will continue to chase you.”

The boy shakes his head in confusion. “I never wanted to hurt anybody, I mean, not for real, anyway.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe I can help him turn around while he still can. Like the man said, I might be the only part of hope this town sees.
Remember who you are
. “Most people don’t set out to hurt anyone, but the burden of consequence far outweighs your intentions—even if they’re good.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Again with the defensiveness.

I turn and lean back; exhaustion seeping into my limbs. Speaking with my head rested on the back of the pew, I admit that I don’t know. “Sometimes it’s not about feeling better. Sometimes it’s just about doing the right thing.”

We sit in silence for several minutes. An occasional warble of winter air shakes the old structure. Then without a word, the boy shuffles out of the pew and moves down the dusty aisle.

I listen to his plodding feet, hear the thud of the door, and fall into quiet prayer. I hope that I’ve planted a seed of promise. I may not be the one to water it and see it come to fruition, but someone else might. He may bear lasting fruits someday.

And I am eternally grateful that the Lord doesn’t give up on old dogs like me.

Plowed

February 27
th
, 2002 8:11 PM

Johnny Rollins walking into downtown

The ache in my feet throbs with each step, and there’s nothing I can do to shake the wet sting of the wind. The only thing I’m sicker of is the sound of my excuses. I’m a liar.

It’s one of those black nights where the moon doesn’t even shine through. I move from street light to street light, passing from glare to shadow. The light appears and disappears like my thoughts. I can’t decide what I should do.

The church shrinks behind me. I ditched Mom’s car near the diner in the middle of town, set out on foot, and hoped to hide somewhere no one would think to look for me—a place of worship.

I got more than I asked for. Talking with that preacher was about the craziest thing I could’ve done. I didn’t know he was going to be in there; I should’ve turned and run. There’s no sense in what I did.

Course there’s no sense in a lot of what I did today, and I finally admit that. Riding high on some carefree wave only lasts so long before you look back to see how messed up things get.

I thought I was in the right. Even though I had a gut-check a couple times, I thought I was justified in burning down the Lady. Burning the old folks’ home after that was easier because of it, but I still went back and forth about it during the ride there.

Maybe that was the small voice the preacher was talking about—his way of saying I should have known better. Whatever it was, it cemented itself in my mind after I leaned through a broken window and tossed the last Molotov cocktail into a supply room.

I had already doused the floor with gasoline, so it went quick. Turning, I darted along the back of the building and that’s when I saw
her
.

Some old woman was standing at her window, all wide-eyed and mouth hanging open, curlers tangled in silver hair. I think I startled her, and her old bones sure startled me. She didn’t expect to see some kid racing past, high-stepping through the snow.

I could tell she knew something was wrong; I could see it in her sagging eyes. She was afraid. And that’s when it hit me. There were real people in there. It sounds stupid, but I never thought about other people before.

My own fear shot through me. There was a good chance someone would die, and it would be my fault. I was so focused on Buck’s old man that I didn’t consider any of the other residents. I guess I assumed they’d get out somehow, but when I saw that woman, I knew that was a lie. She was probably somebody’s grandma…

I kept running, fists pumping as fast as my legs. Scrambled for the car like I was being chased by the cops. I sped away from there and never looked back like it would somehow disappear if I didn’t see it—like I wasn’t the one responsible if I wasn’t there to see it burn.

Firefighters might’ve caught the fire before it became a blaze. Or the flames might’ve raged out of control and turned the place to ash. I’m too scared to drive by and find out.

Frozen, exhausted, and guilty, I haven’t been home in hours, and I haven’t eaten. Mom’s probably up by now, cursing my ass because I never brought the car back. She’ll just have to deal with it.

I never thought I’d take advice from a preacher, but I think he’s right about not being able to outrun whatever it is I’m running from. It won’t bring Doppler back, and it won’t undo what I’ve done.

I’m still pissed, though, and I still hate this town. I don’t know if that will ever change, but hanging on to it wears me out. Halgraeve is never going to hate me back.

The town square lies ahead; the only signs of life are the winking glow of the bars and the taillights of a beater floating off down the road. It’s just like any other cold, lonely night where no one cares about anything other than tying one on.

My soggy boots squish their way onto the slushy walk. I hug the brick and round the corner into the square. Mom’s sorry, piss-ant car’s like I left it, now frozen shut. A payphone on a pole stands just beyond it. I should probably call her. It’s a start, anyway.

I fish in my pocket for a quarter as I step up to the mini-booth when I hear the chirp of tires from the right. I turn into blinding headlights and the wheeze of a strangled motor.

Racing toward me from the other side of the square is a dark van, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop.

Turning to run, I slip, lose my footing, and go down. The meaty parts of my palms slam onto icy concrete along with my knees. Scrambling, I trip over myself as the van draws a bead. I can’t get to my feet!

Limbs flailing, I dive and duck as the front wheels bite the curb and send the van airborne. It misses my feet by inches and slams into a glass storefront, splintering it into a million shards.

An enraged Buck glares down from the driver’s seat, eyes popping, veins bulging. His curses ring out in muffled anger from behind the window. He slams the van in reverse, never taking his eyes off me, and then steers around again.

I get off to an imbalanced dash and make it past a blue mailbox near the car.

Racing up the walk, the van tears the mailbox off its bolts in the cement.

I dive into a doorway and can hear Buck screaming from behind the wheel as the van slides to a stop. Once again the tires spin. I regain my footing and sprint back the way I came.

The van charges in reverse, eating up the sidewalk faster than I can put it behind me.

Diving for the street this time, I land hard behind a parked station wagon.

The van whips around, still in reverse, cutting a close corner around the back of the wagon and into the street.

I slide as far as I can under the rear of the wagon and escape the van’s crushing tires. Once clear, I try to slip out, but my coat snags something on the undercarriage. The heavy material holds fast as I jerk my arm like a snake’s got hold of it.

Buck steers the van screaming back toward me, his face a silent howl drowned out by the motor.

Then like a pile driver, a speeding pickup rams into the side of Buck’s van, spearing its snowplow into it. With screeching metal, it sends the van scraping along the street and crashing up against the curb. The van tilts up for a second, and then comes to a bouncing rest.

Behind the wheel, Buck looks up, mouth gaping. At first he looks stuck in a stupor, then his eyes widen like he’s come to his senses. They bug out of his pudgy face as he struggles with the gearshift. With hurried spurts, he rocks the van back and forth in its cramped position until he’s free. Then he steers between the wagon and the truck and on down the street, turning right and heading out of the square.

The truck opens and a bearded guy steps out, leaving the motor running. He pulls his hood over his head and blows into his cupped hands as he trots over.

“He’s on the run now; I think I scared him. What the hell’s going on?”

I manage to rip my arm free and stand, backing up a step or two. I look from the man, to his truck spewing exhaust, to Mom’s car up the street, and back to the man before deciding to turn and sprint for the car.

Loose Ends

February 27
th
, 2002 8:34 PM

The Driver cruising near downtown

Past the blunt, utilitarian dash and the rake of the cracked windshield lies a world that feels like it’s mine. The crust of salt-caked, deadened winter resonates with the emptiness inside me.

Yet with all my desire to immerse myself in this world, I’m left with an aching void, bereft of anything that will fill it. The hardened truths that guide my existence make a claim I cannot deny. This isn’t my world anymore.

Each time I interfere with the natural order of things, I’m left with a whisper of remorse and this longing. I get so close to those lives I touch that I almost feel their fears and drift in their dreams. I don’t care how tarnished their experiences are; I just want them to be mine for a little while.

And so goes the abuse of my office. I can justify my actions with whatever promises I made myself, but the secret nuances of my will twist them into something self-serving.

In the end, the rhythm of life fades to the nocturne of my phantom existence. I will not eat nor sleep tonight; I will pass immaterial from one plane to the next. All the while, the flame of doubt will pursue.