Arson (10 page)

 

Chapter 17

 

 

YEARS HAD COME AND gone since Grandma Kay had been on an actual date. Decades. She didn't really understand anything Arson conveyed during the hectic moments when he'd rushed through the screen door, dripping with sweat from the bike ride home.

He quickly found the best thing he owned, sprayed his body with cheap cologne, and brushed his teeth. Ready just in time to be a half hour late.

Grandma was on the recliner with the remote lodged between her fingers when Arson was ready to leave. “Where do you think you're going?” she said.

“Out. It's a Saturday. I already told you. I have a da…dinner, with a friend.”

“So what's the day of the week got to do with anything? And since when do you have friends? What's with all the mingling? Last night you left me here alone and took off with that strange girl from next door. The freak with the mask.”

“Please don't call Emery that,” Arson said.

“All I'm saying is that you seem awfully busy lately. Don't even have time for your old grandma.” She stared up from the recliner, her arctic eyes outlined by plastic, ancient frames.

“It's nothing, Grandma. Maybe a movie or something. That's all. I'll be home before you know it.”

“When did you become Mr. Celebrity? I can't remember the last time you went out on a Saturday night. Especially this late. God only knows what kind of riffraff is out this time of night.”

“Grandma, it's five thirty in the afternoon. And it's not like this town has hook men running around. I'll be fine.”

Arson stood in front of the mirror, the one affixed to the wall. It hung beside the doorway beneath the cabin's only staircase. He checked his shirt, wondering if it was the right one. Then he breathed into his sweaty palm, assuring himself it smelled minty enough for one of those kisses he'd only seen in movies, the kind that provoke entire body movement—tongues, hands, and deep breaths in between.

Arson reworked his hair and settled for a brushed-back look, keeping the seditious strands away from his eyes. And the random spots of acne now exposed weren't as bad as he'd imagined. Within his reflection, he could see Emery's mask grimacing at him from all angles. The sound of her voice seemed muffled, and Arson focused his intentions on tuning both the image and its voice out of his head; nothing could ruin this night.

Grandma's raspy voice continued. “You see that, love? Some poor soul was lost today because of a drunk driver. I don't want you driving.”

“I don't have a car, Grandma, remember?” Arson replied. “But 
you
 do. God forbid we ever use it.”

“What's that you're mumbling over there? Oh, heavens. I could never forgive myself if you were to leave me. Automobiles will be the death of us. Promise me you'll never leave me.”

“I have to leave sometime. I'm gonna be late.”

“Promise!”

“I promise. Now, I have to go.”

Her lips pursed into a frown as she rotated in her chair, using the remote to turn up the volume. “What's so important about going out tonight anyway?”

“Everything.” Arson leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

“I suppose your grandfather and I can survive this night alone. We've made it this long.”

“Sure thing, Grandma,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I'll be home later.”

 

* * *

 

Mandy's house stood on the other side of the lake. Arson rode his bike to get there. He didn't mind; the weather was nice, not to mention he would've walked if he had to. He'd seen her driveway once from a distance but never had the courage or the invitation to dare walk the long and winding road up to her doorstep. Its windows looked more like eyes, and its door was one that, when he walked through it, made him feel like he was getting eaten. Most girls dreamed of being treated like a princess, having everything they wanted and more, but for Mandy it wasn't a dream; it was reality.

When Arson entered her bedroom, he noticed that dolls of every variety covered much of the floor space. “I know it's childish,” she said, “but I think they're still pretty cool.” Posters of Orlando Bloom and Brad Pitt covered the pink and white walls. A king-size bed with floral arrangements sat in the corner of the room atop a pastel rug and next to that, a six-foot-tall vanity and a closet the size of his entire bedroom.

“I guess that's the problem with being an only child. I always get what I want.”

“That was never 
my
 problem.” He shrugged.

“I mean, 
they
 love me. Like, because I'm Daddy's little girl and everything, I think he feels obligated to shower me with all the stuff he never had.”

Arson shoved his hands into his pockets. A nervous sweat trickled down his brow. He looked at Mandy.

“I never got to properly thank you for all those free ice creams you gave me, Arson Gable.”

“Oh, don't worry about it. I make enough.”

“No, you don't.” She shut her bedroom door and leaned in close.

He was paralyzed once he inhaled her sweet, inviting breath. His heart drummed. “I've never been in a girl's room before.”

Mandy smiled and kissed him. “I'll bet you've never done this before either.”

He couldn't help but stare at her, noticing her eyes were closed and focused while his wandered to everything in the room. After seconds, he closed his eyes and started thinking with his lips. Was he doing it right? His mind wouldn't let him believe this was happening. It couldn't be. Was she trying to make out with him? Did she even really 
like
 him?

But then it came with a whisper. “Freak,” she said.

“What? Why did you call me that?”

“You're acting crazy,” Mandy denied immediately. “I didn't say anything.”

“You called me a freak.”

“Arson, don't be stupid. I thought this was what you wanted. Your mind must be playing tricks on you. Now quit it, all right? I could easily think of about six other boys who would give up a spot on the team to be where you are right now, so let it go!”

She leaned into him once more, and he didn't resist. Couldn't. With one hand she massaged the back of his neck. It felt soft, delicate.

“What about your parents?” Arson panted. “Won't they come up eventually?”

“Eventually.”

“Mandy, what is this? Why all of a sudden? You never liked me before.” He breathed short, nervous breaths, hands still shaking. “I don't get it.”

“What's there to get? I'm a girl who has everything I want. Except you. You're dangerous, unpredictable. Kinda cute.”

“What's so dangerous about me?” Arson felt another rush of anxiety and unease bleeding down his spine.

“I know what you do, Arson. Rumors spread quickly around school. But you don't have to deny them. I know you're not like everybody else. Besides, I've had the ordinary, boring guys. I want something more, something dangerous. Don't you want me?”

His throat quivered.

Mandy kissed him again on the lips. “Just relax. I know what I'm doing.”

“Mandy, your parents are downstairs.”

“I know,” she said, nudging up against him. “Forget about them. They won't mind.”

Arson's chest felt like it was going to shatter into a million pieces. It ached with each heartbeat. Sweat dripped into his eyes and down his face. Heat started at his fingertips and spread to his body slowly.

“You're warm.” Mandy smiled.

What was this? He'd dreamt of kissing Mandy for so long, wondered what she would smell like up close, what her hands might feel like wrapped around his neck in an embrace. But he couldn't touch her. All he could do was lie still.

Images of Grandma beating him with a rolled-up newspaper and spitting in a fit of anger ruined the moment. In a flash, Emery appeared, as if out of thin air. She stood right in front of him, looking at the scene through a creepy mask. Arson could sense she was hurt. He tried to close his eyes and make the imaginations disappear, but they wouldn't. Instead the fear dragged him away.

“Mandy, I—”

“I want this, Arson. I always wanted my own firestarter.”

“Look, I don't know what you're thinking, but I'm a normal kid, okay? I work in a lame ice cream shop. I live with my grandmother, and I have no friends. That's the extent of my existence.”

“Hmmm, normal? Right.”

“I'm not what you think I am. I don't start fires. I hate fire.”

“Liar.”

“I'm just an average teenage boy. Nothing more.”

“Whatever you say, freak,” Mandy said, leaning into his lips.

Arson was numb to the word, its meaning slipping from consciousness. Everything about this moment seemed forced, an unwilled vindication for abandoning Emery to volunteering alone, he imagined. The strange sensation lingered in his mind. He was motionless. Weak.

“Still want to watch that movie?” Mandy whispered.

Arson didn't reply.

“Me neither.”

He lay there for a while, his shirt messy, his soul somewhere else, where he couldn't be judged or ridiculed by guilt. 
She's not Emery
, he kept thinking. 
She's not Emery
.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing.” The truth was unutterable. In all the futures he had created to perfection inside his head, this seemed so unfamiliar. Now wasn't the time to think about her or even about love.

Arson abandoned his turbulent thoughts and left them on autopilot, not caring if they crash-landed or wound up somewhere in oblivion. He swallowed hard, succumbing to the fevers of a lonely heart, unquenchable and always longing. All Arson knew, all that seemed to matter this very moment, was that he was finally getting what he thought he'd always wanted.

 

Chapter 18

 

 

AIMEE PHOENIX FELT STRETCHED in ways she had never thought possible. Worn out. Lost. One week down, a lifetime to go.

Her husband had perfected the art of procrastination. Part of her wondered if he'd ever find work. He came up with every excuse in the book, reasons why he couldn't find a job, or at least not something dignified. She supposed the noble wife in her should've been more supportive and encouraging, but he really didn't have a clue how much he shamed her, their family. How hard it was to carry on, knowing that a past life was gone and may never return. There was no handbook on how to react when things spiraled out of control, only on how to cope once they did. And she wasn't ready to cope just yet, not while the failure on her living room sofa lamented his mistakes, waiting for his next epiphany.

Things weren't okay. Couldn't he feel that? She didn't know when exactly she had begun viewing her husband as a stranger, but it had happened quickly. A few hard months had shaken her to the breaking point. Ever since she was six years old, Aimee had wanted to be married, to be loved. She knew that being a good wife, a good mother, required her to deal with pain and work on keeping the family inside the boat, even if the boat was sinking. But maybe she was the one who was drowning, and there was no boat, no one at all in a sea of questions. She just wanted to breathe again. Needed to.

Aimee stood uneasily behind Dr. Pena's door, reluctant to knock. She thought she'd be prepared enough to face him after five minutes of heavy breathing. But once she relived in her mind their parting words years ago, she was certain not even an eternity would be enough time. She reached for the handle and stepped inside the office.

“You asked to see me, Dr. Pena?”

“Hello. Please have a seat, Aimee.” Dr. Pena signed a document and then removed his reading glasses. “Or should I call you Mrs. Phoenix?”

“No, Dr. Pena, please don't be silly. Aimee's fine.”

“Okay. Long week?”

“Long life. Normally that's a good thing, but not for me. I mean, never mind.”

“No, please go on.”

He was precisely as she remembered. The way he opened people up like diaries, sometimes coercively, other times gently. They used to joke that he'd one day become a shrink—a career path she'd later discover he thought was his passion until a cute medical doctor had convinced him to reconsider. When looking at him in the light, she could tell he still had the same boyish profile, soft and discreet, offering enough to make a girl feel secure. His hair was dark still, sprinkled with snow around his ears and forehead. Seeing him again transported her to their prom night. How handsome he looked. But before she had time to dwell on it, she found herself staring at his left hand. No wedding band.

“As you probably have heard, my family and I have recently relocated,” Aimee said. “We bought a shack in East Hampton. Ha, you know, when my husband told me, I pictured gold staircases and fancy cars. The little girl in me still likes to dream, I guess. ”

 

“I'd hardly call it a shack, Aimee. I've seen the house, and it's not half bad. Needs a little sprucing up, though. I'm sure you can manage that. But these are all peripherals. I know you recently moved and that it must feel strange coming back after so many years. Perhaps that's why you are working at this hospital, for some familiarity, right?”

“Maybe. I mean, I like my job.”

“Of course you do. We all do. We're crazy, I suppose. It's a calling. We do it because we have to. We feel that somehow we're doing our part in this sick and dying world.” He leaned in with a grin. “And the pay isn't bad either.”

She laughed but avoided his glances.

“You don't have to lie to me, Aimee. If anyone knows you, I do.”

“I know. I can't thank you enough for letting me work here. I know the staff must be on your case about it. Norma says applications usually take weeks, sometimes longer to get processed. You made it all happen in a matter of hours. You really are a miracle worker.”

“Don't mind the secretaries. They think they know when God sneezes, but there's a lot that goes on behind this office door that goes unnoticed. Besides, it was nothing.” He stretched back in his chair and placed both hands behind his head. He seemed at ease with her.  “Seriously, you're starting to bore me here. It's been such a long time. Too long, in fact. I'm dying to know what's really bothering you. What deep, dark secrets are you hiding behind those eyes of yours?”

She didn't want to answer. Sure, she had answers and even more questions, but now just didn't seem like the time or place for a confession. Aimee coughed, letting her eyes survey the office. A framed picture of Dr. Pena and a woman sat affixed to one of the walls beside a rather large fish tank and a nightstand with a fresh bouquet of flowers that added a unique and pleasant aroma to the stagnant office air.

“You looked happy then,” Aimee said, pointing to the picture. “Pretty autumn day. Lucky girl. Were you?”

“Was I what?” Dr. Pena replied.

“Happy. Is that your wife?”

“Ex-wife,” he said.

“Yeah. Couldn't help but notice you weren't wearing a ring. But with doctors and bacteria and operations, you can never be sure who's married and who isn't. Sorry.”

“It's quite all right. Many people make that connection when stepping into my office for the first time. The photograph is magnificent, though, isn't it? She was an excellent photographer, a true artist. It'd be a shame to dispose of such a work of art, don't you think?”

“Yeah,” Aimee said, trying to avoid eye contact with him.

“Oh, who am I kidding? I suppose part of me is still holding on in spite of it all.”

“What happened?”

“She wanted more. More than I could give. My job, it requires so much of me. But don't let this turn into a pity party. After all, it's been eight years; I should be over it by now.”

“Does it get any easier? The separation, I mean.”

“What kind of a question is that?” he replied. “You're perfectly happy in your marriage, aren't you?”

“That depends on what your definition of perfectly happy is, Doctor. I'm not happy being married to a failed minister. I'm not happy with the way my relationship with my daughter is going. And I'd be lying if I said this job brought me any kind of bliss.” What was she doing? Opening up to him was a big mistake. She had sworn she wouldn't.

“You've finally let the cat out of the bag. Now we're getting somewhere. How does it feel to be honest with yourself?”

“I feel like throwing up. What happened to me?”

“You know, I'm not quite sure, but you were looking awfully plain in comparison to the good old days,” he said in a joking manner as his eyes panned her from head to toe. His wink let her know it was okay, bringing her once more to their prom night so many years ago.

“You're such a riot. You and my husband would probably get along well.”

“Ahh, your husband.” His fingers folded into a pyramid. “I've never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

Aimee coughed and sighed.

“Everyone has marital struggles. Have you ever tried talking to the man?”

“Believe me, I've tried. But Joel can be so thick sometimes. I feel like there's no way to get through to him.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you need to work things out with your family. I know you just started here, but do you want some time off?”

“I can work. I'm not an invalid. I've got a backbone.”

“Aimee, I'm here to listen. You can be candid with me. I thought that our history together would've been enough for you to feel safe in this place. Don't think of me as your boss, please; think of me as your friend.”

“Thank you, Carlos. But you've already done enough to support the Aimee Phoenix Foundation. Besides, pity sponsorship is not the same as friendship.”

He frowned. “Pity? Don't insult me. I don't pity you. If I can be perfectly honest, I envy you. You've lasted over twenty years in a loveless marriage. I couldn't make it past seven months. And you've got a beautiful daughter, although you'd never know it.”

“Please, don't even get me started on that hideous mask. Emery thinks I'm the antichrist for suggesting that it's time to let go of the past and move on with her life without it.”

“You always were so up front with your feelings. But you shouldn't be so hard on her. Not everyone can move on as fast or as easily as you can.” Carlos stood up and walked around the office. She had forgotten how tall he was. “Why didn't you call me when the accident happened? Her procedure should have been done by someone you trusted, not some Boston hack. I know many professionals, far better than even myself. You should've—”

“I couldn't simply call you up out of the blue with an emergency request. How would that make me look?”

“Like a concerned mother.”

“We hadn't spoken since college.”

“You had my e-mail address and my personal cell. A phone call to an old friend wouldn't have killed you.”

“Maybe not. But my husband wouldn't have exactly been thrilled either.”

Carlos bit his lip. As he moved past her shoulders, the breeze from his swaying white coat lifted up the hair on the back of her neck. “It doesn't matter. You found your way back.”

Aimee stared up at him for a moment. “So, what is this, Carlos? Did you ask me in here to say that it's been a long time? A lot's changed since the old days? I'm not ready for that.”

He sat on his desk, folded his hands, and collected his composure. “If you need time to yourself, for your daughter and your husband, I understand, and I will make plans for someone else to cover for you.”

“No, you've already done enough.”

Carlos fell into her eyes. “I could never do enough.”

Aimee clutched her purse and avoided eye contact as best she could. It felt wrong to look into his eyes again.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

“Oh, I don't want to intrude,” the voice replied from behind the door. “I'm looking for my mom.”

“Oh, your beautiful daughter has come to rescue you from me. You know, Emery, I don't usually bite.” Carlos grinned, facing the door. “Say, how was your first day of volunteering? Was it everything you hoped for?”

“Sure, there's nothing quite as exciting as spending the day watching people mourn how life basically sucks now that they're alone and how they wished they'd done so much more with their time, you know, right before one of them passes out on you,” Emery chimed sarcastically. “But it was all right, I suppose. Wasn't complete boredom; I met one really solid guy named Abraham.”

“What you're doing is great, Emery. A lot of the people in the hospice unit don't get many visitors,” Carlos said.

“That's me, a good Samaritan. So have you seen my mom, or was this an excuse to talk my ear off?”

Aimee rolled her eyes. “Emery, why don't you come on in and talk to the man instead of hiding behind a door?”

“Aiding and abetting the enemy, Dr. Pena? I should've known.”

He whispered, “At least she knows my name. It's a 
solid
 start.”

“Anyway, Mom,” Emery continued, “my stomach is ready to, like, eat itself. And didn't you promise Dad you'd be home by seven? It's already quarter after.”

Carlos squinted with amusement. “She's quite the pistol, isn't she?”

“You have no idea,” Aimee said. “I'm coming, sweetheart. See you Monday, Dr. Pena.” She rushed out of the room.

“Aimee, please think about my offer. I'm here if you need anything,” he said as the door closed behind her. “Anything at all.”