Arson (13 page)

Aimee ran her fingers across his stubbly jaw. She noticed him twitch in his sleep. What was he so tired for? Aimee started grinding her teeth. It wasn't right. Joel wasn't right. His worn-out clothes reminded her of their worn-out love. What happened to the man she had married? Joel Phoenix, Harvard grad. She swore she didn't know this man. Didn't want to know him. Swore she hated him. Aimee rubbed her eyes. 
I want to run
, she mouthed. 
I just want to run
.

The stranger continued snoring away like she wasn't even there.

“Joel, get up!” she said, tugging at his hair.

He rolled over in his sleep with a groan.

“Get up. You're drooling all over my sofa.” Aimee grunted and went upstairs to take a bath. 

 

Chapter 22

 

 

ARSON DIDN'T UNDERSTAND WHY he was so compelled to return to the hospice unit. Didn't know what it was exactly that drew his mind back there when he should have been focused on making hot fudge sundaes and milkshakes. His daily mishaps at Tobey's caused Ray to drop by unannounced—and more than once. Routine checkups, Ray called them.

After his painful shifts were through, Arson rode his bike to the hospital. He never went inside. Didn't seem right going there without Emery. Part of him wanted to check himself into the hospice unit. He'd know exactly what he'd say if they starting asking any questions too. “I'm ready to die, ma'am. Put me on the waiting list.” It sounded so depressing, the words rotating like a squeaky wheel inside his brain. He realized Grandma would never fit in there, but maybe he would.

A grouchy nurse walked outside suddenly. She noticed him but refused to acknowledge his presence. Her hands reached into her purse for a lighter, a match, anything to light the cigarette pinched between her jaws. He heard her curse, not just at the lighter or the cigarette, but at random things like a babysitter at home, a boss she couldn't stand, her lack of ambition, and that jerk who took her spot in the parking garage this morning. Arson listened to this stranger go off about everything that was wrong with her day, with her life.

He thought he could help her. Deep down he really wanted to. All it would take was a snap of the fingers. One rage-induced thought, and he could make it all okay. The one thing he hated about himself seemed like the only thing that could grant her peace.

 

When the nurse finally found that book of matches, her world seemed different. The thought that at any point this dark and wiry-haired nurse could self-destruct over something so small and insignificant made his stomach sink. Yet her desire seemed simple enough. And Arson found himself wondering what changed a person so quickly. All she wanted was release, a release she got from a rolled-up hunk of tobacco. The cigarette would stain her mouth, ruin her gums, and most likely kill her one day. But even she was doing her part in the world to help, to heal, to fix what this world had left broken.

Now that he thought about it, Arson remembered seeing her rush down the hallway past him the other day. How infuriated she had seemed, frantic and pressured. The sickest part of it all was that he envied her. Even this foul-mouthed, jittery addict could do what he didn't know how to do. She could be a hero.

 

* * *

 

The weekend finally arrived. Arson had the day off. He hadn't slept all night from mere anticipation. He didn't know whether it was excitement or that awkward feeling you get right before an interview. 
Today will be different
, he told himself. This time he 
wanted
 to volunteer. So much so that Grandma even had her suspicions.

“That girl isn't dragging you into some cult now, is she?” she said at breakfast.

Arson pretended not to hear her as he rushed out the door.

The heat wave didn't let up. It was in its third week, which meant he sweated much more than usual, an issue he was rather embarrassed about but one he hoped Emery wouldn't notice. It was about noon when Arson started tossing pebbles at her window.

After going at it for a good five minutes with no response, someone called out from the side of the house. “What do you think you're doing?” the voice said, deep and forceful.

“Hello? Who is that?” Arson replied. He dropped the few pebbles he had in his hand immediately.

“I'm the guy who lives here. And you're the kid trying to break my windows.” The voice came with a face, a scruffy-looking one. The man's hair tapered off into moody curls. He wore a white 
Kiss the Pastor
 t-shirt—most of which was covered in paint—a pair of cutoff shorts, and sock-stuffed sandals.

“Normally I don't introduce myself to vandals, but I've been reading this book, and it's been telling me for three chapters straight why I need to start going out of my way to talk to new people, even people I don't like—not that I don't like you or anything—but anyway. What are you doing throwing rocks at my window, kid?”

“I'm looking for Emery,” Arson said abruptly.

“Emery?” the man said, as if he didn't recognize the name. “What business do you have with my daughter?”

A sudden nervousness slipped inside Arson's skin. “She volunteers at the hospital, and I usually”—he felt his eyes wander—“go with her.”

“Really?” the man said. “Do you have some kind of agenda with my daughter?”

“Agenda?”

“Do you ask a lot of girls out just for kicks? You like leading them along until you get what you want?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

The man eyeballed Arson.

“Okay. Your name's Arson, right?”

Arson nodded his head.

“You'll have to forgive my apprehensive nature. I love my daughter very much, and she's not exactly like most daughters.”

“No, sir, she's definitely not.”

“My name's Joel.” He shook Arson's hand but failed to mention it was dripping with paint. “Sorry about that.”

Arson winced at the sight of his gooey palms. “Is she here, sir?”

“What? You're just gonna leave me here to paint a house by myself?”

Now Arson was confused. “Do you need help, sir?”

“If you keep calling me sir, I'm gonna start feeling old.”

Arson sighed.

“Aren't you a little early for volunteering anyway? My wife doesn't leave for work for another hour and a half or so. Emery rides with her.”

“Oh. I guess I could lend you a hand, then.”

“Both hands, preferably,” Joel said, hopping onto the ladder.

Arson could hear the rickety ladder squeal with every step. Joel was a lean man, but he put a lot of pressure on his heels while he climbed.

“Have you been in a relationship before, Arson?” Joel asked, dipping the paint brush into the bowl and sliding it across the dingy boards of the house.

“Not exactly.”

“Ever had sex?” Joel stared at him for a second. It felt like forever.

“Um, no?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

“An answer, sir. I don't have a lot of experience with the opposite sex.”

“Good to know.” Joel continued to paint, almost absentmindedly.

“Look, I'm new at all this. I was never the kid with a lot of friends. Emery is a unique person. I just want to get to know her. I'm not like other kids.”

Joel nodded, eyes locked.

Arson could feel the sweat pouring from his face. His neck stuck to the back of his shirt. The tension built upon itself with every unmeasured word.

“So, Arson, who's-not-like-other-people, do you plan on helping me at all, or are you just gonna stand there?”

He was thankful Joel changed the subject. “Do you have another ladder I could use? Yours doesn't look all that safe.”

“Not that I'm aware of,” came the reply.

“I suppose I could use the same ladder and get up there and paint with you.”

“Two guys on a rusty ladder isn't exactly the safest thing in the world.”

“You're right. That was a stupid idea.” Arson looked away for a moment, wishing Emery were out here to save him from this miserably awkward conversation. “That spot seems a little hard for you to reach, sir. Why don't I get it? You can take a break for a while.”

“Nah, that's all right. I've had to paint two churches in my lifetime. I think I know a thing or two about—”

It was then that Joel twisted his leg inside one of the ladder's jaws. He screamed in agony and lost his balance on the step. Seconds later, Arson stared in shock as his body thudded against the ground.

“My back,” Joel groaned, eyes shut.

“Sir, are you okay? Is it broken?”

“It hurts.”

“Well, try to move it,” Arson said.

Joel adjusted himself on the ground and found that he could move if he did it slowly and without much effort.

“Aimee! Emery!” Joel yelled. “Emery!” He breathed deeply, fighting the pain.

Arson listened for approaching footsteps. Emery ran to her father's side and held his hand. “Dad, what happened?” she asked.

“He fell off the ladder,” Arson said. “I warned him it wasn't safe.”

“Yeah, says the guy who wanted to come up there with me.”

“Enough, you two,” she barked. “How did you fall?”

“It's not that big a deal. I was up there painting and talking to your new friend. Went to reach for a spot and got my ankle twisted in one of the steps. Then I slipped, and like magic, here we are.”

“You know, you're not twenty anymore, Dad. You really need to be careful.”

He furrowed his brow. “I 
was
 careful. And I am not that old, for crying out loud. Just help me up, will you, sweetheart? Where's your mother?”

Emery and Arson lifted him up slowly. “I don't know. I heard you scream and ran out here as fast as I could. I think she was upstairs.”

“Try and relax,” Arson said, the three of them walking into the house.

“I think you should go see a doctor, Dad. What if you broke something?”

“I'm not going to the emergency room to wait for three hours so they can tell me I need to take it easy for a while. I'll be fine.”

“Dad, you just fell, like, fifteen feet.”

“Sweetheart, thank you for caring about me, really, but I'm just going to lie down for the afternoon. If I feel worse later, I'll call a doctor.”

Emery reluctantly agreed and brought him to the pull-out sofa where he'd spent the last few nights.

“Could you get me a glass of water?” Joel begged.

“Yeah, be right back.”

Aimee came down the stairs and found Arson standing next to the pull-out sofa. “Oh, hello, Arson. Are you planning on volunteering today?”

He nodded.

“I can drive you, if you'd like.” She turned and looked at the man on the sofa. “What happened to you, Joel?” she asked.

“He lost his step and fell off the ladder,” Arson answered.

“You really must be more careful in the future,” Aimee said, brushing her hair back.

Emery entered the room. “Here you go, Dad,” she said, handing him the glass of water.

“Thank you,” he replied feebly.

“Are you kids ready to go? I was thinking I would go in early today.” Aimee grabbed her purse and walked out the front door. “Meet you in the car.”

Emery turned to Arson and shook her head. “Bye, Dad,” she said, following her mother out the door. 

 

Chapter 23

 

 

ABE WAS IN THE middle of a coughing fit when they walked into room 219. But when he saw Arson and Emery, his chapped mouth danced back into a frail grin, almost like joy was rebuking his pain, at least for one moment. Arson figured this was his soft side being exposed.

Abe said the nurses had been hassling him all morning and that he was glad to have the new recruits drop in and save the day. He looked terrible, though. His brown skin seemed to show age more and more each day, worn and manipulated. The black hair that once occupied his forehead was swallowed up in scattered white bunches. Abe pulled the sheets close to his chin, trying to get warm.

“It's cruel of you guys to leave me here alone for almost a week. The white suits are getting sick of me. I think they wanna euthanize me or something. Man, I could've gone cuckoo.” The old man's eyes glowed, and the wrinkles in his cheeks flushed along the surface of his face when his stained gums came out of hiding. They could tell he was hurting.

“Sorry, Abraham. I've been busy with the house and moving in and stuff,” Emery tried. “Arson and I try to make it here as often as we can, you know that. But there are other volunteers. Why don't you try being friendly to some of them?”

“I'm not really all that friendly to you guys, and I 
like
 you. Those other young punks ain't got a shot.” He struggled to breathe.

Emery poured him a glass of water and told him to take it easy, but he wasn't in the mood to comply.

“Maybe if you weren't so pretty I could find it within myself to befriend some of the other volunteers. But I'm afraid Cupid has done his magic already.” Abe winked at Arson.

“That's really sweet, Abraham, and so Hallmark it's almost disgusting. Didn't know you had it in you.”

“I'm insulted. I've always been a gentleman to you, my dear.”

Emery burst into laughter that could be heard down the hall.

“Keep it down, girl. Just trying to pay you a compliment. See, Arson, this is why you don't compliment women; it always comes back to bite you.”

“Don't listen to him,” Emery said, handing Abe some Jell-O. “Women love to be complimented at the right time.”

“And when do you suppose that is?” Arson finally piped up.

“I don't know. But if the man's a real gentleman, he'll know.”

“After all my years of living on this earth,” Abe began, taking another sip of water, “I've learned it's a whole lot easier to upset a lady than it is to get one of them to smile.”

“Say what you will, Abraham, but men can be fickle too. And cruel. And scummy. And pig-headed—”

“All right, all right,” Abe said. “It seems I've underestimated you once again, my dear. You continue to make me ever wiser and even more ornery. Congratulations.”

They all shared a brief laugh.

Abe turned to face the boy in the corner of the room now. “So who are you, Arson?” his lips fired off. “Tell me about yourself; I don't know a thing about you.”

Arson stared blankly back.

“I don't want to know your name, per se. I know what they call you, and that's not really important. That's not what makes you who you are. You could be called Jim or Travis or Loser for all I care. What matters most is who you are deep down in your soul.”

“If I have a soul,” Arson sighed.

Abe was taken aback. “Don't be silly. Everybody's got one, kid. Do you believe in God, Arson?”

“What?”

“You know, heaven and stuff?”

It took a while for him to answer. “I'm not sure. Still waiting for proof.”

“Maybe we could call you Thomas then.” Abe bit his lip and chuckled. “I get it. I was waiting too. But you know what I figured out after all my years of waiting and getting angry at the world? I realized that you only waste time that way. Waiting for something good to happen to you. Waiting to get out of the mess you're in. No, that ain't the way to be, kid. You gotta be the hero. You gotta stand even when you feel like quitting. Forget about your proof. If I was waiting on proof, I'd still be waiting.”

Arson looked at Emery with confusion. Who did this old bat think he was, telling him what to do? Like he had all the answers? The lung cancer patient who had smoked himself to the hospice wing was giving him answers on how to live. The very thought was ridiculous. Today felt like an interrogation. First, Emery's father had treated him like some potential fiend trying to deflower his only daughter. Now here Abe was sucker-punching him in the gut with random philosophy. Was the room actually shrinking, or was that his imagination?

“Thanks for the advice,” Arson said, rolling his eyes.

“You ain't gonna listen, but I suppose that's all right. I didn't listen either when some old fool told me the same thing. Man, oh, man, how much time I missed in this life, bitter at the world. To them, I was just another minority loser. But I told my mother I'd be somebody, be something. Do something. The world didn't take too kindly to me for a while, but things change. They always do. And I did, Momma, I tried.”

It was the first time either of them had seen Abe cry. He'd looked sad before, like he'd wanted to, but today he threw caution to the wind.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Finch. This world can be pretty cruel.”

The old man cleared his nose and said, “But it's got life too, kid. That's what I'm saying. Even this messed-up place got a soul. It ain't perfect, but it needs saving, just like I did, just like you do. Everybody needs help sometime. Everybody needs love, but no one's got it to give. Man, oh, man, if only I knew then what I know—”

He started coughing again. Blood and phlegm came up on his sheets. Emery panicked and paged the nurse.

“Take it easy, Abraham,” Arson said.

“You still haven't answered my question, kid.”

Arson fired off the first set of answers that flooded his brain. “My name is Arson Gable. I live in a cabin in East Hampton, and I work at an ice cream parlor.”

Abe leaned against his pillow and collected his composure. Emery helped get the spit off his jaw. “Give me something to chew on!”

“Maybe twenty questions is something we should save for another day, Abraham,” Emery said.

“I suppose you're right, my dear.” Abe cracked his neck and leaned his head back against the pillow drenched in sweat. He pulled the covers over his chest and started to shiver as the nurse walked in. She asked if everything was okay, and Abe told her to get lost.

Once she left in a fit, Emery whispered, “That wasn't very nice.”

“She was bothering me,” Abe said in a raspy voice as he closed his eyes. “Think about what I said, Arson. Life's too short to become a cynical old fool like me.”

Arson's gaze was far away. He hadn't been able to buy what Abe was selling. The old man didn't live in the world as Arson knew it. He didn't know what high school was like now, didn't know what waking up afraid felt like, or the lingering fury he possessed when starting a fire with one stray thought. There were no rallies for his kind because no one else was like him. There were no fire-starting professionals or compassionate politicians for Arson to look up to. People didn't like those they couldn't understand. And how could he ever expect them to like him when even 
he
 hated what he was? Abe seemed smart enough to get by in a hospital bed, but he was wrong. Dead wrong.