The Arsonist (28 page)

Adrian was holding Alfie, easily. Alfie was frantically swinging his body back and forth and shouting, and underneath that, she could hear Adrian’s voice, steady, reassuring, saying Alfie’s name, saying
Calm down, calm down
. She stood, aghast, some paces away, and then Alfie saw her.

“They’re coming again,” he said, piteously.

She went to him. “Alfie,” she said. “Alfie.” She held him, too. She and Adrian were holding him between them, trapped like some child in a game,
Take the keys and lock him up
.

Sylvia was looking into Alfie’s face as she spoke her words now, the same kinds of words Adrian had been saying—Alfie’s name, and then that it was all right, it was all right. She could feel Adrian’s hands on her arms, gripping them. Holding her.

Holding Alfie.

Alfie calmed, slowly. His mouth opened and shut again and again, fishlike. She relaxed her embrace experimentally. She could feel Adrian doing the same, releasing her, and then, when Alfie stayed unresisting, trembling, he let his arms drop, he stepped back, away from her and Alfie.

She could see that his face was stricken, full of pity—for Alfie or for her? He met her glance, and for a moment she had a sense of who he might have been to her if their history hadn’t been what it was.

She turned away then, to Alfie. “I put some tea on,” she said to him. “Come inside. Come with me. It’s all right.” And speaking gently to him,
her arm around his shoulders, she moved him, stumbling, toward the house. “It’s all right.”

She led Alfie to his study, where the curtains were still drawn, the windows shut. She hoped it would feel hermetic, safe. She got him to sit at his desk, she showed him his books.

Once he seemed calm, or quiescent, anyway, she went back to the kitchen. The kettle was boiling vigorously, its metal top chattering. Adrian was standing in the open doorway. She turned the heat off and took a step toward him. “I guess it would be better if you just didn’t try to mow right now.” She was almost whispering.

“Yes.” He turned his hat slowly in his hands. He looked at her. They stood perhaps three feet apart. “I didn’t know, Sylvie.”

“He’s … not well.”

“Yes. Well, I moved the truck out of your way till Tink can get it. The mower … I’ll leave it there. Maybe when you’re not going to be home? You could call? Tink or I could come up and mow quick and get it out of your way.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s …?”

“It may be his medication. He seems … worse, suddenly.”

“Ah.”

They were quiet for a moment that grew into a question. “We think he has Alzheimer’s,” she said. And even as she said it, even as his face shifted in sympathy, she knew she was announcing it to the town, that he would tell. His gentleness with Alfie today, their strange intimacy, the way he’d looked at her and whatever that meant, these wouldn’t have much weight in the balance. He would tell, because such information was his currency, as surely as the cash in his register.

“I’m sorry for that,” he said. He
was
sorry, she could hear it. “He was a fine man. Such an intelligent man. It just seems … wrong, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “Well, life isn’t fair.”

“Aah, we know that.”

She moved to the Hoosier cabinet to get the tea for Alfie. “Thank you, Adrian,” she said. “For everything.”

“That’s okay, then,” he said. He put his hat on his head and turned and left.

——

The rest of the day had seemed endless, though Alfie was quiet. Silent, actually. He seemed utterly spent. Each time Sylvia passed his study door, he was sitting in his rocker, staring off at nothing. Either that, or dozing.

For dinner, she warmed up some soup. Alfie barely ate any, though he had two pieces of pie afterward. She had two martinis and wanted a third, but stopped herself.

By eight-thirty, Alfie was in bed, sound asleep. Sylvia tried her novel, one Frankie had recommended, but whether she’d had too much to drink or was just too agitated by the events of the day—Tink and Loren. Alfie. Adrian—she couldn’t settle into it. She moved restlessly around the house, sitting briefly in the kitchen, then at the dining room table. The windows were black. Alfie’s snoring was oppressive. She needed to get out, to talk to someone, if only for fifteen minutes.

She’d try Frankie, she decided. Drive down. If Frankie wasn’t home, she’d be back up within five minutes. If she was home, she’d stay no longer than half an hour at the most. That was all she needed. A human voice.

She pulled on a sweater she’d left draped over the back of a dining room chair and picked up her keys on the way through the kitchen.

The night air was chilly, and the darkness was absolute—no moon, no stars. Adrian had moved the truck partway down the driveway, she saw, and pulled it off to one side. She drove past it to the road and turned right, downhill.

The lights were on at Frankie’s. Sylvia’s relief was so great she was, for a moment, tearful. It took her a few seconds to notice that there was a car pulled up at the side of the house, an old car. Who could that be?

And then she remembered. Of course—Bud Jacobs.

She hesitated for a moment, but then she thought,
This might be better
. This would keep her from unloading all her sorrows onto Frankie. Half an hour of polite chitchat, then, with Bud or whoever this visitor was, chitchat that would probably be distracting enough, pleasant enough, to lift her spirits, to send her home ready to manage another day with Alfie. And perhaps tomorrow would be better. It often worked that way—after a really horrible episode, he would seem suddenly himself again for a few days.

And then it occurred to her: there might be something romantic, something sexual, going on between Bud and Frankie.

But no, here was the door opening, and Frankie standing in the light, looking out. She’d seen the headlights, no doubt. Sylvia turned off the engine.

“I thought it might be you,” Frankie called. As Sylvia got out of the car and walked across the yard, she stepped back. “Come in,” she said. “What a nice surprise.” She gestured behind her to where, yes, Bud Jacobs was standing up at the big table. “You know Bud, I think. He knows who you are, at any rate.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said, crossing the room to shake Bud’s hand. “We’ve met a few times, town gatherings of one sort or another.”

They talked briefly about these events. Then he asked after Alfie, and Sylvia reported he was sleeping.

“Sit. Sit down, both of you,” Frankie said. “What would you like? Coffee? I have decaf, too. Or wine? That’s what we’re having. Bud brought some over.” She was at the refrigerator.

Sylvia said she’d have a glass of wine.

Frankie brought her a jelly jar and set it down. While she was pouring wine for all of them, Sylvia turned to Bud and said, “Well, there’s no dearth of news for you this summer, anyway.”

“No,” he said, smiling. “It’s kept me jumping. And probably neglecting stuff people would much rather read about.”

“Oh, I think everyone wants to read about the fires. I think we
need
to read about them.”

“Well, I’d agree. And I have to say, it’s a high for me to know how widely the paper’s being read right now.” His long fingers turned his glass slowly on the scarred tabletop. “But why do you say people
need
to read about it?”

“Oh, I think … to be prepared, in part. And then, it’s interesting, the question of arson, and arsonists. Why they do it. How they do it. Wouldn’t you always read an article about arson?”

“Especially if it’s close by,” Frankie said.

And they went on talking about it, passing around the things they knew, the things they’d heard. Then they talked for a while about the
debate in town over whether to put up a cell-phone tower in the town woods. Bud was always attentive, his face alert, noticing. Sylvia was aware of her impulse to respond to his focus, his interest. She said to him, “Here’s something else entirely, but interesting, I think. Loren Spader came by today to pick up Tink. Tink Snell, who was
supposed
to mow my lawn. He had Gavin Knox with him, too—Loren did.”

“What do you mean, he had him?” Something had shifted in Bud’s tone.

“Well, in the backseat. And he took Tink also. Adrian came by later and said they’d gone off to the state police, but that’s all he knew.”

Frankie was looking at Bud. “Because of the fires?” he asked.

“No, no,” Sylvia said. “Because of something to do with a car.”

“Oh, God, I knew it!” Frankie said. She leaned her head back, shut her eyes. “Unh,” she groaned. “It’s because of the taillights, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, probably not, Frankie,” Bud said. He was trying to be reassuring, Sylvia could tell. And she could also tell he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

She asked then what Frankie was talking about, and Frankie and Bud explained Frankie’s having seen what might have been the arsonist’s car, her reporting that to Loren. Loren’s coming by with photos of car taillights he’d taken here and there around town.

They talked about what they knew of Tink, of Gavin. Of how unlikely it was that either of them could be the arsonist. Sylvia was thinking about Tink, about the way in which she felt insulted by every encounter with him, but she didn’t mention this. After all, she was at least partially responsible for what seemed like his contempt for her, or his dislike, anyway—she’d behaved so badly when she first met him. And she couldn’t believe that any of that was connected to the arsons.

Bud knew them both a little. He thought Gavin was “a nice kid” and that Tink was maybe of marginal intelligence. At any rate, incapable of this long, planned-out terrorism. “Plus, they’re both on the fire crew,” he said.

“Oh!” Frankie said. “Well! Doesn’t that make it even more likely?”

Sylvia watched him smiling at Frankie. “You’ll explain this theory?” he said.

“Oh,
you
know this theory,” Frankie said. “You wrote about it, the trooper talked to you about it.” She turned to include Sylvia. “They sign up because they’re fascinated with fires. They like to put them out, they like to start them. They just plain like
fire
. Something about it is … thrilling, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, I find them interesting, too,” Bud said. “I always like to go when there’s a call. But that doesn’t mean I’d start one.”

“Nor have you joined the fire department.”

Bud made an acceding motion, a lift of his shoulders.

Throughout this exchange, Sylvia continued to watch them, their attentiveness to each other, the pleasure apparent in their looking at each other. The pitch of Frankie’s voice. Were they sleeping together? There was clearly something going on between them, some spark.

They talked about the fires, then, how they differed from one another, how bad each was. Sylvia knew the older Cotts well, and she talked about their house, which had burned the week before, how it had been built in the twenties or thirties by the town’s master builder and had a number of his trademark elements, among them wooden wainscoting throughout.

“All of it nice, dry wood by now,” Bud said.

“Yes, kindling essentially.”

“I heard it made an amazing bonfire.”

At one point, Sylvia said she should get back up to her house, she was worried about Alfie. But Frankie poured her another glass of wine, pointed out how deeply he slept now, hadn’t Sylvia said so?

“Until about midnight or so,” Sylvia said. “Then he seems to think he needs to get up. I can hear him moving around. But as long as I can hear him, I figure it’s all right, and I try to soldier on in my quest for the requisite eight hours.” They laughed. She had thought quickly about telling Frankie about Alfie’s confusion today—his panic, really. But then she knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t, with Bud there. Bad enough that Adrian had seen it.

Though bad wasn’t what she had felt about that in the moment it happened. What she had felt, she thought now, was a strange kind of pleasure when they were holding Alfie, when they were almost holding each other. And this too might have been part of why she didn’t speak of it to Frankie.

But she and Bud had moved on, anyway. They were talking animatedly about fires as a childhood fascination. The wonderful sulfuric smell of matches. They both argued for the superiority of wooden to cardboard matches. Bud remembered the technique of lighting matches with a flick of a thumbnail, with a quick slide across a metal zipper. It made Sylvia recall the bonfires of her youth, and she talked about them—the leaves of the Chicago street raked together into an enormous pile and set alight on a dark fall night, the hangers bent into sticks for marshmallows, the marshmallows burning, dangling down, the faces of the children in the firelight, rapt, naughty.

They spoke of other pleasures of childhood. Making yourself dizzy by spinning around. The amazement of numbing a leg or a hand by lying on it oddly for a while. Breaking through the surface of an ice-covered puddle in winter, lifting up an entire magical sheet of the clear, cold, wet stuff.

Suddenly there was noise in the room, a buzzing. “Uh-oh,” Bud said, standing up. He took something out of his pocket—a pager—and pushed a button on it. A woman’s voice, distorted, hard to understand, spoke from it. “Call for a fire,” she said in a squawking, fuzzy voice.

“Ah,
fuck
!” Bud said. And then turned quickly to Sylvia. “Sorry,” he said.

“Repeat, call for a fire,” the voice was saying. “Address, Carson Road, number nineteen.”

“Nineteen, on this road?” he said, looking up at them, his face questioning.

“Alfie!” Sylvia cried. She was already standing up. She saw him, sleeping, smoke around him, or waking to fire, confused and helpless as a child. She was in motion, picking up her keys, her sweater, stepping quickly to the door. He would have died while she sat there drinking wine, talking. She pushed under another thought, a momentary glimpse of release for herself in this, whatever was happening.

She ran across the dirt to her car and fumbled with its door. Frankie was running out of the house, getting in on the other side. At first, Sylvia couldn’t find the key on her ring in the dark, and then she finally had it, had it in the ignition, and the car started and she pulled forward. She was about to turn out into the road when she heard the siren approaching
and stopped. After a few moments, the town fire truck went by, headed uphill, siren wailing. There were two cars following it, driving fast, and then Sylvia swung out and joined the caravan.