The Firebug of Balrog County (14 page)

Hot Garbage

T
h
e following Monday, the fire
during the homecoming dance was the talk of Hickson High while Haylee's fight with Madison Lambert was relegated to just another crazy homecoming side story. I walked around the school with my head held high and felt like an honest-to-God do-gooder, a feeling I'll admit I hadn't felt in a long time, and it was if the whole world smiled upon me. I was Good Mack the Good Brother, Even If His Sister Must Never Ever Know About His Secret Arson Career Because She Would Totally Fucking Tell Dad.

This warm and fuzzy feeling lasted until twenty minutes into my afternoon shift at the hardware store, when Ox Haggerton came in while I was facing the shelves. I'd been daydreaming about
Fahrenheit 451
and how weird that would be, to get paid to burn books, and I didn't notice Haggerton until he was right on top of me, scowling and smelling like lighter fluid. He looked even older and more puckered than I remembered, though his eyes were just as red and angry.

“Chainsaws,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Where are your chainsaws?”

“Oh,” I said, wiping my palms on my jeans. “Sure. Let me show you.”

I took him to the shelves at the back of the store where we kept the heavy duty stuff. I pointed out the only chainsaw we kept in stock.

“That's all you've got? One goddamn chainsaw?”

“Yes, but we can order any kind you'd like. We don't sell a lot—”

“Fuck ordering,” Ox said. “If you don't have it on your shelf I don't want to fucking see it.”

H
e picked up the chainsaw and raised it into the air for inspection. His arms were knotted with tight little old man muscles, stored strength he'd probably gained from a lifetime of adding to the woodpile I'd burned down three weeks before. I waited while he turned the chainsaw over and ran his thumb along the teeth of the cutting chain, frowning like it was a piece of trash he'd found in his backyard.

“This is it? This is all you've got?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, fighting a strong urge to walk off and hide in my boss's office. Nobody spoke for a moment and the store's fluorescent lights hummed above us, sounding as demonic as ever.

“I guess it'll do,” Ox said, lowering the chainsaw and looking at me. “Hey. I remember you. You're George Hedley's grandson.
”

“Yes, sir.”

“You still working at the Legion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're a busy little shit, aren't you?”

A vision of Haggerton's woodpile engulfed in glorious flame suddenly filled my mind for one flashing second, as real as if I was standing in front of it again.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I try to keep busy.”

After Big Greg and I closed the store I came home to find the house empty and dim. Dad and Haylee were in Thorndale at her first therapy session, which was part of her deal with the school to avoid suspension for the homecoming fight. The other part of the deal was for Haylee to personally apologize to Madison Lambert herself, which must have nearly made my sister's head explode.

I let Chompy out of his kennel and took him outside for a pee. Strong winds had turned the woods behind our house into a big, thrashing mosh pit and the effect was a little unnerving.

“What do you think, Chompy? Is Big Foot hiding out there? Watching us, waiting for signs of weakness?”

The beast snatched a fluttering leaf out of the air and devoured it. I led him into the small ravine and up the opposite side to the train tracks. I looked away while he did his business on the rails, staring at the forest's autumn leaves until the colors blurred together. The ground trembled beneath my feet.

“Hey. You feel that?”

The train whistled to announce its approach as I led Chompy back to the ravine's floor. The dog started running back and forth in spastic ecstasy, lunging against his leash and barking like a madman. I dug in my heels and fought an urge to let go and see if the beast would actually charge. Haylee would laugh, I thought. She'd laugh to see her simpleton pooch giving me such a hard time. She'd laugh if she could laugh, if the Dark Ferret of Sadness That Whispered Sorrow Into Her Ear allowed her to recognize the comedy inherent in a skinny, tall guy trying to rein in a worked-up dog.

“Here it comes, dummy,” I shouted. “Get ready.”

The train's engine emerged thunderously from the woods, its single headlight bright in the fading daylight. Chompy went still, as if understanding his foolishness, and the engine disappeared back into the woods, quick as that. Three minutes of freight cars came rolling behind it, throwing sparks along the rails. Most of the cars carried sealed shipping containers, though a few tank cars and old-school boxcars were thrown into the mix to keep it interesting. It was the boxcars I'd liked best when I was kid. Many was the time I'd imagined stuffing a backpack full of ham sandwiches, sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night, and crossing the little ravine. I'd wait patiently for the next train, sprint alongside it when it finally arrived, and effortlessly leap into the first available boxcar. I'd already be long gone by the time my parents woke up in the morning, three or four hundred miles away. They'd cry their eyes out they'd miss me so much. The whole damn town would cry.

The last cars rolled past. The show was over. Chompy gave one last sharp bark at the woods and looked at me.

“What?”

The dog eyed my car, which was sitting in the driveway. I gave a martyr's sigh and headed up the ravine. Chompy scrambled to catch up, paused to press happily against my side, and then raced ahead to the car. I opened the back door and the beast leapt inside, turning around twice in the back seat before happily settling down, pink tongue lolling. I went around to the driver's side and started the engine, pulling out of the driveway slowly so as not to make a racket. We rumbled through the autumn night and Chompy slid around in the back seat, shifting with the abrupt turns like a panting gym bag. I rolled down my window and we turned onto the highway, just two saucy fuckers headed out for a night on the prowl.

We drove beyond town. I was sick of all the same old houses, the same old streets. Driving faster, on an actual highway, at least provided the illusion of novelty. At seventy miles per hour anything could appear in the Oldsmobile's headlights, at any minute. Bears, vampires, a zombie Charles Bukowski; I'd be happy with anything beyond the usual smorgasbord of Balrog County roadkill.

We drove for a half hour before I noticed Chompy yawning in the rearview mirror.

“What? A free car ride isn't good enough for you?”

The beast stared back at me, his eyes dark and crazed.

“Ah,” I said. “I know where you want to go.”

I slowed the car down, whipped a U-turn, and headed in the opposite direction. Ten minutes later and the air had turned ripe with the smell of skunky garbage and cardboard, causing Chompy to perk up and stick his head out the window. We drove past the county landfill's entrance and parked discreetly a half-mile down the road, near the rear section of the landfill's fence line. Chompy leapt out of the back seat and started to immediately strain at his leash, somehow gagging and eagerly panting at the same time.

“All right, all right.”

The landfill was lit by sodium lamps, but since it was heaped with mounded trash it was impossible to get a clear sightline of anything. Chompy and I might as well have been on the other side of the moon as far as the Fill's night watchman was concerned, and that's the way I liked it. We walked along the rear fence, found the same weak spot known to every no-good teenager in Hickson, and tunneled through to the other side, where the smell of garbage was even stronger.

Chompy bounded from trashy heap to trashy heap, smelling and lifting his leg and smelling some more, so ecstatic I thought his head might explode in a spray of feathers. I shook my head at his exuberance and plugged my nose.

“So you like this locale, sire? Is it to your liking?”

Chompy tore into what looked like a bag of Chinese leftovers, spraying dirty lo mein noodles everywhere. I gave him as much length on the leash as possible, trying to avoid the noodle spray zone. I noticed an interesting heap rising a good twenty feet into the air.

“Holy hell, Chompy. Would you look at that.”

I pulled the snorting beast along and examined the lofty heap more closely. It was mostly plastic trash bags bursting with clothes and towels. I pulled out a few T-shirts and sweaters but I couldn't find anything wrong with any of them. It was just a big old heap of discarded clothes, rising to the heavens.

I pulled my lighter out of my pocket and twirled it in my fingers. The firebug woke up and flexed its fiery muscles.

This was it.

This was next level shit right here.

Chompy pulled me backward, straining to return to the more food-based trash. I yanked the leash in reply and the beast writhed on his tether. “You had your turn, beastie. Time for papa to have some fun.”

I dug out a hand towel. It was dry and pleasantly coarse. I thumbed the lighter, lit
one small corner of the towel, and watched the flame grow and creep across its surface. The firebug started
to dance, gyrating to a mad antediluvian beat, and I flung the towel at the tower's base. Chompy barked, not digging the fire, and I allowed him to pull me back to the food trash. Wh
ile the tower fire slowly smoldered, then spread, Chompy enjoyed more nasty snacks and the night buzzed with energy.

We were all feeding. We were all getting fed.

The Claremont Caves

I
n middle school my geology class took a field trip to the Claremont Caves, which are so far north of Hickson they're almost in Leroy County. To go on this fancy pants trip we all needed signed permission slips from our parents and to bring our own bag lunch. None of us had seen the caves before and nobody expected much. We were just glad to get out of school for the day and fuck around on the bus, which was its own sort of casual war zone.

The caves were terrifying. We counted two dozen of them. They pocketed the side of a broad limestone hill like open sores and exhaled unnaturally cold winds. It was easy to imagine all kinds of monsters coming out of those dark openings. Creatures of girth and tentacles and teeth.

Our teacher wouldn't let us actually go inside the caves. He said it was too dangerous, but never specified why. He just talked for a while about geology stuff and then we all had lunch beside a murky brown river.

I dreamt about those caves for years.

Grandma's Dream

I
woke up
ear
ly on Tuesday after a lo
ng night of sweaty, hot-garbage sleep. I shuffled downstairs, fed Chompy, took him outside for a piddle, and ate some cereal in front of the TV while the beast gnawed happily on my ankle. Around seven-thirty, Dad emerged from his bedroom and shuffled into the kitchen to put on his beloved pot of morning coffee. He'd ta
ken the whole week off fro
m work and was looking even shittier since the homecoming dance, the usual purple sadness rings around his eyes appearing even wider. I decided I'd be best served by finishing my cereal, showering quickly, and heading off to school like a man of purpose.

School, however, was intolerable. I was so tired from my night out at the Fill that I could barely prop myself up at my desk and felt in constant danger of collapsing inward, like a dying star. The teachers yacked, yacked, yacked, but thankfully none of them called on me and I was able to float through the morning unscathed.

By lunch, however, I was dragging something fierce. I drank three sodas and felt nothing, not even the usual sleepy jitters. I reported to our friendly school nurse, told her I wasn't feeling so hot, and by one o'clock I was roaming the streets in the Olds, freed from the surly bounds of education.

Unfortunately, I knew my father would still be home, watching PBS while he waited to take Haylee to her afternoon appointment. I decided to visit the Grotto, where I could sack out in my grandparents' guest room for a couple of hou
rs before I went to work. Besides, I hadn't been to visit my grandparents in a while, having fallen away from my grandsonly duties ever since Grandpa Hedley declared war on the county firebug. I figured it'd be better if I spent as little time with the old man as possible, since he was the sort of fella who might be able to actually smell deceit upon you. He had those burning Vietnam eyes, that hunter's nose.

Grandpa's truck was missing from the driveway but I found Grandma Hedley in the kitchen, pulling a tray of brownies out of the oven. She smiled when she saw me and I gave her a hug.

“How nice. A surprise visit from my favorite grandson.”

“Hi Grandma.”

“You out of school early today?”

“Yep. I'm not feeling too great.”

Grandma Hedley took off her oven mitts and tossed them on the kitchen counter. She looked me over through her trifocals.

“It's been a hard few days, hasn't it?”

“I guess so. It definitely could have been better.”

“How's Haylee doing?”

“Better, I think. She started counseling yesterday.”

“Oh. I'm glad to hear that.”

Grandma took a paring knife out of the knife block and started sawing away at the tray of brownies, carving out squares with grid-like consistency.

“So, where's Gramps? Out yelling at a city council member?”

“I don't know. He's out somewhere. I haven't seen him this worked up in years. He gets up twenty minutes after we go to bed and I can hear him walking around the house, muttering to himself.” Grandma Hedley wiped her hands on her apron. “Have a seat, kiddo. Let's try these brownies.”

I sat down at the table while Grandma Hedley grabbed plates and silverware. It was no use offering to help at snack time—trying to step in would only get you snapped at with a dish towel. I tried to imagine Katrina like this, apron-clad and happily fussing over a tray of freshly baked brownies, and I literally could not do it. The closest scene I could envision was Katrina setting out Jell-O shots on a table made out of human femurs and illuminated by a burning candelabrum.

Grandma Hedley divvied out the brownies and sat down.

“I had a dream about her, Mack. Last night.”

“Mom?”

Grandma Hedley nodded and broke off a corner of her brownie with her fork. She put the piece of brownie in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“I was walking in a forest on a sawdust path. The sawdust looked fresh and clean, as if it had been laid down earlier that day. I followed the path for a long time but it never seemed to get any later, or darker. Finally, I came to a clearing with a cabin in it. The cabin's front door was open and I could see your mother inside.”

Grandma Hedley dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a napkin.

“She looked like before, Mack. Healthy. Not so thin.”

“Really?”

“Really. She looked wonderful.”

I tried to remember Mom looking wonderful. It was hard. I pictured mostly medical tape and plastic tubing.

“She was sitting at a small table, doing something with her hands. I waved and said hello across the clearing, but she couldn't hear me. She kept working at whatever she was working at and didn't look up.”

Grandma Hedley ate another piece of her brownie and swallowed. Her eyes had filled with tears again.

“That was it. That was the whole dream.”

I sat back in my chair. I hadn't touched my brownie yet.

“Huh. That's crazy.”

A rumbling engine pulled up to the house. My grandmother stood up and cleared her plate. The front door slammed and Grandpa Hedley entered the kitchen, swinging his arms and whistling. A true figure of purpose, he'd rolled up the sleeves of his red flannel shirt to reveal his meaty forearms. He was smiling, but when he saw Grandma Hedley drying her eyes at the sink his face darkened and he scowled at me.

“Okay, bucko. What'd you do?”

“Me? Nothing.”

Grandpa Hedley put his arm around Grandma Hedley and gave her a squeeze. They reminded me of an old-timey pioneer couple.
We'll tame this hard land, Ma.

“Your grandmother is obviously crying, Mack. Did you say something smart?”

Grandma Hedley sighed and leaned against my grandfather's shoulder.

“So Grandma's crying and you automatically think it's because of me?”

“I don't know, Mack. You seem pretty squirrely these days, if you ask me.”

“Squirrely? I'm squirrely?”

Grandpa Hedley nodded, studying me.

“Squirrely like a squirrel? Like a squirrel with a big fluffy tail, leaping from tree to tree with suicidal abandon? Squirrely like a squirrel putting on weight and burying nuts for winter?”

Grandma Hedley laughed, but my grandfather didn't even crack a smile. He was staring at me like he was trying to see inside my skull and gauge all the cogs and whistles. He stared and stared until I suddenly got paranoid, like mind-reading was something the old Vietnam vet could actually do.

“All right,” I said, rising from my chair. “I better get back at it.”

“Bye, sweetie,” Grandma Hedley said, hugging me. “Thanks for visiting.”

I went out and started my car. As I pulled away from the curb, my grandfather came out of the house and stood on his lawn, watching me drive away. He'd put on his dark aviator glasses and his shoulders were straight and wide, like he could still kick some ass when needed. I gave the old wolf a splashy wave and my best derp face, knowing how much he'd appreciate the comic moment.