The Firebug of Balrog County (6 page)

The Siege

T
he doctors didn't fuck around after they found the cancerous mass in Mom's lungs. We took her to the hospital for surgery two days after the diagnosis, all of us bewildered, and we brought her home two weeks later missing half a lung and thirty percent of her stomach.

I was ten and Haylee was seven and a half. Neither of us fully grasped the enormity of the change that had befallen our family, not even after Dad finished moving their bedroom downstairs into the first floor guest room, vacating the master bedroom on the second floor. We knew Mom had gotten sick, gone to the hospital for a period that felt like a thousand years, and had returned home all sewn up. We thought she simply needed to rest and eat chicken noodle soup and eventually she'd be back to her old self again. I was old enough to know cancer was
about as bad a disease as you could get, but I also knew my mother was tough as hell when she needed to be—I'd once seen her back down an aggressive pro-lifer in the produce department of the Hickson IGA, an obese slob of a man with a bright pink
face. I figured she'd gone to war in that hospital operating room and come back wounded yet victorious. I pictured cancer as a dragon, a flapping, emerald
-
scaled dragon, and I believed my mother had sallied forth and slain it.

A month after her surgery Mom got some of her old strength back, even if she had trouble breathing and ate about as much as a sparrow. She started using the toilet on her own, then showering on her own. Dad had built a new bathroom/closet annex that attached to their new bedroom using the old, small bathroom right off the kitchen and a chunk of our back porch. It was actually a pretty sweet setup—the new room's windows had a special tint to them so the sun wouldn't fade Mom's clothes and retained heat well. Also, Mom didn't have to go down into our creepy basement anymore to do her laundry since the new annex had a washer and dryer just for her.

Mom's new handicap shower was unsettling, though. It had a big rounded ledge at the back you could sit on and two stainless
-
steel handrails for grabbing. It was like something you'd find in a nursing home, not a house with two kids, a father, and a mother who was only thirty-two. It had a tropical
-
rainstorm-type showerhead, but I never used it, not once.

It felt strange at first, sleeping upstairs with our parents downstairs. Their old bedroom felt deserted. Empty. When Haylee had nightmares in the middle of the night, she started coming to my room because she was too frightened to go down the stairs in the dark. At first I played the part of intermediary, the reluctant and grumpy guide who would turn on all the lights and walk my sister downstairs to the new master bedroom. But, as time passed, I said screw it and let Haylee sleep in my room as long as she promised to sleep on the floor. She agree
d
to this eagerly and
would
drag in every blanket and pillow from her bedroom and lay it all out on the floor like a bird's nest. Then she'd go back to her room, giggling, and return with as many stuffed animals as she could carry, dropping them into her nest and laughing as they rolled.

“Dude. All right already. Lie down and go to sleep.”

“Dude!”

“Sleep.”

“Dude!”

And, of course, when I'd wake up in the morning, Haylee would be lying beside me in my twin bed, her gummy kid breath all up in my grill.

The next ominous change was the arrival of Randy the Oxygen Guy. His first visit must have been pre-arranged by my parents, but to me it seemed like he just showed up one day, when I was trying to eat my Frosted O's in peace, and barged into our house through the side door like he owned the place. “Hey bud,” this burly, greasy-looking stranger said to me. “I'm here to help your mom breathe.”

Randy installed a large oxygen tank in the coat hall, right off the kitchen. The tank, or “compressed oxygen gas cylinder,” vaguely resembled a beer keg but was
slimmer and taller and weighed a ton (Randy used an industrial dolly to unload the tank off the truck's ramp and wrestle it into the house, a process that involved much grunting and swearing). The tank had a couple of gauges and spigots on it and I named it HAL after the artificial intelligence in
2001: A Space Odyssey
.

Randy attached a clear rubber oxygen tube to one of HAL's spigots and gave the other end to my mother. The tube ran fifty feet, so she could move around most of the first floor while still attached to HAL. My mother's end of the tube actually split into two tubes, like earbud headphones, and like earbuds she looped the tubes around her ears for comfort and stability before stuffing the little nostril bits into her nose. T
he other spigot on the tank was for refilling a portable oxygen tank, itself good for ten hours of use. My mother used a metal frame with wheels on it to roll the portable tank around when she went out of the house. That one we called R
2
O
2
.

My mother never truly got accustomed to her oxygen tether. It caught on stuff and if she didn't notice the catch, the line would make her head snap back,
POW
, like a dog that's reached the end of its chain. She also didn't like being seen in public with the oxygen rig trailing behind her, a rolling reminder of her frailty for all to see. She took off the oxygen halter, which I've since learned is called a cannula, whenever somebody took a picture of her.

You can click through years of photos, lots and lots of photos, and find maybe half a dozen where she's wearing that goddamn halter.

But Mom was still Mom, kind and hyper-aware of those around her. She developed a new routine, which mostly involved sitting on the couch in the living room, propped up with pillows and covered by a quilt Grandma Hedley's church group had made for her. Whenever you went through the living room she'd ask you how you were doing, what was up. In the morning, she'd inevitably hear my bedroom door open upstairs and shout, “Good morning, sweetie!” in a cheerful voice I found massively obnoxious as I shambled toward the bathroom, wanting nothing more than to piss and fall back asleep as swiftly as possible. I usually grumbled some reply to this inevitable morning greeting, or ignored it altogether.

I think Mom must not only have known how obnoxious her chirpy greeting was but found it massively hilarious, a sort of running joke between the two of us that never got old to her, especially as I plunged deeper and deeper into the roil of adolescence, an early morning automaton capable only of the most guttural utterances.

Because she was missing so much of her stomach, Mom couldn't eat a lot. She'd order a big spread, pick at it for a half hour, and finally give it up with obvious reluctance. Dad and I always joked that going out to eat with Mom was like getting a two-for-one dinner special, your meal and hers.

One of the strangest things about the siege years was Grandpa Hedley. A gruff, loud-talking dude, he'd always acted as blustery around my mother as he did around everybody else. He'd pop into your house when you were out, read your mail, and yell at you for not paying your electric bill when you returned
home.

But after Mom's surgery, Grandpa Hedley was a changed fellow. While his previous visits to our house had been unannounced and sporadic, like surprise inspections, he now made it his business to show up at exactly two o'clock every Saturday afternoon and sit with his daughter in our living room. He brought Mom flowers and books and gourmet chocolates she could no longer digest. He'd sit in Dad's leather recliner and rock steadily while watching Mom from the corner of his eye. Constantly harassed by insomnia and coughing fits, Mom would usually be bone-tired and on some kind of pain m
edication, which only enhanced the loopy aspect of their conversations.

“LeRoy Higgins hit a fire hydrant last night with his truck.”

“He did?”

“He was drunk as a skunk, too. One of the deputies had to haul him in.”

“Really?”

“I always told LeRoy he should watch it with the boozing. Dumb son-of-a-bitch is going to pay for it now.”

“I always liked fire hydrants. I like red.”

“I mean, hell. How do they expect me to keep this town running smoothly if fools are driving around soused and slamming into valuable city property? Yes, sir, I wouldn't mind taking the strap to Higgins for a good ten minutes. Or caning. Public caning's not such a bad idea.”

“Candy canes are red. Red and white.”

“That's right, sweetheart. They sure are.”

Grandpa Hedley's visits normally wound down after a half hour or so. After a steady stream of chatter he'd abruptly fall silent, as if somebody had thrown his talking switch, and pop out of the recliner. He'd throw his strong arms around his bony daughter, kiss her cheek, and stride swiftly out of our house without a word to anyone else, his eyes wet and distant. In his absence, the house would feel as if a tornado had just swept through it and Mom would sleep for a solid two hours on her couch, which was amazing for her. Even Dad had to admit the old guy could be a sweetheart, if you got him in the right company.

Bacterial infections began to creep into Mom's lungs more and more frequently. The surgery had reduced her immunity and even a common cold was dangerous. The doctors gave her a variety of antibiotics of ever-increasing strength, turning back the hordes of bacterial invaders one by one. Haylee and I did our best to ignore these bouts of infection, had in fact learned to tune out every possible conversation regarding Mom's medical condition as a form of emotional self-defense, but we were still constantly aware that the siege was not only continuing, but slowly growing worse with each passing day. The idea that Mom would die young still seemed impossible, yet the idea that she'd continue to live
in her current condition seemed almost equally impossible.

One night, when I was thirteen, my father woke me up in the middle of the night. He was taking Mom into Thorndale for help with her breathing, he said, his voice surprisingly calm. He wasn't going to wake Haylee, but he wanted me to know in case I woke up in the morning and they weren't home yet. He wanted me to know what was happening and to look after my sister.

“Okay,” I said. He said good night and exited the room, leaving me alone in my bed to stare at the ceiling. I heard his voice downstairs, saying something to Mom, and then I heard a door slam shut. I felt small and helpless and wondered what the world would be like without my mother.

She could die, she could die. She could die that very night.

I fell back asleep.

Chompy

T
he morning after the party at Lisa Sorenson's I woke with my head aching and a slobbering hound licking my face. His enormous tongue was coarse, his breath foul and meaty. I struggled to get away, but my arms were knotted beneath the blankets and apparently someone had shoved an ice sword into my brain, making it hard to think even at a deeply instinctual level. I recalled the party at Lisa Sorenson's the night before, the chugging of many a crappy lite beer. A slow, creeping drive back into town with Sam as I sat hunched behind the wheel of the Olds, terrified of cops.

Too much light.

Too much slobbering.

I made a croaking sound and thrashed around beneath the covers, finally prying one arm free. I shoved the beast's hairy snout away as laughter came from the foot of my bed, wicked and merry. It was Dad.

“What do you think, Mack? I think we should call him Chompy. Because, you know, he chomps.”

Right on cue, the dog chomped on my free arm. Not
too hard, not too painful. Just strong enough to let me know he was good at it. I cracked open my bleary eyes, letting more horrible light flood in. The cur was a devilish blend of lab and Border collie, mostly black but with a white ruff and white front paws. A gentleman's hound complete with formal attire.

I shook my arm. The beast seemed to actually be smiling at me while the better part of my forearm was crammed into his maw.

“I see where this is going,” I said. “You're one of those motherfuckers.”

The beast growled, low in the throat but soft and buttery, like he was only playing, hardy-har-har. He let go of my arm and panted happily, sending a fresh gust of meaty breath my way. I wiped the drool from my arm and tucked it back under the covers, where it would be safe from further mauling. Dad gave Chompy a scritch behind the ears and both of them grinned, having a real moment togeth
er.

“
I picked him up from the animal shelter this morning. Thought I'd give him to Haylee.”

“Haylee?”

“She's always wanted a dog and I thought finally having one would cheer her up. She could take him for walks and stuff like that. It'll get her out of that damn bedroom.”

A wave of sloshing hangover nausea swept through my guts. I tried to remember the last time Haylee had talked about getting a dog. When she was ten, maybe?

“Sure, Dad. Yeah.”

Dad beamed and gave Chompy a fresh scruffing. “I thought we could spring Chompy on her together. I'm going to make family breakfast.”

“Family breakfast?”

“Yes, sir. Any requests?”

I closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear into a different realm. Perhaps somewhere deep, deep underground, like the Mines of Moria.

“Coffee. Coffee would be good.”

“You got it, kid. You're looking rough there. They work you too late at the Legion? You don't have to take that job, you know. You can feel free to tell Grandpa Hedley to shove it where the sun don't shine.”

“Right. And then he'll beat me to death with his bare hands. Good plan, Dad.”

My dad chuckled and whacked Chompy on the butt. The dog leapt off my bed and bounded out of the room.

“The old man been telling you war stories again? Heck. If only half of what he says is true, he's the real live Rambo. You take everything he says with a pound of salt and spit it out again if it don't taste right.”

“Wouldn't a pound of salt make anything taste weird?”

Dad stared at me. “All right, Mr. Smart Mouth. See you downstairs in five.”

I stumbled downstairs and valiantly made it to my chair in the kitchen. Dad set a mug of coffee in front of me and I drank greedily from it, cupping the warm mug between my hands. Chompy, who was lying in wait beneath the kitchen table, gummed happily on my bare foot, his tail thumping against the floor. Dad was at the stove and working three frying pans, rotating between hash browns and bacon and cinnamon pancakes, short-order style.

He was actually whistling, too. Whistling while he cooked.

“Good old family breakfast, huh Mack?”

I nodded and drank more coffee. I wanted to be buried in hot coffee, swamped with it until it came out of my pores.

“Remember when we used to have these every Saturday morning? Your mother liked her bacon charred. Stank up the whole kitchen with smoke. I had to open all the windows, and still … ”

The pounding in my head was slowly receding as the coffee took effect, neutralizing a few of the evil boozing cells. Chompy stopped gnawing on my foot and scrambled to his feet beneath the table. Haylee had appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in an old purple bathrobe.

“Hey, sunshine,” Dad said. “Good morning.”

Chompy exploded from beneath the table and scrambled toward my sister, his toenails clacking on the linoleum floor. Haylee screamed and brought her hands up, pushing the dog away as he lunged toward her groin.

“Chompy, down!” Dad shouted, shaking his spatula at the dog. “Down, boy, down!” Chompy gave a few more friendly lunges, Haylee kept pushing him down, and finally he gave up and did some happy circles around her instead, nuzzling the backs of Haylee's knees with his snout. She tried to swat him away but Chompy, who'd obviously dealt with critics before, dodged her hands with ease and did his best to rub his entire side against her, like a cat.

“What the hell?” Haylee said, scowling as she tried to create distance between herself and the beast. “Why is there a dog in our kitchen?”

“Dad got him for you.”

“What?”

“I thought you could use some cheering up,” Dad said, theatrically flipping a pancake and catching it with the pan. “You've seemed down the last couple weeks.”

Haylee's jaw tightened. “So you got me a dog?”

“And food,” I said, pointing my coffee mug toward Dad and the stove. “Family breakfast, dude.”

Chompy, his attentions scorned, sat on the floor and stared up at my sister longingly. Did the mutt know, somehow, he was supposed to be hers from now on? It seemed like it, but that was giving the furry idiot a lot of credit. Maybe he was just drawn to people who hated him. Maybe Chompy took all that hate, internalized it, and turned it into drool.

Haylee groaned. She was hesitating in the doorway like a sparrow ready to take flight.

“But we don't do family breakfast anymore. We haven't in, like, forever.”

“Well, we're doing it today,” Dad said, turning back to the stove and pushing around the hash browns. “Get yourself a glass of juice and pull up a chair, little lady. The bacon's almost ready.”

Haylee looked from Dad to me to the dog and back to Dad again. You could feel the charge inside her building, filling her body like a ball of heat lightning.

“Mom's not here. We can't have family breakfast without Mom.”

“She's here in spirit, sweetheart—”

“Fuck spirit. I'm not eating family breakfast and I don't want some stupid fleabag dog.”

Haylee turned and rushed out of the room, the hem of her robe catching air and fluttering behind her. We listened as she stomped up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

Dad turned off the stove burners. “What the heck is wrong with that girl?”

I shrugged and brought my plate over to the stove. “Fill'er up, sir. I'm here to report for family breakfast.”

Dad laughed. He filled my plate and then his own, wielding a spatula with surprising grace. We sat down and the dog settled back under the table, where he prodded us with his snout and breathed noisily, praying for scraps. Dad and I dug into the food, elbows on table, and we ate that breakfast like it was our job.

After I loaded the dishes and started the dishwasher, I brought Chompy upstairs and led him to my sister's bedroom door.

“Be good,” I told him. “Be good you crazy, slobbering beast.”

I turned the knob on Haylee's door and cracked it open. Chompy hustled immediately into the breach, his black tail wagging, and disappeared into the shade-drawn darkness beyond. I wished him luck.