by Peter Hedges
I walk past her and go down and out. I find some garbage bags in the kitchen. I’m at the top of the stairs when I hear Amy ask, “What time is it?”
Larry says, “Two-fifteen.”
Without saying a word, Amy walks past me to her room. She eventually emerges with a box of Elvis records, Elvis posters, and a stuffed bear that Larry won once for her at the carnival years back. She has grabbed some clothes, too. She stops at the end of the hall, pokes her head in Momma’s room, and says to the others, who are standing around, confused, “Gilbert’s right. It’s gonna take a crane to get her out.”
Janice goes, “What the…?”
Amy says, “Gilbert’s also right—they will laugh and judge. And, yes, Momma deserves better.” She takes her stuff down the stairs and out onto the front lawn.
I carry down books. I empty the coats from the coat closet and carry them out beyond the sidewalk. It’s only Amy and me doing this though. Then Ellen appears on the porch. She holds a few of our photo albums. “Where should I put these?” she asks.
Soon the others are carrying, too. Janice helps Arnie gather up his toys. Ellen gets her makeup, Larry gets the dart board from the attic and the set of encyclopedias and the tools from the garage. We gather papers and pictures and dishes from the kitchen.
No one is saying anything, but it is clear that we all understand.
Amy picks selected furniture and it’s carried out and set in the yard. The dining-room table, the family-room sofa. No one is running, no one frantic—but we work quickly. I make sure to get Becky’s watermelon seeds and Mrs. Carver’s Coke can.
It takes many trips for the yard to be filled with our things. Amy and I look at it all from the porch. Bags of clothes and furniture and old dishes everywhere. The yard is littered with our belongings.
“Amy,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Did you know we had this much stuff?”
“Nope. We sure got a lot.” She looks at her watch. “It’s a little after five.” I hand her the last sofa cushion. “Is that everything?” she asks.
“Yep.”
60
It took us three or so hours to empty all we want. Janice is collapsed in the grass and Ellen looks at the sweat on her arms in the light from the street lamp. Larry goes to his car and calls out, “Be right back.”
The girls, Arnie, and me all go upstairs and give Momma a hug or a kiss. Ellen tries to take one last picture, but she runs out of film. We all walk around the house with blank faces, sometimes smiling, an occasional giggle or sob—but mainly we walk around with blank faces just soaking it all in. Arnie sits in his room saying, “Bye-bye.” He waves to the doors and closet shelves.
When I see the headlights from a car, I go, “Larry’s back.” We all go downstairs and out into the yard. Larry runs in the house and up the stairs and you can see him, through the window, looking at Momma. He leans forward to kiss her—his head dips out of view.
Back outside, he opens the trunk of his car and takes out the gas can he just had filled. I walk with him to the porch, he opens the door, and we walk into the living room. The only furniture left in that room is Momma’s chair. He pours the gasoline all over it. I turn off all the lights. He lights a match and we hear the sound of fire being born. He gets out of the house fast. I take my time.
Outside, the girls have turned the sofa around so it faces the house. Sitting on it are Arnie and Amy. Ellen stands behind them. Janice is sitting on one of our kitchen chairs. Larry runs to the others. From the porch, where I’m standing, I can hear Amy whispering to Arnie, trying to explain why we’re doing this and although it makes perfect sense, even Arnie can’t understand.
With my back to the house, I watch my brothers and sisters watch the fire grow. The light brightens their faces. I feel the heat on my neck. The downstairs must be in flames.
“Gilbert, get over here.”
I turn and look at the fire.
“Gilbert!”
I go and join the others who are watching.
The fire grows and grows. It moves quick and it seems to go right to Momma’s room. Arnie says, “Scary, scary.”
***
It won’t be long before the sun is up and the police and newspaper people arrive. I look around to see if any of the neighbors’ lights have snapped on, and a couple have, but no one is outside yet.
The fire is beautiful.
I remember my date with Becky to watch the sunrise. It will have to wait until another day.
As the fire shoots higher and higher, I look around at my family. I see that Larry’s eyes are full and about to drip, and that Janice is staring like she’s seen her first rainbow, and Ellen’s got her eyes closed—she’s listening to the fire. Amy and Arnie sit together on the sofa and he’s asking questions. The police lights come flashing through the trees. I take my hands out of my pockets. I put one on Larry’s shoulder and the other squeezes Ellen’s arm.
Arnie says to Amy, “Look at the lights—look at the lights.”
The sirens fill the air, the walls in Momma’s room fall down in flames, and Amy says, “Yes, Arnie, look at the lights.”