How to Start a Fire

by Lisa Lutz

  “That wasn’t my car.”

  The High Street house was empty when Kate and Sarah got there. George had a date with a man who washed and waxed his Porsche in their driveway every weekend. Kate never bothered to learn his name. She called him Spyder, after his car.

  Kate found a bottle of bourbon that she had hidden from Anna pre-finals. She poured Sarah a double on ice (what Anna drank) and two fingers for herself (her deda’s allotted nightcap).

  Over the course of the evening, as they drank and Sarah created a decent pasta dish culled from canned and packaged goods, Kate heard the Reader’s Digest version of Sarah’s life—that obligatory download of information that happens when two strangers are in a confined space.

  Sarah had been raised in the foster-care system in Oakland, California, her father unknown, her mother dead of a drug overdose when Sarah was eight. A string of households followed, ranked from acceptable to terrifying; some molestation was mentioned in passing, and a few brushes with the law (nothing too serious, theft mostly); she spent some time in juvie and then was emancipated from the state. Homeless for a year. Then she found a job waiting tables, got an apartment, quit smoking pot all day long, and met her girlfriend. She and Sonia had moved to Humboldt County six months ago. They broke up a month after they arrived. Sonia fell in love with someone else. Sarah hitched a ride to Santa Cruz, talked her way into the Pete’s Emerald job and an apartment without a security deposit, and she’d been there ever since.

  Kate was certain her life paled by comparison, but she provided the brushstrokes of it anyway. She told Sarah about her parents’ deaths and about being raised by her deda. She talked about her plans to take over the diner, a goal Sarah found far more reasonable than Anna or George did. And she mentioned her current obsession: nineteenth-century prison slang.

  “It was called flash language,” Kate said.

  “Huh. Give me an example,” said Sarah.

  “There are three different words that all mean ‘shoes.’ Crabshells, hopper-dockers, and stamps. My favorite word for ‘shirt’ is flesh bag. The slang for ‘tanked’ is floored, like on the floor. Also, if I handed you a knife and told you to cheese it, that meant stow it.”

  Kate talked about flash language for another ten minutes, until it became clear her audience was bored. Sarah asked about the missing roommates.

  “What’s Anna like when she’s not floored?”

  “Anna always tries to make things bigger, more exciting than they are. She can turn a trip to the grocery store into an event. That can sometimes get old. But she also makes you do things you’d never think of doing.”

  “And George?”

  “George has your back. I was at this party off campus and this guy was bothering me, asking for my ID, calling me a little girl. He was standing way too close, breathing his vile beer breath on me, and I kept telling him to back off but he wouldn’t listen. George came over, told him to step away. He didn’t. She warned him one more time, didn’t really wait for it to register, and then punched him in the nose. Hurt her hand and couldn’t play basketball for a week. She’s a regular flibbing gloak. That means ‘pugilist.’”

  Kate and Sarah ate dinner and drank and then Kate gave her a brief tour of the house. Sarah lingered in rooms and opened cupboards as if she were surveying real estate for purchase. It was then that Sarah found the enormous walk-in closet in the entryway. Five minutes later, they were negotiating a deal. Kate didn’t see a downside. They used the closet only for coats, and Kate had always thought it would make a nice bedroom. Kate’s cut of the two hundred dollars a month was enough to feed her for two weeks and two days, if she didn’t go out to dinner.

  Sarah had been living in the closet for three days before George noticed she had a new roommate. This was the argument that Kate presented to Anna once she returned home to play tiebreaker.

  Anna, weary from the six-hour flight and the seventy-two hours with her family, was not unmoved by the fact that Sarah had saved her from the disguised man in the bar or that she had grown up in the foster-care system or that she had done time.

  “She goes or I go,” George said.

  “Sorry, Kate,” Anna said. “Give her three days to find another place.”

  Kate shot dagger eyes at George, who returned the look with an icy stare.

  “Do you want me to tell her?” Anna asked.

  “No,” Kate said. “I’ll do it.”

  Kate walked the 1.8 miles to Pete’s Emerald. Behind the counter was a man who looked like a Pete, or like the kind of guy who opened a bar with his name on it.

  “Is Sarah working tonight?”

  The man Kate believed to be Pete shook his head and chuckled grimly. He raised an eyebrow and revealed his right incisor with a snarl. “Nope. She’s not working tonight or any other night.”

  “Did you fire her?”

  “What’s it to you, sweetheart?”

  “She was living with me,” Kate said.

  “Well, I’d check my silverware drawers if I were you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She cleaned out the cash register two nights ago. Haven’t seen her since.”

  As Kate ran home in the rain, she thought that this would be a really good time to know how to drive. Once inside, she tracked water through the hallway and opened the closet. It was empty except for a sleeping bag rolled up in a tight fist in the corner. On the floor was an old weathered postcard. A standard shot of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Kate flipped over the card and read the single line written in rushed script.

  I was never one for goodbyes.

  SL

  2001

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Hello, darling. Where have you been hiding?” Hunter Stevens III asked as he parked himself in a silver Chiavari chair next to Anna.

  “In plain view,” Anna said. She was hard to miss, she thought, dressed in coral pink punctuating a room decorated in white and silver.

  “What are you doing later?” Hunter asked.

  “I suppose I’ll get another drink,” Anna said, staring down at her empty glass.

  “And then what?” Hunter asked.

  “Then … then I’m getting out of this fucking dress,” Anna said.

  “If you need any help, let me know.”

  Anna was thinking that his parents had named him perfectly. Then she was quietly calculating how many IIIs were attending her brother’s wedding. The percentage was well above average even for a tony Boston affair.

  “I’ll do that,” Anna said dryly. A few lines of small talk with Hunter were all that Anna could stomach. She wobbled over to the bar, cursing the mandatory heels and yanking up on her strapless bridesmaid’s dress. The bust was tailored for manufactured breasts, and Anna spent much of the night readjusting, at first privately, then publicly, as the booze untied the already loose knot on her social graces.

  “How ladylike,” Anna’s mother said as they crossed paths in the ballroom. Anna rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. Her mother’s full-time job for the past nine months had been planning her son’s wedding. Somehow Lena Fury had managed to shove aside the mother of the bride and the bride herself to become the chief operating officer of the Fury/Wentworth nuptials. Fortunately, Lena had the kind of taste that is admired by people who take weddings seriously. The consequence of the bride’s loss of control was the pristine white tablecloths, white roses, white everything, with just a hint of platinum to remind people that there was a cost to the whole affair. The pink bridesmaid’s dresses were an unfortunate compromise that Lena had had to accept. The bride’s favorite color.

  Taking in the room, Anna thought the whole thing looked cold, but then, snow was white. And the guests had an icy way about them. It was as if everyone had emerged from a meat locker. The booze melted a few souls, but not many.

  She found her brother chatting with Malcolm at the bar. She had noticed earlier that the bride and groom worked the room separately, as if they were dividing the cr
owd for their future divorce. When Anna approached, Colin put his arm around his sister and drew her close.

  “Has Mom started enjoying herself yet?” Colin asked.

  “Does she ever enjoy herself?” Anna said. “Beer, please,” she said to the bartender. “No, you don’t need to pour it in a glass. I’ll take the bottle.”

  Anna took a healthy, boyish swig. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother scowling at the sight of her daughter guzzling beer like she was in a biker bar.

  “You’re just doing that to annoy Mom,” Colin said.

  “What’s your point?” she said.

  “No point. I saw you talking to Hunter,” Colin teased.

  “He was talking to me.”

  “He was on the list.”

  “What list?” Malcolm asked.

  “I gave Anna a list of all my friends she should stay away from tonight.”

  “Am I on the list?”

  “Of course not,” Anna said, grinning at Malcolm.

  Anna had been thirteen when Malcolm came into their lives. He had witnessed her clumsy entrance into adolescence and her resistant entrance into adulthood. It would never have occurred to Colin that he couldn’t trust Malcolm with his sister, though Colin should have realized that it wasn’t his sister he needed to worry about. She was the predator in any scenario.

  “So what happened at the bachelor party?” Anna inquired.

  A tic of tension crossed Colin’s face, then vanished. Colin had impressive control of his emotions. But Anna had learned to read his microexpressions.

  Her question was typical Fury passive aggression. Anna was drunk and annoyed that so much of her recent life had been devoted to painful bridal showers (plural—she hadn’t been able to get out of her obligatory attendance at more than one), inefficient dress fittings, and endless conversation about the upcoming nuptials. Her brother was marrying because it was time; he was thirty-one, his wife was well connected, and he’d bowed to the ultimatum that Megan gave him exactly eighteen months after they began dating. But Anna knew her brother, his proclivities. Because Colin had made an unwise decision, Anna had to suffer through the wedding. And for what? He wasn’t ready. He would fuck this up. Anna was surprised only by how quickly the fucking-up had commenced.

  “The bachelor party was like any other bachelor party,” Colin said, giving away nothing.

  “So, then, why aren’t you and the bride speaking?” Anna said, taking another gulp of beer. “I should have ordered whiskey.”

  “You should slow down,” Colin said. “Excuse me. I think I’ll dance with my wife.”

  Malcolm shook his head at Anna. “Why don’t you behave yourself?”

  “Why don’t you make me?” Anna said, then turned to the bartender and ordered a whiskey.

  “You think that’s a good idea?” Malcolm asked.

  “I ordered it for you,” Anna said, sliding it across the bar.

  Another of Colin’s college buddies slithered over.

  “Anna, looking lovely as ever,” Gabe said.

  Her dress was slipping again, and Malcolm caught Gabe shamelessly leering before he became distracted by the stable of liquor.

  “Is he on the list?” Malcolm quietly asked Anna.

  “I think so,” Anna said. “If not, I’ll add him.”

  Once Gabe had his drink in hand, he turned to Anna and said, “Before the night is through, Anna, you are going to dance with me.”

  “I’ll catch you later,” Anna said. Then she looked at Malcolm. “Get me out of here.”

  Malcolm slugged back his whiskey, took Anna’s arm, and led her out of the room as if she were an invalid. Uncomfortable heels will do that to a woman.

  “You can’t keep her all to yourself,” Gabe slurred, although he was already scoping the white room for another pink silhouette.

  “Sorry, buddy, you’re on the list,” Malcolm shouted over his shoulder.

  “What list?”

  When Anna retired to her room, she called the front desk.

  “Lenox Hotel, how may I direct your call?”

  “Malcolm Davis’s room, please.”

  “One moment.”

  The phone rang twice and Malcolm picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m in room 511,” Anna said. “I need your help.” She hung up the phone, knowing that Malcolm would be more likely to come if he was ignorant of the motive. Five minutes later, there was a knock. Anna swung open the door, still in pink.

  “You rang?”

  “I can’t get this fucking dress off,” Anna said.

  Malcolm entered the room, turned Anna around, and tried the zipper. He tried again, with a little more effort. Still it wouldn’t budge.

  “Hurry up,” she said, panicking.

  “I’m trying,” he said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Something’s wrong with the zipper.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Can you learn a new word?”

  “Can you just get the fucking dress off?”

  “I don’t want to ruin the dress.”

  “Why not? I’ll never wear it again.”

  Malcolm wrenched apart the back of the dress like it was a stubborn bag of potato chips. Anna threw herself out of the gown like it was a straitjacket. Malcolm quickly averted his gaze.

  Anna sighed. “Why do you have to be so decent?”

  Malcolm wasn’t thinking decent thoughts. He was thinking that he, too, should have been on that list. He headed for the door to forestall any more trouble. Anna rushed to the door to block his exit, wearing only her underwear. Malcolm wasn’t sure where to look. He stared up at the ceiling when he spoke.

  “You should go to bed now, Anna.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Then put your pajamas on and watch TV for a while.”

  “That sounds so boring.”

  “Anna, I need to leave this room right now.”

  Anna tugged on Malcolm’s tie, trying to release the slipknot. Malcolm put his hands over hers and kept them in place. His hands were warm and they sent a shiver through her. He finally looked at her, pleading.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You’re drunk,” he said. “Too drunk.”

  “So what?” Anna whispered.

  Then she kissed him. He was warm and sweet and he tasted like mint toothpaste. She felt Malcolm’s hands slide down her waist and rest on her hips. There they froze. He gently pushed her away.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Let’s get you sobered up first. See if you change your mind.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Then we’ll come back here. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now put some clothes on.”

  Anna threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Malcolm averted his gaze once again.

  “Why do you have to be such a gentleman?” Anna asked.

  “Just so you’ll know how to identify one in a lineup.”

  Anna and Malcolm sat in the back booth of a diner they’d found just a few short miles from the hotel. Anna ate French fries and apple pie. Malcolm sipped on a Coke. He studied her for too long. Anna noticed.

  “Something on your mind?” she asked.

  “I just can’t believe you’re going to be a doctor,” Malcolm said. Nostalgia was creeping into his conversation.

  “Are you worried about the state of modern medicine?”

  “No. It’s just that I remember when you were thirteen.”

  “When you saved my life?” Anna asked.

  Her memory of the incident was a fond one. For Malcolm, it was different, uncomfortable. They were both recalling the events of a family vacation at the Furys’ Adirondack cabin. Colin had met Malcolm his first year at Princeton. They lived across the hall from each other. They were different kinds of men, the differences allowing their friendship to thrive. Perhaps that was where Anna had developed
her theory.

  Anna had just turned thirteen. Her mother had prematurely bought her a training bra, which existed more as a threat of things to come. Then, Anna had still felt right in her body. A few months later, she’d add an extra layer of clothing as armor. But that day she was a little girl who feared only dusk, because that was when the voices would call to her, forcing her out of the water. She swam off the private beach, as she had every summer since she’d learned to swim. She had recently heard about people who could hold their breath for five, ten minutes, even longer. She once did sixty seconds, timed by her brother. She didn’t believe him; she thought it was longer. For Christmas she asked for a waterproof watch so she could time herself. She dove under at the end of the pier so she could wrap herself around its wooden leg.

  Forty seconds and she released all the air in her lungs; sixty seconds and she felt as if her body might explode. But she told herself that it was all in her head. If someone could do five minutes or more, surely she could manage ninety seconds. At seventy, she pushed off the bottom of the lake to get to the surface and smacked her head on the edge of the pier.

  “Is she okay?” Malcolm asked when Anna was underwater and unconscious.

  Colin had left his glasses inside. He couldn’t see a thing. Lena barely looked up from her legs as she slathered on suntan oil.

  “She’s fine,” Lena said.

  Malcolm couldn’t see anything past the pier. He got to his feet and slowly walked the planks until he saw Anna in her rainbow-colored swimsuit floating face-down on the surface. He dove into the water and wrapped his right arm around her. He pulled her onto the dock, put her on her back, and pressed on her chest wall to empty her lungs of water. Anna coughed convulsively. Malcolm’s heart pounded so fiercely he had to rest on his haunches to catch his breath. When he turned to look at the beach, he found Colin racing toward them. Lena followed without any sense of urgency, cocking her head to the side as if the image of her daughter gasping for breath on the dock was just a minor hiccup in the afternoon.

  After that day, Malcolm continued to be polite to Lena, but he could manage nothing more.

  Inside the diner, Anna reached into her purse and put on a pair of sunglasses. The fluorescent diner lights were as blinding as the sun at high noon; perhaps the goal was to trick you into believing it was lunchtime all the time.