Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  We paused. I waved off a deerfly. Clair had a radio on his belt and it squawked. Mary’s voice came over, saying, “You all want lunch?”

  Clair unclipped the radio, said to me, “Pony’ll be ready for a break.”

  “Let’s go to our house,” I said. “You’ve done enough.”

  “Tell that to the boss,” Clair said. He handed the radio over and I had lifted it to my mouth to speak when the car rolled up to the front of the barn.

  A blue cruiser. State police. I lowered the radio. We watched as the trooper got out of the car, put on his wide-brimmed hat, and closed the door. He walked toward the house. Jutting chin, military posture, stern expression.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  Roxanne turned and watched. Pokey stopped. Sophie said, “Giddyup. Giddyup.” The trooper started for the side door, then saw us out back. He marched toward us, like he was delivering a telegram and it had bad news.

  “I’m Trooper Foley,” he said.

  “Yes,” Roxanne said, still holding the end of the line, Pokey and Sophie waiting.

  “We tried calling the house.”

  “We’ve been out here,” Roxanne said, nodding toward the pony.

  He looked toward Pokey, back at Roxanne.

  “I’ve got some bad news.”

  “What?” she said.

  “There was a memorial service this morning. For the little boy who died.”

  Roxanne nodded. Clair moved to the gate, started across the paddock.

  “And?”

  Clair lifted Sophie off of Pokey and, carrying her in his big arms, started for the house. The trooper waited. Roxanne walked over to him, Pokey trailing behind her.

  “The child’s father, Alphonse Celine, is an inmate at the Maine Correctional Center.”

  “I know that,” Roxanne said. “What happened? Just tell me what happened.”

  “Mr. Celine was allowed to attend the service in the custody of corrections officers. When he—”

  He paused, looked at me, back at Roxanne.

  “When he what?” she said.

  “He escaped from custody, ma’am,” Trooper Foley said.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” I said.

  “No, sir,” the trooper said. “Unfortunately I’m not. Went out through the restroom window.”

  It took a moment to sink in. A violent psycho meth head whose son had just died. He blamed my wife and he was loose.

  “I’ll shoot him on sight,” I said.

  We stood, the three of us. The radio squawked in the cruiser. Pokey swished his tail and looked up at us with his bottomless brown eyes. Roxanne turned away, looked past me at the wall of trees at the far side of the field. A hawk passed just above us, slipped into the line of woods, and disappeared. Anything could hide in the second-growth ash and maple. Anyone. We had no way of knowing what was lurking in the woods in the dark.

  Clair came out of the house, started toward us. We did have one way of knowing, I thought. We stood, quiet. Clair walked up and I introduced him. Foley and Clair shook hands and there was recognition between soldiers.

  “Military?” Foley said.

  “Marine Corps, a long time ago,” Clair said.

  “Army,” the trooper said. “Five years out. Vietnam?”

  “Yessir,” Clair said. “Afghanistan?”

  “Yessir,” Foley said. “Rangers. Seventy-fifth.”

  Clair didn’t reply.

  Foley gave him an assessing look. I’d seen it before. People, good and bad, took in Clair’s muscled arms and shoulders, the Semper Fi tattoo. But mostly it was the hardness in the eyes.

  “You live here, sir?” the trooper said.

  “Yes,” Clair said. “I can help keep an eye on things.”

  “So here’s the question,” Roxanne said, like she was bringing the meeting back into focus. “Alphonse didn’t care about Ratchet when he was alive. Why would he care about him now that he’s dead?”

  “Maybe he feels like he was dissed when his son died,” I said. “He was still his son.”

  “He was the biggest reason we pulled him,” Roxanne said. “Alphonse is a total piece of crap. Irresponsible, mean, a total narcissist. He used to beat Beth. I mean, once he beat her up and then urinated all over her. Horrible person. Doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

  “Could he have developed a conscience in prison?” Clair said.

  “I’ve seen it,” Foley said. “They get counseling. Get off the drugs. Sometimes they grow up.”

  “So he gets a sense of responsibility,” Clair said.

  “And comes after the social worker who took his kid,” I said.

  “Or he’s already out of state,” Roxanne said. “The Alphonse I knew would use his son’s death as a way to get out of prison, and once he was out, he’d be long gone.”

  “So we’re hoping for the old Alphonse,” I said. “The one who didn’t care if his son lived or died.”

  Pokey swished at the deerflies. Foley adjusted his hat.

  “Well, either way, you folks ought to be alert,” he said. “If you see Celine, just call 911. We’ll be in the area. We consider him dangerous, and if he’s at large for any length of time, he may be armed. He’s facing a substantial prison sentence when he’s recaptured, so he may not go quietly.”

  The trooper looked at Clair. Clair didn’t answer. I knew him well enough to know what he was thinking: If Alphonse Celine came here and he was armed, 911 wouldn’t be the first response. Foley read it, too.

  “What did you do in Vietnam, Mr. Varney?” he said.

  “Oh, crawled around in the jungle,” Clair said.

  “Force Recon,” I said.

  I could see it all coming together for Foley—that Clair was the real deal, that with him on duty we would not be sitting ducks.

  “Guys like this, sometimes they don’t come at you directly,” he said.

  “Backshooters,” Clair said.

  “Beat up kids and women,” Roxanne said.

  “Cowards,” I said.

  Foley looked toward Pokey, the paddock, the big barn.

  “The kind of guys who don’t necessarily say anything to your face,” the trooper said. “Just come around in the middle of the night and set your house on fire.”

  He tipped his hat and walked away.

  12

  There was a pot of tea on the desk, organic Earl Grey. I was on my second cup, writing my story about Sanctuary, Maine. The patrol angle had elevated it, and Kerry had given me 1,500 more words, a featured blurb on the Times home page, a tentative slot on the New England section front in print.

  It was seven o’clock, almost Sophie’s bedtime. She was lying on the floor near my desk, drawing pictures of Pokey. She talked to herself as she worked, her legs waggling in the air. Crayons were strewn around her like spent cartridges around a machine-gun nest.

  In the kitchen, Roxanne was on the phone.

  She’d been talking to Dave at DHHS on and off all afternoon, into the evening. He’d been talking to the State Police patrol supervisor. The cops wanted to know what she knew about Alphonse Celine, his associates at the time she pulled Ratchet, the relationship between Alphonse and Beth. From what I could overhear, they were trying to figure out whether Alphonse would blame Beth for the child’s death or whether they would be in this together against the agency.

  “He’d beat her up and an hour later they’d be having sex,” I heard Roxanne say. “The relationship was utterly dysfunctional. I mean, Beth’s self-esteem was nonexistent.”

  From the floor, Sophie said, “Daddy, is Mommy going to keep talking all night?”

  I said I was sure she’d be done soon, though I wasn’t. When she wasn’t talking to Dave, she was getting calls from her former colleagues at the department. They were offering their support. There but for the grace of God. . . .

  I had notebook pages spread on the desk. Davida Reynolds, Lasha the sculptor, Harold at the store. Russell from the Think Tank, Chief Frederick and the b
oys in the truck at the fire department, Tory and Rita at the fire scene doing PR damage control. Eve Johnson with her kids and concerns, Don Barbier watching his barn smolder.

  Reading through Don’s quotes, I paused. The only direct victim in the story. How to describe his reaction? Philosophical? Resigned? The guy was Mr. Cool, like nothing rattled him, not even somebody sneaking onto his property in the middle of the night and setting his barn on fire. I made a note to talk to him again for the follow-up.

  What do you think of Sanctuary, Maine, now, Don? Sleeping okay?

  Last but not least, Woodrow. I had his best quotes underlined, but was trying to decide what to include. I didn’t want him to seem like a raving lunatic—not when the kid had been minding his own business when I confronted him with the accusations. Also, I’d be doing more stories on the Sanctuary fires and I didn’t want to burn bridges.

  I flipped through the pages. “Gotta get Louis the army vet next time,” I muttered to myself. On the floor, Sophie was whispering. A couple of mutterers, we were. I smiled at her just as she said, “Mommy’s off the phone.”

  Sophie was on her feet, running to the kitchen. I looked back at my notes, the laptop screen.

  Someone is putting a match to the town of Sanctuary, Maine. Four arson fires in as many weeks have destroyed farm sheds and a barn in this seemingly idyllic rural enclave—and rattled residents who suspect the arsonist is in their midst. Now the townspeople are fighting back.

  “We take responsibility for our own community,” said local real estate broker Tory Stevens, who planned to join other Sanctuary residents on nighttime citizen patrols of the town’s back roads. “It’s a Maine thing.”

  A decent lead, and the rest of the story followed pretty easily. I got everyone in with the exception of Woodrow. I figured I’d do a follow-up on the suspects, see if I could get Louis Longfellow to talk to me. IN COZY SANCTUARY, MAINE, RESIDENTS EYE NEIGHBORS AS SUSPECTS IN ARSON SPREE—or something like that.

  I reread it three times, tightening it up. I cut it from 1,703 words to 1,508. I took a deep breath and sent it off, that die cast.

  Now to wait for the reaction, see how I was received next time I walked into the Sanctuary General Store. Hey, Harold. How goes the—

  Sophie’s barefoot steps coming from the kitchen.

  “Daddy,” she said, “Mommy says to come quick.”

  “Why?” I said, but Sophie had slid to a halt, delivered her message, and run from the room. I went to the kitchen where Roxanne was saying, “Listen, Dave, I’ve got to go.”

  Sophie was headed for the door. “State police,” Roxanne said. “They’re here.”

  I caught up to Sophie at the door, slung her up, and turned to Roxanne, passed Sophie over.

  Then I went out to the driveway, saw the blue cruiser parked in the road. Trooper Foley was in the driver’s seat, talking on the radio. There was someone in the backseat, a hoodie on.

  “So he did come up here,” I said. “That son of a bitch.”

  I walked slowly down the drive, heard the police radio chattering as Foley got out. He glanced at the figure in the car, waited until we were close. The person was turned away, fumbling with something on the seat.

  “Tried to call, but the line was busy,” he said. “She was pretty upset. She says she needs to talk to your wife.”

  I looked to the car. From the backseat, Beth Leserve peered out.

  Beth’s car had run out of gas on Route 137 in Freedom, five miles away. She’d waved the trooper down, said she needed to get to Prosperity. She told him she was the mother of the little boy who had died. She said she didn’t know where Alphonse was. She said he was a piece of crap and never cared about his own son, his flesh and blood. She said she had to talk to Roxanne. Roxanne was the only one who would understand.

  I took Sophie back to the house when Roxanne went out to the cruiser. We watched from the mudroom door, Sophie in my arms with one hand on the back of my neck.

  They stayed by the cruiser, Roxanne listening as Beth smoked and talked, Foley standing five feet away, arms folded across his chest. Beth started to cry and Roxanne reached out and touched her shoulder. Beth put her arm on Roxanne’s shoulder and then drew her into a hug.

  “Beth is very sad,” Sophie said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Her little boy died.”

  “Was he sick?” Sophie said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Clair came around the corner of the shed and I put Sophie down.

  “You can go say good night to Pokey,” I said, and Clair lifted her onto his shoulders and headed back toward the barn. I walked down the driveway and joined Beth and Roxanne and the trooper.

  “You’re the only one who knows me,” Beth was saying, wiping tears from her cheeks. “You know it was the crack. I mean, if it wasn’t for the dope, I could have been a good mom, right?”

  “I think that’s true,” Roxanne said. “Without the drugs.”

  “I mean, people look at me, I can tell what they’re thinking. Like at the thing today. These people work in the funeral place, all dressed up in their suits. This one lady, fucking high heels and stockings.”

  Beth was wearing a tight striped top and a short faded denim skirt. Pink flip-flops.

  “This lady looks at me like, look at that drug addict—she’s in jail when she should be with her kid. What a horrible person. And then Alphonse takes off out the bathroom window. I told them not to let him come.”

  “You can’t worry about what people think,” Roxanne said. “That’s what started you down this path.”

  “My dad, he always told me how stupid I was. Numb as a fence post. Numb as a pounded thumb. Number than a hake. He said Ma shouldn’t’ve drank when she was carrying me.”

  “I know, Beth. We’ve gone all through this.”

  “Well, how do you think that makes you feel? When even your own friggin’ dad thinks you’re a total loser.”

  “He’s gone, Beth. You’ve got to move forward. Like we said before, you’ve got to get unstuck.”

  Beth was sniffing, wiping at her nose with her fingers. Foley reached into the cruiser and took out a box of tissues. She took one, said, “Thanks.”

  She wiped her nose, her mouth.

  “And now look. Everything’s totally turned to shit.”

  It was hard to disagree.

  “I was at the thing today. And the minister guy, he’s saying Ratchet is in a better place. He’s in Heaven with the angels—they’ll hold him in their arms.”

  She blew her nose. Held the balled-up tissue in one hand, cigarette in the other.

  “Do you believe that?” Beth said.

  “I believe we live on,” Roxanne said.

  “But the angels. Do you believe in angels?”

  I waited. Foley looked to Roxanne, like we were discussing theology.

  “Yes,” Roxanne said. “I believe in angels.”

  Beth mustered a smile.

  “Good. I think I do, too. And Ratchet up there. Maybe they’re playing with him. Do you think angels would play with a little kid?”

  “Sure,” Roxanne said. “Of course, they would.”

  “Because you don’t see them playing—in pictures, I mean. They’re usually just floating around. But I was thinking: They can’t do that all day. They have to do things. I mean, they run Heaven, right?”

  “Yes,” Roxanne said. “I suppose they do.”

  “I was thinking,” Beth said, starting to cry. “You know the Eric Clapton song? The one after his son died? It goes, like, Would you know my name? If I saw you in Heaven?”

  She sang it, not badly.

  “Yes,” Roxanne said. “It’s a beautiful song.”

  “Well, I heard it on the radio in the car on the way here. This oldies station. I mean, I cried so hard I had to pull over. And then I was thinking, Well, if I’m gonna have a chance to see Ratchet in Heaven, I’m gonna have to get my shit together, you know what I’m saying? I mean, they’re not gonna le
t me in just ’cause he’s there already. It’s like, ‘I’m here to see my son Ratchet. Could you tell him his mom’s at the gate.’ ”

  Beth grinned, wiped at the tears with the tissue, mascara smearing across her cheekbone. Roxanne smiled. Foley and I listened. The police radio hissed and popped.

  “So here I am,” Beth said.

  “So here you are, what?” Roxanne said.

  “To get my shit together. Like you always wanted me to.”

  There was a pause.

  “Beth,” Roxanne said, “that’s great. But I don’t work there anymore.”

  Beth looked crestfallen. “But I thought we could just keep talking. Like we used to. It’s not really work, is it? I mean, we don’t have to talk every day. Just every coupla days, have coffee or whatever. I can tell you how I’m doing, staying off the dope. Gettin’ a job. Maybe I’ll volunteer in a homeless shelter or whatever. Really rack up some points.”

  “Beth,” Roxanne said.

  “I don’t want to go back to the way I was. Not now. Not with Ratchet up there all by himself.”

  “Beth, listen.”

  “Because for a while, when he first died, I mean, I was just so angry, I was ready to go down and take everybody else with me. This Sandy bitch.”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Oops. There I go. But it was like, screw it, you know? You kill my baby? Well, here’s a taste of your own—”

  I could see Foley tense. Around the eyes.

  “Okay,” Beth said. “But now I’m seeing that the only way I’ll see him again is to go the other way. And when I was at the service today, I’m thinking about Eric Clapton and the song, and I’m looking at the people who showed up—my cousin and her friends and some of my homies from before I went away—and I’m thinking, these people aren’t gonna get me into Heaven. These people are gonna drag me the fuck down.”

  “Beth,” Roxanne said.

  “And I’m thinking of the people who can help me be a better person. And I know I didn’t always do what you said. Maybe I almost never did what you said. But you were the one who said I could do it. I mean, of all the people. So I thought maybe now we could kinda start again.”