Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  She’d selected a steak knife with a sharp tip and sterilized it with rubbing alcohol. If you’re going to kill yourself, the last thing you need is an infection. She’d put the knife in a plastic grocery bag and headed for Prosperity, pulling over to buy a couple of big cans of hard cider, “a good morning drink, ’cause it’s kinda like juice.”

  Beth finished one can of cider on the drive up from her apartment in Gardiner, pulling over when the car conked out just past the intersection of 137 and the Dump Road, two miles from our house. “Ran out of gas,” she said. “The thing said an eighth of a tank, too.”

  Sitting in the car, she’d jabbed her right wrist (she was left-handed) and watched as the blood flowed. Dripped, not gushed.

  “Everyone thinks I practically did it, like I killed Ratchet. Like, if I’d been a good mom, none of this would have happened.”

  Exactly right, I thought, leaning against the counter.

  “Beth,” Roxanne said. “You made mistakes. But you had no way of predicting this. Nobody could.”

  “I was doing better,” Beth said. “I was off the junk. Was gonna get some training, remember? Get a job.”

  Talk, I thought. All talk.

  “You can still do all that,” Roxanne said. “You should. There’s no reason to settle for this.”

  This being faking a suicide attempt to manipulate the person who’d tried to help you.

  Beth stared into her coffee cup.

  “I don’t want to sue anybody,” she said. “But the lawyer says—”

  “I can’t talk about that,” Roxanne said. “Not at all.”

  “Well, I don’t. I just want to get on with my life, make something of myself, you know?”

  “You should,” Roxanne said. “You have a lot to offer, Beth. I can see you working in a nursing home. Remember we talked about you getting a CNA certificate?”

  “I really like old people,” Beth said. “They’re so, like, sweet.”

  Hide the meds, I thought.

  “See? You’re already up for it. Who were you working with, at the end?”

  “Sylvia and a new guy named Marco. He was wicked chill.”

  “Well, you should talk to them. See if they can set up some vocational rehab.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because it would be so much better for you to look forward. Do it for Ratchet.”

  A little close to the edge, honey, I thought. Counseling her not to dwell on the past, when her kid died in your agency’s custody.

  “I will, Roxanne,” Beth said, smiling. “I’ll do it. I’ll show these assholes—sorry. I’ll show them that I’m a good person. You know what they call me on Facebook? JSM. For junkie-slut-mom.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they say,” Roxanne said, looking at me. “This is your life. You have to take control of it.”

  “And make Ratchet proud of his mom,” Beth said. “And then I can see him in Heaven, right?”

  Now she was calling on Roxanne to offer a guarantee of an afterlife.

  “I hope so, honey,” Roxanne said. “I truly hope so.”

  Roxanne was thumbing her iPhone, looking up phone numbers of people in vocational rehab. Beth was having a second cup of coffee. I was in the study next to the kitchen, checking e-mail.

  I scrolled down, saw the note from Kerry at the Times. The subject line: GOOD NEWS.

  McMorrow:

  Was talking up the arson story at the news meeting. Bad news is that it got bumped from the cover. Good news is that with the death now, they want it for the Magazine. Like the idea of the demon within. They even have a head: AN IDYLLIC TOWN BURNS, FROM THE INSIDE OUT . . . ARSONIST CAUSES ‘PERFECT’ MAINE COMMUNITY TO LOOK HARD AT ITSELF.

  Good luck. Call Ryan Hockaday (202-555-9997) about specifics. Congrats, McMorrow!

  The Times Magazine. A bigger story. A bigger paycheck. More time. More work.

  I leaned back from the laptop, scanned the notebooks on the desk. Picked them up and flipped through them, put them down. I grabbed the phone, dialed the number. It went to voice mail. I left a message, my name and number. Put the phone down and reached for a legal pad and started a list:

  Woodrow

  Woodrow’s family

  Louis Longfellow (bring Clair, see if he’ll open up)

  Lasha, her fear of living alone

  Harold, his past dredged up

  Citizen patrol: What will they do if they find arsonist is one of their own? Armed? Will they shoot?

  Davida Reynolds: How is arson different from other crimes? How is this different from working a straight homicide?

  Don Barbier: Did he pick the wrong town for his house flip? Why Sanctuary?

  Tory, real estate boom and bust? From “Hidden Treasure” to arson town—a broker’s nightmare

  The Johnson family: How can you leave your wife and children home alone in a town where an arsonist is roaming (your kids have to eat)

  Chief Frederick: He thought he had the town under control; now he has a tiger by the tail

  Paulie and the boys, from firefighters to vigilantes.

  I stared at the list. What would I get for a word count? Three thousand? More for online? Online slide show? Video? What had I left out? Russell, rumored to be ex-CIA, from the Think Tank. I added him, looked it all over. It was enough for a start. Some would talk, some wouldn’t. One interview would lead to another.

  I turned from the desk, looked into the kitchen. Beth had gotten up from her seat, was taking a piece of paper from Roxanne. Names and phone numbers. Roxanne saying, “Promise me you’ll get right on this.”

  “Oh, I promise,” Beth said.

  Her word was her bond, no doubt.

  And then Roxanne again, “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m fine. I only had one drink. After I . . . after I cut myself, I didn’t feel like drinking anymore.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Down the road. I walked the last part.”

  “I’ll drive you to your car,” Roxanne said.

  I walked into the room.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “I have to go anyway.”

  Beth looked at me warily. “Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “I can—”

  “I don’t mind. I’m driving right by it.”

  Beth got up slowly. I went to the door and held it open for her. Here’s your hat . . .

  She went out first, Roxanne and I hanging back.

  “The Times Magazine wants the story,” I said.

  “Wow,” she said. “That means—”

  “Twenty-five hundred, at least.”

  “Great,” Roxanne said.

  “But a much longer story. More time away.”

  I looked out the door. Beth was standing there, listening.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  “Just a minute,” Roxanne said.

  Beth turned, walked slowly to the car.

  “This thing with Beth,” I said.

  “It was a cry for help,” Roxanne said.

  I looked at her.

  “I know you don’t like her,” Roxanne said.

  “It’s not that. I feel bad for her. I mean, God, I can’t imagine what she’s going through. But I just want her out of our life.”

  “And the best way to do that is to encourage her to make a better life for herself.”

  I looked away, shook my head.

  “Jack,” Roxanne said, and we were out the door.

  Beth was standing in the driveway by my truck. We were walking toward her when she turned and looked up the road.

  “Oh, look,” she said. It was Sophie on Pokey, Clair leading the pony down the dirt road. Sophie had the reins in both hands and was rocking in the saddle. The three of us stood at the end of the driveway and waited. When she was thirty feet away, Sophie risked a brief wave, then took the reins with both hands again.

  “Oh, my God, how cute is she?” Beth said, smiling, eyes narrowing. There was something faintly predatory about it.
>
  “Very,” Roxanne said.

  “What a lucky little girl, to never have any problems,” Beth said, in an odd, suddenly singsong voice. “To never have anything go wrong. Living the dream, you know? You just wonder how long that can keep up before—”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  She looked at me. Gave me the same creepy smile. I started for the truck, waited for her to catch up. I kept her in front of me the rest of the way, held the door open for her. She climbed into the passenger seat and I closed the door. Beth sat facing straight ahead, the smile in place.

  I walked to the group, and said, “Good job, honey.”

  “Pokey got tired of going in circles,” Sophie said.

  “I’m sure, doll,” I said. “Don’t want him getting dizzy.”

  Pokey looked at me with his big dark eyes, snorted and nuzzled, looking for a carrot or an apple.

  “I’ll be back late,” I said to Roxanne and Clair. “I’ll call.”

  Clair looked up at the truck, Beth turned to watch us, and Clair said, “Sorry I missed her.”

  “She walked in from the Dump Road end.”

  “Has some issues,” Clair said.

  “I guess,” I said. “Roxanne can fill you in.”

  “But we’re working through them,” Roxanne said.

  “What’s issues?” Sophie said.

  I took a five-gallon gas can from the shed. It was two-thirds full. Three gallons, sixty miles. Enough to get Beth on her way. Burn a house or two. I put it in the back of the truck, climbed in, and looked at her. She looked straight ahead.

  I backed out of the driveway, started down the road, gravel rattling under the big tires. Beth reached over with her left hand and pulled her seat belt on. She couldn’t get it to click in and I reached down and helped her.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “I know you don’t like me,” Beth said.

  Again, I didn’t answer.

  “You don’t want me around your perfect little family. Well, I’m sorry if my life hasn’t been like a fuckin’ fairy tale. I never had no golden spoon in my mouth.”

  We crested the rise, drove into the shadows between a long line of oaks, birches between them. Doves flushed from the sand along the roadside.

  “Silver,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It’s silver. The expression. Born with a silver spoon.”

  “Whatever. I’m just sayin’ I never caught a freakin’ break. You got your cute little family. My father, he was in jail, out just long enough to knock up my mother with me. Ma, she brings home one loser after another. Finally, one decides he’s gonna have me, too. I’m like, ‘In your dreams, you disgusting freak.’ I’m out the door.”

  I waited. We were almost to the Dump Road. I slowed.

  “How old were you?”

  “When?”

  “When you left home.”

  “It wasn’t a home. It was a freakin’ dirty apartment with a drunk guy farting on the couch.”

  “And you were?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “I knew this kid, Sammy. We used to get kicked out of school at the same time. I called him up, went over there. Nobody cared if I stayed. One more kid in front of the TV, you know? But he had an older brother.”

  “Alphonse?”

  “Right.”

  “And the rest is history,” I said.

  “Yeah, well. You do what you gotta do.”

  “Which is?”

  “I learned to party. Never even been drunk before, fifteen years old.”

  “Hard to believe,” I said. “And then you got pregnant?”

  “Yeah, but not by Alphonse. Not the first time.”

  “Where’s that baby?”

  “I lost him,” Beth said.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I was too young anyway.”

  I turned onto the Dump Road. An oncoming pickup passed us and the driver lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in a country wave. I lifted back.

  “And then Alphonse was back?” I said.

  “He was always around. We just never hooked up before that.”

  “Still partying?”

  “Yeah, well, Alphonse and his friends, they were hard partyers. And then Oxy.”

  “And you learned that, too.”

  She shrugged.

  “Hey, it feels pretty good. People make it sound like drugs is this evil thing. And yeah, maybe it is, but for a while there, you’re just floating, baby, feeling better than you ever felt in your whole freakin’ life. You’re just chillin’, so freakin’ zonked that nothin’s gonna bother you. All your troubles. Poof. Gone.”

  “Until they come piling back on.”

  “Yeah, well, getting pregnant again. This time Ratchet comes along and Alphonse gets busted and they put his ass in Windham—the correctional center? And then it’s just me and the baby and, dude, it’s stressful having a kid.”

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “Well, I was all by myself.”

  “So are lots of parents.”

  “I had a hard time staying off the stuff. I mean, with Alphonse around, it was like, party central. Without him, it was all his friends. Same shit, different day.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And that’s when I first met your wife.”

  We were approaching the two-lane road. I looked right, then left, saw Beth’s car on the shoulder a hundred yards up. I drove past it, did a U-turn, pulled up behind it and parked.

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad we had this chance to talk,” Beth said, looking at me, giving me an earnest smile. “So you know where I’m, like, coming from.”

  “I know where you’re coming from,” I said. “But I want you to go back there.”

  “What?” Beth said. “I thought you and me, we could reach an understanding.”

  “I’m very sorry about your son. And I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sounds like you got dealt a crappy hand all around.”

  “I did. I never had—”

  “I want you to do better. Find some peace for yourself. But I don’t want you around my family. I don’t want you around my daughter.”

  She looked at me, her eyes hardening, narrowing, a cat about to snarl.

  “What, you think I’m gonna hurt your precious little girl?” she said.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do, Beth,” I said. “That’s the problem. To be honest, you scare me.”

  I opened the truck door, took the keys from the ignition. Beth caught it and her eyes narrowed.

  “I’m not gonna steal your fucking truck,” she said.

  I walked to the back of the truck, took out the gas can. She slid out as I flipped the filler door open, unscrewed the cap, tipped the can up. The gas sloshed back, onto the ground and my shoes. The dog would still like me, I thought. I rattled the spout, got it in deeper, let the gas run. Beth came and stood behind me. I shook the last drops out, pulled the can back, and screwed the filler cap back on.

  “There you go. Three gallons. I’d fill it after forty.”

  A car passed, swerved way wide, and drove on. Beth turned and watched it round the curve and disappear. She turned back, got in my face.

  “Your wife’s being nice to me,” she said. “Why are you being such a dick?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You should be nice to me, too,” she said. “Maybe instead of writing about some stupid shit-ass fires, you should be writing about girls who get their babies stolen away by the State. The State killed my baby, Ratchet. I could own you.”

  “Yeah, but only if you can convince a jury that the foster mom was negligent. If you can convince a jury that Roxanne was negligent.”

  I walked to the truck, put the empty gas can in the back, and walked toward her, still standing by the side of my car. A log truck approached, roared by. A burst of dusty wind blasted the roadside. Beth smoothed her hair,
then gave it a defiant shake.

  “Yeah, well, you just better hope I decide to sue, Jack,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Because suing somebody, that’s me being nice.”

  She got into her car, cranked the starter, reaching across with her left hand. After a minute the motor started. She put the car in gear and floored it. The tires spun in the gravel, caught on the pavement, and in a few seconds, she was gone.

  If only.

  22

  Central Maine Medical Center was in Lewiston, perched on the side of a hill, overlooking a spotty downtown and big brick mills, where, in better times, they used to make things like bath towels. There was a clock in the tower of the biggest mill, but it was stopped. The last worker out of the gate?

  I approached from the east, navigated a long loop of one-way streets. One skirted a mill canal, water somewhere down there beyond the railings. Another passed a park where burka-wrapped Somali mothers watched their kids playing on swings. I rolled down the main drag, saw people walking in ones and twos, some of them carrying the same brown sandwich bags, takeout from a soup kitchen.

  It was a poor-looking crowd but law-abiding, or at least on probation, the harder criminals still sleeping in the surrounding tenements. In places like this, like jungles and forests, predators were nocturnal.

  I turned right and left, pulled into the hospital’s main entrance, found the visitors’ lot and parked. Walking back, I strode through the electric doors and a gray-haired man in a light-blue coat greeted me like I’d just walked into Walmart. His name tag said HERB, and he asked me if I needed help. You bet, I thought. With a grieving and unbalanced young woman, a serial arsonist, a news story that just keeps growing.

  “I’m here to see a patient,” I said. “His name is Woodrow Harvey.”

  Herb stepped behind a wooden counter, whispered to a gray-haired woman in the same blue coat. She tapped at a keyboard, peered at a monitor, whispered back to Herb. He frowned and stepped out from the counter.

  “That patient is in critical care, fourth floor east.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Are you family?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “A friend.”

  “Because they’re pretty strict about visitors in CCU. And that patient, he has an R beside his name. For restricted visitation.”